by Jill Mansell
Coffee. If she made her way to the coffee bar on the next floor, removed her stifling coat, and rested her feet, she would be good for another hour at least. Harrods—or rather its customers—might be intimidating, but she so adored spending money there that she couldn’t bear to leave yet, and the pre-Christmas buzz had lifted her spirits immeasurably. It was more fun here, anyway, than staying at home watching Jennifer, the new nanny, amuse her own children more efficiently than she herself ever could.
Everyone who had passed through the perfume hall on the first floor and had been sprayed had evidently now congregated in the coffee bar on the third floor as Camilla wrenched off her coat and slid into a chair. DKNY mingled with Eternity, and she held her breath, regretting being caught in the crossfire but feeling too tired to search for another free seat. She would enjoy her coffee, demolish the fat slice of chocolate cheesecake on the plate before her (cheerio, diet, see you tomorrow), and decide whether to splash out on a set of ludicrously expensive violet silk underwear with which to fascinate Jack, or to spend the money on sensible shoes for the children.
“…and you’ll never guess who I’ve just seen in the lingerie department,” a loud woman announced proudly to her friend with whom she had just met up. They were crammed into seats opposite Camilla’s and had strong Birmingham accents.
“I think I saw Michael Caine in the food hall,” the other woman retaliated.
Camilla tried not to smile.
“Well, I know who I saw,” said the first with increasing importance. “Recognized her straightaway, of course, after seeing The Johnnie Mason Show last week. You know who I mean, Marion. That dark girl who’s got her own program on Wednesday nights. Whatever’s she called now? The name’s on the tip of my—”
“Roz Vallender?” said Camilla, so astonished that she spoke without thinking.
The loud woman slapped the table with relief. “That’s it, of course it is. Couldn’t think of it for the life of me, dear. I just saw her as large as life in the lingerie department,” she confided.
As Camilla blurted out “But I know her… We were at school together,” she felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, excitement mingled with fear, clutch at her stomach.
“Well, that settles it,” announced the large woman, addressing Camilla as if she were a schoolgirl once more. “If she’s your friend, you must go see her, say hello. It wasn’t two minutes ago, after all. Jessie and I’ll wait here for you and if you could just ask her for a couple of autographs while you’re there, for our grandchildren, of course…”
If Roz was there, Camilla decided, she would bump into her accidentally while in the process of choosing the violet silk underwear set she had yearned for earlier. She wished now, as she entered the lingerie department and glanced anxiously around, that she hadn’t sent what Jack had so scathingly termed the fan letter. It put her at something of a disadvantage, and a chance meeting would have been a much nicer way of reacquainting herself.
And there—less than ten feet away—was Roz.
Experiencing another jolt almost akin to an electric shock, Camilla stopped and stared for a second at the slight, dark figure she remembered so well from fifteen years ago, even more slender in the flesh than she appeared on television and unfairly elegant in a white T-shirt, tight flared jeans, and a scarlet fedora. Then, every hastily laid plan rushing from her head as the sheer pleasure of meeting her old friend again took over, she flung her arms wide and called out, “Roz! I can’t believe it! How are you?”
* * *
In the noisy, chaotic atmosphere of Vampires, Loulou reigned supreme. She often felt that in her business life at least, she had hit the jackpot. The restaurant, which had started life as a wine bar and become almost of its own accord a hugely popular meeting and eating place, was her own. In the kitchen and behind the bars, her staff worked like navvies, watched over by her manager; all she had to do was be there, the decoration on the top of the cake, doing what came naturally. Simply, the more appallingly she treated her customers, the more they loved it.
A beautiful, witty, and extremely feminine version of Gordon Ramsay. One journalist had described her thus in an upmarket national newspaper some years ago, and trade had doubled practically overnight. Visitors to Vampires were insulted if they weren’t insulted and Loulou, who had been sacked from thirteen office jobs before she was twenty, usually for saying what everyone else longed to but did not dare say, never failed her customers. It was all so easy, so enjoyable, and so amazingly profitable that she couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t do it. It hadn’t even been too arduous sleeping for a fortnight with the sleepy-eyed journalist before persuading him to run the feature in his newspaper.
“Take those terrible things off this instant,” she said sweetly to a man in his thirties, fixing her gaze upon his green-and-white-checked trousers.
Amid the noise at the bar, the customers who heard her command abruptly halted their conversation and turned to stare at the offending item of clothing.
“Damn it, Lou. Why do you always pick on me?” protested the man, lighting up a cigarette and preparing to argue. Loulou pulled her What can you do with an idiot? face and turned to address her other customers.
“OK, we’ll put it to the vote. You lot don’t look as if you’ve got an ounce of sartorial elegance between you, so I’ll vote. Trousers off. And, Tommy, as long as you continue to wear hideous clothes, I’ll tell you to remove them or get out. It’s that simple.”
Having dressed in anticipation of the event, Tommy disposed of his trousers to reveal tanned legs and scarlet boxer shorts with “Long Vehicle” printed across the front. Laughter erupted, several cameras flashed (for Tommy, son of a viscount, was always newsworthy), and Loulou took the opportunity to announce that if Tommy walked into a wall with an erection, he would most certainly break his nose. It wasn’t true, of course, as she herself could testify, but neither Tommy’s wife nor her own present boyfriend would be thrilled to hear it. Besides, no one came to Vampires for compliments.
“Don’t do it, darling,” she called across to a woman entering the bar with a too-trendily dressed younger man. “He’s only after you for your money. Never be that desperate…”
Busy abusing the woman—pink and white and turning pinker by the second because she knew only too well that the loud accusations were perfectly accurate—Loulou failed to spot the entry of the two women until a long fingernail prodded her spine and she swiveled around on her chair with a shriek of outrage. Then she flung her arms around Roz’s neck and yelled even more loudly, “You old tart, what on earth are you doing here? Halloween isn’t until next week, for God’s sake. Ah, and I see you decided to bring your mother along.” With perfect solemnity, she clasped Camilla’s unsuspecting hand and said, “So you’re the raddled old trout I’ve heard so much about. Well, we don’t do special prices for pensioners, but since Roz is an old pal, I’ll stand you both a drink.”
“Lou,” said Roz evenly, enjoying Camilla’s shell-shocked expression, “you must remember Camilla Avery-Jones. From Elm House. We met quite by chance in Harrod’s knicker department this afternoon…”
And if I’ve had to put up with her, I don’t see why you shouldn’t suffer too, signaled her expression.
“Of course!” exclaimed Loulou, gazing with astonishment at Camilla’s flushed face. “I do remember you now. But my God,” she added with deliberate slowness, “how you’ve changed.”
But despite the pained look she had given Loulou, Roz was intrigued. Camilla Stewart had mentioned in passing that her husband’s name was Jack, and Roz, while acknowledging that his name was a relatively common one, was wondering whether Camilla’s Jack could possibly also be hers.
“And you haven’t changed at all,” Camilla was gushing, oblivious to Loulou’s implied insult, as she hoisted herself onto a barstool. “I can scarcely believe it, bumping into Roz like that, and now coming to Va
mpires and seeing you. This is just incredible; you couldn’t possibly understand. I haven’t had such a marvelous day for years!”
And it really had been a marvelous day, she told herself dreamily as she sipped a second glass of the rich, warm Beaujolais and gazed at the two of them, now deep in conversation together. Roz, with her striking dark looks, was simply too glamorous for words, and Loulou, with her rippling, waist-length blond hair and innocent eyes, looked like an angel. Between them, they were capable of intimidating even the most self-possessed person, and Camilla experienced a flush of pride, unselfishly admiring them. She wasn’t in their league—she knew that—but at least she was here, with them.
And she, at least, had a husband.
That was it, she realized with excitement. All through their school days together, Roz and Loulou had collected and carelessly discarded members of the opposite sex, and the only experience more embarrassing than being excluded had been the times when they had offered her their castoffs. Now at least she was the one with a man of her very own, a handsome one at that, and she longed quite suddenly and fiercely to show him off to her two old school friends.
“My husband and I are having a dinner party next week,” she said, reaching over and touching Roz’s arm. “Will you come? Both of you? We can’t simply lose touch again after meeting up like this.”
Please, please say yes, she begged silently as Roz frowned. It would show Jack too, that she hadn’t made a fool of herself by writing to Roz. He would be impressed, both with his wife and her glamorous school friends, and she would regain some of the self-respect that had been eroding steadily away for years.
“When?” asked Roz, stalling for time, and Camilla thought quickly.
“Monday.” She guessed it to be the night when they were most likely to be free, and Roz nodded slowly, glancing across at Loulou to gauge her own response. Loulou shrugged, indicating that she was easy.
“We’d be able to meet your family,” said Roz, her expression thoughtful. “What does your husband do, by the way?”
Camilla smiled happily. “He’s a broker, working in the City. Yes, of course he’ll be there. You’ll like him, I’m sure.”
Incredible, thought Roz. It had to be the same Jack Stewart. “I’m sure I will,” she replied, sipping her wine. To herself, she added, It rather seems as if I already do.
* * *
Jack had phoned thirteen times so far, but Roz had left her answering machine on even when she was at home, only picking up calls once she had established that they weren’t from him. She was still intrigued, but also a little angry with Jack. Always priding herself upon her honesty, it irritated her to realize that he must have known that she and his wife had been to school together. Why else would he have never even mentioned Camilla’s name? And why did he feel he had to keep it a secret… Surely he knew Roz well enough to realize that it would hardly make any difference to her? Yes, Jack’s motives were definitely questionable, Roz decided. She might be amoral, but she was never purposely deceitful, and she was determined now to find out why Jack had chosen to be so.
* * *
At six o’clock, Camilla slumped down at the kitchen table. She was exhausted, and Jack wasn’t being any help. All day she had been working in the kitchen, preparing an elaborate four-course meal for ten guests, and half an hour ago, he had arrived home from work in a foul temper and had promptly disappeared into his study.
So much for thinking that he would be proud of her for arranging tonight’s dinner party and for inviting two such illustrious guests, she thought sadly. Instead, he had reacted almost angrily when she had told him and all her happiness had seeped away, leaving her wishing she had never even suggested the bloody party in the first place. If Jack was going to spend the entire evening in a sulk, he was hardly likely to impress either Roz or Loulou.
But the food did smell magnificent. In the steamy warmth of the kitchen, the scent of the beef bourguignonne mingled with the comforting aroma of baking potatoes. And the seafood cocktails, lined up on the kitchen table, looked so pretty on their lettuce beds that surely no one would be able to resist them. In the fridge, the creamy syllabub was all prepared. On the shelf above it sat the white marble cheeseboard, carefully wrapped in cling film so that the ripe Stilton and Brie wouldn’t taint the delicate flavor of the dessert.
Everything’s ready, thought Camilla. Except me.
Jack, stabbing at the phone for the tenth time that day, realized that he was furious not only with Camilla but also with Roz. She simply had to be playing one of her irritating games with him, having guessed that Camilla was his wife. He had meant no harm by the small deception, and now she was clearly angry with him for not letting her in on the secret. By refusing to answer the phone, she was making sure, as always, that she had the upper hand. What a bitch she was, leaving him to guess how she would handle the situation.
“Jack, can I come in? I need a hand with this zip.” Camilla’s voice followed the tentative tap on the door and he suppressed a fresh surge of irritation, remembering that it was he, after all, who had instructed her always to knock before entering his study. Dropping the phone back onto the hook, he rose to his feet and opened the door, coming face-to-face with Camilla’s effort to look less like herself, more like Roz. It was, he thought with a jolt of unexpected sympathy, like dressing a puppy up as a lizard. Camilla’s voluptuous figure was naturally suited to pastel colors and lace, but, in her efforts to streamline herself, she had chosen a sharp, ruthlessly tailored dress. Her dark-blond hair, which so suited her when it curled loosely to her shoulders, had been scraped back into a chignon that cruelly emphasized the beginnings of a double chin, and the soft blue eye makeup she usually wore—on special occasions only—had been replaced by less flattering shades of poison-ivy green and rust brown.
For a fraction of a second, as Camilla turned her back to him to reveal smooth, creamy flesh and the unfastened zipper, Jack wondered whether he should tell her that the outfit was a disaster, that she still had time to change into the pale-pink wool dress that made her look like a rose. For heaven’s sake, she was even wearing a new, cloying perfume instead of the usual flowery scent he had always associated with her. Roz would know that Camilla was emulating her and would be inwardly laughing all evening. Suddenly, Jack didn’t want his wife to be the object of his mistress’s amusement. It was unfair, and he felt sickened by the prospect of it. The sense of clandestine excitement had vanished, and all he felt now was shame.
“I much prefer you in your pink dress.” The words came out more brutally than he had intended, and he regretted them instantly, for at least until that moment Camilla had felt attractive. When he had closed the zipper and she turned slowly around to face him, there were tears in her eyes.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said in a low, trembling voice. “You certainly know how to boost a woman’s ego.”
* * *
By eight forty-five, all the other guests had arrived apart from Roz and Loulou, and Camilla was struggling not to appear concerned. Surely they wouldn’t fail to turn up without even phoning to let her know? Was the evening that unimportant to them? Oh God, she prayed as she held out a plate of hors d’oeuvres and watched Margaret Jameson choose a cracker with the largest prawn on it. Please just make them turn up, and I promise I’ll never complain about anything else again.
The cow, thought Jack, not knowing whether to be relieved or angry again. She isn’t going to come. She’s chosen to humiliate us and make us look ridiculous in front of our friends. I’ll bloody kill her if she doesn’t turn up. I swear I will…
When the doorbell rang, Camilla thought for a moment that it was a hallucination. Then she realized that the other guests had stopped talking and that Jack had turned pale, pausing in the act of pouring a drink as if someone had pulled his plug out.
“Super, just in time,” she heard herself saying. The incredible confidence with wh
ich the words came out both amazed and impressed her. Stuff you, Margaret Jameson, she thought happily, for looking at your watch every three minutes and whispering to your husband out of the corner of your nasty, narrow mouth. My friends are here, and they’re going to impress the hell out of you.
Chapter Three
“Oh well, here we go,” murmured Roz as Camilla’s silhouette advanced toward them and the front door was flung open.
“Cami, you look wonderful!” she said with a quick hug and a smile. “I’m so sorry we’re late, but I was held up at the television studios, and then when I went to meet Lou, she was in the middle of a slanging match with a photographer from the Express, and I simply had to wait and see who won. Have we held everything up?”
“Of course not!” Camilla looked so happy to see them both that Roz almost felt guilty. She hadn’t lied, but neither had she mentioned the fact that they and the photographer had sunk two bottles of champagne to celebrate his defeat. “Come in and meet everyone—we’ve got time for another drink before we eat. Lou, shall I take your coat?”
Loulou slid out of her studded leather jacket and adjusted the wide neckline of her gold lamé top. In a tight, black leather miniskirt, seamed stockings, and stiletto heels, she looked both incongruous—angel turned tart—and stunningly beautiful. Camilla felt a thrill of triumph just wondering what Margaret Jameson would make of her.
Roz, too, was spectacular in suede jeans and a man’s white dress shirt, her dark hair slicked back from her face so that her wayward features were enhanced to feline proportions. As Camilla led the way back into the sitting room—the expectant hush told her that their every word had been overheard and rapaciously stored for retelling at future parties—she felt the sudden crazy urge to fling open the door and announce proudly that the prodigal daughters had returned.
