by Wendy Holden
Harry was unzipping her dress when his mobile phone pinged. Glancing at the screen, he groaned.
‘South’n Fried?’ guessed Laura.
Harry nodded, sending another wavy lock of hair tumbling forward. ‘He’s so nervous. You’d think when someone had played stadiums all round the world, getting married wouldn’t bother them.’
‘Maybe it’s Lulu’s father,’ said Laura. ‘I’d be nervous of him.’
Her friend’s mysterious parents had not been a disappointment. Lulu’s father was vast, cigar-smoking, exotic and silent while her mother was fluttering, petite and decked in head to toe Chanel, new season. No vintage for her, unless you counted the diamonds glittering from every exposed piece of skin. ‘Society is my favourite magazine,’ she had told Laura the night before. ‘Lucille-Irmintrude never told me you were the editor!’
‘Oh yes,’ beamed Laura, sidestepping the situation’s complexities. All that mattered was that Christopher Stone had returned her to the editor’s chair. For the moment, any-way.
Clemency had been strongly encouraged to resign due to ‘exhaustion’, and Carinthia claimed to be retiring from glossy magazines to pursue a career in the care sector. ‘I’ve led such a privileged life,’ she had told Media Guardian, ‘and I feel that now I ought to help those less fortunate than myself.’ It was this that made Laura certain that the spa leave was yet to work its magic and Carinthia was still getting hold of the vodka somehow.
But for the moment, Laura was riding high. The ‘Spy Village’ piece, which was how the ‘HNI Hamlet’ angle had ended up, had rocketed the circulation into the stratosphere. Great Hording was no longer an HNI hamlet anyway. The fallout from the scandals and Laura’s sensational exposé had seen most of the high and mighty move on to pastures new.
Jolyon Jackson, who had, after all, lost his seat in the recent election, had been moved to the Cotswolds by his wife. Banished to the packing department of Nanny Knows Best, he now spent his days wrapping smocked dresses and sailor suits in cellophane. Tim Lacey, meanwhile, had left the Hollywood Estate for the actual Hollywood, California, where he was directing Justin Bieber in Les Misérables 2: Electric Bugaloo. ‘Country life had gotten a little quiet for me,’ was how he disingenuously explained the move to the Hollywood Reporter. ‘I wanted to be back where the action is.’
The villagers who remained had all been invited to the wedding. Some were directly involved with it; Kiki, a changed woman since, backed by Lulu, she had bought the pub freehold from Jonny Welsh, was masterminding the catering. Lady Mandy was putting her thespian talents to good use by rehearsing the bridesmaids’ flashdance to within an inch of its life. Anna Goblemova was helping Vlad with the bridal hair and facial contouring, while Edgar was manning the decks at the disco. Dame Hermione had graciously presented a signed set of her Saddle-Saw series to the happy couple and Zeb Spaw had designed the wedding invitations, which took the form of a handful of soil shoved through people’s letter boxes. ‘It symbolises symbolism,’ was the great artist’s cryptic explanation.
‘My mother does know you are editor!’ Lulu hissed, dipping by on her rounds of the pre-wedding party. ‘I tell her but she never listen.’
‘Never mind that,’ Laura teased. ‘What about Lucille-Irmintrude?’
Lulu groaned. ‘My real name is state secret, hmm? And will stay that way now MI6 not here any more?’ Both Sir Philip Peaseblossom and Richard Threadneedle had returned to London in a last-ditch attempt to save their jobs. When you considered the effect of the Russian hacks overall, Laura thought, it was tempting to conclude that, far from bringing British society to its knees, in Great Hording at least they had improved things.
The trial of the Russians began in a couple of weeks. Ellen, who Laura had earlier spotted downstairs drinking champagne with Sergei Goblemov, would be reporting on it for The Sunday Times. It was Sergei’s first post-accident appearance and they seemed to have a lot to talk about; no doubt he was giving her a few pointers for her story. Laura felt a surge of pure satisfaction about having got in first with the whole thing. She, the glossy mag editor, had beaten the serious journalists at their own game! Even Harry had had to give her credit for that.
A knock at the door and Wyatt entered wearing a top hat and frock coat in plum velvet. With her was Kearn, another groomsman, in a Savile Row suit worn with brilliantly new white trainers. He was also showcasing, as the Ivys commentators would have said, a black diamond earring and a huge status watch.
Wyatt’s fingers were neon at the tips, Laura saw. Hers too. Along with Kiki and Lulu, the two of them had spent every night the previous week preparing the handmade touches Lulu wanted for her wedding. Vintage cutlery had been sprayed in vibrant colours to make the table ‘pop’, and to make wedding favours. Home-made jam had been poured into tiny Kilner jars and given hand-stamped luggage labels.
‘Come and look at this.’ Harry was at the window. A small plane was flying towards the house. As it neared, it turned and a banner streamed out behind. ‘CONGRATULATIONS ONE AND ALL FROM CASPAR AND SAVANNAH. SO SORRY THAT FILMING THE NEW BOND “KIEV CHICKEN” MEANS WE CAN’T BE WITH YOU.’
‘Such a shame they couldn’t come,’ Wyatt said longingly. ‘I love Caspar Honeyman. After you, of course,’ she added hastily, as Kearn looked hurt. ‘Amazing they’re back together though, isn’t it?’
Laura nodded. Of all the consequences of the amazing Ivys evening, it had been the least anticipated. But Caspar had come round from his self-imposed blackout with no memory of anything that had happened during the last two months, a fact Savannah had been swift to exploit. Her new role, as Bond Girl Happy Ending, promised a return to the sunlit uplands of extreme fame and Laura had read that there was a part for the dogs as well. Che, Mahatma, Pankhurst and Mandela had been cast as the secret death weapon of a new Bond baddie who threw his enemies into their kennel to be savaged.
But Laura could not blame Savannah for any of this. On the contrary, she now felt almost warmly towards her.
According to a recent interview, the first thing Savannah had done after their reunion was take her scissors and snip off Caspar’s man-bun.
You had, Laura thought, to give her credit for that at least.
THE END
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Number-one bestselling author WENDY HOLDEN was a journalist on Tatler, The Sunday Times, and the Mail on Sunday before becoming an author. She has since written ten consecutive Sunday Times Top Ten bestsellers. She lives in Derbyshire.
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First published in the UK in 2018 by Head of Zeus, Ltd.
Copyright © Wendy Holden 2018
The moral right of Wendy Holden to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No pa
rt of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781784977580
ISBN (XTPB): 9781784977597
ISBN (E): 9781784977573
Author Photo: Laurie Fletcher
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