It probably cost more than the cretin beer-spiller earned in a month… no, two months. God, they’d let anyone in the Royal Enclosure these days.
Bridget turned to ask a girlfriend to get her a glass of champagne, but an unfamiliar face was in her way.
Clarissa managed to look surprised at bumping into Lady Bridget.
‘Oh hello. Lady Bridget, is it not? My name is Clarissa Appleton-Smythe. Pleased to meet you.’
The name rang a bell with the socialite, who was not in the mood to make friends but offered her hand anyway. It wouldn’t do to be rude to someone who was often mentioned by her set, especially someone who might prove to be useful to her.
‘A pleasure.’ She smiled thinly.
‘Allow me to introduce my friend, Lucy Summers,’ Clarissa gushed triumphantly, turning to her beautiful new friend. Bridget’s cold green eyes shifted immediately to the blonde girl beside this plump thing in pink.
This was the tart who was dating Hartley? Her handsome Hartley. The man she had been so sure she would marry. The love of her life.
‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ Bridget purred, holding out a bony white hand.
Lady Bridget Beames was as blue-blooded as Hartley. She had skied with the royals since she was a child and was no stranger to showing Tatler round the Mayfair townhouse Daddy had given her for her twenty-first.
Daddy provided a generous monthly allowance. And there was the interest from her great-aunt and grandmother’s estates. There really was no need to work. A lot of time went into looking the way she did, lunching in the right places with the right people and so on. It was like a full-time job. And anyway, helping to organize a charity ball or two a year for free was more than enough to keep her busy.
So busy, she had been known to cancel a lunch here, a shopping spree there with a girlfriend. All in the name of work. She hoped people appreciated her help; attaching her name to a ball attracted the right people.
‘Lovely to meet you too.’ Lucy met Bridget’s gaze and was chilled by its coldness. More than that: its venom.
Bridget drew herself up. Lucy was tall but found herself looking up into Hartley’s ex’s stony face. Her complexion was perfect but almost white, made all the starker by her painted lips.
‘Ah! So you are Hartley’s latest conquest.’ Lady Bridget pronounced each word as though Lucy might be hard of hearing and had to lip read, or was it so her crowd of friends could hear?
To her side was a strawberry blonde, freckled girl who looked so fragile and timid she would blow away if her Ice Queen friend blew on her. And beside her, a robust brunette with rosy cheeks and eyes that drank Lucy in, who had the smug look of someone who’d eaten an entire cream cake and blamed it on someone else. Both girls were well groomed but it struck Lucy that their clothes, expensive but unimaginative ill-fitting suits, were made for women twenty years older.
Behind Bridget, a delicate-looking, thin-faced man in a charcoal-grey suit and lemon cravat was bobbing up and down, craning to see what was going on over her shoulder.
Lucy was taken aback but more than a little amused by the hostility that was so obviously on show. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Bridget kept her gaze as she unfastened her beer-stained coat, slipping it carefully off her ivory shoulders to reveal a high-necked, emerald-green-satin Stella McCartney sleeveless blouse and matching knee-length skirt, which clung to her long thin thighs. She handed her coat dismissively to the strawberry blonde.
So this was the little tramp. The ‘beauty’ the Independent and Daily Telegraph reported had stolen Hartley’s heart. She could see why her darling Hartley’s head had been turned. This ‘Lucy’ was undoubtedly pretty, if you went for that kind of bland look. And her dress was this season’s Chanel. Perhaps her family was wealthy. But she was still a commoner. Was she an equal to Hartley? Did she have a title? No.
Just six months ago, all of Bridget’s friends had assured her Hartley would propose soon. They had been to Paris for a wonderful weekend and had agreed they were of an age when they should be thinking of settling down. Well, she had told Hartley this, but he seemed to feel the same way.
At last she would have the man she had wanted to propose for the twelve months and ten days they had been dating. Her social standing would rise even further and they would have children straight away. At thirty-six, Bridget was painfully aware that her biological clock was ticking.
Then, just two days after they had returned, Hartley had taken her to the ever-fashionable Wolseley for supper. Over lemon Dover sole and Sancerre he had finished it, explaining he needed some time alone, leaving her an utter wreck.
After months of going over and over what could have gone wrong, she decided that her darling Hartley merely needed time to sow his oats, get it all out of his system, before he came back. She was the only woman for him and she would get him back at any cost.
‘Ah yes. I can see what Hartley might see in you… in the short term.’
A cruel smile spread across her face, making her look like a cross between the Joker and Cruella De Vil.
Lucy’s bright blue eyes widened as she took in Lady Bridget’s words, spoken in her cutting upper-class tone. The girls by her side were clearly amused, biting their lips and looking at the ground. How clever they must think their important friend was.
‘I hear you write for a magazine. How lucky. When Hartley and I get back together I’ll be sure to come to you first with the photo shoot. Don’t you think we’d look wonderful on your front cover?’
Lucy was shell-shocked. How could anyone be so vile and yet have friends who were hanging off her every word? She felt Clarissa’s cushioned hand clasp her own.
‘Let’s get back to our friends,’ Clarissa said, with the emphasis on ‘friends’.
Lucy was touched by Clarissa’s loyalty in putting her friend’s feelings before befriending the famous socialite who outranked Lucy’s status a thousand-fold.
‘Well?’ Bridget’s shrill voice was tinged with victory and impatience as it cut through Lucy’s thoughts. ‘Don’t you think we’d look wonderful?’
Lucy calmly looked out towards the racecourse, smiled, then met Bridget’s stare once more.
‘Oh yes, perhaps a few years ago. You were very attractive. But my, haven’t you let yourself go?’
REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED… NOW
Bridget had left Ascot immediately. The bitch would pay, she thought as she pulled away in her black Range Rover. She was so angry she almost ran into a child running across the car park as she left. The little brat.
Who was she anyway, this Lucy? This little bloody upstart who had felt she had the right to talk to her like that? Bridget was furious she hadn’t known more about her. Some secret she could have embarrassed her with, instead of being the one who was left red-faced.
She was the only woman for Hartley; she knew exactly how to behave in their circle. It came naturally to her. She chided herself for occasionally confiding too much to him. In the last few weeks of their relationship she had been rather honest about certain friends in their group. Well, it was hard to be Miss Perfect all the time. She had acted so sweetly when they first met, charm personified, saying only nice things about everyone and everything. But being sugary-sweet was exhausting – and boring. Bridget had no doubt her friends admired her honesty and drive, but all the same she wished she had been a little less vocal. Hartley never seemed to say a bad word about anyone. Never mind, she would behave like a delicate mouse when she got him back.
She had called her mother as soon as she returned from their trip to Paris and told her to dig out the family tiara she had worn on her wedding day. Indeed the heirloom had been in the family for generations and now it was Bridget’s turn. She’d told Daddy that nothing other than a Vera Wang dress, top of the range, thank you very much, would do. After all, it would be the society wedding of the year and feature in Tatler, Hello! and Harper’s Bazaar. Perhaps Jimmy Choo shoes for the bride were a little
played out. Bridget made a mental note to call Manolo Blahnik and ask for their bridal range.
And then suddenly Hartley had ended her dream. She had had to contend with her mother, Lady Barbara Beames, rolling her eyes and tutting. She had been married when she was twenty and had both Bridget and her brother, Boris, before she was thirty. Boris was two years younger than Bridget, Barbara had reminded her daughter with a look of disdain, and was married with eighteen-month-old twins. Didn’t she realize time was ticking?
Fucking twins, Bridget thought. The golden boy and his mousy little wife, Miranda, had produced not one but two sprogs while she had none.
Miranda, or Plain Jane as Bridget and her mother had taken to calling her behind her back, didn’t like Lady Barbara being too hands-on, or ‘interfering’ as she had whined to Boris. It would be so special for Barbara if her only daughter had children she could fawn over and show off to her friends, who had taken to talking about their grandchildren all the bloody time.
Her mother also made no secret of her desire for Bridget to marry Hartley.
‘Such a gentleman,’ she repeated ad nauseam, ‘and an earl, Bridget. Really, why did you let him go?’
Bridget screamed at her mother that she hadn’t let him go and that she would get him back. She just had to remove his little girlfriend from the picture.
She had overheard someone in the crowd whisper how pretty Lucy was. Idiot. Bridget looked at her hands gripping the steering wheel. She was shaking with rage.
Yes, Lucy Summers would pay dearly. By the time she was finished with her, Hartley wouldn’t want her, and no one else would either.
EXCLUSIVE: GOTCHA!
Lucy had risen at 9 a.m., two hours after she normally got up, but she allowed herself a lie-in because it was Sunday.
She showered leisurely, lathering on Jo Malone Nectarine Blossom and Honey shower gel and Thalgo skin exfoliator.
She rubbed a generous amount of Crème de la Mer over her face and blasted dry her long blonde hair before smoothing on just a touch of gloss serum. Perk of the job: an endless supply of cosmetic samples. Some of the girls in her office displayed an unattractive greed when it came to freebies, constantly dropping unsubtle hints to designer houses that they’d love their new-season bag… and there was such a good chance they’d include it in their ‘must have’ section.
Lucy cringed at their phone conversations: ‘Yah, yah, darling, the new Westwood tweeds are to die for. If you have any spares, don’t be shy – send them over. That way I can, like, show them to my boss and she might go for an entire feature on them.’
Lucy found some of her colleagues’ blagging embarrassing, and she was given plenty of freebies anyway, as well as generous discounts and bits and pieces from sample sales. For a genuine fashion lover, it was a dream come true.
Lucy often wondered how the girls at the magazine could afford an entire wardrobe of the season’s designer must-have clothes and different accessories every day. She wondered if there was a secret closet and they all had a key, although that was doubtful given that no one in the office could keep a secret if their Prada baguettes depended on it. Perhaps they were all trust-fund kids with a rich daddy on speed-dial. A few of the nicer girls had told Lucy her outfits were the cause of envy at work – where did she find the little vintage Westwood and Dior numbers and how did she match everything so perfectly with new-season stock?
The truth was that Lucy knew every vintage and secondhand shop in a five-mile radius. She could never afford to drape herself in full-price designer gear. She had a talent for spotting worn pieces and restoring them lovingly with fabric she picked up, or paying her favourite seamstress at a tiny shop near her flat to work her magic. Lucy refused to be a labels snob and proudly told the girls her shirt was from Marks & Spencer or Topshop rather than a named piece which cost ten times as much.
Lucy picked out her favourite Marc Jacobs summer dress. The silk fabric felt wonderful as she pulled it over her head and let it slide over her body. The muted green floral pattern was feminine and fresh, perfect for her date with Hartley. They were going for cream tea at Claridge’s that afternoon.
She brewed some fresh Columbian coffee. Lucy normally stuck to green tea, but treated herself to a little caffeine on weekends. She squeezed several oranges and grapefruit into a jug and poured a glass before remembering to pick up the Sunday papers which would have been dropped outside the flat door.
News of the World for gossip, the Sunday Times for every supplement known to man and the Mail on Sunday for something in between.
Lucy’s heart stopped as she took in the front page of the Mail staring up at her.
BATTLE OF THE SOCIALITES AT ASCOT
Below the headline was a flattering head shot of Lucy – taken two weeks earlier at a charity ball – and one of Lady Bridget. A most unattractive shot with her eyes half closed and lips pursed.
‘Oh my God,’ Lucy whispered.
Her heart raced as she turned to page thirteen for the main story – a commentary by the social editor, Gerard Bosworth, renowned for his outspoken opinions and lack of interest in making famous friends.
We knew competition was stiff to win the heart of Britain’s most eligible bachelor, Hartley Balmyle, but we didn’t realize society beauties were prepared to fight over him.
Yesterday’s events at Ascot took a nasty turn when the Earl’s former girlfriend, Lady Bridget Beames, was introduced to his new love interest.
The green-eyed monster became guest of honour in the Royal Enclosure as Bridget tried to ridicule her fairer (and dare we say it, more beautiful) rival.
Despite her title, it was fashion writer Lucy Summers who behaved like a lady on the day, smiling pleasantly throughout Bridget’s verbal assault.
But the blonde butterfly proved she is more than a pretty face, delivering a deadly put-down that outclassed bitchy Bridget.
One to Lucy Summers… nil to Lady Bridget Beames.
As Lucy took in the words on the page, her alarm washed away and a smile of relief spread across her face. She had come out well. How funny. Lady Bridget, for all her connections, money, title and standing, appeared bitter and rude. Who said the newspapers always got it wrong, she chuckled to herself.
What about Hartley? Would he think this was all her doing? Oh God, he hated publicity. What if he was furious? What if he blamed her?
Bloody hell, I’m on the front page of the Mail on Sunday. Lucy hated being at the centre of attention, but had to admit it felt rather pleasant to read an accurate description of Lady Bridget.
‘Max, Max, wake up. You have to see this.’
Armed with fruit juice in one hand and the newspaper in the other, Lucy used her right hip to push open her sister’s bedroom door.
‘Jesus,’ Lucy said as the stench of alcohol overpowered her. ‘Max, I can smell you before I see you. Good night, then?’
Max wasn’t quite ready, or able, to respond as her sister’s voice cut through her semi-comatose drink-induced sleep. As she raised her head slowly from her pillow and opened her eyes, Max registered with depression two sure signs she was in for a terrible hangover.
First, she had dry-eye syndrome. So severely was her body dehydrated the moisture had drained from her eyes.
Secondly, her tongue felt like a mouldy slice of bread which had put out a thousand cigarettes. Must stop bloody smoking when pissed.
‘Oh Max, you look dreadful.’
‘Thanks, Luce,’ Max croaked with as much sarcasm as she could muster.
‘No really, Max, you look bloody awful. One of your eyes is closed.’
‘Oh fuck. Right. Don’t worry; it normally opens after I’ve had a shower.’
As Max focused on her sister, she noted with a mix of admiration and envy just how radiant she looked.
Like a vision out of a Herbal Essences shampoo ad, her fresh-smelling, white-blonde hair was clipped effortlessly at the nape of her long elegant neck.
Her figure-hugging, knee-length flo
ral dress was both refined yet sexy, an understated Marc Jacobs. How come she always smelled so good?
Envy aside, most of all Max felt love for her big sister, who was always there in her time of need. Even if 90 per cent of the time that meant offering her fluids to alleviate her hangover. Who would ever think they were sisters, Max thought as she forced a lopsided smile to reassure Lucy.
Well, half-sisters, as they had different dads. But with no other siblings, Max had never entertained the thought they were anything other than sisters and best friends.
Max was full of life and always in trouble, as wild as Lucy was sensible. Max was beautiful, like a petite doll, while Lucy was graceful and refined. Each sister longed a little to be like the other. Each sister adored the other.
Lucy stood at five foot eight, a good four inches taller than Max. She was elegant, poised and always immaculate. At thirty-one she was two years older than Max. Her natural blonde hair turned almost white in summer and at its darkest was a light honey in the cold winter months. Her eyes were a mesmerizing piercing blue.
Something was different, Max thought. Lucy was normally so calm, so relaxed, but today she looked excited. The younger sister propped herself up on her elbows, avoiding eye contact with the mirror opposite her bed.
‘So, how was Ascot?’
Lucy bit her lip. ‘Oh you know… Ascot. I met Hartley’s ex, Lady Beames. Max, wait until you see the newspaper. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.’
SHAGGER SHERI SAVES THE DAY
‘Sheri has called three times already,’ Emma told Max as she sat down at her desk.
Shagger Sheri was the nickname the paper had coined after publishing a string of her lurid kiss-and-tell sex stories. Once a promising topless model, reputable photographers wouldn’t touch her now after five ops had left her with comically huge tits.
Scandalous Page 3
