‘Liam Crawford?’
Nathan nodded. ‘A real piece of work. They were out by the loo just after dinner wrapped.’
I wiped the condensation off the window to get my bearings. ‘Any idea what they were fighting about?’
‘I couldn’t hear what they were saying but Liam was furious. Then Natalia staggered over to them, which only made it worse. I didn’t venture closer. Trust me, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of La Lawson! Or Liam Crawford,’ he added. ‘Anyway, didn’t see much more after that. My camera died on me. Well, the flash. I had to whizz out to grab a spare from my office.’
Nathan reverse-parked into a disabled spot on the north side of Berkeley Square. He fumbled around in the glove box, then threw a blue disabled badge onto the dashboard.
‘Is that real?’
He turned off the engine and winked. ‘OK, my darling. This is where we part ways. But I do hope our paths cross again, you delightful creature.’ He grasped my hand between his, slung the camera strap over his neck, and he was gone.
11
Traffic was almost at a standstill. The fashion elite streamed out of SUVs and made their way towards a white domed marquee that rose from the grass, looking like a half-sunk spaceship. Some were dressed for the chilly conditions; others tottered along icy pavements in five-inch heels and bare legs. An Asian woman peacocked for the cameras in a tutu and shiny purple cap. A pack of photographers roared towards a petite redhead, cameras raised, as though their lives depended on it.
I paused by a group of women whose black-clad spiky limbs reminded me of spiders. Leaning against a tree, I pulled a pair of Louboutins out of my bag, slicked on some red lipstick and mussed up my hair. Next to me, a tribe of blondes, decked out in clashing prints, chattered on their phones.
‘Yah, sub-zero temperatures, darling. Jemima better not be running late. I will die.’
‘Did you see the front row at Aria Gold? Pitiful. How many shows are you doing today? I have nine. It’s only midday and my feet are killing me.’
A man with bleached hair and silver biker boots was being interviewed by a Vogue.com reporter. I recognised him from the CCTV footage: Amos Adler. Suddenly, former catwalk star Chloe Buchanan emerged from a blacked-out Mercedes, wearing a trench coat and thigh-high boots, and the Vogue.com reporter scampered away. A flash of annoyance blew across Amos’s face.
I sidled up to him. ‘Don’t you hate it when that happens?’ He gave me a quick once-over, disappointment pulling down the corners of his mouth at the sight of my MaxMara suit. ‘I don’t know what they see in her anyway. Isn’t she about fifty?’
Amos shuddered. ‘Did you see the size of the old bag? Someone pulled the ripcord on her. What is it with fat girls and belts?’ He turned towards Chloe and raised his voice. ‘A belt only cinches your waist if you have a waist to begin with, love.’
I watched Chloe preen for the cameras. She was a size ten, at most.
‘Can I just say I’m a huge fan of your website.’
Amos straightened his skinny, grey tie. ‘Four million hits this month. And I’ve been approached to take over the Hollywood slot on Good Morning London. Amazeballs, huh?’
‘Well, you are the most connected man in town. How do you dig up so much dirt on people?’
He looked past me, momentarily distracted. ‘That would be telling, doll.’
‘Speaking of which . . .’ I lowered my voice. ‘Weren’t you at The Rose the other night when all that drama went down?’
Amos nodded. ‘What. A. Shocker. Poor girl.’
‘Any idea who’d want to hurt her?’
‘My money’s on Lydia Lawson. Bitch gotta slap down the rivals, amiright?’ His green eyes twinkled. ‘Just kidding. Lydia ended up at the club, DreamBox, with me so she’s home and dry.’ Amos strutted off, cackling to himself.
I shifted my attention to the marquee entrance. A flame-haired woman in leopard-print trousers was on the door, clutching a clipboard. I hobbled round the marquee searching for a weak spot, my feet already protesting to the four-inch heels. Round the back, standing guard at a small doorway, was a man with pink hair and a neon-green sweater printed with the words Kiss the boys and make them cry. I watched as he struck a pose and took a selfie with his phone. On a hunch, I logged on to Twitter and typed in #jemimasnow. Sure enough, his grinning photo was already there. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes it was too easy. I clicked on his details. Matt Brent: junior assistant at Jemima Snow. Forgive the haters. Beauty IS skin deep.
Squaring my shoulders, I marched over to him, adopting my best don’t-fuck-with-me voice. ‘Matt Brent?’
He looked startled. ‘Yeah?’
‘You’re needed at the front entrance. Anna Wintour is arriving. The crowd is out of control.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But I’m not supposed to leave my post.’
‘I’d hurry if I were you. The leopard-print door bitch is on the warpath.’
The colour left his face and he scuttled away.
I ducked into the backstage area and was dazzled by the full force of a fashion show on countdown. An area the size of two tennis courts was filled with rows of brightly lit mirrors on makeshift tables. At each mirror, a team of make-up artists and hairstylists fussed over individual models, shouting to be heard over the shriek of hairdryers and deafening music. Models who were waiting their turn passed the time reading or scrolling through their phones. Others were nearing the final stages: hair scraped into severe topknots, lips painted stop-sign red, eyebrows hidden by a thick layer of foundation. A TV reporter was interviewing a famous Brazilian model, and photographers darted about. I craned my neck, trying to spot Nathan, but it was impossible to see anything through the smog of hairspray.
I spied Lydia Lawson, arm extended, pouting for a selfie.
Some models look freakish in real life. The girl sitting next to Lydia wasn’t what you’d call attractive, with her narrow face and large protruding ears. Even Natalia, with her gappy teeth and wide-set eyes, had looked a bit Planet Mars. But Lydia’s face looked as though it had been assembled in a CGI lab. Only a slight overbite stopped her face from descending into cartoon-perfection territory.
I cleared my throat. ‘Lydia?’
She arched a perfect eyebrow at me in the mirror. ‘Yes?’
‘I need a minute of your time. It’s about Natalia Kotov.’
Lydia gave me a withering look. ‘Who’s asking?’
As usual, introducing myself provoked a look of disgust. ‘Listen,’ I said hastily. ‘Natalia and I were working together on a story. I saw her the day before she died.’
The hairstylist shoved me out of the way. ‘Move it or I’m calling security.’
I ignored her, standing my ground. ‘Please, Lydia, give me five minutes after the show.’
Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘Do you have any fucking clue how crazy my day is?’
I thought back to the schedule I’d seen in Cat’s office. ‘I know you have nothing else for a while after this. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’ In the distance, I spotted the door bitch scanning the backstage area, teeth bared like a rabid dog.
Lydia huffed. ‘I barely knew Natalia.’
‘That’s not true. She often spoke about you.’ Lydia’s expression softened a fraction and I went for the jugular. ‘The last time I saw Natalia she was terrified. I can’t help thinking if I’d been there for her, she might still be alive. I don’t think I’m the only one who feels guilty.’
Out the corner of my eye, I could see the door bitch charging towards me. I instinctively shifted onto the balls of my feet, regretting my shoe change. It would be hard to make a quick getaway in heels.
Lydia waved the glowering hairstylist away. ‘The last thing I need is more drama. Go to Danny’s café on the corner of Albermarle and Stafford Street. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Danny was a walrus-shaped man with a moustache like a smudge of paint. He slid a muddy tea across the counter and I sat down next to a
group of builders, thinking back to Lydia’s parting shot. Ever since she was discovered in Topshop three years ago, drama had followed her around as if she was a dog on heat. At first she could do no wrong. High-profile ad campaigns and magazine covers flowed thick and fast, but her true power lay online. Thanks to her goofy personality, Lydia was a social media sensation. Eight million Twitter and Instagram followers hung on her every selfie. But her fans, dubbed the La-Las, had started to turn on their idol. They’d grown tired of her diva antics and exhausting on–off relationship with Liam Crawford. I wasn’t surprised when Liam bagged a supermodel. Or when his career took off. But success went to his head. Always on the volatile end of the spectrum, Liam’s temper became a loaded gun. Soon after they started dating, Lydia was photographed with a black eye. She claimed she tripped, but the public wasn’t convinced. Soon after, Liam was arrested for punching a journalist twice his size outside a bar in Hackney. The guy’s nasal bone crushed his skull and he was in hospital for a fortnight.
Liam and Lydia’s breakup last September had sent Lydia into a mile-high bender that ended in a scrap with a fellow first-class passenger. The photographs of her being marched off the plane in handcuffs went viral. A gossip columnist nicknamed her Loony Lawson and the tabloids revelled in her transformation from fashion catnip to kryptonite. A few loyal industry insiders still backed her, but the majority had deemed her damaged goods. It seemed there was such a thing as bad publicity.
I sipped my tea and drew out the brown envelope Dmitri had given me. I was looking for the name of the person who had originally checked into room 538. I frowned as my eyes landed on a name I recognised.
A cold breeze hit the back of my neck and I saw Danny jump to attention. ‘Welcome back, Miss Lydia. I bring you a green tea.’
The builders fell silent as Lydia, dressed in red jeans and a fur jacket, carved her way through the café and sat down.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Green tea?’
‘Danny stocks it for me. I’ve been coming here for years.’ Lydia’s voice was expensive; each clipped vowel spoke of lacrosse matches and trust funds. She unwound her scarf and her slender neck rose like a tapered candle from her jacket collar. ‘I come here to be anonymous. Danny’s clientele doesn’t read Vogue. Although they do read the tabloids, so I should probably find somewhere else to hide.’
The café’s fluorescent strip lights drew attention to the fine spray of spots on Lydia’s chin and the dark circles beneath her midnight-blue eyes. Even so, she looked luminous.
I smiled. ‘I appreciate you meeting me.’
Lydia threw back her long, dark hair and gave me a haughty look. ‘I’m not staying long.’
The chill wind didn’t intimidate me in the slightest. I opened my notebook. ‘Had you seen much of Natalia lately?’
Danny waddled over and set a mug down in front of Lydia, then backed away, eyes shining.
Lydia tapped a long fingernail against the china. ‘As I said, my schedule has been crazy.’ She glanced past me at the table of builders and arched an eyebrow. ‘Seen something interesting, boys?’ Their embarrassed laughter fluttered through the air, then fell flat. ‘I saw Natalia at the Fashion Council lunch at Somerset House.’
‘When was this?’
‘About ten days ago. We were on different tables. I was next to the CEO of NovTel. The sponsor.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘So the next time you saw Natalia was at Leo Brand’s party?’ Lydia nodded. ‘How did she seem?’
‘Like she had everything to lose. Did you see her dress? Cat really outdid herself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You think Natalia chose that dress herself?’ Lydia’s beautiful mouth twisted into a smirk. ‘Oh no, honey. Those parties are all about making an impression. Agencies bring in at least twenty-five new faces every season. There’s only space for so many, so you do the maths. Models get one or two seasons to make a splash or . . .’ Lydia mimed cutting her throat.
‘Was Natalia making a splash?’
Lydia yawned without bothering to cover her mouth. ‘Who knows? Sometimes there’s buzz around a girl but, for some reason, the stars don’t align. Do you remember Ella King? She walked at Prada, McQueen and Marc Jacobs last season. Then this season, nothing. One minute you’re the Face To Watch, the next you’re sitting at home looking in the mirror wondering what the fuck happened.’
The sharpness in her voice pierced the air and I shifted awkwardly in my chair. ‘Can you tell me about the night Natalia died?’
‘I barely saw her. I had my own crap going on.’
I remembered what Nathan had seen. ‘You mean your fight with Liam?’
Lydia bristled. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘What did you fight about?’
‘None of your fucking business.’
‘OK.’ I held my hands up to placate her. ‘Did you speak to Natalia that night?’
‘Only once. Just after I arrived with Leo. Darling Leo. He hasn’t jumped on the Lydia-bashing bandwagon.’
I bit down on my frustration. Lydia had a way of making all my questions about herself. I steered her back on topic. ‘What did you talk to Natalia about?’
Lydia picked an invisible thread off her shoulder. ‘Nothing much. Our schedules, really. Well, mine. Hers wasn’t exactly full.’ I held my tongue. It didn’t sound as though Lydia’s would be full for much longer. ‘She was alone at the bar so I went over to say hi. I’m not the bitch everyone makes me out to be. Sometimes I take a new girl under my wing.’
‘New girls like Natalia?’
Lydia gave a beatific smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Well, why not? She reminded me of myself when I first started out. And she was young too.’
‘Eighteen.’
Lydia snorted into her mug and a wisp of steam rose upwards. ‘Sure, eighteen.’
I rifled through my notebook and pulled out Natalia’s composite card, which contained her vital statistics. ‘It says here she’s eighteen.’
Lydia gave me a withering look. ‘Honey, just because it’s written in black and white doesn’t mean it’s true. You’re a journalist, you should know that.’
I ignored the barb and studied the card. Natalia gazed hungrily at the lens. Needles of dread prickled my skin. ‘So, how old was she?’
Lydia glanced at Natalia’s photo and shrugged. ‘Who knows? Fourteen, fifteen? Designers and casting directors want fresh faces. And by “fresh”, I mean “young”. Except the industry’s upped its standards, so now they can’t openly use girls who are barely into puberty.’ Lydia smiled sweetly and gripped her mug with tight, white knuckles. ‘Agencies get round it by lying about their models’ ages. Just one of the many ways they manipulate us.’
My mind fizzed. Natalia was a minor? Would her rapist have known? Would he have cared?
‘Still, I shouldn’t complain because it works both ways. Lying about your age can keep you in the game longer. I know a girl who’s been nineteen for five seasons.’ I raised my eyebrows and Lydia folded her arms. ‘Don’t judge, honey. In this industry, you’re over the hill at twenty-five. Let me ask you this: if you go to the supermarket to buy some milk, which bottle are you going to buy, the one that goes off tomorrow or one that goes off next week?’
I shoved Natalia’s card in the back of my notebook, burying her face where I couldn’t see it. ‘Did you see much of Natalia at Leo’s party?’
‘It was hard to miss her. She was hammered.’
‘Was it unusual for Natalia to drink so much?’
‘How should I know? Maybe she needed Dutch courage. Those fashion dos can be intimidating when you’re starting out. You’re rubbing shoulders with people who can make or break your career. But I will say this: she didn’t do herself any favours getting drunk. It was unprofessional.’
Something struck me while Lydia was talking. ‘If Natalia was such a fresh face, why did Models International fork out on a hotel room for her when she lived in London anywa
y?’
‘You don’t think rookies get paid actual money, do you?’ Lydia drained her mug, her eyes glittering. ‘A handbag here, a night in a luxury hotel there. But nothing to help pay your rent, silly, not until you start making cold, hard cash for your agency.’ She glanced at the oversized Rolex on her wrist and sighed. ‘We need to wrap this up or I’ll be late for my next appointment. Loony Lawson can’t keep the world waiting.’ Lydia wore her bitterness like an expensive coat.
‘I have another question.’
‘Well, it will have to wait.’
I leaned forward. ‘Did you know Natalia was raped? I think it was someone in the fashion industry.’
Shock spread across Lydia’s face like a handprint after a slap. She half-rose from her chair. ‘I have to –’
I put a hand out to stop her. ‘Lydia, please. Do you know who raped her?’
Lydia glared at me then, in one swift movement, she collapsed on the chair and covered her face with her hands. She stayed in that position so long that I started to worry I’d blown the interview.
Eventually she spoke, her voice barely audible. ‘It’s the oldest tale in the book.’
‘What is?’
‘Naive young girls desperate for success. Perverted men in positions of power.’ She stared down at the table. ‘What do you think goes on behind the scenes? Natalia’s not the only –’
‘Lydia, are you saying something happened to –’
She cut me off with a sharp look. ‘I don’t know who raped Natalia. We weren’t that close. And it’s hardly the sort of thing she would broadcast, especially if her attacker was important.’
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 9
