Midnight Girls

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘You and Ted Mitchell! How come you know each other?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t really, I don’t know why he said that.’ Romily shrugged carelessly and then allowed herself a tiny smile as she said, ‘I think he’s an old friend of my father. That must be it.’

  She made her excuses as soon as she could, and summoned the Mercedes to the front of the house.

  As the car glided away down the private road, she said to the driver, ‘We’re not going home, Walter. I have another appointment to go to first.’

  Then she sat back on the seat and watched London sailing past, dark and shadowy in the autumn night.

  The evening isn’t over quite yet …

  Chapter 42

  ALLEGRA LOOKED UP from her desk as Tyra put her head round the door.

  ‘Your visitor is here, Allegra.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, show him in,’ she said, not looking up from her screen where she was typing up an email to the company accountant. It was another PR visit. They came to call every now and again, persistent men who wouldn’t go away until she’d had a face-to-face meeting with them. Who was the latest? She flicked her gaze over to the note on her pad. Oh, yes. Hutton Productions. Well, she would spare their representative twenty minutes, listen politely and then send him on his way.

  There was a gentle knock on the door and a figure appeared at the door to her office. Allegra looked up and froze in horror. The man in the doorway did the same, but recovered his self-possession after a moment.

  ‘Lady Allegra McCorquodale?’ he said, advancing into the room.

  ‘Yes.’ She stood up, her face flaming.

  ‘Adam Hutton.’ His coppery-brown eyes were friendly and a smile played about the corners of his mouth. He held out his hand to her. ‘I think we may have had the pleasure of meeting before.’

  She took his hand and shook it, simultaneously having a flashback to him sitting naked on her dining chair while she pumped herself up and down on his cock. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, looking at her desk, then at her screen, and anywhere else she could avoid his gaze. ‘Hello. Well. This is a coincidence.’ Adam Hutton. The name came back to her now. But she hadn’t given it a thought since she’d tossed that business card away weeks ago. ‘Please. Sit down.’

  She sat in her chair, a beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright barrel design in honey-coloured wood with a mint-green leather seat, and gestured to him to take the one opposite.

  ‘Thank you.’ He gazed at her, his expression amused and almost kindly.

  ‘Now … why are you here?’ she asked, fighting to regain her self-possession. She set her shoulders straight and lifted her chin. When she spoke again, she sounded cool and controlled. ‘I’m happy to hear your spiel but I never use promotional companies. Colette’s avoids all aspects of PR.’

  Adam Hutton settled into the chair and smiled again, friendly and confident. ‘Of course. That is part of Colette’s undeniable charm. Everyone appreciates that it operates on different terms from most nightclubs. Discretion is the better part of its particular valour.’

  ‘If you understand that,’ Allegra said slowly, ‘then what is the point of this visit exactly?’

  These PR men were always the same: they tried to convince her that she needed to drum up interest in Colette’s with stories in the press, start holding promotional nights and invite young celebrities with big breasts and short dresses, create customer databases and send the members streams of emails imploring them to come to the club with ‘special offers’ and ‘two for one’ deals. It was laughable. All that was a world away from Colette’s usual style and what its members expected or wanted.

  But Adam Hutton didn’t look like a typical PR man in an open-necked shirt, badly fitting jacket and jeans, mobile phone practically glued to one ear and hair that had the best part of a bottle of gel on it. Instead he wore a crisp shirt in tiny blue-and-white check with a navy silk Hermès tie, and a suit in dark charcoal that she was sure was Ralph Lauren. And she remembered his aquiline good looks very well now; his tall, well-honed body. She remembered him thrusting into her … and quickly pushed the memory away before she could lose her composure again.

  ‘I’m in complete awe of Colette’s,’ Adam Hutton said smoothly. ‘I’ve been there a few times and have never experienced anything less than perfection. It’s a hub of mature luxury in a world that seems increasingly obsessed with drunk teenagers.’

  ‘Thanks to you – or people like you,’ Allegra said pointedly. ‘In my experience, PR companies are only interested in the kind of people who feature on the front of cheap magazines on a weekly basis. Soap stars and glamour models.’

  Adam nodded and gave a wry smile. ‘That may not be entirely fair. It’s a chicken and egg situation. Do we create people’s desires or respond to them? It’s a mixture of the two, of course. If it’s any comfort, I don’t actually deal with that kind of client. Hutton Productions is strictly upmarket. We prefer to attract high-end celebrities to our clients’ clubs and restaurants.’

  Allegra frowned. She crossed one long leg over another, admiring her Christian Louboutin shoes as she did so. They were black leather on wooden platforms with towering five-inch heels that gave her sober Aquascutum office suit a sexy twist. Even though the last thing she wanted was to see one of her one-night stands again, she couldn’t help being glad she looked good today. And he is rather attractive, she thought, casting a glance at him from under her lashes. Better than I remembered. ‘But I don’t understand why high-end restaurants need to use promoters at all. Don’t they get enough customers as it is?’

  ‘No one can afford to rest on their laurels. Even somewhere like the Ivy – not that different from Colette’s in terms of its high-quality, desirable status and exclusive nature, not to mention its venerable years. It still needs to keep the stars coming in and maintain its reputation. Another fashionable place can open, the in crowd can flock there, and the next thing you know … you’re empty. There’s no shortage of contenders vying for the crown.’

  Allegra rested back in her chair and fixed him with a steady, confident gaze. She felt in charge again. ‘It’s not like that at Colette’s, and I can’t imagine it ever will be. We have a waiting list to join, you know. It can be up to five years before people get membership, and then only after the committee has scrutinised their applications very carefully.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how much are your membership fees?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. There’s a two hundred and fifty pound joining fee, and after that, subscription is a thousand pounds a year.’

  Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘A thousand pounds?’

  ‘Seven hundred and fifty for under-twenty-fives,’ Allegra added.

  ‘Mmm. A bargain.’ She stared at him, unsure if he was being sarcastic, but his expression was innocent. He went on: ‘And you’ve got … how many members?’

  ‘Five thousand.’

  He did some quick mental arithmetic. ‘So you have an income of around five million pounds a year, and that’s before you factor in the profit you make from the food and drink you sell, the parties you host and so on. And I seem to remember from my visit to Colette’s that it’s not particularly cheap. I bought a round of drinks for some friends and it cost me over a hundred pounds. You must be doing very well.’

  Allegra nodded. ‘Yes, we are. But it’s not all profit. We have vast overheads: taxes and other charges, utilities, maintenance, staff wages, administration … It all costs money, a great deal of it.’ She gestured to the room around them. David had decorated it in cool colours, whites and pale greens, and it was hung with paintings of bright, hot scenes. ‘To keep your spirits up on rainy London afternoons,’ he’d said.

  Adam looked about him at the office, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Yes. And I suppose your members don’t flinch at a thousand pounds a year for the privilege of spending yet more money here.’

  ‘Of course not. In fact, it’s a simple way of keeping the club the way the members like it.’
>
  ‘Reserved for the rich.’

  Allegra raised her eyebrows, but Adam’s expression was still innocent and his tone neutral, as though he was not implying any criticism of Colette’s. ‘It all depends how one wants to spend one’s money, I suppose,’ she said a little icily. ‘There’s no requirement to be rich in order to join.’

  ‘But it helps. Anyway, that’s the spirit of Colette’s, isn’t it? Luxury is always expensive, and that’s what makes it worth having.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Allegra smiled, mollified. ‘Now, you haven’t explained exactly why you want to see me. I think I’ve made it clear that I’m not looking for any promotion for the club.’

  ‘I don’t just offer promotion,’ Adam said smoothly. ‘If I did, I’d call the company Hutton Promotions. What we do is wider than that. We offer a consulting service as well.’

  Allegra burst out laughing. ‘You want to offer consultancy to us! We’re the oldest, most respected club in London. Dozens of people have tried to emulate Colette’s, and none have succeeded in getting our recipe just right. I’m beginning to think you might be some kind of corporate spy, trying to weasel in and find out the secret of our success.’

  Adam smiled broadly and his face lit up, making him look quite different. He laughed too, a surprisingly deep sound. ‘I can see it seems a bit ridiculous when you put it like that. But you need to watch out that success doesn’t make you complacent. Have you got a website, for example?’

  ‘No. I don’t think we need one.’ Allegra sounded insouciant, but the truth was that David was resisting her ideas for a website as hard as he could. He thought they were vulgar, and a way for nosy people to get a glimpse inside the club.

  Adam shrugged and she noticed his broad shoulders, remembering what he looked like underneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. He had a smooth chest with only a few small curls of hair in the middle …

  He said, ‘It’s the kind of service your members will expect. Top-level businessmen are always at the forefront of technology. They live all over the world, travel widely. They don’t want a newsletter posted to them, they want to be able to access club information quickly and easily, get their secretaries to book tables online … all sorts of things. We could do that for you. All you’d need to do is brief me on what you want, and I could liaise with designers and website builders.’

  ‘OK.’ Allegra nodded. ‘Is that all?’ She was still sceptical about this. Honestly, I think I could manage to get a website going on my own.

  ‘No.’ Adam leant back in his chair and fixed her with a steady gaze. ‘I was wondering about the average profile of your members. It occurred to me that it probably swings towards the ageing, wealthy businessman who brings his clients to Colette’s to show them a bit of London’s famous high life.’

  Allegra kept her expression neutral, staring at him across the desk. She rolled her tortoiseshell Mont Blanc between her fingers. Then she said, ‘We have plenty of female members and lots of family events are celebrated in the club. We have engagements practically every week – getting engaged in Colette’s over a bottle of club champagne is virtually de rigueur. There are wedding receptions, private dinners, birthday parties. Our members often give memberships as gifts to their children for their eighteenth birthday.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Adam. ‘And how many of those children actually come here? My guess is they don’t exactly flock here. They’re at Mahiki and Boujis and Whisky Mist.’

  ‘Maybe they are,’ she said carelessly. ‘But we don’t intend to become that kind of establishment.’

  ‘So once all the wealthy ageing businessmen are too old to come out, or retired, or dead, who is going to take their place?’

  ‘I told you, we have a waiting list. Plenty of people wish to be members.’

  ‘But I’d make a bet that almost all the people on your waiting list are more of the same: middle-aged chaps who’ve made their pile and like the upper-crust coddling that Colette’s offers: it’s quiet, it’s comfortable, it’s reliable.’

  Allegra said nothing. I know what you’re saying. But I’ve already got plans …

  ‘I think I’ve made my point anyway,’ Adam said quietly after a moment. ‘You want to know what I can offer and I’m showing you that I’ve got a perspective on your problems – problems you might not even know you’ve got – and perhaps some solutions. There was one other thing …’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hutton?’ Allegra tried to sound polite but couldn’t help an edge creeping into her voice. She didn’t like hearing any implied criticism of Colette’s, even if she secretly agreed with it. He didn’t realise that there was no way David would ever allow his club to change.

  ‘Please – call me Adam.’ He looked down at his leather-bound notebook for a second and then fixed Allegra with his clear, perceptive gaze. ‘I’ve heard you’re looking around for another property. You’re perhaps thinking of expansion. Is that right?’

  Allegra gasped. ‘How on earth did you hear about that?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s my job to know what’s going on.’

  ‘But … but …’ She was astonished. She had discussed her plans with David and they had viewed two likely sites, but without telling anyone else what they were up to.

  ‘I’m interested,’ he said bluntly. ‘Is this going to be along the same lines as Colette’s – or something new?’

  Allegra gaped at him then said, ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t intend to discuss any of this with you.’

  ‘Very well. That, of course, is entirely your privilege.’ He stood up. ‘But please think about it, that’s all I ask. You have an amazing brand in the Colette’s name and image. I think expansion is a wonderful idea, and you’ve got every chance of making a new club really appealing to the younger market. I’d love to help you, and contribute to your success.’

  Allegra stood up as well. ‘Thank you for coming by, Mr Hutton. I appreciate your comments and I have your details. I’ll be in touch if ever I think I need your help.’ She held out her hand.

  Hutton’s eyes sparkled and he laughed lightly as he shook it. ‘You’re thinking it will be a cold day in hell before that happens, aren’t you? But don’t give up on me. And call any time. And, may I say, this meeting was almost as enjoyable as our first.’

  ‘Tyra will show you out,’ Allegra said crisply, and watched thoughtfully as he strode out of her office.

  Chapter 43

  London

  2008

  ROMILY THOROUGHLY ENJOYED the day, from the moment the team arrived at the Chester Square house: the make-up artist, hairdresser, stylist, photographer, lighting technician and, of course, the journalist. They came early to survey the house and discuss locations and set up shots. It was important to select the rooms where Romily would be looking casual, in Marni trousers and a Rochas silk tunic blouse, or Theory two-tone tank dress with a Matthew Williamson knit over the top, and those where she would be in glamorous cocktail dresses and evening gowns.

  While these important decisions were being made, Romily was interviewed. As the hairdresser worked her magic and the make-up artist selected the colours and brands she wanted from her vast trunk, the journalist sat on the bed and asked questions, recording Romily’s every word.

  ‘Is it true that you’re Sebastian LeFarge’s muse?’ the young reporter asked, looking impressed despite herself.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Romily said, watching her in the mirror as the hairdresser brushed her hair out into glossy straightness. ‘Dear Sebastian. I spend a week a year with him on Capri, helping him sort out his latest ideas. And we always have at least another week on his yacht … such a dear little thing, almost a toy. From that, he seems to get an awful lot of inspiration.’ She added hastily, ‘And, of course, I adore his clothes.’

  ‘Is your life busy?’ The reporter was scribbling notes despite the tape recorder.

  ‘So busy … you can imagine, with all my travelling.’

  ‘Many other women in your position feel a call
ing to some kind of work,’ the journalist said almost shyly. She really was very young, Romily noticed. ‘Do you ever feel that?’

  ‘My position is a demanding one,’ Romily replied solemnly. ‘I’m well aware of that. I feel that I can lead by example, showing women that it is possible to be elegant and lady-like. I like to think I can inspire grace. That’s really my life’s work.’

  ‘I see.’ The journalist gave her a sycophantic smile. ‘How wonderful.’ This kind of interview was not exactly hard-hitting – nothing Romily said would be challenged, she knew that. It was why she had picked this magazine. Who wanted to be ripped to shreds, after all?

  When the interview was finally concluded, the reporter told her that it would be in the following week’s issue.

  ‘Oh, good,’ Romily said happily. ‘The sooner the better.’

  Imogen saw it at the news-stand as she walked to work. She stopped dead on the pavement, forcing a man behind her to sidestep quickly, and stared at it as he muttered a curse at her.

  The glossy image and text seemed to shout at her: there was Romily in an exquisite grey tulle gown standing in a luxurious white drawing room. Heiress Romily de Lisle invites us into her stunning home and tells us about her glamorous life.

  ‘I’ll take this, please,’ she said politely to the vendor, fishing in her coat pocket for some money.

  She didn’t look at it until she got to work, then she pored over it, turning the slippery pages quickly until she found what she was looking for. It was the main feature, spread over several pages, with a long interview. She read it once, then she read it again, and then she lingered over every picture, drinking in every detail, until her senior lawyer came in and she hustled it under the desk.

  From the sound of it, Romily couldn’t be happier: travelling the world, socialising and buying clothes. Imogen never would have thought it, but apparently Romily had no desire to do anything else with her life but ‘inspire grace’. Imogen shook her head in disbelief. There was no mention of Mitch but a coy reference to someone called Vincente di Auguro, who was apparently her boyfriend. She looked stunning in every photograph, her skin impossibly smooth, her hair glossy, her figure perfect. And the clothes were a dream: haute couture evening gowns and designer pieces.