‘Bluey!’ A skinny blonde rushed over. ‘There you are!’
‘I don’t think she’s very well,’ Lizzy said apologetically.
‘Does Bluey need a pooey?’ the woman said in a baby voice. ‘Let’s take you outside, baby.’
She rushed off, holding the dog aloft like a winning trophy. Lizzy and the man were left looking at each other. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she started apologizing. ‘I didn’t mean to …’
She trailed off. He looked very familiar. Where had she seen him before?
Giving Lizzy a long, chilling stare, Elliot Anderson whipped a tissue out of his pocket and bent down to wipe the front of his shoe. He stood up again, his top lip curling with disgust.
Someone came over with a mop and bucket and Lizzy and Elliot were relegated to one side. All the other guests were giving them a wide berth.
‘I’m Lizzy Spellman,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I think our paths have, er, crossed on email.’
Elliot Anderson continued to glare at her. He was taller and leaner than Lizzy had imagined, with a smattering of freckles on his nose that didn’t exactly match the ‘serious’ journo persona. Up close the famous hair was more reddy-brown, like the colour of wet leaves on an autumn day. Not that now was the time to start waxing lyrical about the bloke’s follicles.
Another member of the waiting staff came over and whipped the offending tissue out of Elliot’s hand.
‘I’m so sorry about your shoes,’ Lizzy told him. ‘I’ll pay for any damages.’
‘They’re Italian leather,’ he snapped. ‘I doubt you could afford it.’ With that, he turned on his heel and walked off in the direction of the toilets. Lizzy was left standing there like a lemon.
That went well
. She sighed. What else could she do to make herself the most unpopular person here tonight?
Ten minutes later she still hadn’t found Tamzin and was completely backed into a corner. A powerfully built man in a starched white shirt was blocking her exit. Lizzy tapped him on his considerable bicep.
He didn’t seem to notice.
She tried again. ‘Excuse me?’
He broke off his conversation and looked round irritably. ‘What?’
‘Can I just squeeze past?’
The man stared at Lizzy. He had a deep tan and the brightest blue eyes.
‘I know who you are!’ He pulled her into the middle of his circle. ‘It’s only bloody Headbutt Girl!’ He put his fists up in a jokey fashion. ‘Come on then, do you fancy a fight?’
A brunette with her hair piled up in a casually elegant bun sniggered. ‘Have you spoken to Jason recently?’
‘Justin,’ Lizzy said. ‘And, er, no.’
‘This is
hysterical
. So come on, Headbutt, what are you doing here?’ The man crossed his arms. ‘Found yourself a new chap yet?’
‘Give the girl a break.’ It was a male voice, directly behind Lizzy. Tan Man’s features darkened.
‘I don’t think you’re an authority on how to behave.’
Lizzy turned round and nearly fell over when she saw her rescuer. Elliot Anderson was staring at her tormenter over her head.
‘I assumed you’d grown out of bullying when we left school.’ Elliot’s green eyes gleamed. ‘What’s the matter, Marcus? Not getting the chance to take it out on the minions at work these days?’
‘Fuck off, Anderson.’
‘Guys, play nicely!’ the brunette said. She took hold of the big man’s arm. ‘Come on, darling, let’s go and get some more ’poo.’
The group they were with evaporated like a puff of smoke. Lizzy and Elliot were left standing together again.
‘Thanks,’ she said awkwardly. ‘That was nice of you.’
‘I didn’t do it out of chivalry,’ he said stonily. ‘Marcus is a wanker.’
‘Elliot!’ a husky voice wailed. ‘Have you and Marcus been fighting again?’
Lizzy found herself gazing into the anguished face of Amber de la Haye. In the flesh the fashion designer was even more beautiful. The severe black trouser suit would have looked unforgiving on anyone else, but it was brought alive by Amber’s tigerish eyes and the mane of hair that tumbled down her back like a waterfall. There was a half-moon scar on one alabaster cheek, an imperfection that only enhanced her smoky beauty.
Lizzy was entranced. It was like the woman had just run off the pages of an Emily Brontë novel.
‘Cressie said you were winding Marcus up!’
Elliot shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Not really. He was being his normal prick-like self.’
Amber frowned. ‘What’s that smell?’
Elliot took hold of her arm and moved her away, but Lizzy could still hear the conversation.
‘
Please
don’t make any trouble tonight,’ she heard Amber say. ‘Can’t you two even try and get along?’
‘He’s the one with the chip on his shoulder, not me.’
Amber put a placatory hand on Elliot’s chest. Lizzy got a glimpse of the huge diamond on her engagement finger. ‘I’m tired of fighting. Will you at least do me one favour and come and have a few shots taken with Jay?’
Lizzy watched Amber pull her glowering fiancé off. The guy was even more of a knob than Lizzy had thought. What the hell did Amber de la Haye see in him?
Within minutes Lizzy had found herself relegated back to the side of the room and contented herself with people-watching instead, swiping a canapé off her waiter mate whenever he came over. Once or twice she caught sight of Elliot loafing through the crowd, eyes guarded, not really bothering to engage with anyone. Even without doggy doo-doo on his precious loafers, Lizzy guessed he wasn’t the life and soul of the party.
By eight-thirty the place had virtually emptied out and had taken on the rather sad feeling of a used-car showroom. The SW6 set had come to drink someone else’s champagne and to be seen. There was no loyalty that required them to stay until the end.
Tamzin had promised she’d only be a few more minutes, so Lizzy amused herself by going round all the photographs again. She was definitely feeling a bit squiffy and carefree now.
Note to self: must not drink champagne on a Tuesday night!
‘Fancy one more?’ a waitress asked. ‘Might as well finish the bottle up.’
Lizzy looked at her empty glass. ‘Be it on my head in the morning.’
They stood together and studied yet another screaming face of a man who also appeared to have a miniature shotgun floating in his open mouth.
‘I’m going to have nightmares for weeks,’ the waitress said. ‘Is it bad to say I don’t think it’s very good?’
‘Not at all. I’d go so far as to say it’s a load of old bollocks.’
‘And I’ve been talked to like a piece of crap all night! Some people are so rude.’
‘Oh yes,’ Lizzy agreed. ‘Never before have so many who are so up themselves gathered together under one roof.’ Her voice got louder. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’d accidentally infiltrated the worldwide convention of people with their heads shoved up their own arses!’
There was a deliberate cough behind them. Elliot Anderson was standing under a nearby arch, his suit jacket over one shoulder. There was a strange look on his face.
‘Elliot!’ Amber was hovering impatiently by the entrance. ‘Our dinner reservation is in five minutes!’
‘Coming.’ He turned and walked off.
‘Shit, do you know him?’ the waitress said.
Lizzy managed a weak smile. ‘We’re more email acquaintances.’
Nic lived in a big block of modern flats by the Wandsworth roundabout. She was running late at work, so Lizzy and Poppet were let in by the nice concierge who kept a spare set of Nic’s keys for when she drunkenly locked herself out. Pouring a glass of wine each, they went out on to the balcony. Nic’s flat was on the edge of the building, so the view was three quarters the busy main road below and one quarter the River Thames.
‘Do you think when Nic’s got her penthouse suite in Mayfair she might employ us as her housekeepers?’ Poppet asked. She was a surveyor for a large property company and spent most of her days tramping round building sites in her pink Hunter wellies.
‘I hope so,’ Lizzy sighed. She’d had Brian Baxter in her ear all afternoon; he was still going on about getting the bloody Red Arrows for a fly-by.
It was a drizzly summer’s evening, so leaving the door open for a bit of air, the girls went back in. They hardly ever congregated at Nic’s place because she was hardly ever there. As usual it looked like a cross between a showhouse and a gym. The living room was dominated by a giant sofa, a giant wooden coffee table and an eighty-inch plasma TV. The set of kettle-bells in the corner were the closest thing she had to ornaments. When Lizzy had opened the hall cupboard to hang her jacket up she’d nearly been crushed by the weight of falling ski gear.
‘Do you think we should buy Nic a few pictures or a cushion to make it look a bit more homely?’ Poppet’s own flat was a shrine to soft furnishings.
‘I don’t think there’s much point, she probably wouldn’t notice,’ Lizzy said. ‘This place is only a stopgap for her.’
Nic had already owned two properties since they’d been living in London, unlike Lizzy who’d rented the same one-bedroom flat in Clapham since for ever. Lizzy’s landlord was a guy who lived in Sweden who she heard from once in a blue moon. He hadn’t put her rent up since she’d moved in; she was kind of hoping he’d forgotten she was living there.
They heard keys in the front door and moments later Nic burst in in her suit, phone wedged under her chin. She dumped her Mulberry and laptop bag on the floor.
‘Yep, yep, we’re doing the conference call with them tomorrow at seven a.m. OK, see you then. I’ll get the coffees.’
‘Do you ever sleep, or do you just hang upside down in your bedroom like a vampire?’ Lizzy asked her.
‘Sleeping is for wimps. Is the wine open?’
They all sprawled over the sofa and Lizzy told them about her run-in with Elliot Anderson.
‘It was nice how he stuck up for you, though.’ Poppet always tried to see the positives in any situation.
‘Hardly, he was trying to get one over on this Marcus bloke. It was obvious they really hated each other.’
‘Is Amber as beautiful in real life?’ Poppet asked. ‘She’s one of my style icons. Her and Alexa Chung.’
‘Poppet,’ Nic groaned. ‘
No
.’
‘What? I love Alexa Chung!’
‘What does she actually
do
, apart from being thin?’
Poppet ignored her. ‘What was the engagement ring like? Amber’s, I mean. I read the wedding’s in Italy, I bet it will be amazing.’ She came over all dreamy. ‘Maybe I’ll end up getting married over there.’
Nic and Lizzy both feigned shock. ‘I never knew you wanted to get married!’ Nic exclaimed. ‘You should have told us.’
‘Oh, leave me alone. Just because you’re a dried-up old cynic.’
Poppet had been planning her big day for years and was constantly updating her wedding dresses board on Pinterest. As Nic had remarked, all she had to do now was find her husband, although Poppet would get so carried away on the day with seating plans and flower arrangements she’d probably forget he was there.
‘I like thinking about who I’d invite to my wedding when I’m on the toilet,’ she sighed. ‘It helps me go if I’ve got a stubborn poo that won’t come out.’
‘Charming.’ Nic stuck her foot out and inspected it. ‘I always wonder who would come to my funeral. Wakes are way more fun than receptions.’
‘How many wakes have you been to?’ Lizzy asked.
‘A few. We die young up North, you know.’
‘If you died, what song would your coffin be brought in to?’
‘Lizzy!’ Poppet wailed. ‘That is really dark!’
‘Don’t tell me you never imagined your funeral playlist,’ Nic told her. ‘Come on, what song would you have playing when your coffin came in?’
Poppet hesitated. ‘“Breathe Again” by Toni Braxton.’
She couldn’t understand why the other two fell about laughing. ‘What? It’s my favourite song!’
‘I’d have “Toxic”,’ Nic declared. ‘No question.’
‘That figures,’ Lizzy said. ‘The thing is though, Nic, you wouldn’t have any say in the matter because you’d be dead. If you go before me I’m going to make sure you come down the aisle to “Cotton Eye Joe”.’
‘You bitch. I’ll rise out of my coffin and deck you.’
‘Can we stop talking about our funerals?’ Poppet wailed. ‘It’s making me feel really weird.’
‘Well, it all smells lovely in the kitchen!’ Lizzy said. ‘What are we having for dinner?’
It was a joke. Nic’s proudest achievement was never having once used the oven while living there. The instruction manual was still on the shelf inside.
She reached for her phone. ‘San Marco take-out OK?’
‘I wish Giuseppe wouldn’t throw in free garlic bread.’ Lizzy was so stuffed she could hardly move. ‘Can someone pass me the Häagen-Dazs? I think it will help it go down.’
Poppet was curled up like a little cat on the end of the sofa. ‘So guess who I got a text from,’ she said casually.
‘Matt Damon?’ Lizzy asked.
‘Ha ha. Sadly not.’ She paused a fraction too long. ‘Pete.’
Nic pulled a face. ‘Pencil Dick Pete. What did
he
want?’
Poppet looked miffed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t call him that.’
Pencil Dick Pete was an ex of Poppet’s, who had famously dumped her to allegedly concentrate on his accountancy exams. His nickname had come from a ‘length versus girth’ conversation the three girls had been having one night, when Poppet had let slip that Pete’s willy reminded her of the HB pencils she used to use in school. Nic, who wasn’t Pete’s biggest fan anyway, had called him Pencil Dick Pete ever since.
‘What did he want?’ she asked Poppet.
‘He just wanted to meet up for a drink. As friends,’ she added.
This time Nic rolled her eyes. Pencil Dick Pete would resurface every few months or so. It was always the same: he would send Poppet a text out of the blue, asking if she wanted to meet for a drink. Poppet would always end up going along, whereupon Pencil Dick Pete would get her drunk on white wine and try to get her into bed. Poppet would refuse, because she was an old-fashioned girl with morals, and Pencil Dick Pete would say he respected her morals and would promise to take her out for dinner instead, which he never did. Poppet would be left hanging for ages, and then just when she’d got him out of her head the whole sorry saga would be repeated again.