Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

  Hartley found Lucy irresistible. Whenever he said goodbye to her he counted the hours until he saw her again.

  So sexy, yet somehow so pure. He didn’t want to cheapen what he felt by overstepping the mark. He wanted to do things properly.

  Hartley smiled as he sat back and took in Lucy’s smell. It was everywhere, just like her style, scattered around the flat. On a canvas of creamy walls and carpets, throws and large pillows in rich reds and purples were dotted around the room, with a giant plum rug as a centrepiece under an ancient-looking, rectangular, low wooden table.

  A giant oil painting hung on the wall facing him – a purple Buddha on sands of pink and red – adding to the exotic feel of the room.

  Hartley guessed some of the decoration must be down to Max.

  Lucy had admitted she’d been nervous about telling Hartley her sister worked for a tabloid. Max, she told him with pride, was one of the most talented young journalists in the country. She described how Max had won a prestigious award and been headhunted. And one day she wanted to be a foreign correspondent, exposing corruption in third-world countries or covering wars. Max, Lucy told Hartley, might make a living out of exposing stars. But she was the most loyal person she could hope to have as a sister. Yes, the fact her sister was dating the Earl of Balmyle could land her dozens of scoops for the Daily News. But Max would rather die than exploit her for stories. Lucy could not be more proud of her sister’s achievements to date, she told him a little defensively.

  Hartley had laughed, kissed Lucy on the forehead and told her to stop being silly. Max sounded like an amazing journalist with a glittering future. What twenty-something would turn down a showbiz reporter’s role, mixing with the celebrities her readers were so obsessed by? And anyway, it wouldn’t matter if Lucy’s sister was a stripper (though his mother might object): it couldn’t change how he felt about her. All Hartley asked for was honesty and that’s what Lucy had given him. In truth, Hartley couldn’t wait to meet Max. She seemed always to be out at some premiere or launch party when he called by the flat.

  He had seen pictures of Max, who was pretty but not at all like Lucy. Her huge brown eyes and flowing chestnut hair made her look almost Italian, so unlike her fair, English-rose sister. A few days ago Lucy had started to say something about why they looked so different, but they were interrupted by a call from the Foundation.

  Hartley still could not quite believe how Lucy had thrown herself into organizing the Hogmanay Ball. With strong Scottish ancestry, Hartley had been keen to celebrate Hogmanay Scots-style in London, and raise as much money as possible at the same time. Lucy seemed to revel in all the tiny details – champagne flutes tied with tartan ribbon round the stem, a ceilidh with an instructor to show everyone how to do the Gay Gordons, a piper to welcome guests. Was it foolish, less than two months into their relationship, to hope Lucy would one day relish planning their own wedding?

  The thud of the flat door closing cut through Hartley’s thoughts. Followed by a torrent of profanities.

  ‘Fuck fuck fuck! I’m wet fucking through.’

  The door was flung open to reveal the girl in the pictures. It was Max. Although she was a little more bedraggled than in the posed family photos. Hartley couldn’t help his eyes straying down to her jeans. Was that…? No, surely not.

  ‘Hartley? Oh Christ. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Max?’

  ‘Oh Jesus, meet the bloody Earl for the first time and I’ve peed my pants.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Hartley wasn’t at all sure he understood. Uncertain where to look, he tried to focus on Max’s face, but couldn’t help noticing her top: tight and black and torn right down the front to reveal a – God, her nipple. He was looking at his girlfriend’s sister’s nipple. He hadn’t even seen Lucy’s yet.

  ‘Max?’ Lucy appeared from the kitchen at the other side of the sitting room carrying two flutes of champagne.

  ‘Oh Luce, I’m such a fuck-up.’ Max grabbed a red throw from a chair and hastily tied it round the huge dark wet patch which started above her crotch and spread almost to her knees. ‘Hartley, a pleasure to meet you. Let’s shake on it once I’ve washed my hands.’

  ‘Um, yes, of course.’

  ‘Max, what on earth’s happened? Have you been drinking?’ Lucy asked with concern.

  ‘I wish.’ Max groaned. ‘Oh God, I have to explain.’

  Max reached for a purple-velvet cushion and held it across her chest.

  ‘Here’s the thing. God, Hartley, sorry. The thing is my boss told me to stand outside the cinema in Leicester Square and wait for Tom Cruise. His latest film is premiering there tonight.’

  Max was distressed. This was not how she had hoped she would meet her sister’s boyfriend for the first time. Lucy really liked him and Max wanted to make a good impression. Sure, he might learn after a few meetings that she was a liability, but fiddling with the throw to make sure her damp patch was covered? Classy.

  She wanted to make Lucy proud, not embarrassed.

  ‘Right, the thing is,’ she heard herself say, ‘Tom Cruise is famous for doing his walkabouts with the fans. And as there was no chance of an interview with the paper, Claire, she’s my boss, figured it was the only way we could get quotes from him. So, to get a good spot – standing in front of his thousands of cross-eyed fans – she told me to get there at midday. These fuckers – shit, sorry, swearing too much – the fans… they travel from fucking Aberdeen and wait all night.’

  Max felt Lucy’s and Hartley’s incredulous stares upon her. She continued.

  ‘I was in such a rush to get there I didn’t have time to go to the toilet. I’d drunk a litre of water over lunch trying to be fucking – sorry – healthy. He was due at five-thirty. By four o’clock – four bloody hours – I knew if I didn’t pee I’d be hospitalized with a burst bladder. I tell you, I was in agony, doubled up with cramps. I also knew that if I left I’d lose my place and have all hell to pay with the boss. The security guards had closed off the area. So, erm, I had no choice but to pee.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Yes, Luce, I did. I’m ashamed to say I did. Another highlight in my career as a hard-hitting journalist. By the way, I got the chat with Tom so Claire was happy. I’m sure she won’t care that a mad fan was so angry when Tom spoke to me she ripped my top and Tom got a full view of my left nipple.’

  ‘Oh Max.’

  ‘My new Sevens jeans are soaked in urine and, if that wasn’t bad enough, the first time I meet Hartley he sees me having pissed my pants.’

  Oh God, Hartley was looking away. Maybe he’d dump Lucy over her disgusting, urinating sister. Bet Lady Bridget never peed herself.

  Lucy and Max caught each other’s eye as they became aware that Hartley was shaking.

  ‘Oh… my… God,’ he gasped in between fits of bellowing laughter. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard anything so funny in my life.’

  UNCOVERED: WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT CLARISSA’S FRIDAY-NIGHT SUPPER

  Dinner at Clarissa Appleton-Smythe’s was a success all round. Lucy had forgotten how well-connected Clarissa was, what with her ferocious ambition to meet Hartley. But then, Lucy had also forgotten just what a catch Hartley was – as a boyfriend or a friend. Counting him as a friend was on a par with knowing the younger royals. In some ways even better, because the people he socialized with were small in number and therefore exclusive. To Lucy, he had just become her lovely new boyfriend.

  Clarissa treated maintaining her contacts book like a career. She regarded meeting the Earl of Balmyle as an accountant would regard winning the business of a new client.

  Yet beneath her ambitious exterior Lucy had glimpsed a softer side to Clarissa, one that stuck up for her when Lady Bridget Beames had been so ghastly. Her heart was in the right place. Lucy sensed that, deep down, Clarissa saw the humour in her way of life too.

  Clarissa had greeted Lucy and Hartley like long-lost friends when they arrived at her Putney town house. Brimming with pride she shook Hartley�
�s hand, introducing herself as ‘Clarissa Coldridge Appleton-Smythe’ for full effect and making sure her fellow guests heard her introduce herself to Hartley.

  Clarissa’s house was exactly as Lucy had imagined. The decor and furnishings were fussier than the more minimalist look no doubt favoured by most in her stylish set. An overstuffed pink sofa with equally overstuffed floral cushions was surrounded by mismatched armchairs, a grand piano and solid dark-wood tables which looked very expensive. None of it would have looked out of place in a country home belonging to a fifty-year-old couple who kept the spare room for their daughter when she visited during university holidays. It was tastefully done in a chintzy way and so delightfully comfortable, filled with the delicious scent of a burning log fire. Mind you, it was a little balmy for a fire but Lucy guessed Clarissa wanted to perfect the feel of a homely manor. She noticed almost all the windows were open to counter the heat.

  Lucy recognized Clarissa’s dress from a photo shoot she had put together at the magazine, but the canary-yellow smock looked a little different on the pudgy Clarissa than it had on the skinny model with whom Lucy had worked.

  ‘This season’s Matthew Williamson, Clarissa? Now you’re the trend-setter.’

  If Clarissa had had feathers they would have puffed out with pride as she twirled in front of Hartley and Lucy. ‘Oh Hartley,’ she said, composing herself, ‘you haven’t met my fiancé, Clive.’

  Lucy had briefly met Clive at Ascot. She kissed him on both cheeks – after he had welcomed Hartley.

  Clive was a small red-faced man with twitchy eyes. Perfectly pleasant but one of those people with whom conversation was always a little stilted. He was well put together, in a no doubt expensive lounge suit like his fellow guests, but he had an unremarkable air and would dissolve into any crowd.

  Clarissa seemed as proud as punch of her other half. Having a fiancé, she told herself, made her more attractive as a guest. Females were always wary of single girls, viewing them as competition. And Clarissa was more in love with Clive than she had ever dreamed she would be with any man.

  The seating arrangements had been planned meticulously. Hartley was next to Clarissa on one side and Lucy on the other. Philippa Bonner, heiress to the Bonner Publishing empire, sat opposite Lucy. Clarissa had known Lucy and Philippa would talk fashion immediately, leaving Hartley all to herself. Lucy was, after all, gaining a reputation for the terrific way she dressed, appearing in the mid-market and broadsheet newspapers and magazines when she stepped out with the Earl of Balmyle. And as Philippa loved to look good – and always did – she devoured Lucy’s fashion and beauty tips like Clarissa relished society gossip. Lucy remembered Clarissa mentioning that Philippa knew Bridget, but there wasn’t a hint of coldness, just delight in talking about clothes.

  ‘Lucy, can you tell what I’m wearing now?’

  Philippa, like all the guests round the table – four couples had been invited – was terribly well spoken.

  Lucy was also well spoken but she had Max to thank for keeping her grounded, not carried away by thoughts of riches, of how many holiday homes/titles/horses she might acquire, like so many of the trust-fund kids.

  Like Max, Lucy was able to talk to a prince or a plumber, while remaining true to herself.

  The sisters had their mother to thank for that skill. She had always encouraged the girls to be outgoing and welcoming when they were growing up. ‘Be interested and interesting,’ she told them.

  So many of the society set could only – and indeed wanted only to – talk to each other.

  ‘Yes, I can tell exactly what you’re wearing. Some people know computers, others rugby trivia. Me? I’m a slave to fashion.’

  ‘Do tell, then.’

  Philippa, a slender girl in her early thirties, was immaculately dressed. With a chin-length bouncy blonde bob and perfect complexion with a sweet smattering of freckles over her cheeks, she balanced looking perfectly groomed with looking very natural.

  ‘OK.’ Lucy breathed in, looking Philippa in the eye as if about to start her round of questions on The Weakest Link. ‘Your cream blazer is classic Prada, perfectly tailored and timeless. Your summer skirt looks like it was bought to match the blazer but it is in fact Chloé – the multiple layers are a give-away, gorgeously feminine.’

  Philippa, delicately sipping her Chablis, looked delighted and wide-eyed as she took in Lucy’s observations.

  ‘Your pink pearls I’d guess are Tiffany, your tights are DKNY satin finish and your beige pumps are Prada.’

  Philippa, whose broad-shouldered boyfriend, Sebastian, was chatting about cricket to another male guest, shrieked with delight at her new friend’s talent and asked if she would mind helping her pick an outfit for a wedding she was attending next month.

  ‘I’d be delighted.’ Lucy smiled, spearing a piece of asparagus wrapped in Parma ham.

  To her left, Hartley chatted to Clarissa, as a waiter served chateaubriand and some delicious red wine.

  Miss Appleton-Smythe would later tell friends how the Earl of Balmyle found her hilariously funny – laughing heartily at all her stories. Hartley was, in fact, still chuckling over the image of Lucy’s sister with her damp patch and exposed breast.

  Lucy had warned him that Clarissa might seem a little scary, but she was sure she meant well. Hartley warmed to her. She seemed to relish having the right set of people at her Friday supper, but she was the perfect hostess – genuinely interested in Hartley and her other guests and attentive to their needs all evening. He was rather baffled, however, when she asked after his Aunt Brodie.

  ‘Well, I, um, I’m not entirely sure I have an Aunt Brodie.’

  ‘Aha! You’re right. She has always been called Bee – since she was a child.’

  ‘Aunt Bee?’

  ‘Yes, her real name is Brodie but she never much liked it – thought it was a boy’s name and insisted on a shortened version.’

  ‘Really? Well, you learn something new every day.’ Hartley had no idea how Ms Appleton-Smythe could have known such an obscure fact; she must have researched his family thoroughly in preparation for supper. He didn’t know whether to feel flattered or scared of her considerable knowledge and couldn’t help but chuckle as he caught the look of utter pride on his hostess’s face. She seemed delighted to have been able to enlighten him. He found Clarissa’s devotion to those around her quite charming. Granted, she perhaps paid him more attention than the others but she made time for everyone around her – complimenting a hairstyle here, asking after family members there.

  Using the moments in which Clarissa tended to her other guests, Hartley looked at Lucy. She was talking to Philippa Bonner – Hartley’s family had known hers since before he was born and he knew her well – and he marvelled at how Lucy made everyone feel so relaxed.

  God, he couldn’t wait until next weekend, for their trip to Scotland. Was it too soon, he wondered, to ask her to marry him? It was no time at all but already he felt he knew her, trusted her more than he could ever have imagined. He was in love, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps they could stop in Edinburgh on their way back from Scotland and pop in to see his mother; he was sure she would take to Lucy straight away. She had admitted, after he had split up with Bridget, that she had never quite trusted her.

  Compared to Bridget, Lucy was Cinderella next to the wicked ugly sister. It had been less than three months since they met but he never wanted to let her go. God, she was beside him and he missed her.

  THE PLOT THICKENS

  Lady Bridget Beames assessed the situation. The private investigator had found out almost everything there was to know about Lucy Summers. Somehow, she’d gone to a decent boarding school, though why in Kent when the family lived in Scotland she had no idea. Very suspicious. The carpenter who was the dad of her half-sister hack, Max, wasn’t hers. The private investigator still hadn’t been able to track down her own father as he wasn’t on the birth certificate. But the investigator had travelled to Broughty Ferry and taken pictur
es of her stepdad leaving their local, the Ship Inn – very original – at closing time. The investigator had also managed to pull his birth certificate and the stepdad was born in Ireland.

  Perhaps Blondie had got a scholarship because she was brainy and had her fees paid; she’d got straight As at A level and studied English at Oxford. How unbelievably working class, though, for her mother to have two kids so close in age by two fathers. Dundee had the highest teenage pregnancy rate of any city in the UK. Perhaps their family was normal there but it was not acceptable for someone of Hartley’s standing to be associated with them.

  It made Bridget’s stomach flip when she found out Lucy was five years younger than her. Having children had become somewhat of an obsession, with her mother pointing out only the day before that fertility rates fall dramatically when women hit thirty-five. Mother could be such a cow. But she hardly ever questioned giving Bridget money whenever she asked for it, so she had her uses.

  It pained Bridget to admit that Lady Barbara did have a point. She desperately wanted a baby and she had set her mind to it that it would be with Hartley. Lucy might be more fertile than her, and at thirty-one she no doubt wanted babies, but over Bridget’s dead body would they be Hartley’s.

  Most of her friends had married well and had children, or soon would. She felt they were secretly laughing at her whenever they asked how her love life was or if she’d heard from Hartley. She was sure she had seen a look of pity flash across her friend Natasha’s face last week at lunch. How fucking dare they! When she had been with Hartley, they had been the most celebrated couple in their set, indeed in London.

  When they had broken up Bridget knew the importance of saving face and told her friends they had agreed to a break because they were both busy, but that there was every chance they would be back together before long. Bridget knew Hartley was too much of a gent to divulge the actual, awful truth of how one-sided it had been. But she was certain their friends knew what had happened. After all, she had told them just days before she was sure he would propose.