Midnight Girls

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Really?’ Imogen gave her a sideways glance. ‘That sounds intriguing …’

  Allegra laughed. ‘The astute lawyer! I should have known you’d pounce on that.’ She raised an eyebrow at Imogen. ‘I’ll tell you over dinner.’

  ‘Oh, yes, please. And I’m starving, so the sooner the better.’

  ‘So …’ Imogen said, when they were tucked away in the dark dining room at Allegra’s special table, lit only by small tea lights flickering in the Venetian glass holders. ‘Do you have something up your sleeve you haven’t told me?’

  Allegra was staring at the wine list. The candlelight played on her hair, illuminating the golden strands. ‘Would you like red or white?’ she asked evasively. ‘You can even go off-menu if you like. We have cases of wildly expensive vintages that aren’t on the list, kept exclusively for our most discerning guests. We can’t advertise them or we’d run out. In fact, we have the last bottles in the world of some vintages. Last week, we had a large family in to celebrate a birthday with a magnum of Château Haut Brion 1875. Seventeen thousand pounds a bottle! They got a taste for it and ordered another, which was our last, so then they moved on to the 1955 vintage, which is legendary, like liquid gold. Six thousand a bottle. They all got completely sloshed on fantastic wine. With the couple of magnums of champagne they ordered as well, the bar bill was ninety thousand pounds. Quite a tab, even for Colette’s.’

  Imogen gaped at her. Ninety thousand pounds? ‘I wouldn’t like to wake up with a hangover like that,’ she said weakly. ‘I was going to say red, but now I think I’ll just have water.’

  ‘The house red is perfectly delicious and only thirty-five pounds a bottle. We’ll have that.’ Allegra put down the wine list.

  Imogen perused her menu and said carelessly, ‘Now, did I miss something or did you just cunningly change the subject?’

  Allegra gave her a conspiratorial look and leant across the white tablecloth towards her. ‘I’ll tell you when we’ve ordered,’ she murmured.

  Imogen ordered lobster croquettes followed by steak Diane. When she was tucking into her croquettes, she said, ‘So … what’s going on? I know you. Something’s on your mind.’

  Allegra gave her an amused look as she broke off a piece of bread and spread some butter on it. ‘God, you’re good. OK, I’ve got a plan.’ She looked around the dark room, filling up now with members and their guests, and dropped her voice. ‘I want to expand.’

  ‘What? Colette’s?’ Imogen glanced about, wondering how the small space could be used any more effectively than it already was.

  Allegra shook her head. ‘No. I’ve realised now that David is never going to be able to alter this place – and, in many ways, he shouldn’t. It’s an institution. Perfect as it is. But I’ve got a hankering to try something new, and I think I’ll be able to persuade him to invest in my plan.’ She smiled and her eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘A new club. One aimed at a different market from Colette’s but that will still offer the high-quality glamour this place is associated with: wonderful service, exquisite food, comfort and privacy – plus a bit of youth and modernity.’

  Imogen was impressed. ‘Sounds like a wonderful idea,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’d join.’

  ‘It’s early days,’ Allegra said quickly, ‘and I haven’t yet sorted out all my ideas, but I really think I could be on to something. I’m sure David will be interested.’

  Imogen frowned as she mopped up the sauce with her last exquisite morsel of lobster croquette. ‘Isn’t it a bad time to expand? Economically, I mean.’

  ‘It might be the best time,’ Allegra said quickly. ‘We’re in good shape, and we’ve got some cash to invest. And property is cheaper than it used to be.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’ Imogen’s grasp of economics was hazy but the main thing, she was sure, was for Allegra to find the money. If David had it and therefore didn’t need to borrow it, and if they were confident about the new venture, then that was fine, wasn’t it? Except that she’d always heard that the restaurant business was notoriously difficult and quick to fold when times were tough …

  They finished their main courses and Imogen ordered the amazing dark chocolate and ginger ice cream.

  ‘It’s one of Colette’s signature dishes,’ Allegra said approvingly. ‘Much imitated and never bettered. Here, let me have a taste.’

  ‘Get your own!’ Imogen said with a laugh, batting away Allegra’s spoon with her own. ‘What did Romily always say? A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.’

  There was a sudden and awkward pause. Her name was rarely mentioned between them.

  ‘Do you know how she is?’ Allegra said abruptly, staring down at the table. Her hands had clenched almost involuntarily and the tops of her knuckles were white.

  ‘No,’ Imogen replied quietly. ‘We’re not in touch any more. I … suppose … we’ve all just drifted apart, haven’t we? I mean, she lives abroad, she’s got that glamorous heiress lifestyle, always in the papers, muse to a designer, all that nonsense … I think our worlds have become too different.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Allegra picked up her wine glass and took a long gulp of red wine. Imogen watched her, feeling sad as she always did when she remembered the way their girlhood friendship had disintegrated. She’d made it plain to Romily that she wouldn’t be forced to choose between her two dearest friends, and her subsequent rejection had meant that Imogen’s loyalty was now all to Allegra. But she’d agonised over what she’d been told. Had Allegra really done that terrible thing and deliberately set out to destroy Romily’s marriage? It was unforgivable if so. Imogen couldn’t bring herself to believe it – there had to be some kind of misunderstanding – but she also couldn’t bring herself to ask Allegra about it. So she let it lie between them, the unspoken question, burning a hole in their friendship that only she could see. Was this a chance to find out what had mystified and bothered her friend for so long? Imogen took a deep breath and looked over at Allegra, hoping her face didn’t give away her sudden nervousness. ‘Well, you know she got married …’

  ‘Yes, of course. You told me all about it and then I saw her when she was over in London. She was all of a flutter, very much love’s young dream. We had tea at the Ritz.’

  ‘Did you? You never said.’ Is she about to confess? To tell me what she did?

  But Allegra remained clear-faced, calm and innocent. She shrugged. ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘Did you know she got divorced after only six months of marriage?’ Imogen watched her carefully, staring into those navy blue eyes.

  Allegra looked startled. ‘No, I had no idea. But why?’

  ‘He got the idea that Romily didn’t love him,’ Imogen said abruptly.

  ‘Really?’ Allegra appeared genuinely surprised. ‘I got the impression she was completely mad about him.’

  I don’t understand, Imogen thought, baffled. She’s so plausible, there’s not a trace of guilt about her. But Romily was convinced Allegra was the one who recorded her. Could she have made a mistake? She said sadly, ‘Well, he turned out to be more interested in money after all.’

  There was a flicker of something like relief in Allegra’s eyes but she said nothing, only took another long sip of wine.

  A pause settled between them and then Imogen said quietly, ‘I never understood why it went wrong between us. We swore we’d always be friends.’

  Allegra looked up at her, a flash of steel in her dark blue gaze. ‘Yes, we swore we’d always be there for each other. Well … I wasn’t the first to break that promise.’

  ‘What?’ Imogen shook her head in amazement. ‘What do you mean? What did Romily do?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’ Allegra looked suddenly very sad. She gazed down at the snowy white tablecloth and her hand curled into a tight fist. ‘She did absolutely nothing.’

  Chapter 41

  ROMILY FLEW ON the family jet to Heathrow with only twenty-seven pieces of luggage and Carlo, her bodyguard. The British dr
iver met her off the plane in the Mercedes and drove her to the family house in London, a beautiful seven-bedroomed white stucco mansion in Chester Square, Belgravia. It was smaller than most of the family houses but one of Romily’s favourites because of the beautiful garden it overlooked.

  Once she’d arrived, she summoned her London beauty therapist and masseuse for a full treatment to help her recover from her journey. When she was feeling relaxed and revitalised, she set up her office in a small room leading off the first-floor drawing room that had a charming view over the garden square, and worked on the details of her stay.

  Here, there was no Monica to oversee her diary and field calls, but in many ways that made things a great deal easier. Such privacy was useful when it came to conducting the business she kept concealed from everyone closest to her.

  She spent her first afternoon working, using the internet to check on progress, emailing her closest contacts and making all the necessary arrangements. There was a lot to catch up on and she felt energised and raring to tackle it all. The most important email she sent simply read, I’m here.

  When she was satisfied with what she’d achieved, she shut down her computer and went to bed for an early night.

  *

  Bianca came over the next day. She’d arrived a few days earlier and was staying at the Dorchester.

  ‘Such a bore,’ she said as she arrived wearing tight black leggings, stiletto boots and a mustard yellow tunic layered with grey and black knits. ‘Mariah Carey’s staying in the hotel. The noise is dreadful.’

  ‘She’s not that bad a singer,’ Romily joked, leading her through to the drawing room.

  Bianca blinked, puzzled. ‘No, I mean from her fans. What a fuss. They scream every time she leaves the hotel.’

  ‘Of course.’ Romily’s mouth twitched at one corner.

  Bianca shook out her hair and walked up to a mirror on the wall, gazing seriously at her reflection. ‘This party tonight, at the Joshis’ house in Kensington Palace Gardens … you’re coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes …’ Romily looked as though she wasn’t bothered much one way or the other. ‘I’ll drop in for a while anyway. I won’t stay late. I’m so tired.’

  ‘Did you bring your pink leopard-print Jimmy Choo clutch?’ enquired Bianca, tearing herself away from her reflection.

  ‘I think so.’ Romily frowned trying to remember. ‘Would you like to borrow it? I’ll go and see if it’s been unpacked. The maid did most of it yesterday.’

  She left Bianca in the drawing room and went quickly upstairs where she found the evening bag sitting neatly on its shelf in her dressing room. She took it back to the drawing room and was surprised to find that her friend had disappeared.

  ‘Bianca?’ she called, frowning, looking around the room. There was nowhere for her to hide – it was a simple square room in tones of white, off-white and oatmeal: cool and serene.

  ‘In here,’ came the reply, and Romily realised that Bianca was in the anteroom that led off the drawing room, the one she had chosen for her study. She gasped and sprinted across to the doorway, seeing Bianca inside bending over the desk with its open laptop and neat piles of papers.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ barked Romily, her face burning. ‘Get away from there!’

  Bianca jumped and looked up, startled. ‘Sorry, darling, I just wanted to check something on the Chanel website …’

  ‘Get away!’ Romily dashed over and pushed her aside, slamming the laptop shut and gathering up the papers around it. ‘This is private.’

  Bianca blinked at her in her usual bemused way and shrugged, unruffled. ‘Sorry, sweetie, didn’t realise.’ Then she saw that Romily was holding the pink leopard-print clutch and her face lightened. ‘Oh, wonderful! You’ve got the bag. That’s great.’

  She took it from her trembling hand and wandered back with it into the drawing room, leaving Romily panting and shaking behind her.

  The Kensington Palace Gardens house glittered with beautiful lights: crystal chandeliers hung in shimmering tiers from brass chains, exquisite lamps burned in alcoves and niches, and twisting silver candelabra held up their shining wax offerings on every other surface.

  Beautiful women and distinguished men moved through the huge rooms, stopping to greet each other or gathering in small circles to talk as they sipped the ice-cold Bollinger offered to them by waiters or plucked delicious morsels from the trays carried by waitresses.

  Romily moved through them, drawing admiring glances as she passed. She was wearing a deep midnight-blue gown, tightly wrapped round her body, emphasising her tiny waist and rounded hips, before flaring out to the ground. The satin glowed against her warm olive skin and her long dark brown hair fell in glossy waves over her shoulders as she made her way through the room.

  ‘Ah, ma belle! How wonderful to see you, I had no idea you were in London!’ An older woman in bright purple silk, her dark tan sunk deep into her pores from years of sunbathing, stepped into her path and offered her pursed, coral-coloured lips for an air kiss.

  Romily stopped reluctantly. ‘Francesca, hello.’ She turned her head politely for the pretend embrace. ‘I can’t stay, I’m looking for Bianca …’ She glanced about the room, looking for the familiar dark hair being tossed over one shoulder.

  Francesca gestured towards a doorway. ‘She’s in the other salon, talking to some ambassador or other – someone with a big ribbon and medals anyway.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, then …’

  ‘Come back later, do you hear? I want to find out all your news! And ask about your dear mother, whom I’ve not seen for an age.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Until then.’ Romily smiled firmly and walked purposefully away. That’s the trouble with these parties. There’s no one I want to talk to. It crossed her mind for a moment how much more fun it would have been to be here with Imogen or Allegra, able to giggle at the pomposity all around as well as to enjoy the luxury. But she pushed that thought away. That’s all over now.

  She found Bianca in the red salon and drifted up to join her circle, greeting everyone with the usual kisses. A waiter brought her a glass of champagne and she sipped it as she listened to the conversation. Bianca had managed to extricate herself from the attentions of the ambassador and was complimenting Romily on her gown when she suddenly gave her a fierce nudge. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she hissed in a loud whisper, gazing across the throng.

  ‘Who?’ Romily asked, following the direction of her gaze. It was hard to make out anyone in particular in the ranks of dark-jacketed backs and vibrant silks and satins.

  ‘That devastatingly handsome man over there!’ Bianca said. ‘Next to Kevin Tong.’

  Romily saw who she was talking about and immediately her insides seemed to turn to water. She felt as breathless as if she’d been running a mile. The tall man in the Gieves and Hawkes bespoke dinner jacket and sober black silk tie was none other than Mitch. He was talking to a younger man who looked Indian, and an elegant Chinese man sporting velvet evening slippers where most of the men were wearing patent leather shoes.

  ‘That’s Ted Mitchell, the mystery billionaire,’ Bianca said excitedly. ‘I saw him in the Dorchester last night – he was dining with Kevin then. I bet they’re talking about business … He’s American, and apparently he’s buying up the most glamorous clubs and restaurants in London. Maybe he wants to buy Kevin’s place.’ She sighed happily. ‘So rich and so good-looking. I just have to meet him!’ She pulled at Romily’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go over, Kevin will introduce us.’

  ‘No, no,’ Romily protested weakly. She was still so stunned by the sight of Mitch that all the strength seemed to have left her body.

  ‘Come on,’ insisted Bianca, pulling her across the room. At that moment the men they were discussing seemed to feel their presence because Kevin turned round, saw Bianca and gave a broad smile.

  ‘The exquisite Countess Bianca! What joy. Come and talk to us, dear. And Romily de Lisle … I haven
’t seen you in age, sweet thing!’ Kevin put out a hand to her and the next moment she was standing in their circle, only aware, as Kevin kissed her cheek, of Mitch just a foot or so away. She was blinded by confusion, unable to look up, seeing only dinner suits and the vibrant green of Bianca’s split-skirt Versace dress.

  ‘Now,’ Kevin said brightly, still holding her hand, ‘Romily, have you met Ted Mitchell? He’s the newest addition to the London scene and making rather a mark by buying up all our favourite watering holes!’

  There was a pause where Romily was duly expected to smile and glitter, to say hello and how lovely to meet you and tell me all about it, but she couldn’t. As she fought her churning emotions, the pause lengthened into an awkward silence.

  ‘Well, I’m dying to meet you,’ gushed Bianca. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Are you enjoying London?’

  There was another pause as everyone waited for Mitch to answer. Kevin shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I was enjoying it,’ Mitch said in an icy voice.

  At the sound of it, a whirl of emotions rushed through Romily. That voice … how much it had meant to her! Oh God … she still remembered so much … a moment from their wedding day sprang into her mind and she heard his voice murmuring his vows.

  ‘Romily and I have met before, haven’t we?’ he said. She managed to look up and saw the cold smile that didn’t touch his brown eyes. She nodded and said nothing. The others swapped glances – the chilly, almost venomous atmosphere was unmistakable, though they clearly had no idea why it was so. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said harshly. ‘We’re old, old friends.’ Then Mitch glanced at the others in the circle. ‘I’m sorry, would you excuse me? I really must find our host. He’s expecting me in the library in five minutes.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ hissed Bianca, appalled and intrigued at the same time, as they made their way to the supper room quarter of an hour later.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.’ Romily had recovered herself by now and spoke in an easy tone. She flicked a tiny piece of her satin gown between her fingers.