Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

  She desired with all her being to be the Earl’s wife, with the prestige and recognition it would bring. Her mother had brought her up with a clear message: she should marry well and have children to make her family proud. The cooking courses and finishing schools that had peppered Bridget’s teenage years were all booked by her mother with the intention of making her a desirable wife.

  Yes, she had loved Hartley. She still did. When they split up a friend had drunkenly asked if she would love him if he had nothing, not a penny or title to his name. She had feigned a look of hurt and said of course she would. She almost convinced herself it was true, but of course it mattered – the peerage, the wealth, the family history. She had always wanted to find someone with all of that and so Hartley was her dream man. Anyone else who talked about finding the man of their dreams was deemed to be in love.

  Now Hartley was with Lucy, she felt utterly humiliated.

  Bridget’s own bloody hairdresser, Pierre, had been gushing over a picture he’d seen of Lucy in Hello!. Style icon this, gorgeous hair that. She must remember to find a new hair stylist and tell her friends to do the same.

  Lucy might have had a lucky start, having been to a good school and mixing with the right people, but she was sure Lucy had been sparing with other details of her past.

  It was time Hartley knew everything. But perhaps that wouldn’t be enough. She had to be sure he was put off her for good.

  HOT OFF THE PRESS: MAX’S NIGHT OF SHAME

  Max groaned as her alarm sliced through her drink-induced sleep of the dead.

  On the plus side, it was the alarm set on her mobile phone, so she hadn’t lost that the night before. As she switched it off Max was conscious of a presence beside her. Slowly craning her head round, with more than a smattering of fear, she saw the back of someone’s head. A man. With brown-black hair. Jesus, who the fuck was in her bed?

  Think, think, she told herself. Where were you? The premiere of that American comedy, I Can Do Anything Better Than You. Then what? The after-party at Whisky Mist in Mayfair.

  As with so many of the parties boasting A-list guests, there had been a tiny enclosure inside the VIP section – a Very-Very Important Persons’ area pampering to the paranoia and self-importance of the big names. It had been guarded fiercely by beefcake guards.

  Often Max had been the only journalist at a party to get in there too. Once upon a time the old pretending-to-beon-the-phone trick had paid off. Another time she had sneaked into the kitchen of the five-star Lowells hotel in London, grabbed a tray of chicken skewers with satay dips and rushed out again before she was spotted. She had smiled brightly at the V-VIP guard and breezed in.

  She had even talked her way out of an ugly situation when a rival reporter, terrified that Max would scoop her to a great story, had grassed her up for being a reporter to the bouncer; she had laughed it off as a case of mistaken identity.

  Last night she had sneaked into the V-VIP area with fellow Daily News showbiz reporter Simon while the security guard dealt with a drunken guest trying to get in.

  Then?

  Shit, the evening got fuzzy after endless champagne… oh, and that ice sculpture with gallons of vodka pouring down it.

  She and Simon had taken turns on it after bagging a chat with the film’s leading lady, Java Hunter, at the bar. Buoyed by a few glasses of bubbly, Max had asked her if she was dating and Java had replied that no, she was single as always and considering turning lesbian. Joking or not, she’d said it, and Max and Simon had high-fived each other as they agreed her words were enough for a lead story on their column: ‘Java: I’ll Be Lesbian’ or similar. It would certainly be a welcome list-topper for morning conference. Claire and the other department heads always put their most exciting story first in the hope of putting the editor in a good mood. Java had left ten minutes later, before their rivals had got to her. Time to relax, they had decided – or rather, get buckled at the free bar.

  Simon was one of the few reporters Max trusted. Unlike Jade on their desk, he wouldn’t sneak into work half an hour early the next day to tell Claire about their scoop so that it would sound like it was his story and should therefore have his byline on it. No, Simon was a gem. He reminded Max of a young Ray Winstone, a swarthy Bromley boy who peppered every sentence with swear words, like rapid fire from a machine gun. He stood out from the immaculate world of showbiz, of fellow male writers clad in Armani and Paul Smith, who aspired to be like the celebrities they wrote about. Max found it hilarious to watch him talk to the plethora of gay PRs who represented the stars they wrote about, as perfectly preened as he was dishevelled.

  Max loved working with Simon. She respected his honesty, his lack of agenda. He wanted to be a journalist because he loved uncovering stories, but had somehow wound up in the bizarre field of showbiz and decided to make the most of the almost nightly parties offering free bars. A bit like Max.

  Occasionally, looking at Simon over the showbiz desk, Max had considered that he would make good boyfriend material – he never failed to make her laugh and he was the kind of guy who would play fair, no games. Then she’d spot the bulging belly or notice he was scratching his balls and picking his nose at the same time and realize she simply couldn’t go there.

  ‘Come on, Max, let’s get wankered, shit-faced, pissed.’

  ‘Delightfully put as always, Si.’ Max laughed as she followed him to the bar and ordered shot after shot of tequila.

  And? Oh no, oh God no. The PR guy… Andy? He had told her he knew celebrity stories that would make her hair curl.

  Had he told her any? Something about a young actress taking coke and giving a blow job? Shit, who was it? And then… then what?

  Max peeked under her duvet. She was naked. Fuck.

  Looking over to her bedside table, she spotted a used condom beside her mobile phone.

  Lying in bed with a random was worrying, but at least they hadn’t exchanged body fluids.

  Shit, she was as bad as Shagger Sheri. Worse. At least Sheri could remember the details. She’d never actually been unable to remember sex. A new low. And to think that until a couple of years ago she could count the men she’d slept with on one hand. She was certainly making up for it now, maybe fuelled by the drinking culture of her job. No, that was no excuse. Was she into double figures? Or rather, how far was she into double figures, she wondered, as a series of faces popped into her throbbing head.

  Andy – or was it Adam? – turned in his sleep to face her. As she took him in, it came back to her. A drunken dance at the premiere, the lights coming up. Max had found him devastatingly handsome. Looking at him now, he still was. A chiselled face you might see on the front of GQ. His torso tight, toned, a real-life six-pack. He had suggested going on to a bar he knew that opened all hours… They’d stayed there for a couple of drinks then headed back to Max’s in a cab.

  Andy/Adam and Max had been kissing passionately as she fumbled to open her flat door. Then they were inside and Max had pulled him towards her and had the deepest kiss imaginable. Her handbag fell to the floor as he pressed against her. She could feel he was rock hard against her.

  Unbuttoning her shirtdress like his life depended on it, he pulled it off Max and groaned as he took in her perfect breasts. He unfastened her black lacy bra and with hunger in his eyes he craned his neck to reach her nipples. Unable to wait any longer, and keen not to wake her sister, Max took his hand and led him to her bedroom. As they fell into her bed, kissing all the time, Max felt the muscles of his face break into a smile.

  ‘You are incredibly sexy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Max whispered as she unbuckled the belt of his jeans and wriggled out of her black thong, running her hand over his perfect torso.

  Grabbing him towards her, she arched her back as he entered her (yes, there had been a quick fumble for that condom, thank God). He had told her how wet she was, how she turned him on, how good she felt.

  Jeez, he was hot. Max rarely had an orgasm after drinking a skinful,
but she had one last night. So had he, with sheer ecstasy written all over his face. The thought of it made her shiver.

  So the sex was great; he was gorgeous. Why the hell did she already know she didn’t want to see him again? What was wrong with her? Who did she think she was? She’d had sex, what was there to look forward to? Not for the first time, Max considered she had more of a boy’s attitude in situations like this.

  She had known before sex that Andy/Adam wasn’t a keeper – he was gorgeous but she didn’t want him as her boyfriend. She didn’t know why, but she knew. She didn’t get lost in his dark brown eyes; she didn’t see his soul through those eyes. No doubt another lucky girl would fall madly in love with him. This hottie deserved no less. Funny how you could admire someone’s sexiness yet know they were not for you.

  Maybe I’m shutting myself off to love – like they say in the agony-aunt columns. Maybe I really do want to see him again – he’s perfect – and I’m kidding myself so I don’t get hurt. Nah, bollocks. I just don’t want to see him again.

  Fuck, he’d mentioned he was doing the PR for that new band, Roy’s Iron DNA, who were going to be huge. Shit, she’d probably have to deal with him in future for interview requests and the like.

  Moving a millimetre at a time so as not to wake him, Max edged out of bed slower than a snail with a full belly.

  ‘Morning, gorgeous.’

  Fuckity woop woop, too late.

  ‘Hey, good morning. How’re you feeling?’ Max chirped as sweetly as her mouldy-slice-of-bread tongue would allow.

  ‘All the better for waking up to you.’ And with that he grabbed Max round her waist and pulled her to him. ‘You are even more beautiful in the morning.’

  Max was suddenly conscious she must have morning breath. She hoped he wouldn’t notice she was ever so subtly pulling away from his grip.

  He was undeniably cute. So how come she couldn’t wait for him to go?

  ‘Listen, I’m just going to fix us a coffee, OK?’

  ‘Sure, honey.’

  Eugh. Max felt herself shudder at the words. She wanted him out of her bed and out of her flat. She wanted to clean her sheets.

  The familiar panic that only a hangover could bring was descending – she often called it The Fear or The Madness as everything seemed so inflated in her mind the morning after.

  Must stop mentally beating myself up with a hangover, she told herself as she noted her mouth tasted of a hundred cigarette ends. Must bloody stop chaining when pissed. The lungs take eight years to repair.

  At least she had the day off, having worked the last Sunday shift. Each of the showbiz writers took it in turns to run the desk on a Sunday, then had the following Friday off for a long weekend. She had agreed to pop into the office around six for an hour or two, though, to check proofs of the showbiz pages and to cover Simon who had to leave early.

  Pouring herself a glass of orange juice, Max noticed something on the kitchen table. A passport. Opening it up, she saw it was Lucy’s. She smiled as she remembered taking their passport photos together, with Mum, a couple of years ago in Boots.

  At the other side of the table was a note in Lucy’s handwriting.

  Dear Max,

  I forgive you as always for waking me up in the middle of the night – though 5.30 a.m. is quite something even by your standards.

  By the time you get up I’ll be having brunch with my dad, then catching a flight from London City Airport to Dundee for a weekend with Hartley and his friends. Meeting the friends… must be serious!

  If you need me, try the mobile – I’m staying at a country pile near the village of Peat in Fife – less than hour’s drive from home! Hopefully the reception will be OK.

  I’ll bring you back a bottle of malt… hair of the dog.

  I love you,

  Lu

  With the thud that only a hangover combined with a horrible realization can bring, it dawned on Max that Lucy had forgotten her passport – and as Lucy had told her a few days before, airlines were insisting on passports even to travel to Scotland, as part of some temporary security check. No passport, no flight, Lucy had told her.

  Oh fuckity fuck. Right, think. How could she find out Lucy’s flight time? Of course, the most organized sister in the world not only carried a personal organizer, she had a wall chart with her every move for the next year in her bedroom.

  And there she found it, written in pink to indicate a social activity.

  10 a.m.: Meet Dad for brunch, Grangemouth Golf Club

  2 p.m.: Arrive at City for 3.30 p.m. flight to Dundee

  Time now? 10.45 a.m. She remembered Lucy telling her that mobiles had to be switched off in the club – so she couldn’t call her. If she jumped in a taxi to the golf club – it was where Lucy often met her dad and was, from memory, between their flat and the airport – she could meet Lucy and give her the passport.

  ‘Rise and shine. I’m really sorry, something urgent has come up.’

  Max explained the situation to the bloke in her bed with as much drama as she could muster, her head keeping time to some messed-up symphony.

  Max decided to leave the flat with him to give the story a realistic edge. It would spare his feelings to know that she really was in a desperate rush to get out and find her sister.

  ‘Of course I’ll phone you,’ Max promised as he handed her his card. She never gave out her own card, which had her mobile number, when she was sure she didn’t want a sequel.

  Scooshing deodorant under her arms and throwing mascara, lipstick and perfume into her Dolce & Gabbana black-leather bag, Max slammed her front door and bid farewell to what’s-his-name before hailing a cab.

  TEARS FOR FEARS

  Yes, she’d put on the first clothes that came to hand, and her mascara and eyeliner had combined and expanded to make her look like a panda. But maybe she kind of pulled off that ‘just got out of bed’ look.

  Wearing a micro tartan skirt which only just covered her bum, a black Vivienne Westwood vest top and black-suede ankle boots, Max’s clobber could almost pass for day wear. Well, if her job was as a lunch-time cocktail waitress in an uber-trendy yet slightly dodgy bar.

  Max jumped out of the cab, gave the driver a twenty and asked him to wait. She’d only be a few minutes.

  ‘Hello, miss, can I help you?’ A gruff voice greeted Max as she breezed up to the entrance to Grangemouth Golf Club.

  ‘Oh, yes, hello. I need to go inside and give something to somebody.’

  Max chided herself – she was sure she’d slurred at least half of her words. And she was even more sure the smell of alcohol from her breath and pores must have hit the man, who was dressed like a butler, like a body slam.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I don’t think so, young lady,’ the man with the posh voice was telling her. Taking in every inch of her, from her steel-capped toes to her ruffled hair, he straightened himself up and cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake. Our dress code is, erm, rather strict, miss.’

  ‘Listen, I know I’m dressed for a wild night in Ibiza.’ Max laughed as she tried to make eye contact with the posh doorman and win him over. As she heard herself speak she felt detached from what she was saying. Her Scottish accent had never sounded so broad. She felt so out of place.

  ‘Thank you, miss. Our members expect a certain, erm, standard.’

  She felt like a tart. A dirty stop-out. How cheap she must look, with her tiny skirt and corset, her boobs thrust up and spilling out. The doorman must think she was like Sheri – after a rich golfer.

  But she wasn’t bloody Shagger Sheri, was she? She’d had a big night and smelled of pure alcohol, but so what? Did that give this jumped-up bouncer the right to make her feel unworthy of stepping inside his precious club?

  The only person feeling sorry for themselves should be this nugget, for thinking he had a right to stand there and put anyone down. Even if Sheri presented herself before him dressed in
a PVC catsuit, he should politely tell her to beat it rather than ooze the disdain he so clearly felt.

  A sense of anger bubbled inside her as she readied herself to come up with a witty put-down for this plank.

  ‘Nice view.’

  Max looked up and met the eyes of the man… the man who had said that before.

  ‘Max?’

  Luke. Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the man of her dreams had appeared. Granted, she could have sworn her heart actually stopped when she saw him. But what did it matter? He was engaged to Miss Perfect Tits and Teeth and would have white-haired, perfect children who would ski, play tennis and talk French before they could walk.

  ‘Yes,’ Max said weakly, her tone a mix of resignation and fatigue.

  ‘So it’s true?’

  ‘What?’ Max said, barely audibly.

  ‘You only ever leave your house half-dressed. Hey, I’m not complaining.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Max said deadpan, with no sign of laughter.

  ‘Listen, Michael,’ Luke addressed the doorman.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with this lady. I’m sure Miss Summers will overlook the situation, Michael. You really had no reason to realize she is a very highly regarded journalist and my personal guest.’

  ‘Oh… oh – I-I do apologize, miss, erm, M-M-Miss S-Summers,’ Michael was stuttering profusely. ‘P-Please forgive me.’

  Before Max could take in the situation, Luke had put her arm in his and whizzed her through the entrance into the private members’ lounge.

  ‘How do you know I’m a journalist?’ Max asked slowly.

  Luke seemed not to hear. Stopping at a small table beside the bar he said: ‘Max, I would like you to meet my father, Peter.’ He gave her a beaming smile. ‘My brother, Ben.’ Another welcoming smile. He looked familiar. ‘Last but not least, my sister, Lucy.’