Authors: Wendy Holden
“Champagne D’Vyne,” whispered Geri. “You know, that spectacularly thick society columnist. She’s supposed to be getting married next month to an unfeasibly rich landowner called Juan Legge, but it’ll never happen. She always trades them in at the last minute for something better.”
“Lucky her.” Anna took in Champagne’s ripples of ice-blonde hair, undulating figure, and spectacular tan. Netting landowners must be a breeze when you looked like that. She strained to hear the conversation.
“Are you thrilled about the wedding?” Kate was asking.
“Oh yah,” Champagne replied in a bored voice. “
Beside
myself.”
“Will you be wearing white?”
“God no. I thought Versace.”
Anna and Geri caught each other’s eye.
“You go that way and I’ll go this,” Geri hissed, shoulders shaking. “Meet you in a minute.”
Anna veered away and headed towards a pair of matronly thirtysomethings in sensible heels.
“…well, at the moment we’ve got what you might describe as a
below stairs
problem.”
“Oh
really
?
Does it involve wearing paper pants?”
“No, the
nanny
,
silly.”
“Oh. Of course. The
nanny
.
Oh, yes please. Bacon sandwiches, how
adorable
.”
Anna now bore down on a thin woman with an Anna Wintour crop and a lilac cashmere cardigan listening to a tall, haughty blonde in a lime green lacy dress.
“We know he’s a boy, yes. Well, if he has my looks and Marco’s brains, he’s bound to be fine.”
And both of your modesty, thought Anna, proffering her wares.
“
No
thank you.” Both women looked at the food in horror. “What are we going to call him?” continued the blonde. “Well, we were thinking about Wyndham, but it sounds a bit
bottomy
,
and then Louis, but when you come to think of it, that’s rather redolent of lavatories as
well…
”
Anna stood as the woman in the cardigan, apparently unable to stop herself, slid out the skewers from a couple of sandwiches, peeled off the bread topping and, without moving anything from the tray, crammed the pieces of bacon hurriedly into her mouth.
“Yes, you’ve got to be careful,” she agreed, amid much loud sucking of red-tipped fingers. “You need to steer clear of anything that’s going to be pilfered by centre forwards or triplicated in the nursery. We had the most awful time—our first choices were Atlanta or Aurora, both once solidly B1, but now skidding firmly into C2 territory, I’m afraid. We considered Cheyenne, but…”
“
So
trailer trash.”
“Mmm, so in the end we called her Doris.”
“
Lovely
.
So
millennium
.”
Anna drifted away to where a reed-thin woman in a linen dress with eyebrows plucked into surprised-looking arcs was talking animatedly to an exhausted-looking man. “I went
straight
to my homeopathic doctor, and she said my stomach was like a pond that hadn’t been cleaned for years.”
The man paled. They both shook their heads at the sandwiches.
“Vegetarian,” said the man.
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Really?
Are
you? How very interesting…”
“That was Frank Gibbons,” whispered Geri as she swung by with her plate of sandwiches. “Siena’s godfather. Edits the
Guardian
.”
“Really? Who’s that he’s with?”
“His wife. He’s so busy that the only time they get to speak to each other is at parties.”
Anna grinned. Geri, she noticed, had got rid of even fewer sandwiches than she had herself.
“Last round before we refuel,” Geri said as they parted ways again. “We’ll need to reheat. I’m not sure your financier has arrived yet, by the way. Probably delayed closing the deal that will make his fortune. Even
more
of his fortune,” she added hurriedly.
Anna moved off in the direction of two more glamorous women in skimpy dresses and the type of strappy sandals that, on lesser mortals, would have been a display case for bunions and stubbed, square toes.
“…unfortunately he’s at that stage where he thinks bottoms and poo are
hilarious
,”
one was saying to the other.
“Tell me about it,” said the other woman. “Marcus’s hand is practically
welded
to his
you know what
.
Dreadfully embarrassing when we were on holiday—there we were, outside the Fairfaxes’ wonderful
palazzo
,
feasting on pasta, when Mango Fairfax suddenly says
what on earth
is Marcus doing? And we all look and—well, frankly, he had his hand on it and was yanking it up and down for all it was
worth…
don’t suppose we’ll be asked there again. No thank you, I don’t eat bacon.”
Or anything else by the look of you, Anna thought as she sailed off, almost colliding with Geri who was hurrying urgently towards her.
“Look, look, he’s over there. Just arrived. Your financier. Talking to those men,” hissed Geri. “Grey suit. Quick, girl, get over there with your nibbles.”
Obediently, Anna wove her way through the throng to the other side of the room where a group of smartly dressed men were having a loud and braying conversation. She approached the grey back—it seemed rather broad—and hovered. A narrower navy one next to it turned and grinned at her. “Delicious,” he said, stuffing two in his mouth at once. “Sandwiches aren’t bad either.”
Anna rolled her eyes. The old ones, she thought, were most definitely the old ones. Irritatingly, the grey back was the last of the group to turn and attack the sandwiches. And when he did, Anna wished he hadn’t bothered. Not only was he plump, pink-faced, and almost bald, he was also Orlando Gossett. Anna threw a burning mortar of a glance over to where Geri stood, open-mouthed, on the other side of the room. Was this her idea of a joke? Her pale face and shocked expression, however, suggested she was as surprised as Anna was.
“Orlando…what…what on earth are you doing here?” Anna stammered. Gossett looked at her in astonishment.
“You’re very
familiar
,”
he boomed. “But, since you ask, I’m one of Savannah’s
thousands
of godfathers.”
“Oh, are you?” asked the navy suit. “Me too.”
“Yah, Julian’s an old mucker of mine—built me an outdoor sauna recently, as it happens,” honked Gossett. “Quite an achievement considering I live in a mansion block in Fulham. Actually,” he said, screwing his small blue eyes up at Anna, “you know…you
are
familiar actually. Didn’t we meet at a wedding or something?”
“Yes, in Scotland,” said Anna. “Thoby and Miranda’s.”
“Gosh, your company gets around, doesn’t it? Well, the eats here are a damn sight better than they were at Bollocks’s. Worst food in the world, that was. Canapés looked like cat sick. Tasted like it too.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever tasted cat sick,” Anna retorted. “But the food
was
dreadful.” Even if the waiters weren’t, she added mentally, a sudden vision of Jamie sliding across the screen behind her. She was jolted from her musings by what felt like her spine leaping out from between her shoulderblades. Orlando Gossett was slapping her on the back.
“
I
remember now. Course. Friend of Lavenham’s, weren’t you?”
Anna nodded.
“Enjoy the other day?”
“What other day?”
“Lavenham’s wedding, of course.”
It felt as if a bucket of freezing water had been flung in her face. “
Wedding
?”
“Yah. Whirlwind stuff. You didn’t go? Actually, I didn’t either. No one did—tiny private do at the Chelsea Register Office, Lavenhams and de Benhams only, and then off to this island—Knacker, I think it’s called.”
“You mean Necker,” said Geri, who had just floated up. “How
ghastly
.
Necker’s so five minutes ago. Anyone who’s anyone’s honeymooning in the Maldives. Or going backpacking, like Lachlan Murdoch…” The jaunty note in her voice dried up as she saw Anna’s white-green face.
“
De Benhams
?” stammered Anna, her tongue moving slowly around her dry mouth. “Seb’s married
Brie de Benham
?”
Orlando nodded emphatically. His eye caught one of the waitresses circulating with glasses of champagne and he threw back his head to drain his existing flute. Champagne cascaded down his shirt front. “Yah,” he bubbled, foaming at the mouth. “Everyone’s
thrilled
.
Lavenham’s mother, particularly. Apparently couldn’t
wait
to see the back of the last girlfriend.”
Anna staggered away with her tray and headed out to the kitchen. It was empty; the chefs were presumably busy with the children. She sat down at the counter and stared, stunned, into space, unable to decide whether the numb feeling inside her was devastation or indifference. Seb married to Brie de Benham. It was so utterly predictable she almost wanted to laugh. So expected—and yet not expected at all. Geri rubbed her sympathetically on the back. “Never mind. He was a bastard. Treated you like shit.”
Anna’s eyes
pricked. Her throat ached. She sniffed. No, she told herself. I
will not cry
.
She wiped a hand across her nose. “It’s the shock, I suppose. Not that it’s that much of a surprise. He was always going to marry someone like her.”
“
Were
you
in love
with him?” Geri’s voice, though incredulous, had softened.
Anna nodded miserably. “Yes. Yes I was. He was very good-looking. Impossibly handsome. But in the end he turned out to be just impossible.” Geri rubbed her back again. “Yes, I loved him. But I was very let down.” Anna stopped and forced a smile at her friend. “Sound like Princess Di, don’t I?”
Geri thrust a brimming glass of champagne at her. “Sounded like a nasty piece of work to me. Looked like one too—that handsome but shifty type. I vaguely remember him from that Scottish wedding.”
“Shame you didn’t remember Orlando Gossett as well,” Anna sniffed, mopping her eyes with a piece of kitchen towel. “I’m amazed you forgot
him
.
He more or less smashed you to bits during the eightsome reels.”
“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten,” Geri said. “I’ve still got the scars. But he never actually told me what he was called. So when I saw his name on the party list, I was none the wiser. I judged solely on his other criteria, although I have to say,” she added, wrinkling her brow, “my informant who claimed he was reasonable looking has rather low standards. Subterranean, even.”
Anna managed a smile. Geri looked at her. “Come on. We’re wasting valuable man-meeting time. Once more into the breeches.”
By now, miniature bacon sandwiches had given way to tiny vegetarian burgers, each with their Savannah and Siena skewer and a V-shaped blob of mustard on the side denoting their meat-free state. Anna again approached the
Guardian
editor and his wife.
“J.J.—you know, the one who has a decoupage shop in Fulham—rang me yesterday,” Mrs. Gibbons was twittering. “Ooh,
thank
you. Look, darling, little
veggie burgers…
well, she’s just got back from running with the sheep. Ovine alignment therapy, it’s called.”
Frank Gibbons, although heavily occupied stuffing in two burgers and balancing another two in his napkin, stared in astonishment at his wife. “
Uuggghhh
?”
“
Terribly
good for you. You go to an Australian sheep ranch, live in a tent, and run with the baa-baas all day. Gets rid of all your city neuroses, apparently. Mmm,
may
I just have another one?
So
delicious.”
“
That
,”
said Gibbons decisively, “is a feature.” Placing his burgers down on a nearby construction of plastic and wood whose function was not immediately apparent, he fished out his mobile and started to stab the keys.
“So I might stop having monkey gland injections in my bottom and try that,” Mrs. Gibbons was saying. “I’m not sure they did me much good anyway. But lots of people swear by them.
Ooh
,
just one more then.”
“Well, you swore by them when you came home,” Gibbons observed, pressing his mobile to his ear. “The air was blue until the pain wore off and you could sit down again…Hello? Editor here. Get me Features.”
The Gibbonses having decimated her supplies, Anna returned to the kitchen. Geri was peering through a porthole in the connecting door to the children’s room. “Entertainer’s going down a storm,” she reported. “He’s getting them all to pretend to be animals.”
“
Pretend
?”
said Anna with feeling.
“I always find it amazing how entertainers remember the children’s names,” Geri mused. “But then I suppose they’re called either Venetia, Jack, or something ending in ‘o’ so it’s not that difficult.” She turned back into the kitchen.
“Puddings now,” she announced. “I’ll take the little tartes au citron and you take the miniature jam roly-polys. Don’t forget the thimbles of custard.”
As they opened the door into the adult room, the sound of braying voices hit them like a wall.
As Anna took a deep breath and prepared to plunge in, a soft voice beside her said, “Hello.”
Anna turned. Someone with floppy dark hair and wide-apart eyes looked back at her. Dressed in a smart three-piece suit in Prince of Wales check, Jamie looked very different from his last appearance as the uncertain bearer of a tray full of dirty glasses.
“Er…just going to the loo,” trilled Geri, over-obviously making herself scarce.
Spreadeagled on the loo seat, Cassandra was feeling distinctly inebriated. She’d had a good four glasses to calm her nerves and had now retired to the bathroom to regroup her forces. After all, the two great challenges of the day were still to come—the meeting with Cherie Blair,
still
not here but expected, and that wretched Promises auction. It was imperative that things went well at both.
Cassandra’s head swam. Champagne always had a devastating effect on delicate nervous systems like hers, particularly in the quantities she’d consumed it. She tried to focus on her surroundings, but immediately wished she hadn’t.
Damn
,
thought Cassandra, looking about her with twisted and envious lips at the blanket-sized taupe towels, the vast greige granite bath, the recycled green glass cistern in which a number of tropical fish glided serenely around, and the tiny chrome pushbutton taps tucked away above the granite sink.
It was all
so bloody tasteful
.
It made her own attempts at minimalism look about as stylish and assured as those things they used to make on Blue Peter with sticky-back plastic and toilet rolls.
Loo
rolls, Cassandra corrected herself. But then, the Tressells’ converted Islington prison was universally acknowledged to be a modern masterpiece, even though some dissenting voices—Jett’s for one—had been contemptuous of its pointed eschewal of obvious luxury. “Still looks like the inside of Pentonville,” Jett had scoffed when Cassandra had shown him the feature on it in
House and Garden
.
She had been so busy condemning him as a Philistine that it only occurred to her later to wonder how he
knew
.
It was odd, but Cassandra could not wrest her thoughts away from Julian Tressell. She’d always found him handsome, but today…well, she’d initially had trouble identifying the unfamiliar feeling but she felt positively
randy
towards him. But architects
were
sexy, she thought. All that talk about pillars and erections…
Standing up, she looked in the mirror that covered the whole of one wall. She looked
stunning
today. This skirt, well, she had wondered if it was a
bit
short, but
no
,
how could it be—it showed almost the entire length of her still-excellent legs. No man could resist a really cracking pair of pins and Julian was a better judge of fine structures than most. Cassandra moved closer to the mirror, ran her tongue round her lips, and thrust her hips out. Her nipples pinged erect under the thin fabric of her top. Christ, she was a sexy beast.
Cassandra lowered herself with difficulty onto the marble floor. You never knew, it
might
still work, and there were few better ways of relieving tension. Flipping off her knickers—not that there was enough of
those
to seriously get in the way—Cassandra slid a hand between her legs. Christ, it was like a swimming pool down there. Somewhere down here was
that bit
…ah, here it was. Cassandra began to rub slowly up and down, caressing her nipple with her free hand, running her tongue around her lips and thinking of Julian Tressell. Mmm.
This was
good
.
That sort of electric build-up feeling in her legs…She raised her pelvis and rubbed harder. Damn, lost it…ah, no, here it was again. “Mmmm.
Mmmmm…oh
,
oh…
”
Cassandra gasped.
“You OK?”
Cassandra shot upright and stared wildly at the doorway. Peering round the blond wooden door was that
bitch
of a United Nations nanny.
“Can I help at all?” said Geri, struggling to control her facial expression.
“No thank you,” gasped Cassandra. “Period pains. You know,” she added hurriedly.
As Geri withdrew and audibly exploded with mirth in the corridor, Cassandra lay on her back again. Well, it had worked, in a way. It had relieved her former worries. The thought of the Promises auction and the Prime Minister’s wife faded into insignificance beside the thought of Geri telling Julian she’d caught Cassandra wanking in his bathroom.
***
“You look different,” Jamie said to Anna.
“I’m thinner.” Wonderful to be able to say it as a mere statement of fact. But sad that there had been no joy in achieving it.
“That’s it. Thinner. Suits you. Not that you didn’t look great before…”
Seen in full daylight—or at least under Julian Tressell’s concept spotlights—Jamie, too, looked better. Suited and booted, he looked even handsomer than she remembered. Anna had lost no time in telling him she no longer had a boyfriend. Unfortunately, she had not left it at that, not left the door open for a pleasant, ego-boosting flirty conversation. Oh no. Instead, she had stupidly ploughed on through the events of recent weeks, told him all about Cassandra, all about Zak and Jett, and how miserable she was, becoming increasingly aware as she did so that none of it reflected particularly well on her judgement and intelligence. He probably thinks I’m more stupid than even I think I am, she reflected miserably, drawing the sorry tale to a close.
Jamie looked at her speculatively. He did not speak.
“Anyway, enough of me,” Anna said hurriedly, plastering a vast smile over the exposed cracks in her life. “How’s the wonderful world of waiting?”
Jamie’s composure dramatically slipped at this. “Sorry?
Waiting
?
Waiting for what?” His eyes, most unexpectedly, appeared to narrow in suspicion.
“When I met you,” Anna persisted, puzzled, “you were a waiter at the wedding.”
An unmistakable expression of relief crossed Jamie’s face. “Oh, er, um, yes, well, actually, I’m not a waiter.”
“You’re not?” This at least explained why he had been so bad at it. “You’re a student then? Holiday job?” He looked too old for that, though.
“No, I live at the castle, you see. It belongs to my, er, family.”
“
Oh
.”
Anna felt her mind ripple with the effort of reassessment. That explained the signet ring still gleaming—she shot it a look—on his finger. He actually
lived
in the castle. Probably owned the island. How
wonderful
.
“So you’re a laird?” How
romantic
.
“Skul is so pretty.” As Jamie’s expression changed from faint gratification to utter astonishment Anna panicked that she had said the wrong thing.
“Pretty? Do you think so?” he demanded, amazement still tingeing his tone. He smiled incredulously. Anna nodded, relieved. For she
had
thought so. In the few snatched seconds she had been allowed to take her eyes off the map book, she had admired from the car window great misty sweeps of grass and heather. Pewter lochs, air as cold and clear as water, Seb cursing that the signposts in Gaelic read like a monkey let loose on a typewriter. “Bloody stupid language. Like the worst possible letters in Scrabble.”
Jamie shook his head so his hair flopped once again into his eyes.
Needs someone to cut that for him,
Anna thought, longing to reach up a hand to push the errant lock aside. His smile was dazzling now. Good teeth.
“And did you like the castle?”
“Loved it,” Anna said, thinking of the view of the moon from the oriel window. Did Jamie remember? she wondered, blushing. Suddenly, she asked him, “So how come
you
were handing out the drinks?”
“Well, Dampie gets rented out for weddings sometimes, and I was just helping.”
“How
wonderful
to
actually live there.”
“Bit damp sometimes.”
“But I’m sure that doesn’t matter, does it?” For how could living in a castle not be wonderful? “It must be
so
romantic.” As she said this, Geri came past and gave her a huge, encouraging wink.
“Actually, I do rather like it myself, but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Some people find it a bit too remote.”
“Do they?” Anna could see their point, but chose not to say so. Such a shame he was stuck up there in the middle of the Atlantic. That ruled out any taking up where they had left off after the wedding. Although, come to think of it, they had left off almost immediately.
She looked at him again and lowered her eyes. There was silence. Anna was aware, from the other side of the room, of Geri shooting her a concerned gaze. She was also aware of the tray of untouched miniature jam roly-polys in her hands. People were looking meaningfully at her, obviously wanting her wares. Time was running out. If she didn’t say something—anything—soon, he could just turn on his shining leather heel and leave, having had no more than a pleasant/meaningless exchange with someone once met at a wedding. Anna cudgelled her brains for a topic. Something to catch his imagination. Something original. “Er, um,” she finally said, as inspiration struck. “How do you know the Tressells?”
“Met Kate ages ago when she did some report about Scottish nobility for
Harpers & Queen
.
And now I’m Siena’s godfather.”
Siena had, Anna concluded, more godfathers than the whole of Southern Italy.
“And your firm,” Jamie was saying. “Do you often get asked to cater…?”
“Oh, I’m not a waitress. I’m a writer. But frankly,” Anna sighed as, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cassandra picking her way down the spiral metal staircase, “my writing’s been more trouble than it’s worth. And that’s the reason why.” She pointed out her employer to Jamie. “My boss.”
Jamie looked hard at Cassandra. “Christ.”
Anna suddenly noticed Julian Tressell heading towards them. He whirled up and seized Jamie’s Prince of Wales checked wrist. “Cherie’s
refused
to do the Promises auction; says it’s her day
off
,”
he sighed theatrically. “So Kate and I were wondering whether, as our resident squire,
you’d
get us out of jail…”
“See you later,” Jamie whispered, as he was led away.
Anna hoped so. As she nodded eagerly, every nerve in her body thrilled.
***
Every nerve in Cassandra’s body jangled. Not because of the recent events in the bathroom—by the look of it, that wretched Geri had kept her trap shut and the story had got no further.
But the auction was now about to begin. Just let Fenella Greatorex
dare
bid for the dinner. Cassandra shot her a vicious look from where she huddled on the floor cross-legged. Cross everything, in fact. Chairs, it seemed, were banned throughout the house.
“An enemy to good posture, apparently,” someone behind Cassandra whispered. “Julian and Kate eat dinner by candlelight on leather cushions on the floor.”
“That sounds like an enemy to good digestion to me,” replied her companion. “Oh look, the auction’s starting.”
Anna watched, impressed, as Jamie immediately got into the swing of the auction. He had a natural authority—she supposed it went with the territory; aristocrats, after all, spent half their lives in salerooms, buying or selling according to how their luck was going. There was even a wicked gleam in Jamie’s eye; like a naughty little boy, Anna thought fondly, until she remembered Zak. Still, at least he was next door for the moment.
Pretending
to be an animal.
Bidding for the health club, newspaper subscription, and an organic food box delivery service which had mysteriously appeared from somewhere swiftly dispensed with, it didn’t take long for the moment Cassandra dreaded.
“Dinner party for eight at the home of, um, Sandra Knight.” Jamie peered at the card in his hand, then brandished the Philippe Starck toffee hammer that stood in for a gavel.
“
Cass
andra,” yelled Cassandra furiously.
“The bidding starts at fifty pounds,” announced Jamie.
Cassandra bristled.
Fifty pounds
?
It had better raise more than
that
.
She’d be a laughing stock.
“Do I hear a hundred pounds?” said Jamie in his soft Scottish voice, cupping a hand to his ear. “Wonderful menu. Foie gras to start with, partnered with the most wonderful old Sauternes, then noisettes of Highgrove lamb, served with a Chateau Margaux nineteen fifty-nine.
There was a stirring of interest. Hands sprouted in the air. Cassandra goggled.
Sauternes…Margaux…
what was this ridiculous man
talking
about? It would cost a
fortune
.
She hadn’t been thinking beyond boeuf bourguignon and supermarket plonk. “Er,” she called, raising her hand.
“No, sorry,” Jamie said, all charming Caledonian firmness. “You can’t bid for your own promise. Dessert is, um, yes, of course, champagne sorbet followed by tarte au citron especially flown in from Fauchon. Do I hear a hundred pounds? The lady over there.”
Fenella Greatorex
.
Cassandra’s spine froze. This was worse than the worst nightmare. She looked desperately at Cherie Blair. Entertaining the Prime Minister would put an entirely different complexion on things; one might well run to the Margaux then. Something chateau-bottled, at least. But Cherie Blair’s hand remained resolutely on the shoulders of her son Nicky. Her large brown eyes swivelled round the room in amusement.
“One hundred and fifty pounds. To the gentleman in the grey suit.”
Orlando Gossett, Anna saw with dismay. For once she was with Cassandra in wanting the bidding to get higher.
“At this point,” Jamie said, grinning, “I’m going to depart from convention and put a bid in myself. Three hundred pounds.”
There was a surprised murmur, then silence. “Sold to the Scotsman,” smiled Jamie as Kate rushed up and shoved a note in his fist. “Now, um, I hold in my hand a piece of paper saying the disco’s started. Ladies and gentlemen, everyone into the next room and join the children for the disco.” As the room scrambled to its feet, Anna glimpsed Cassandra sitting, stunned, in the middle of the floor. Then she saw Jamie coming towards her, looking very pleased with himself.
“What on
earth
did you do that for? You know who’ll have to cook it all, don’t you?
Moi
.”
Jamie looked astonished. “You surely don’t think I’m going to take her
up
on it, do you? Go to her wretched house and have dinner? Not to mention waste three hundred pounds.”