by Joanna Rees
Perfection. That was what it was all about. Perfect. Perfect. Everything had to be perfect. Which made it perfectly knackering too.
Perhaps it would get better, Frankie thought, trying to be optimistic. Perhaps they were giving her all the worst jobs just to test her out? She knew the other girls didn’t appreciate her getting the coveted stewardess’s position when, unlike them, she’d had no previous experience of working on yachts. She knew it was the qualification on her CV as a gym instructor and personal trainer that had swung the interview her way with Richard, the captain. And the fact that he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her legs.
But Roz had made it quite clear from the beginning that she certainly wasn’t going to spare Frankie toilet-cleaning duties just because she knew how to lift weights. And Frankie was getting sick of the other girls’ bitchy comments about her looks and her figure.
Smoothing down the surface of the fiftieth folded sheet and ironing over the top of the monogrammed Egyptian cotton, Frankie knew that something had to change soon, because right now she felt utterly trapped.
Suddenly, she jumped, lifted from her reverie by the sight of Jeff holding on to the door of the laundry room and shouting something. He was the second engineer on board and, like most of the male crew, had a regulation posh accent and blond hair. And, also like most of the others, he’d made a pass at Frankie, mistaking her arm-wrestling skills and cast-iron drinking stomach for flirting.
Jeff was arguably the cutest guy in the crew, but Frankie knew that it was too sordid and incestuous for her even to think about getting it together with another crew member. She wasn’t easy like the other girls on board, and she didn’t want anyone to think she was.
No, if Frankie were to hook up with anyone, it would have to be an altogether more mature, private relationship, with a real man in the real world. Unfortunately, she seemed to be in just the wrong place to get it.
She quickly removed the earphones of her iPod. Her ears were once more assaulted by the tumble of the dryers and hiss of the steam iron.
Jeff had been down in the engine room. He wiped grease off his hands with a rag.
‘What did you say?’ she asked.
‘Roz wants you,’ Jeff repeated.
‘What have I done now?’ Frankie asked.
Jeff smiled at her. ‘It’s not you. It’s Simone. She’s spilt a bottle of bleach in the owner’s bathroom and stained the handmade Moroccan tiles.’ He pulled a face. ‘Big fuck-up,’ he said. ‘Huge. Roz is in the galley. She’s crazy mad.’
Frankie followed Jeff out of the laundry room, delving in her pocket for her key card. Each member of the crew had a chipped access card which allowed them entry only to relevant areas of the yacht: the places they worked, and nowhere else.
The main galley looked like the kitchen of a big commercial restaurant, with giant stainless-steel worktops and industrial cookers, as well as a wall of shiny fridges and freezers bursting with the finest ingredients from around the world.
In the middle of the room, Roz stood, her arms akimbo, her face the colour of a ripe plum. Scrawny little Simone was in front of her sobbing, begging for forgiveness. For a moment, Frankie seriously wondered whether Roz was going to pull one of the razor-sharp Global knives from the magnet on the wall and use it on Simone, such was the level of tension in the room. Even the giant salmon which Chantelle, the head chef, had prepared for dinner, gawped from the worktop.
‘I should never have given you my card,’ Roz barked.
Frankie could now understand why Roz was so upset. She was the only one with access clearance to the owner’s state room. But she must have delegated her duties to Simone. If Richard found out, Roz would be in as much trouble as Simone was now. It might even cost her her job. And Roz would be lost without her job. Every other female crew member Roz’s age had left yachting ten years ago, to have kids and live on land, but spiky Roz had never had a partner, or a real life.
‘Fuck!’ Roz spat. ‘Do you have any idea how much those tiles cost?’
Simone was whimpering and shaking her head. She looked miserably at Frankie, her eyes rimmed in smudged mascara. There was no love lost between them, but Frankie felt she should stick up for her. Simone was only eighteen – seven years younger than Frankie. Nothing but a kid.
‘Is it really that bad?’ Frankie asked.
‘Yes!’ Roz shouted, turning on Frankie.
‘But it was an accident, right, Simone?’
Simone nodded, a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes.
‘Everyone makes mistakes . . .’ Frankie told Roz.
‘This is a luxury yacht, Frankie,’ Roz said, her words measured with fury. ‘Perhaps you haven’t got it yet. There are no mistakes. Oh God. Why did this have to happen now? Why this evening?’
Frankie was confused. ‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Frankie, what planet have you been on?’ Roz exclaimed.
Er . . . the planet where nobody tells me anything, Frankie felt like saying.
‘The boss is coming on board,’ Roz continued.
Now it all made sense, Frankie thought. The mysterious boss was coming . . . at last.
‘Do you need me to go and clean the tiles?’ Frankie asked, assuming that was why she’d been summoned.
‘No!’ Roz snapped. ‘I will. The last thing I need is any of you lot making it worse.’ Her eyes locked on Frankie’s. ‘I need you to go and help Hamish in the top guest saloon. Which is where I would be if it wasn’t for this idiot here,’ she said, glaring back at Simone.
The top guest saloon? Frankie was astonished. She’d never been up there before. Despite living on board with the guests, scrubbing their shit out of the toilets, picking up their condoms and scraping leftovers from their plates into the bin, Frankie rarely met any of the guests. Most of what she knew about them, she gleaned from rumours in the crew mess.
Roz handed Frankie a key pass. ‘Do not fuck this up. And wear your cap. Your hair looks fucking terrible,’ she added.
Frankie bit her lip. She mustn’t answer back. She’d quit this job in her own good time, when it suited her. She was determined never to give Roz the pleasure of firing her.
What a bitch Roz was. If she gave Frankie more than two seconds to herself each day, then she might be able to do something about her appearance, Frankie thought as she hurried to the crew mess. There she looked in the small circular mirror on the wall and quickly retied her long blond hair into a bunch behind her head. She grabbed one of Pushkin’s midnight-blue regulation crew baseball hats and put it on.
She didn’t look so bad, she decided, checking out her reflection. Her face was heart-shaped and her skin dewy and unblemished. But she knew it was her clear blue eyes that were her best feature. She smiled at herself in the mirror, checking her teeth.
The boss was coming on board tonight. And who knew? With a bit of luck, she might finally get a glimpse of Mr Big himself, the legendary Alexei Rodokov.
She was looking forward to seeing what all the fuss was about.
CHAPTER THREE
Emma Harvey moved the outer knife on the twelve-piece place setting fractionally to the left. The centre table, like the other thirty tables spread before her in the ballroom of Wrentham Hall, was festooned with rose petals, tiny silver balloons and individually chosen gifts. The finest Waterford crystal glasses shimmered in the candlelight from the tall Tiffany silver candelabras and the air was filled with the scent of the vast Rob Van Helden flower arrangements.
Damien was staring at her, amusement in his eyes, as he filled a glass with vintage Cristal. ‘Lady Emma, this is my job,’ he gently chastised her. ‘Please. Just go back in and enjoy your party.’
‘Sorry,’ Emma said. He was right. He was the number-one party planner in the UK. She’d fought off several fashion companies and an awards ceremony to get him for tonight and ought to trust him and his huge team, even though Emma had an in-built distrust of hired-in staff. Very few of them ever did any
thing perfectly – or as perfectly as Emma would do it herself.
Emma forced herself to stand back and smiled at Damien. She had to admit that it was nice to get a moment with him like this. The calm before the storm.
‘I’m just a hopeless control freak. I promise you, I’ll leave you to it now,’ Emma said, accepting the glass he handed her. She took a sip.
‘How are you feeling?’ Damien asked.
‘Nervous. But thanks for asking. Nearly everyone has arrived.’
‘And I bet they’re loving it,’ Damien reassured her. ‘I can’t get over the lights.’
He was referring to the lanterns which lit up the driveway and the gold spotlights which swirled over the imposing white stone Regency façade of Wrentham Hall, as well as the two silver strobes shimmering across the lake and lighting up the Cotswold sky. It had been worth getting the lighting design company in. It had given the whole party much more of a theatrical feel.
‘Julian says it’s all a bit over the top.’
‘Well, I love them. You’ve transformed the place. And having the acrobats in the hallway is just inspired.’
‘It’s all thanks to you,’ she said, taking another sip of champagne before handing the glass back to him, knowing that she mustn’t get too drunk. ‘I’d better get back to it.’
She lifted up the skirt of her Oscar de la Renta silk ball gown and swept through the tables to the door.
‘Lady Emma?’ Damien called after her.
She turned and smiled.
‘Thank you for tonight,’ he said. ‘This is truly one of the best parties I’ve ever done.’
Emma smiled, buoyed up with the compliment. Damien had organized all of the most important parties in recent years. He’d done all the royal weddings, and all the big film premiere parties. She felt satisfied that tonight’s Platinum Ball was the hottest invite around. And even though it had nearly given her a nervous breakdown to stage it, Emma was determined that it was damn well going to be worth it.
She slipped through the giant ballroom doors and closed them behind her. Keeping her hands on the handles, she breathed in, surveying her party.
Yes, it was magnificent. The grand hallway was crowded with guests already: the men all in black tie; the women in ball gowns. Everyone looked fantastic.
Damien was right. The acrobats from Cirque du Soleil were inspired. They twirled on their ribbon harnesses from the high glass dome of the ceiling. On the balcony, a jazz band was playing, and below, handsome waiters in immaculate Nehru jackets served delicious cocktails in twisted silver-stemmed glasses. Mountains of sumptuous caviar and sensationally enticing canapés were being presented to the guests on silver platters by loin-clothed waiters and half-naked waitresses entirely body-sprayed silver.
The enormous front doors were open and Emma could see that the driveway was crowded with Bentleys, Ferraris, Jaguars and her own vintage silver Rolls-Royce. Beyond the ha-ha, the front lawn was lit up so that the helicopter carrying Sir Paul from his gig in London would arrive in time for him to play his set after the nine-course banquet.
Emma fingered the diamonds around her neck nervously and glanced at herself in the giant gilt mirror. She looked good for her age. But then, so she should. She’d spent enough time and money getting herself perfectly groomed for tonight’s event, her bright auburn hair highlighted and cut into a flattering bob.
Several friends had suggested that she have an eye-tuck, or a mini facelift, but Emma shied away from ever having surgery. It was far too vulgar. And, in her opinion, almost certainly ruined natural good looks. Besides, once you started, where and when did you stop? She didn’t want to end up looking like some wrinkleless monster by the time she was seventy. She liked her age, and was rather fond of the laughter lines on her face. She’d had a bloody good time getting them. And all the magazines said these days that fifty was the new forty, didn’t they?
‘Hold it there!’
Emma blinked, momentarily blinded by the flash of a camera. It was Vincent, the photographer from Tatler. ‘Thanks, Lady Em,’ he called, moving on. ‘Terrific necklace.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling. The diamonds had been a gift from Julian. He’d taken her great-grandmother’s chunky Victorian heirloom and had the jewels reset at Asprey’s. Emma had been astounded that he’d made such a huge effort and delighted he’d chosen such a perfect setting – he knew how fussy she was. Still, she would be taking it back next week to get the clasp altered, but otherwise, the gift was perfect.
‘Why are the photographers here?’ Julian asked, edging through the crowd and coming up to her.
‘It’s good for your profile. I know it’s officially your birthday party, but with so many investors here, it’s also the launch of Platinum Holdings. It should be in the press.’
He stopped and kissed her bare shoulder and Emma reached up and straightened his silk bow tie. She couldn’t believe that her Julian was fifty already. But somehow it seemed that he’d always been this age. His face was tanned, his dark-brown wavy hair flecked with grey, but he still had a boyishness to him; a laugh always lurked behind those hazel eyes.
Ever since his bachelor days in Chelsea and his well-documented stint as a playboy before he’d met Emma, everyone who’d ever met Julian loved him. But that was because Julian Harvey was probably one of the most charming people in the Northern hemisphere.
They watched together as Vince moved off to photograph the other guests. Julian leant in close so that his mouth was next to Emma’s ear. She breathed in his familiar scent. ‘Now that nobody’s looking, how about we sneak off for a birthday quickie?’ he whispered.
‘Cheeky,’ Emma said, laughing.
‘But you look edible in that dress,’ Julian whispered. ‘And you’ll never guess what Mike gave me as a birthday present?’
Emma laughed. ‘What?’
‘A stack of Viagra.’
‘You’re the last person in this room who needs Viagra, darling,’ she said, kissing him. It was true. They still had a fantastic sex life, but tonight was going to be more special than ever.
They were interrupted by a loud hoot. Vivacious and über-trendy as ever, Bunny Jenovitch was bearing down on them, her arms outstretched.
‘You look just like the lovebirds you always were!’ she exclaimed in her familiar American twang.
‘Bunny!’ Julian gasped. ‘You didn’t,’ he mouthed to Emma. She raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement and beamed at him. He looked back at the famous opera singer. ‘I thought you were doing the Carnegie?’
‘And miss singing Happy Birthday to my favourite man?’ Bunny said, kissing Julian’s cheeks. Married to Eduard Kline-Adams, the celebrated New York designer, Bunny was wearing what was almost certainly one of his catwalk specials – a sculpted, peacock-green and gold creation, squeezed in at the waist, with spiky feathers fanning out behind her head. ‘We arrived on the red-eye this morning. I can see darling Emma kept me a secret,’ Bunny said, reaching out to squeeze Emma’s hand.
‘My God! This is wonderful. It can’t get any better,’ Julian said, smiling at Emma. She felt herself glowing. Julian was happy and that was all that mattered.
She knew this was his moment and she wanted him to enjoy it more than anything. Because he deserved it. The last year had been hard enough for Julian, after the financial group he had founded hit the rocks. And whilst the collapse of the company hadn’t exactly been Julian’s fault, more a casualty of the banking crisis, he’d done the decent thing and taken the rap for it.
Emma had seen how crushed he’d been, how much the fall-out from the bankruptcy had knocked his self-confidence, and she’d done what she knew he’d have done for her in the same situation: stuck by his side, bolstered him up and supported him as best she could until he’d got back on his feet. That was why their partnership was so strong: they both knew that whatever happened, they could weather the bad times and enjoy the good times together.
And now, with the launch of Platinum Holdings,
all the hardship Julian had suffered was firmly in the past. Any shadow over his name, or his reputation, forgotten. He’d picked himself up and with tireless enthusiasm, he’d confounded all the cynics and had succeeded in raising the finance he needed, calling in every favour he’d ever been owed. But it had all been worth it. Tonight was going to be a success. Emma could feel it. She felt a swell of pride as she watched Julian and Bunny laughing.
But then she saw Cosmo.
He was lolling halfway up the central staircase, his knee bent so that the sole of his boot was planted against the newly painted wall. As she approached him, she suspected that he was drunk. Or worse: on coke. He claimed he hadn’t touched the filthy stuff for over six months, but he’d lied to Emma often enough in the past for her still to be unsure.
All she could do was hope, she supposed. And not give up on him. Because if she did, she knew she’d lose him for good. She tried not to look too hard at his bloodshot eyes, or let her face betray her disapproval at the musty odour coming from his long blondy-brown matted dreadlocks.
‘Mother, how do you know this many dreadful people?’ he said, his words slurring as he slugged back champagne from one of the twisted flutes.
The glass looked fragile in his dirty hands with his whalebone ring, which had replaced the three-hundred-year-old priceless family signet ring Emma had given him when he’d turned twenty-one. He was wearing black ash-smudged tight trousers and a ripped leather coat. Emma knew that Julian would be secretly thrilled their son had graced the occasion with his presence, but she felt a familiar cocktail of nerves, love and shame as she looked at him. Cosmo’s new incarnation as an eco-warrior infuriated Julian and baffled Emma. Not to mention the embarrassment he’d caused the family when he appeared on the news chained to a rotten oak tree in protest about the extension of the new bypass.
