A slow smile spread across Sophie’s face.
‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered. ‘This really is home.’
The Filipino housekeeper cleared her throat, standing by the front door.
‘Madam, is it okay if I now leave?’ she said, picking up her canvas tote.
‘Sorry, of course it’s fine,’ said Sophie, a little too enthusiastically.
‘I be on holiday now for a few days,’ she continued in her halting English. ‘But there is food in house, okay?’
‘No worries. No worries at all.’
She waited until she heard the front door close shut before she let loose an excited scream.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said to herself as she began to look around the house. ‘I just don’t believe it.’
Lana’s home was a palace. The drawing room was like something from a more genteel age, with hand-painted wallpaper, cream carpets, long mint-green drapes and an amazing mottled green and white marble fireplace that looked as if it had been carved from Stilton. There was a piano room, a dining room with a table that seated twenty, and a luxurious sunken living space, with sofas not much smaller than Sophie’s Battersea flat. The studio in the basement was better equipped than a hotel gym, and there was even a plunge pool down there. It wasn’t just a house that said money; it said taste or at least an expensive interior design job. Sophie couldn’t believe Lana wanted to change a thing.
She moved upstairs to explore the master bedroom with its emperor-size four-poster and views over the square. The guest rooms were equally impressive, effortlessly fitting modern furniture into the period features of the house. There was even a nursery with a fairy-tale mural along one wall and a cot in the shape of a carriage. In the final bedroom, a huge suite in the eaves with a claw-foot bath under the skylight, Sophie threw herself on the bed, laughing out loud at the crispness of the expensive linen.
She felt giddy with excitement. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t experienced luxury before, but she supposed her brief brush with relative poverty had made her appreciate the beauty of Lana’s home all the more. Pulling out her mobile phone, she scrolled to Francesca’s number, desperate to share her excitement with someone.
‘Fran, is that you? It’s Sophie.’
‘Darling, can I call you back? We’re in Browns Bride and I am about to try on the most amazing Alberta Ferretti dress.’
‘Sorry,’ said Sophie, her excitement fading a little.
‘I’m just freaking with the choice,’ said Francesca in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘The Lanvin I’ve just had on was incredible. The Valentino with the cap sleeves was adorable too and I’ve not even started with Wang or Monique Lhuillier.’
‘You carry on,’ said Sophie brightly. ‘Do you want to meet up tonight? You can tell me more, and besides, I’ve got something fabulous to show you.’
She could hear Fran’s mother in the background, ordering Francesca to get off the phone. Francesca was her only daughter and she was taking the wedding very seriously.
‘I don’t know, Soph,’ sighed her friend. ‘All I’ll want to do tonight is flop.’
‘Come on, Fran. You’ll like it.’
‘All right,’ she said after a long pause. ‘Where? Don’t think I’m coming all the way to Battersea, because I’m exhausted as it is without trekking south of the river.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Sophie, trying to suppress her smile. ‘I’ve moved. To Egerton Row.’
‘Really?’ replied Francesca, her interest clearly lifting a notch.
Smiling, Sophie gave her friend the address and said she’d expect her later.
By the time Sophie made it back down to the kitchen, she felt quite light-headed. She crossed to the fridge, an enormous American-style brushed-steel refrigerator with two doors. One side was filled with fresh fruit and vegetables, much of it in the distinctive brown and green Whole Foods packaging; the other was given over to exotic-looking fruit juice, bottles and bottles of sparkling water and at least a dozen bottles of white wine. Sophie pulled one down and looked at the label.
Château Olivier 2005.
‘Gosh,’ she said.
At her mother’s insistence, Sophie had taken a wine-tasting course a few years back – ‘You don’t want to look stupid at a dinner party, do you, darling?’ Julia had said – and to her surprise, she had really enjoyed it, partly because it was run by a handsome older man named Charles whose enthusiasm for grapes was infectious, and partly because Sophie discovered she had a natural flair for tasting. Encouraged by Charles, she began reading up on grape varieties and the history of vineyards. She was only a keen amateur, but she enjoyed her little hobby: the imagination she’d always wanted to channel into writing or art had found an outlet in wine appreciation. And if she remembered correctly, Château Olivier was one of the finest Sémillons in France.
She looked around the fridge for something cheaper, as she did not want to abuse Lana’s hospitality, but every bottle reeked of quality. And Lana had said to help herself, hadn’t she? I’ll only have a glass, anyway, she thought as she rummaged in the drawers looking for a corkscrew. She quickly opened the bottle and splashed the wine into a big glass. It was delicious; clean and flinty. She held on to the glass as she lugged her suitcase upstairs. Lana hadn’t specified where she should sleep, but there was something magical about having a bath under the stars, so she chose the room in the eaves.
She unpacked, hanging her few outfits in the empty wardrobe as she ran a bath, then when it was ready, climbed in, sighing with pleasure. There was only a shower at her little studio, and she could no longer afford the pharmacy of bath oils Lana had sitting next to the tub. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, she thought, sipping her wine and giggling to herself. She stayed there, topping up the water, until her fingers started to crinkle, then towelled herself dry and pulled on her best underwear. It felt appropriate to the surroundings, after all. It was just then that the doorbell began to ring downstairs. It took Sophie a moment to remember she had invited Francesca over.
Wrapping herself in a robe, she padded downstairs, opening the door to her wide-eyed friend.
‘How the bloody hell can you afford this?’ said Fran as she pushed her way inside.
Sophie laughed.
‘Don’t get too excited, I’m only house-sitting.’
Sophie filled her in on her new domestic arrangement as she took her on a guided tour of the house, loving every squeal of delight and envy that Francesca let out as she showed her the bedrooms, Lana’s huge dressing room, even the long garden at the back of the house. Finally, they sat down at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Sophie poured her friend a glass of the Sémillon.
‘So you’re going to live this Lana woman’s life for the summer?’ said Francesca, sipping her wine. ‘Who is she?’
‘She’s Spanish. Or Majorcan, I think. Beautiful, anyway, and very stylish, very nice. Her husband has some money markets job, works in Geneva apparently.’
‘What’s his name? Charlie might know him.’
‘Simon Goddard-Price.’
Francesca pouted.
‘Never heard of him. Have you googled him?’
‘Tried that,’ said Sophie between sips. ‘Couldn’t find much beyond mentions in the business pages.’
Francesca nodded sagely. ‘You know some people actually pay a publicist to keep them out of Google searches? Charlie told me. They must have serious money if that’s the case.’
‘That makes sense,’ nodded Sophie. ‘Lana doesn’t seem the sceney type. There’s a heap of invitations on the mantelpiece she didn’t seem that bothered about going to. Said I could go along if I fancied.’
‘Really?’ said Francesca, sliding out of her seat. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’
She retrieved the invitations and spread them out on the kitchen counter.
‘Bloody hell, Soph,’ she said. ‘These are some of the hottest tickets in town. Oh my God, look at this!’ she gasped, snatching up one
of the cards and holding it out to Sophie. ‘It’s for Victor Yip’s fortieth!’
‘Who’s Victor Yip?’
Francesca gaped at her.
‘You don’t know who Victor Yip is? Chinese gazillionaire, Sophie. Like, only the richest man in London right now.’
Sophie frowned, feeling totally out of the loop.
There was a time when she knew all about the hottest clubs, bars and parties to be seen at. She’d pored over Tatler and Harpers and had enthusiastically thrown herself into London’s summer season – attending everything from Henley to the Cartier polo. But Lana’s invitations hadn’t registered at all.
‘I thought that steel magnate, wossisname, was the richest man in London.’
Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘Get with the programme, Soph.’
Sophie caught the look on her friend’s face.
‘Whatever. We can’t go,’ she said firmly.
‘Why not? There’s a plus one.’
‘We can’t go bowling up to someone’s birthday party just because we’ve got the invitation. It’s a personal party; he invited Lana, not us.’
Francesca sighed.
‘Well, what about this one, then?’ she said, pointing to another card.
‘The Chariot Dinner,’ read Sophie, craning her neck. ‘What’s that?’
‘God, it’s like you’ve been living in Burkina Faso, not Battersea. It’s only one of the biggest fund-raisers in the calendar. Do you know how much it costs to go to this? It’s ten thousand a plate. We’re talking hedgies, oligarchs, the mega-connected. Not even I’ve been to this, Soph.’
Francesca’s expression changed as she picked up the invitation. ‘Oh look, Soph! It’s tonight!’
Sophie took the invitation out of her friend’s hand.
‘Well, we’ve missed it. It started at seven.’
‘The meal was at seven for seven thirty,’ corrected Francesca, snatching the card back. ‘We don’t want to go to that anyway, I’ve got ten pounds to lose before the wedding, remember? But the party will go on all night.’
She looked at Sophie with puppy-dog eyes, clutching the invitation to her bosom.
‘Please, Sophie, can’t we go? It will be amazing. Last year Beyoncé did a set and Daniel Craig was the master of ceremonies for the auction. Who knows how they’ll top that this year. We can’t miss it.’
Sophie hesitated. She could do with a really fun night out. And seeing Daniel Craig or some other celebrity hottie would be the icing on the cake of a pretty extraordinary day so far. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the excitement of feeling back in her old life, but suddenly she felt uncharacteristically bold.
‘All right, let’s do it,’ she said, putting her wine glass down decisively.
‘Yay!’ squealed Francesca, clapping her hands together.
‘Well we can’t go like this. It’s black tie. But if we go via your place, I could borrow something there.’
‘Sod trekking all the way back to my place,’ said her friend. She took a long slurp of wine. ‘The solution is right here.’
She stood and pulled Sophie up by the hand.
‘Oh no, no, no,’ said Sophie, as Francesca led her up to Lana’s enormous dressing room off the master bedroom. ‘We can’t.’
‘Why not?’ said Francesca bluntly. ‘Lana’s in France and we’re here with a party to go to and nothing to wear.’ She pulled a faux weepy face and then swept into the room, running her fingers across the racks of silks and chiffons.
‘This is heaven,’ she squealed, picking up a lizard-skin Blahnik heel and pushing her foot into it.
‘Come on, Fran, don’t,’ said Sophie. ‘This is not my stuff.’
‘Chill out,’ said Francesca. ‘It’s not as if I’m planning on selling them on eBay; we’re only borrowing them for a few hours. We’ll get everything dry-cleaned afterwards; Lana will never know.’
‘Even so . . .’
‘You used to be so much fun,’ said Francesca wearily.
At school, Francesca had always been the most rebellious of their group of friends, and she had a way of making anyone who didn’t want to go along with her schemes feel stuffy and boring. She had certainly always been able to talk Sophie around; the truth was, Sophie had been painfully introverted and strait-laced when she had first arrived at Marlborough, and Francesca had brought her out of her shell, with the result that she found it almost impossible to say no to her friend.
‘Come on, Sophie. You deserve a good night out.’
Sophie couldn’t disagree with her there. She reached out to touch a rack of evening gowns. The closest thing she had to a party dress in her little wardrobe upstairs was a black jersey wrap – not exactly ‘dress to impress’ by any stretch of the imagination – and her ballet flats were comfy, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that turned movie stars’ heads.
Francesca pulled out a beautiful midnight-blue gown with sequins sewn in swirling patterns down the length of the delicate material.
‘This would be perfect for you, why don’t you just try it on?’ she urged.
Sophie felt a flutter of anxiety, but then she pictured herself wearing it, sipping a cocktail and laughing at some film star’s joke.
‘Well, it couldn’t hurt just to see how it looks,’ she said.
‘That’s my girl,’ smiled Francesca.
Sophie shrugged off her robe and quickly slipped into the dress, looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She almost gasped; it was beautiful. Flowing, very flattering and the sequins twinkled like stars when she moved.
She felt a flutter of excitement, of mischievousness. Grinning, she turned to Francesca.
‘So which shoes do you think I should wear with this, then?’ she asked.
8
Sophie was having second thoughts. As she tottered across Waterloo station’s busy concourse on five-inch heels, she felt overdressed and unbalanced. She clutched the hem of her dress – Lana’s dress, actually – desperate to keep it off the smeared floor. Three of the sequins had already come off in the taxi, and she was pretty sure that the fabric was too delicate to dry-clean.
‘Why did you let me wear these bloody shoes?’ she hissed at Francesca. ‘I can barely walk.’
‘You’re wearing them because they’re beautiful, and they make your legs look thinner.’
‘But no one can see my legs – they can’t even see the shoes.’
Francesca stepped daintily on to the escalator and tossed her long hair back.
‘Stop complaining,’ she smiled. ‘This party is going to be fabulous, we’re going to be fabulous. And remember, you’re Lana Wosserface, otherwise we’ll never get in.’
‘Oh God,’ Sophie whispered to herself as she looked towards the entrance. The party was being held in the old Eurostar terminal – according to the invitation, actually on the platform – and the archway that had previously been the security screening area was the only way in. It looked incredible: the whole structure had been covered with shimmery blue material, and a bright blue carpet had been rolled out to meet the bottom of the escalator.
‘Be cool,’ said Francesca as they walked up to the clipboard girls standing behind the velvet rope – who were dressed in azure sequinned minidresses, like sexy mermaids. Fighting the urge to run away – not that she could have run in those shoes – Sophie simply smiled at them and handed over the invitation. She had spent enough time on the other side of the rope to know that people on the door can smell fear.
‘Lana?’ said the girl, looking her up and down. Her expression was serious. Sophie’s heart was pounding, fearing they were about to get caught out. ‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed dinner. But I’m sure we can get someone to sort you out some food,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Don’t worry about food,’ smiled Sophie, realising they were in.
‘Have a good time,’ grinned the clipboard girl.
Sophie beamed. ‘We will.’
Her jaw almost dropped as they walked insi
de. The whole of the Eurostar terminal had been transformed into a fantastic dining-room-cum nightclub. The track had been covered over and turned into an ad hoc dining area, with huge flower arrangements in the centre of each circular table, the blue and white flowers mixed with peacock feathers. At the far end of the platform was a flashing dance floor and a stage, and suspended from the hangar-height roof were thousands of glowing blue lanterns. It was so magical it almost took Sophie’s breath away.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ she whispered, staring at the stage.
George Clooney was standing at a podium offering a weekend on a yacht in the Caribbean as an auction prize, which brought on a flurry of frantic bidding.
‘And you wanted to stay in tonight,’ giggled Francesca. ‘This is the party of the bloody decade!’
She walked over to a board which had the seating plan laid out on it.
‘According to this, we’re on table 53,’ said Francesca.
‘No, Lana’s on table 53,’ corrected Sophie. ‘And she’s probably been seated right next to her best friend. We can’t just go and sit down in her spot, can we?’
Francesca sighed.
‘I suppose not. Anyway, dinner’s over. I think the live act is about to come on any minute. That Damien Hirst-customised Range Rover has got to be the star prize, hasn’t it?’
Sophie watched in amazement as a white 4×4 drove on to the stage and parked up next to George Clooney’s podium. What credit crunch? she thought.
‘Listen, I’ve got to pee,’ said Francesca. ‘Get me a drink, would you? Nothing with any calories, think of the wedding dress, okay?’
Sophie looked after her friend anxiously, feeling exposed and fraudulent.
‘May I offer madam a Silver Fir?’ said a handsome waiter carrying a tray of glasses containing something that looked cool and green.
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Sophie, reminding herself that she was playing a role. She needed to behave as if this sort of thing happened every day. In fact, shouldn’t I look a bit bored? It was a hard look to pull off, especially as this had to be the most exciting party she could remember going to. She had already seen two actors – three, if you counted the master of ceremonies – and one woman who she recognised as a fashion designer. Every other person looked as if they could be – probably were, for all Sophie knew – talented, famous or both. She was certainly glad that Fran had talked her into wearing this dress; at least she fitted in among the acres of couture. God, she thought suddenly, was her dress couture? Didn’t they cost like fifty grand each? She consciously held her drink further away from the fabric, which suddenly felt even more flimsy than before. Knowing her luck, there would probably be only one of them in existence and word would get back to Lana quicker than you could say ‘house-sitting charlatan’.
Perfect Strangers Page 6
