Serena, kissing her impulsively, blowing a kiss across the
table at Ritz. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous. But you really didn’t
have to.’
‘Well, we thought we did,’ said Serena. ‘You had a
horrid day, and we felt responsible. Anyway, Alix Stefanidis
won’t be working for Christie’s again. That’s for sure. Will
he, Ritz?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Ritz. ‘And there’s some more
news, Romilly. Very exciting. I think Mario Testino might
do the campaign instead. You’ll like him, he’s so gentle and
sweet. He did these marvellous pictures of Diana, look, in Vanity Fair, I brought them to show you.’
‘They are lovely,’ said Romilly, looking at the pictures of
a new, utterly different Diana, her hair unstyled, slicked
back, what could only be described as a grin on her lovely
face, ‘but…’
‘But what?’
‘Oh — doesn’t matter.’ How could she tell them she found the very thought of being photographed by another world-class photographer totally scary?
‘Yes, it does. Come on, tell your old aunties.’
‘Don’t!’ said Romilly, sharply. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m
a baby. Like everyone else.’
‘Oh, Romilly.’ Serena looked at Ritz swiftly, then at her.
‘Romilly, we don’t think you’re a baby. We think you’re
very special. A real discovery. We’re very proud of you. It
isn’t easy, being catapulted into all this. No one can cope
with it at first. No one. Whoever they are, however old
they are.’
‘Of course they can,’ said Romilly. She was shocked to
find tears rising in her eyes. ‘I was so feeble. As if it
mattered. That - that bit of material coming off. Off my
boobs,’ she said loudly and clearly. The people at the next
table stared at her; she stared back at them boldly. She
didn’t care. It seemed important: to stop behaving as if she
couldn’t bear to talk about it. When it had actually been
quite — well, quite funny.
‘Romilly,’ said Ritz, putting down her glass, looking at
her very seriously, ‘of course it mattered. Let me tell you
something. When Kate Moss was just starting, she arrived at a session and some dirty old man tried to make her take her bra off. And you know what? She just refused and left. Listen,
you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You hold all
the cards. You’re the face of the millennium. Everyone’s
going to be talking about you soon. And if you don’t want to
take your bra off, you certainly don’t have to.’
‘Really?’ said Romilly.
‘Really. More chips?’
‘Yes, please.’
Marie France Auguste sat in the first-class compartment of
the Paris to London Eurostar, sipping at a glass of
champagne, and thinking complacently how pleased Serena
would be to see her. It would be good to give her a
surprise. She knew she hadn’t been terribly nice to Serena
lately, and she felt remorseful about it. She might not be
exactly madly in love with her, but she was fond of her, and she owed her a lot and certainly didn’t want to upset her.
Well, actually, she couldn’t afford to upset her: her career
would go right on the skids if she did. Marketing directors
could do a lot for junior product development executives if
they felt so inclined. And so far, Serena had felt very much
inclined. She looked at her watch; nine. The train got into
Waterloo at ten thirty; she could be with Serena by eleven.
And then they could have a really good night together.
It never occurred to her for a moment that she might not
be entirely welcome.
Steel Magnolias was just drawing to its tear-stained conclusion
when the phone rang: Mrs Blake swore and went to
answer it. It was her husband. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he
said, ‘but I think you’d better get over to St Thomas’s. It’s
your mum, love. I’m sorry, but she’s had a stroke.’
‘A stroke! Oh, God, Phil, a bad one?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think anyone knows yet.’
‘Poor Mum. You’ll come, too, won’t you?’
“Course I will. What about that little lot there?’
‘Oh, I’ll ring Zoe. She said she could get back if there
was a problem.’
‘All right, larfe. Best get a cab.’
Mrs Blake phoned Zoe on the number she had given
her; it told her that Zoe would get right back to her. That
didn’t sound too good. Now what did she do? Distractedly
she flipped open the telephone book, looked down the list
of numbers under Emergency. Not a lot of help: doctor,
dentist, gasman, plumber. Oh, and here were all the
children’s mobile phone numbers. Spoilt brats, thought Mrs
Blake. Still — useful. And yes, here was Romilly’s. At least
she would know that she’d be coming home to an empty
house; she could probably make other arrangements. She
dialled the number.
‘Then you’ll have to stay with me,’ said Serena. ‘That’s
absolutely no problem. There’s no way you can go back to an empty house. I’ve got a very nice spare room and—’
‘Serena,’ said Ritz, ‘Serena, perhaps it would be better if
Romilly stayed with me.’
Romilly saw Serena look at Ritz, saw a very strange
expression in her face: if she hadn’t known better, she
would have said it was anger.
‘I really don’t see that,’ she said. ‘You haven’t even got a
spare bed, let alone a spare room.’
‘Yes, I know, but—’
‘But what, Ritz?’ The blue eyes were icy cold, the
mouth tight and hard.
Romilly suddenly felt very uncomfortable. ‘Look,’ she
said, ‘look, it really doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine for a bit.
Zoe’ll be in later …’
‘No,’ said Ritz, ‘no, we have to look after you. Of course
you can’t go home alone. Sorry, Serena, I — I just didn’t
want you to be — well, put out in any way.’
‘I won’t be,’ said Serena briefly. ‘I’m surprised you
thought I would be. Very surprised.’
Romilly suddenly felt she had to prove to them that she
was actually more grown up than they thought. And
improve the mood of things at the same time. ‘Let’s have
another glass of champagne, shall we?’ she said. ‘My treat.
Mummy always says it’s the best thing at the end of an
evening. Ends it on a high.’
‘Your mother,’ said Ritz, smiling at her, ‘is a woman
after my own heart. But I’ve got my car, so I daren’t have
another glass of anything. Let’s go back to your flat, shall
we, Serena, have it there? How would that be?’
‘Fine,’ said Serena. She was still icy cool. But at least she
managed a smile. At Romilly at least.
The house was nearly finished; the kitchen looked wonderful,
the units in the obligatory distressed greeny-blue wood,
a blue Aga in place, Fired Earth tiles on the floor.
‘Looks good, doesn’t it? And wait till you see the
bathroom. Bath came yesterday. Black.’
It wasn’t quite black, more dark grey and white marble,
with gold taps and Jacuzzi jets. He led her into the bedroom; that was finished as well, done in what her
mother would have described as wedding-cake style;
ruched blinds, fringed lampshades, silk wallpaper, the bed
an absurd confection, made up in white and cream lace
trimmed linen, with curtains hanging from a brass coronet
hung over it, and a heap of teddies piled on to a mountain
of lace cushions.
‘Teddies!’ said Ian, his voice thick with distaste.
‘I think they’re rather sweet,’ said Zoe, ‘and I love the
drapes. Um — Ian …’
She had decided, while they were dancing, to come
clean about the money. He might be cross, but he’d be
bound to lend it to her — it’d be worth more than his job if
he didn’t, actually; and he had a great stash of fifty-pound
notes in his wallet, she’d seen them.
‘Yeah? Get your clothes off, princess, there’s a good girl
— we haven’t got all night.’
Serena’s flat was lovely, Romilly thought: on the first floor
of a modern building just behind Lowndes Square. It was
very cool, very minimal. She asked if she could use the loo
and sat there staring at endlessly repeated images of herself,
disappearing into infinity, from all four mirrored walls. It
was quite a nice idea, she supposed, but the loo didn’t seem
the right place for it; you were hardly at your best. Next to
the loo was a study, white carpeted, with a big black desk,
dauntingly neat, and on the walls a set of framed Christie’s
advertisements, dating back to the ‘sixties. She went, rather
reluctantly, to find Ritz and Serena, but they seemed to
have called a truce and were chatting fairly easily in the
kitchen, which was all white-and-chrome with an endless
battery of chrome and stainless steel cookery appliances,
toasters, processors, juicers, and a kettle that looked like
no kettle Romilly had ever seen. The fridge was silver
too; Serena was removing a bottle of champagne from
it.
‘I feel bad now,’ said Romilly. meant the champagne
to be on me.’
‘Another time,’ said Serena easily. ‘Let’s go into the
sitting room.’
She put some music on, strange, high pitched, other
worldly. Romilly settled herself on the sofa, next to Serena,
smiled across at Ritz.
‘To Romilly,’ said Ritz, raising her glass. ‘Romilly and and
…’
‘Us,’ said Serena.
‘Yes, us.’
‘Feeling better?’ said Serena.
‘Much,’ said Romilly.
‘Good.’
Romilly felt a sudden lurch of affection for her; for both
of them. They had been so kind to her, so thoughtful and
patient. She moved slightly nearer Serena, smiled at her.
‘You’ve both been so …’
‘Cool?’ said Ritz and grinned.
‘Yes. Really cool,’ said Romilly. She took a large gulp of
the champagne and then another.
‘Romilly! I’m sorry, but there is a limit, even to our
indulgence. That is no way to drink champagne. You’re
meant to sip it. It’s not Coca-Cola!’
‘Sorry. Mummy always says exactly the same thing.’ She
giggled; and having started, couldn’t stop. It was partly the
champagne itself, partly relief that the day was over, not too
disastrously after all, and partly that she could never stop
giggling once she’d begun. Tears began to stream down her
face.
‘Here,’ said Serena, laughing too, handing her a hanky;
she wiped her eyes, handed it back, then collapsed against
Serena’s side, still giggling, in between exaggeratedly
genteel sips of champagne. The others began to do the same
thing.
The doorbell went.
‘I’ll go,’ said Ritz.
Romilly, no longer giggling, was wiping her eyes, still
leaning against Serena, when a girl walked in. A very pretty girl, blonde, blue eyed, very slim, wearing trousers and a
sweater exactly like the one they had given her that
evening.
She stood there, looking at them, a rather cool smile on
her face; Romilly felt Serena stiffen suddenly, then sit up
very straight.
‘Well,’ said the girl, in a thick French accent, ‘I see you
are having a little party, Serena. Am I too late to join in?’
Marianne lay half-asleep in Nico’s arms. She felt easy,
sweetly at peace. She could not remember feeling like this
before; love for her had meant always darkness, complexity,
tension. Nico, she realised, was that rare thing, a man at
peace with himself. She had no illusions about him; he was
vain, arrogant, pragmatic to the point of amorality. But
those very things made him easy; sure of who he was, what
he wanted. Self-doubt, and its more difficult companion,
self-mistrust, were unknown to him; the result was a
personality that was blithely straightforward. And then he
was fun: Marianne’s life-companions, her children apart,
had been short on fun. And he said he loved her. And
seemed to mean it.
She lay there contemplating him, listening to his heavy
breathing, reliving the evening, reliving his last words to
her: ‘Go on, Marianne. Promise to marry me,’ before he
fell asleep and she felt quite tempted to wake him up and
tell him she would. For why not? Because she had not
known him long? Because she hardly knew him at all? She
had known Felix for years and still not been sure. She had
known Alec extremely well, and still read him wrong.
Marriage, love itself indeed, was a gamble; there was no
way to be sure of a winning hand. You could see there was
a hand to play, and that was the best you could hope for. So
— why not take it, Marianne? she thought, shifting just
slightly, smiling at Nico’s sleeping face. It would be a very
different marriage, this one, if she made it: very grown up.
She and Nico could lead a life of total selfishness. There would be no one to worry about, no one to be concerned for but one another. She rather liked that concept. She had
always been rather critical of childless marriages, seeing
them as incomplete, inconclusive: but second time around,
that was surely different. It would simply be fun: self
indulgent, self-centred fun …
Marianne lay there, beside Nico, half smiling, thinking
about fun. But her sleep when it came was uneasy and her
dreams troubled.