‘Old Ed? Good Lord, Sophie, he’s only thirty-four,’ Lady Margaret said indulgently to her adorably pretty goddaughter.
‘He always seems so much older to me!’ Sophie, in her mid-twenties, said irrepressibly. ‘Awfully mature. Oh, hi, Ed!’
‘Hi, Soph,’ Edmund said, grinning at her as he came lightly down the stairs. ‘I left my cane down here – do let me know if you happen to see it, or my false teeth. I’m getting so senile, I took them out and can’t remember for the life of me where I put them.’
A maid appeared carrying a silver tray of frosted whisky sours and lemon drops: Sophie, Minty and Dominic took off their coats, handed them to a waiting footman – a real one, not a protection officer in disguise – and fell on the drinks with gusto.
‘God, this is bliss!’ Sophie said, toasting Tamra. ‘I can see you’re going to spoil us rotten. We obviously need way more Americans coming over here and smartening us up! Honestly, if I weren’t so keen on Chloe I’d be telling Hugo to divorce her pronto and snap up Brianna Jade instead.’
This was clearly so kindly meant that even Lady Margaret, who knew perfectly well how vile Sophie had been to her sister-in-law before the wedding, smiled at Sophie as Edmund greeted Dominic, an old schoolfriend of his, with a hearty man-hug and a slap on the back.
‘Congrats,’ Dom muttered to his host, his eyes never leaving Tamra’s glossy golden figure. ‘My God, I can’t wait to start charming your ma-in-law into bed. I’m ready for some hot cougar action!’
‘Honestly, Dom! Show some respect!’ Edmund hissed back. ‘I’m taking Dom off for a quick game of billiards before dinner,’ he said more loudly for public hearing. ‘We’ve got time, haven’t we? I know Brianna’s running a little late.’
He cast an apologetic look at Tamra: they had both been horrified when they realized that Brianna Jade had fled the scene of their fight, had apologized to each other and promised formally to reach some sort of compromise between Tamra’s lust for society glory and Edmund’s for a quieter life. Edmund had pointed out that he was going along without a murmur with Tamra’s lavish engagement and wedding party plans, including the fact that Jodie Raeburn from Style was arriving tomorrow to organize both a photo and a video shoot of the engagement celebrations for Style’s extremely successful website, which meant that Edmund would have to spend most of the day dolled up in designer tweed posing on the bridge with his fiancée or recreating the proposal in the gazebo. Tamra in return had given him credit for not only submitting to all that, but doing it uncomplainingly.
So now Tamra’s glance back at him was just as apologetic. Edmund, of course, didn’t know that his fiancée had accidentally got drunk on cider with her pig-farmer friend and his grandmother; that was a secret that certainly shouldn’t be shared with Edmund. But Tamra blamed herself even more than Edmund for upsetting her daughter so much that she’d run to the piggeries for comfort.
‘Brianna Jade’ll be down in a little while for cocktails,’ she said faux-casually, ‘but yes, there should be plenty of time for a quick game of billiards—’
‘You really are the most fantastically gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen in my life!’ interrupted Dominic, taking her hand and kissing it theatrically, quite eclipsing Edmund behind him. The two men were the same height, with very similar builds, but Dominic was as dashing and flamboyant as Edmund was quiet and buttoned-up in his sober dark suit. Dominic had a showiness possessed by some posh men, a dashing dandy style that the unfamiliar might confuse, from a distance, with being gay. But the sheer intensity of the look Dominic was directing at Tamra made his sexual preferences more than clear. Tossing back his curly black hair in a way he knew made him look like a sexy pirate, he narrowed his sparkling dark eyes and then winked at her to boot.
‘Steady, tiger,’ Tamra said dryly, detaching her hand. ‘Keep your powder dry.’
‘Rrrr!’ Dominic growled like a tiger, shaped both his hands into claws and dragged them through the air in Tamra’s direction. ‘I’m in love!’
Edmund, rolling his eyes, hooked his fingers through the collar of Dominic’s shirt and dragged his friend away, mouthing, ‘Sorry!’ to Tamra, who smiled back at him: Lord, that smile said, men have been hitting on me since I was fourteen, don’t you worry about him. And honestly, he’s pretty cute.
‘Dom’s always had a thing for older women,’ Lady Araminta said in a nasty pinched voice which came from a ribcage equally constricted by the tightness of her bodycon dress: Minty certainly had an enviably thin figure, if you were going for the heroin chic look, but perpetual starvation did not have a good effect on what was already a fairly unpleasant personality.
Lady Margaret slanted her eyes sideways to watch Tamra’s reaction to this, her weatherbeaten face cracking into a smile as Tamra answered: ‘Oh, bad luck for you! I bet that really pisses you off. Never mind – if you like ’em young, dumb and full of come there should be plenty to go round this weekend.’
She flashed her best dazzling smile at Minty for the briefest of seconds and then turned it off again. This was always a terrifyingly intimidating tactic, like a Gestapo interrogation light wielded by a beauty queen, and even Lady Araminta, used to the snubbing stares of the highest echelons of the British royal family, wilted beneath it. Tamra turned to Sophie, clearly signalling that Minty had been dealt with, and saw that the princess was giggling.
‘That put you in your place, didn’t it, Minters?’ Sophie said cheerfully. ‘And I love “young, dumb and full of come”! That’s perfect for Dom.’
‘He’s actually the same age as Edmund,’ Lady Margaret observed. ‘But Edmund’s had all the responsibility of Stanclere on his shoulders for yonks, of course. Had to grow up fast. Makes a difference.’
‘Shall I show you to your rooms?’ Tamra asked Sophie and Minty: Edmund’s disappearance with Dom had demonstrated his willingness to assign hostess duties to Tamra, so not even Minty could accuse Tamra of overstepping her authority in Stanclere Hall.
‘That would be lovely,’ Sophie said, linking her arm through Tamra’s and looking around for somewhere to put her empty glass: a maid appeared instantly with a tray to place it on. ‘I hear you’ve got five-star hotel bathrooms to go with the rest of the do-over.’
‘Sadly no jacuzzis,’ Tamra said, in a light, self-mocking tone. ‘Which, as an American, makes me feel totally uncivilized, but the plumbing just wasn’t up to it. I am hoping to get a hot tub on the terrace as soon as I can convince Edmund . . .’
‘Ha ha!’ Sophie giggled appreciatively. ‘So funny! I’ll have a go at him too. Every stately home should definitely have a hot tub.’
Lady Margaret, sinking back down onto her comfortable velvet sofa by the fireplace, reaching for a cigarette, watched her friend and protégée with great appreciation as Tamra escorted Sophie up the stairs. Tamra’s manner was exactly right, remaining herself, poking fun at her American identity and her vast wealth while also unabashedly enjoying all the good things that her wealth brought. She entertained her friends while giving no ammunition to her enemies: it was the perfect tactic. Just now, she was adding: ‘Oh yeah, and these stairs are hell in heels. I need to figure out where to put an elevator. Or two,’ as Sophie cooed in agreement.
‘Minty! Sophie! Darlings, there you are!’ called a clear, bell-like voice from the gallery that ran along the half-height of the Great Hall, the extension of the staircase wings: it was Milly, an ethereally beautiful fairy figure in white lace almost the same shade as her skin. Tarte Bellini gel blush and rose-pink lipstick, together with a lot of dark brown mascara, gave her features definition. Even Tamra, narrowly assessing her with a quick, stiletto-like glance, had to admit that Milly’s clothes and make-up were extremely successful. Milly had been clever enough to copy almost exactly the look that had worked so well on her shoot with Tarquin. It was a textbook example of knowing what suited you best, rather than trying to compete with someone else’s style.
‘Hi Milly,’ Sophie said as Milly flitted up to t
hem. ‘God, you look pretty. Are you going to be in the photos tomorrow?’
‘Of course!’ Milly said brightly.
‘I’m so looking forward to it,’ Sophie continued, quite unaware of the rivalry between Milly and Brianna Jade.
‘Daddy gets grumpy when I’m in the mags too much, but I love having my photo taken, and he so approves of old Ed that I totally get a free pass with this one. You are lucky to be able to do real fashion shoots,’ she added glumly. ‘I’d really love to be properly styled in all those wacky outfits.’
She stroked back her long straight blonde hair wistfully. Sophie would not have made a true high-fashion model – she was not quite tall enough, and her features were too pretty – but she could certainly have worked in perfume or jewellery spreads, or done the kind of Tatler photo shoots that were based on a certain celebrity status.
‘I’m totally banned from modelling,’ she complained. ‘Minters does some and I’m always madly jealous of her. Come up and talk to us while we get dressed, Milly?’
‘There’s champagne waiting in your room,’ Tamra said to Sophie. ‘And just let me know if you need more cocktails sent up while you change.’
‘Oh God, the bliss!’ Sophie sighed again as Tamra led her and Minty along the gallery in the opposite direction from which Milly had come, towards the newly refurbished wing of the house.
Milly fell back, looping her arm through Lady Araminta’s. They had made friends some years ago on the party circuit, recognizing a fellow capacity for bitchiness and back-stabbing that meant they were much better off partnering up rather than becoming rivals, and also quite aware of the fact that the similarity in their names made them better known in tandem than apart: it was a form of branding. Milly provided access to actors’ gossip, Minty the inside track on the aristocratic circuit, so that between them they were much more powerful than they would have been separately.
It was an alliance rather than a friendship, but since neither of them had the capacity for the latter, the former suited both girls perfectly. And, in a perfect example of how they operated, Milly was brimming with information that she wanted Minty to diffuse throughout the house party.
‘You’re never going to believe what I overheard earlier!’ she hissed delightedly. ‘Le scandale! Just wait till we’re alone!’
Chapter Fifteen
But though Milly filled Minty in on what she had overheard a short time before, the gossip did not spread until the next day. Minty had wanted to start dispersing it instantly, but Milly was much too strategic for that. The atmosphere that evening was too quiet, and Milly had no intention of wasting her powder. Tamra had made it clear that she expected everyone to have a fairly sober Friday night so that they would be fresh and energetic for the photo shoot: Saturday evening, to compensate, would be a bacchanalia.
It hadn’t been a hard rule to impose, as even the most well-connected aristocrats were eager to follow Sophie’s lead and appear in Style, the most prestigious high fashion magazine in the world. And one look at Brianna Jade, glowing and gorgeous after her cold shower and pot of coffee, had made the English girls realize that they needed to be in bed by midnight at the latest, Clarins Beauty Flash Balm or Guerlain’s Midnight Secret worked into their faces and only a few drinks working their way through their systems, so they wouldn’t look puffy-eyed and hungover next to Brianna Jade’s healthy blonde radiance. None of the Brits worked out regularly, preferring the Three C diet – coffee, cigarettes and coke – and though they were all wafer-slim, the difference in their skin tone and Brianna Jade’s was noticeable.
‘I need to go to the gym more,’ Sophie sighed as they were being made up, staring at Brianna Jade’s flawless golden complexion in the clear white autumn morning light. ‘By which I mean at all.’
‘Oh, it’s not just working out. I go to the dermatologist every month too,’ Brianna Jade assured her, incurably honest. ‘And I get tons of facials. With extractions.’
‘Ow, that sounds horrible,’ Sophie said.
‘It is. You have to go straight home afterwards and lie low, ’cause you have little red marks all over your face. But it cleans out all your pores. Especially on the nose.’
Sophie, in the next make-up chair to Brianna Jade, squinted in more closely at her hostess’s nose.
‘It looks very smooth,’ she agreed.
‘God, she’s practically poreless,’ sighed Gary Jordan, one of the top make-up artists in the country, who was working mascara into the inner corners of Brianna Jade’s eyelashes, coating every single lash with great care and attention. ‘It’s like making up a china plate. Love her. Don’t ever believe us when we say we don’t love working on the pretty people best, because we do.’
The morning room had been set up as a make-up room for the shoot because of its high French windows that faced east onto the best light: hence its name. It was also big enough to accommodate the racks of clothes that the magazine stylists had brought. Autumn colours were the order of the day, since the shoot was not for the magazine – which would usually have to be planned months in advance – but for the website, so that the images could be uploaded in just a few days, post-Photoshopping.
The racks held warm rusts and lichens and deep umbers, glowing richly against the range of russet and chocolate tweeds: Jodie Raeburn was obsessed with tweeds for the current A/W season, and practically living in the Prada tweed A-line skirt which was pretty much the only piece from the range that she could wear. Since she had conquered the eating disorder that had taken her below a hundred pounds and to a life-threatening size zero, she had settled back to a UK ten to twelve, and though she was much happier and healthier at this size, she still stood by the racks fingering the size six tweed trouser suits wistfully.
‘You can’t wear those, you silly bitch,’ Gary called over to her: he was famous for his absolute refusal to be deferential to anyone, and the fashion pack loved him for it. ‘You’re not a stick insect.’
‘You don’t know how much I’d give just to be able to put this on for a day,’ Jodie said gloomily, lifting the trousers of one suit, softly checked mushroom and beige threaded with a hint of green. ‘It’s just so now.’
She looked over at the line of women in the make-up chairs: they were already mostly finished. The Style team had arrived pretty much at dawn, and they were all crack operators, used to working fast and perfectly. Jodie herself had flown in from Milan late last night, otherwise she would have stayed at the Hall.
‘I do wish we could have gone more Seventies with the hair,’ she said, assessing the nearly finished results. ‘But I know that would have knocked it over into too-styled, and with Your Royal Highness in the mix—’
‘Call me Sophie, please,’ Her Royal Highness said firmly. ‘I’d have loved a big bouff too, but Daddy would kill me if I looked like I was modelling.’
Gary sniffed. ‘I’d’ve needed to bring a hairpiece,’ he said, picking up a strand of Sophie’s fine blonde hair. ‘Even after I’ve teased it to buggery, you’ve got no body here at all.’
Even Jodie’s eyes widened at this lèse-majesté, but Sophie had built up a very good rapport with Gary over the last hour and a half of hair and make-up, and she giggled at this.
‘I know, it’s such a bore,’ she agreed. ‘Me and Minty both! Look at Brianna Jade with all her fantastic American hair . . . Milly, yours is pretty, I love your ringlets, but she’s just got so much of it!’
Milly and Minty exchanged narrow glances of fury at Sophie singing Brianna Jade’s praises, something that didn’t escape the sharp-eyed Gary.
‘Right, you’re done,’ he said, pulling away the black shoulder cape that had been fastened around Brianna Jade’s neck to avoid any loose powder spilling on her dress. ‘Fabulous, if I do say so myself!’
Brianna Jade was wearing tweed, a carefully selected, tailored Roland Mouret dress that skimmed her statuesque curves. The trouser suits were for Sophie and Minty, skinny enough to carry them off, while Milly had been style
d in a loose lace blouse and tweed mini-shorts, worn over dark green tights and Isabel Marant ankle boots. Their make-up was discreet, their hair as Seventies as the stylists had been allowed to go, done in the faux-natural, blown-out look which suited everyone. Though they were all blondes, their styles were very different: Brianna Jade, buxom and glamorous, was beauty-pageant gorgeous next to Sophie and Minty’s pretty, foxy-featured little faces and Milly’s saucer-eyed flower fairy look.
‘I’m really happy with this,’ Jodie said calmly, which made every single Style employee and freelancer shiver with happiness; that phrase was her highest accolade. ‘OK, the guys are all done. Let’s get out on that bridge.’
The men were gathered on the terrace, Tarquin and Edmund chatting pleasantly about the past shooting season, while Dominic and Lance, the drummer from Ormond and Co, lounged against the balustrade, smoking, their eyes fixed on the French doors through which the women would emerge. The videographer, who had already shot ‘candid’ moments of everyone during their hair and make-up – all the subjects perfectly aware of when the camera was on, naturally – was waiting on the terrace to capture the moment, stationed on the top step down so that she could also pan to the men and see their reaction, which was duly impressed. The four young women, perfectly well aware of how good they looked, walked out at a self-consciously slow pace, their blown-out hair bouncing on their shoulders, their smiles wide, turning to glance at each other because they knew it would make their blonde hair bounce even more effectively.
‘Whoa, it’s an all-blonde Charlie’s Angels goes to the country,’ drawled Dominic, coming off the balustrade and flourishing an elaborate bow. ‘Miladies, allow me to compliment you on your get-ups.’
But then, behind them, Tamra could be seen, exchanging a word or two with Jodie, both of them hanging back to avoid being in the shot. Tamra was not in this video, which was all about the engaged couple and what Style would describe as their ‘connected country set’. Still, being Tamra, she was dressed and made up as wonderfully as if she were styled for the shoot, in a tweed jacket over jeans tucked into Tremp russet patent high boots, glossy as conkers, her rose-gold hair bouncing from a hot rollers set. Technically, the jeans were too tight for British country style, the jacket too fitted and nipped-in at the waist, but, as Tamra had already realized, she was much better off owning her glamorous American self rather than trying too hard to fit into a world whose rules weren’t hers.
Bad Brides Page 25
