Scandalous

by Martel Maxwell

  Since Genevieve had learned of Lucy’s boyfriend, there had been a transformation in her behaviour towards her. Just months ago, she had treated Lucy as the tea girl, with a frequent roll of her eyes followed by, ‘Oh Lucy, I could kill for a skinny latte… would you be a darling?’

  The plum jobs like styling a vintage shoot she had either kept for herself, in the hope of snaffling a handbag or dress, or, when she couldn’t be bothered working them herself, she carefully chose who would take her place, normally one of the girls who were well connected and who would repay her by inviting her to a party. Now it was Lucy who was being promised the shoot in Monte Carlo with Elsba, the model being tipped to take over the world, and a luxury skiing trip to write a commentary on slope chic and other glamorous jobs.

  Lucy relished doing the best job possible on the increasingly high-profile shoots and interviews she was being given, but Genevieve’s motive for this sudden change of heart grated. Lucy had no doubt her boss would have demoted her to tea girl by now if she could have, but the fact was that Lucy more than deserved her position as a writer. She made any article come to life with her description of clothes, her love of fashion shining through. But there was something about Lucy that made Genevieve uneasy. Rather than applaud her for bringing talent to her department, she had tried to hide from others on the magazine how good Lucy was, taking credit for herself instead where at all possible. But her ruthless ambition to know the Hartleys of this world seemed to have surpassed her dislike of Lucy.

  Lucy had lost count of the times Genevieve had asked her a question ridiculously loudly so the other girls could hear. Quite often she bellowed: ‘You’ll never guess who asked me out on a date last night! Go on, guess.’

  She insisted the girls guessed. When they had exhausted their mental list of eligible bachelors, Genevieve would shout out the name – some friend of a friend of a minor royal or similar. The girls had never heard of him but pretended to be most impressed. She was, after all, in charge of allocating trips and shoots for the writers. Lucy guessed that’s why she wasn’t on her boss’s list of favourites: she didn’t pander to the inane boasting.

  The only person who showed less interest was Carlos. While Lucy was at least polite if indifferent, Carlos would openly mock Genevieve in front of her gaggle of assistants. Even they couldn’t help but stifle giggles when their boss was at the sharp end of his tongue.

  ‘Oh enough of the “guess which millionaire fancies me today” game. Who the fuck cares?’ he said once in his hardened, mock-macho yet clearly gay New York accent. ‘Get yourself a real man – one who works for a living – and beg him to give you a good seeing to. That would get the coat hanger out of your skinny ass.’

  Carlos had nothing to fear from Genevieve – she couldn’t sack him. He was the best at what he did in London and, if it came to a choice, the publishers would choose him over her. Genevieve was exposed as the coward she really was when Carlos had made fun of her; she laughed nervously, pretending Carlos was sharing some in-joke with her.

  ‘There’s nothing to joke about,’ he told Lucy afterwards. ‘I smelled her out as the bullying phoney she is. I see the way she looks at you – she’s a jealous fake.’

  Genevieve had learned from experience not to make boasts in front of Carlos again.

  ‘Has Hartley shown you his third nipple yet?’ Robert asked, taking his eye off the road for a second to address Lucy with a mischievous look, ending her thoughts of her peculiar boss and bringing her back to the present.

  ‘Erm, no, Robert – I mean, Robbie.’

  Their host had insisted that Lucy call him Robbie, because being called Robert made him feel like he was in trouble.

  ‘Look, Robbie,’ started an indignant Hartley, ‘I’ve told you before, it’s just a birth mark.’

  ‘OK, Scaramanga,’ Robbie countered before he and Charles exploded with laughter.

  You see, Lucy told herself as she joined in with the laughter, these people were no different. Yes they had more money and opportunities than most. But they also laughed at themselves. Who would have believed it: the upper classes had a sense of humour. Indeed, Hartley had made her laugh more than any man she had ever dated. Put him on a remote island and she had no doubt he could not only survive but also grow his own crops; she was equally sure, though, that he had never put on a load of washing without forgetting to remove a chocolate bar from a trouser pocket or to take out the red top that dyed his cricket whites pink.

  Lucy imagined Hartley’s friends thought so highly of their genuine, fun-loving pal that they welcomed a girlfriend who made him happy. Lucy chided herself as a wicked thought flickered through her mind: just maybe they disliked cruel Bridget and were thankful he had found a kinder, nicer replacement. Hurray! Then again, what if they had all glimpsed a softer, lovely side to Bridget? They would have had to look very deep inside, Lucy thought, to see any warmth within the Ice Queen.

  In Robbie’s big car, Lucy felt like Alice in Wonderland when she became a giant, speeding along the winding country roads, with miniature white cottages and dinky fields dotted with sheep.

  She took in the delicious smell of burning wood as they drove up what she imagined was the drive to Robbie’s house. After a mile or so she wondered if any drive could be so long. How did they maintain the spectacular gardens with perfectly trimmed hedges and rose bushes as far as the eye could see? And then they were there, in front of an awesomely imposing Georgian house. As she entered, she inhaled sharply as she looked up to a grand wooden staircase straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Paintings bigger than her adorned the walls – pictures of distinguished officers and delicate women with ivory complexions and trussed-up bosoms escaping their tiny bodices. Lucy wondered if these people were Robbie’s relatives.

  Most of the portraits looked so formal, but one caught Lucy’s eye. A virginal-looking woman, no more than twenty, with blood-red lips, big sad blue eyes and beautiful dark hair which fell in loose ringlets to her waist.

  Lucy smiled as she thought of one of her colleagues, Sophie, who wrote for the mag’s diary section. She had had the most gorgeous long, black, silky hair but was so obsessed with having the latest look that she had chopped it as short as possible and dyed it white – all because the supermodel Agyness Deyn was gracing covers with the quirky style. Sophie suited the look – she was stunning, with a size zero frame most of the girls on the floor would kill for – and it made her look funky and edgy. Still, Lucy couldn’t help but look at her at times and lament her glossy locks.

  Hartley squeezed her hand. ‘This place has been in Robbie’s family for centuries. His mum and dad are getting on and he’s running the place now.’

  ‘Oh I see. It’s stunning.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ And so are you, Hartley thought. Seeing Lucy in such a splendid new setting was like seeing her for the first time. As he drank in her every detail, he wanted desperately to make love to her, to throw her on the bed upstairs and rip her clothes off. Just what he needed, a bloody erection in front of his friends.

  ‘Right,’ he barked, while holding Lucy’s brown-leather overnight bag in front of his crotch, ‘shall we drop our bags?’

  Marching up the stairs, Hartley told Lucy he knew well the room they would stay in. He had boarded with Robbie and stayed for many a night over the holidays. His own family home in Edinburgh was just an hour’s drive away.

  ‘Here we are,’ he announced, throwing open a door. ‘Hartley’s room.’

  Lucy let out a shriek of delight as she took in the room, which looked like it had been untouched for a century. There was nothing ostentatious about it; it was just quietly grand with a little dark-wood dressing table displaying a lady’s brush and mirror set, and a four-poster bed with delicately embroidered pale blue covers.

  She sat on the bed and bounced up and down. ‘I feel like Bridget Jones when Hugh Grant takes her away to a stately home for the weekend.’

  ‘I’d choose you over Renée Zellweger any day,’ Hartley
said, joining her on the bed.

  ‘Good. And don’t do a Hugh Grant on me and run off with some totty like he did as Daniel Cleaver in the film.’

  ‘As if, Lucy Lu.’

  Hartley caught Lucy’s eye. She saw something she hadn’t seen before. What was it? Leaning towards her, Hartley moved his body to face hers. The power of his kiss stunned her. Desire, that’s what she had seen. Raw lust. He wanted her. Thank God. There had been little more than kissing for weeks. She wanted him too, now.

  She pulled him to her as she felt the wonderful throbbing between her legs. Manoeuvring herself on top, she lay on him, kissing him with an intensity she had forgotten or perhaps had never felt before. She felt Hartley’s hand on her blouse, opening her top button and fumbling on the second. To hell with it, she thought, tearing at the front and ripping the fastenings apart.

  Lucy couldn’t stop kissing Hartley deeply, moving to his ear. She could tell he liked that and relished his groan and the swelling of a rather impressive erection.

  Craning his neck up, Hartley took Lucy’s right breast in his mouth and sucked her nipple while kneading the other with his hand.

  ‘Oh God,’ Lucy moaned, pulling his T-shirt up and over his head.

  ‘Lucy, I’ve never wanted anything more.’

  ‘Mmm…’

  Pulling at her belt, Lucy knew she had to have Hartley inside within moments. She had to.

  Her thoughts were jarred by a sharp noise, a knock at the door. ‘Guys, chop-chop, I’ve booked an early supper.’ It was Robbie. With a jolt, Lucy, straddling Hartley, turned round.

  ‘Oh Christ, sorry you two.’

  Grabbing her cream blouse, Lucy clutched it to her breasts.

  ‘Oh that’s OK, we were just, erm…’ Lucy’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Sucking on Hartley’s third nipple?’

  ‘Yes, sucking on Hartley’s third nipple,’ she replied meekly.

  She collapsed on Hartley’s chest, her face scarlet red.

  Hartley lifted his head an inch off the pillow, sheltering Lucy with his strong embrace. ‘Great timing as always, Robbie, you arse.’

  ‘Sorry, Scaramanga. But we’re running late for dinner.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’ll be down in ten.’

  SHERI, ANYONE?

  Sheri took in her reflection in her bathroom mirror and almost cried. Her eyes looked tiny, surrounded by dark hollow circles no amount of concealer would hide. Her hair extensions needed to be redone – the bleached-blonde hair imported from Russia cost a fortune and chunks had fallen out, taking some of her lank locks with them. She looked as bad as she felt. Last night had been a new low. A paparazzi contact had told her where Justin Timberlake was staying – the Landmark hotel in London – and she had hot-footed it along to nurse a bottle of white wine in the bar. After a couple of hours, around midnight, Justin had come back from whatever party he’d been at, then walked straight past her and headed to his room. The boring bastard. Just as she was about to leave, a guy offered to buy her a drink. Sheri was pretty sure he wasn’t famous, but he was wearing a Rolex so she agreed. Then he was joined by a woman who told her – when he’d nipped to the toilet – that she was his escort for the night. He was hoping Sheri would join them.

  Dressed in a shocking-pink PVC miniskirt and cut-off white vest top which barely covered her boobs, Sheri wondered if they’d mistaken her for a hooker and prepared to tell this tart where to go.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of coke, enough for a top night,’ the woman – Sheri guessed she was in her late twenties to early thirties – told her.

  Sheri could think of nothing better than hoovering up a few lines. She needed it after the crap end to the night. She deserved it.

  And so she followed the tall Scouser with dark hair and a square jaw, who was wearing a wedding ring and introduced himself as Patrick, to a room in the hotel, along with the woman, who was called Tasha. She had peroxided hair with split ends and later told Sheri her four-year-old was at home with her own mum, who thought she was out on a date.

  Sheri asked for some coke before they got started.

  After a couple of lines, as well as the bottle of wine – and the champagne Patrick had poured – Sheri felt invincible.

  When Patrick told her he wanted to do all sorts of things to her and Tasha, Sheri told him he could do anything he goddamn wanted – after all, the coke was seriously good stuff.

  And now here she stood the afternoon after the night/ morning before, remembering what she had done in return for multiple lines of gak. Patrick had tired of straight sex pretty soon. As he whipped out another bag of the white stuff, Sheri agreed to anal. She had agreed to everything – kissing Tasha, oral with Tasha. And now she felt dirty, used and sore. What’s worse, she was broke and no matter how much charlie Patrick had given her, his lack of fame meant she couldn’t sell the story. He’d given her £300 in cash when she left but that wouldn’t go far; she owed her dealer £2,000. How the fuck was she going to pay for her extensions? She might have to ask Envy to cover her half of the rent this month. As she felt the familiar onset of comedown palpitations, she knew one thing for sure.

  She had to find a celebrity. Quick.

  POWER TO THE MAX

  Max felt on top of the world. She couldn’t explain it, but somehow Luke had blown her away. His dancing eyes, that wonderful searching kiss. It made her stomach flip every time she thought of it. He liked her, he actually liked her. She hadn’t misread the signs. And she liked him. Luke, the hottie. Granted, it was a bit weird him being Lucy’s half-brother but, hell, they were in no way related. The thought had crossed her mind that Lucy might find it odd, but she was sure she would understand when Max told her how much she liked him.

  Moments after she had left him following that wonderful kiss, he had texted: ‘I mean it. I want to see you as soon as possible. I can’t wait.’

  Max had read and reread it, smiling like a maniac each time. Normally such keenness would have turned her off but this felt great. Well, when you really like someone, playing it cool is hugely overrated. She wanted to be told every day that he wanted her. Because, for once, she wanted him too.

  Max replied with a lone ‘x’ – OK, so the guy shouldn’t play it cool, but she didn’t want to get all gushing on him.

  When, a couple of hours later, Luke’s name flashed on her mobile, she was inexplicably struck by nerves. Shit, what do I say? Shall I ignore it and call back when I’ve thought of a few witty lines? Shut it, you fuckwit, and answer the phone.

  ‘Hello, Luke.’

  ‘Hi, Max. How you doing?’

  ‘Good thanks, you?’

  ‘Very well. Can I take you out for dinner tonight, eight o’clock, Islington?’

  Max laughed. ‘Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.’

  ‘I have. You seemed like you needed cheering up and I’m the man to do it. Shall I pick you up?’

  ‘No, I have to pop into the office. I’ll come straight from work.’

  ‘OK, can you find your way to the Duke of Cambridge?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll Google it. See you there.’

  When Max arrived at her desk, Simon looked apologetic.

  ‘Hope ya don’t mind covering for me, Max, but I’m booked into this Alan Carr class to give up smoking… a-fucking-gain. I’ll do it this time, though – at fucking £200 a pop, I’d bloody better.’

  ‘Try stopping swearing at the same time, maybe?’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  So proofing the showbiz pages – making sure there were no spelling mistakes or errors after the subs had edited the reporters’ copy to make it fit their design – was down to Max. Some England rugby player had issued a legal letter to all newspapers saying they could not refer to him pulling a transsexual unless they wanted a whopping law suit. Max had briefly referred to it as part of another story and the sub editors only flagged it up to her as she was leaving. Hastily, she changed the copy with some other anecdote to fill the space and raced off to hail a taxi.r />
  Not even bumping into the messenger boy she’d fanta-sized about had sidetracked her. Luke filled her thoughts.

  Max had even forgotten her hangover and was sure she’d made enough effort to wipe away her tiredness.

  She had chosen her outfit with great consideration, settling on a purple-satin sleeveless shift dress. It was pretty short, but it was too high-necked to reveal even a hint of cleavage, and loose fitting, only outlining the curves of her body when she moved – so it was more than respectable, she told herself.

  Once inside the cab, Max emptied her bag of essentials on to the seat. She started with a dusting of Bobbi Brown bronzing powder over her cheekbones, a lick of YSL mascara after teasing her eyelashes skywards with mini curlers, a dab of Benetint on her cheeks and finally clear MAC gloss to cover her cupid bow lips. Ruffling her hair for a didn’t-really-try-just-out-of-bed look, she surveyed the results in her mirror and was happy. You can do it, Max, she told herself. OK, so you don’t have a gap at the top of your thighs like his ex, but is that really attractive? No, it’s not; he bloody dumped her. She smiled as she thought of what her mum would tell her in such a situation.

  ‘Max, be yourself. If you do that, he’d be a fool not to love you.’

  Leaving the driver a hefty tip, Max ran to the door of the restaurant. Well, pub. As she entered, she looked to the bar and there he was, looking right at her.

  Luke waved with a welcoming smile and Max approached him, hoping her knees wouldn’t buckle while holding his gaze.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, Max, you look great.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Shit, should she tell him that he too looked great? No, accept the compliment with grace.

  They both started to say something, then laughed awkwardly.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my choice of pub. They serve great food and I thought it might make a nice change from your normal showbiz hang-outs. Keeping it real wiv de north Londoners.’