by Ilana Fox
As she sat down on a hard plastic bench, Mia pulled out a tiny mirror that she kept in her handbag. Despite the long-haul flight her eyes were still sparkling white, and even though she was now back in London she looked as good as she had done when she had left Miami. Her mobile rang, and Mia dropped the mirror in search of it, being careful not to snag her newly manicured nails.
‘Where are you?’ Amelia’s question came through the phone in a mock-accusing tone. ‘I can’t find you anywhere and I’ve been here for absolutely ages.’ Mia felt herself relax as she heard her friend’s familiar perky voice. It was good to be home.
‘I’m near the exit,’ Mia said. ‘Want me to meet you there?’
As Mia approached the automatic doors she spotted Amelia. Her friend had barely changed, although her hair was longer, more tangled, and she looked as though she had lost a few pounds. She was wearing grey skinny jeans, black ballet slippers and a grey waistcoat over a white T-shirt. Mia stopped and stared at her for a moment, and she held her breath as she realised just how beautiful her friend was. Amelia was writing a text message on her phone, and she had a look of concentration on her face. Even when she was frowning she still managed to look incredible. She possessed a cool, intelligent beauty that no amount of money or surgery could buy.
‘Hey,’ Mia said, in a fake American accent, and Amelia looked up at her blankly.
‘Do you know where I can get a cab?’ Mia asked, struggling with her accent as she tried not to laugh. Amelia restrained herself from rolling her eyes and assessed her coolly.
‘I think there’s a help-desk over there,’ she said, with a barely perceptible nod towards an escalator, and she looked back down at her phone and finished writing her text message. As she put her mobile into her pocket she looked up again, and was surprised to see the stunning blonde was still standing in front of her. Just then the girl’s phone beeped, and Amelia watched her dig her tiny silver mobile out of her Celine Boogie bag. She’d wanted one of those bags for months, but Selfridges had a waiting list of for ever. What with her expensive bag and the oversized vintage Gucci sunglasses on top of her head, this girl looked and acted like a celebrity. Amelia stared at her contemptuously. Who did this girl think she was? Nicole Richie?
‘Hurry up, there’s an American model who keeps staring at me and has just tried to chat me up,’ Mia said, reading the text message that Amelia had just sent her out loud in her fake American accent. Just as Amelia turned white, Mia burst out laughing. She had really had no idea that her best friend wouldn’t have recognised her.
‘Ames, it’s me,’ Mia said gently, as she watched her friend look her up and down in shock.
‘But you’re …’ Amelia began, and she found she couldn’t finish her sentence. Mia was the most attractive girl Amelia had ever seen, and her mouth dropped open.
‘Oh, my fucking God!’ Amelia shrieked, and Mia hastily ushered her out of the airport. ‘You look amazing. Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod! Look at your hair! Look at your nose!’ Amelia peered closely at Jo’s face. ‘I can’t believe it’s you!’
‘Let’s go to the car.’ Mia grinned back, and Amelia led them to the Beetle, gushing all the way.
‘I never would have believed you’re Jo – your face is immaculate. I was expecting tiny scars, but there’s nothing, it’s incredible!’
Mia smiled. ‘Thank you. But as you know, it took months of agony to look like this.’
Amelia beamed. ‘No pain no gain, I say. Wow! Now, do I call you Jo, or Mia, or what?’
‘It’s Mia now,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘It’s odd, I know, but you’ll get used to it. I’ve stopped thinking of myself as Jo Hill, and you will too … Do you really think I look that different?’ Mia asked, and before Amelia could say anything she answered her own question. ‘I do, don’t I? But I really thought you would recognise me – you know me so well that …’ Mia trailed off. She was so jet-lagged, and so overwhelmed at being back in London that she struggled to articulate herself. ‘It’s quite weird, you know, because I’m exactly the same on the inside, but look completely different on the outside.’
Mia pulled out her mirror and stared at herself again. ‘I keep on forgetting I don’t look like plain, fat Joanne Hill any more. I look just like Gable’s little sister, though, don’t I?’
Amelia nodded as she remembered a recent cover of DG magazine where Gable had looked moody and arresting in a black suit and an open white shirt. Mia was the female version of him, a Scandinavian-style ice-cool blonde with a warm personality that radiated through her perfect features. ‘You’re absolutely stunning,’ she said, her eyes sweeping over her friend again. ‘And you look so completely different.’
Mia gave her friend a wry grin and clasped her hand mirror shut. ‘That was the idea,’ she said, and she told Amelia every gory detail of her surgery on the drive to London.
Amelia pulled up on a road in Hampstead and gently woke Mia, who had fallen asleep when they’d got stuck in traffic on the M4. ‘We’re here,’ she said quietly, and Mia opened her eyes, allowing the shock at being in London to melt away before she looked at her new home. From the outside the cottage appeared to be perfect. Set two roads down from Hampstead High Street on a wide, quiet avenue with horse-chestnut trees and a cobbled pavement, the house nestled between other detached Victorian cottages, each with large sash windows and shiny front doors. As Mia got out of the car she stared up at the house. This would be where she started her London life again, she thought, and she buried her chin into a cashmere scarf that Amelia had lent her.
‘Have you got the keys? It’s bloody freezing,’ Amelia complained, and Mia rummaged around in her handbag until she found the envelope that the letting agents had left for her at Heathrow. Mia opened the door, punched the combination into the alarm, and looked around the hallway that led into her new home. Amazingly, the original Victorian floor had been preserved, and Mia gingerly walked over the red and cobalt-blue decorative tiles into a living-room that was filled with comfortable stone-coloured sofas and cream mohair throws on stripped wooden floorboards.
‘It’s not too bad for a serviced house, is it?’ Amelia commented, as she fingered the heavy cream curtains. ‘How much did you say you were paying for this a month?’
Mia grimaced. ‘You don’t want to know,’ she said, but as her eyes flickered across the room she realised that the price was definitely worth it. Subtle abstract oil paintings hung from the walls, and Booker Prize-winning novels sat on the mahogany shelves that were built into the recesses on each side of the original Victorian fireplace. Mia could picture herself watching the state-of-the-art television as she tried to relax after a day at work, and she instantly knew she’d made a good choice when she’d found this house on the internet.
The pair explored the rest of the house. Next to the living-room was a small dining-room that was perfect for intimate dinner parties, and in the kitchen, stainless-steel appliances sat on top of silver-coloured work surfaces. Upstairs was a large bedroom with an en suite, a guest bedroom – just the thing for both Amelia and Gable, Mia planned – and a small study complete with wi-fi and a large glass-topped desk. Mia thought the cottage was great.
‘It’s amazing,’ she said to Amelia, as she stood in her new bedroom, charmed by the views of the city and yearning to take her boots off so she could feel the luxurious cream carpet between her toes. The bed was made of oak that had been stained a dark brown, and the crisp white sheets and crystal chandelier dangling over it gave the room a touch of elegance. Mia cast her mind back to the flat she had grown up in. She never could have imagined living in a place like this in London.
‘I can’t picture Gable Blackwood’s little sister living in anything less,’ Amelia commented, and they went down to the kitchen, where Amelia opened up a bottle of complimentary champagne while Mia sat at the table. Mia looked at her carefully – she looked as though she was on the verge of saying something, but was holding back.
‘What’s up?’ Mia asked he
r, as she took a sip of champagne. Amelia wondered how to phrase what had been on her mind since she’d picked Mia up from the airport.
‘I know that you’re planning on trying to get a job at Gloss, but aren’t you a bit worried that this Garnet man – or someone else – will recognise you?’ she asked, hoping that her friend wouldn’t mind the subject being raised.
‘You didn’t.’ Mia smiled. ‘I’m being myself with you, but when I’m with Joshua I’ll play out the first rule of magazines, and I’ll give my audience what they want. To Joshua I’ll be sexy, beautiful and funny, but I’ll also be smart, savvy and brilliant at boosting circulation and stealing advertising from his competitors. He never knew Jo to be like that – he thought I was a timid, naïve mouse – so he’ll never guess in a million years.’
Amelia fiddled with the foil on the neck of the champagne bottle and gazed at Mia. ‘But now that I know you’re really Jo I can see the old you mixed in with your new face. It’s your eyes, you see, they totally give you away. And if I recognise you, who’s to say Joshua won’t?’
‘Ames, I’m telling you, he won’t know it’s me. Sure, if he found out that dumpy old Joanne Hill had surgery then he might put two and two together, but it’s not going to happen.’
Amelia exhaled slowly. ‘I’m just really worried about what he would do to you if he found out,’ she said. When she spotted Mia’s confused face she hurried to explain what she meant. ‘I’m not talking hit-men or anything like that, but from what you’ve told me this Garnet guy is pretty powerful, and he could crush your career before you know what’s happened. He’s done it to you once before,’ she said. ‘And I wouldn’t put it past him doing it again.’
Mia drank some of her champagne and thought about what Amelia was saying. She had a point.
‘Look, why don’t you go and test your new look on someone else first, and see if they recognise you …?’ Amelia paused, and dug out a copy of Time Out from her bag. ‘And while we’re on the subject, have you seen this?’
Mia wordlessly took the magazine from Amelia and stared at the cover. Steve Coogan was whispering into Rob Brydon’s ear on a white background, but over their faces were black straplines previewing the fifty cultural highlights of 2006. The name ‘William Denning’ jumped out at Mia immediately, and she flicked through the pages frantically.
‘Seems he’s written a hit novel that’s being published next year,’ Amelia remarked. Mia looked up at her.
‘Good for him,’ she said as lightly as possible, hoping her voice didn’t belie her true feelings. Her heart was thudding, and as soon as she spotted the tiny photograph of William she felt her face flush. William looked as gorgeous as ever, and Mia wondered how she’d found the strength to walk away from him all those years ago.
‘Do you think one of those American magazines you write for would be interested in an interview?’ Amelia asked.
Mia stared at her friend in surprise. Mentally she’d already written the pitch.
J anuary 2006
Mia examined herself in the mirror and wondered if she’d made enough effort. Her blonde hair hung like a waterfall down her back, and her make-up was impeccable. The cosmetics she’d already applied – from Crème de la Mer moisturiser to Chanel Glossimer lip colour – made her look polished, poised and expensive. Her clothes – knee-length Versace boots, a leather mini-skirt and a tight black T-shirt – were sexy but understated, and she’d added a flash of colour with a hot-pink Marc Jacobs ‘Angela’ bag. So far so perfect, she thought.
Mia peered at her face again, and swept some Brigitte Bardot-style eyeliner across her lids. A quick spray of Lolita Lempicka perfume made her feel feminine and demure, and when she smiled she liked how her shimmering lips caught the light as they curled. Mia was aiming for ‘professional sex kitten’, and she hoped she’d done enough to look more gorgeous than she’d ever looked before. She wanted William to be spellbound as soon as he met her – and then, when he’d fallen in love with her looks and she’d proved that she was unrecognisable, Mia planned to tell him who she really was.
With a deep breath Mia left the toilets of the Charlotte Street Hotel and walked into the foyer, once again struck by how busy the hotel was. In the Oscar bar and restaurant trendy media types were chatting on their tiny mobile phones, and serving staff supplied cocktails, placing drinks on tables without waiting for acknowledgement or thanks. Of all the smart venues in London, the Charlotte Street Hotel was currently the one where the most important people in the media industry cut deals, and Mia felt flustered and out of place until she remembered that she no longer looked like plain old Jo Hill.
‘Mia Blackwood for William Denning,’ Mia said to a passing girl, who had been showing some men wearing Jarvis Cocker-style glasses into a private room. ‘Could you point me to the drawing-room, where I’m meeting him?’
The girl glanced at her notes, but didn’t stop to read them. ‘Are you the one from American Vanity Fair?’ she asked, and Mia nodded, impressed – this girl had clearly memorised the day’s schedule. ‘Follow me,’ she said briskly, and Mia followed her through to a drawing-room, the girl’s steel stiletto heels clattering on the wooden floor.
The drawing-room was what Mia had come to expect from the best hotels in London. There was a roaring fire, creamy white sofas and chairs, and oil paintings created by the local Bloomsbury set hung from the walls. However, Mia paid no attention to them, for sitting in an armchair near the fire was William. Mia felt her heart race as she watched him tug at his expensive-looking suit, and she ran her eyes over him, greedily drinking in every detail.
William’s blond hair looked as though it had been recently trimmed, and his face – which had rarely seen a razor when he lived in the Hampshire countryside – was free of the dark blond stubble she was used to. Mia didn’t think she’d ever seen William clean-shaven before, and his smooth skin made his jawline appear even stronger: it was incredibly masculine, and Mia wondered what it would be like to run her tongue over his chin. William’s eyes still shone the electric blue that Mia remembered, but his lips – his kissable, touchable lips – were scowling. On any other man his expression would look childlike and petulant, but it just made William look dark and brooding. William had always been the sexiest man Mia had ever seen, but the new, more sophisticated William took her breath away. He was gorgeous. And Mia didn’t know how she would be able to control her emotions in front of him.
‘Mr Denning, Mia Blackwood from Vanity Fair is here to see you,’ the girl said, and she walked off, leaving William staring at Mia with an unreadable expression. Mia quickly wondered if William recognised her, but when he stood and looked her up and down he didn’t seem to realise who she was. Neither did he appear to find her attractive, which Mia found unnerving. She was used to making an impact on men immediately.
‘How do you do,’ William said formally, and he offered Mia his hand. Mia held her breath and as her hand slipped into his, she felt a spark of electricity blast through her body. She tried not to blush, and she gazed up at William through lowered eyelids. If he’d felt anything between them it certainly wasn’t showing on his face.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ Mia said, her voice wobbling slightly. ‘I couldn’t get a cab for ages.’
William looked down at her. Again, Mia couldn’t tell what he was thinking. ‘It’s fine,’ he said kindly. ‘But let’s get on with it, shall we? I have interviews all afternoon and I don’t want to run behind.’ Mia thought she heard well-masked irritation in William’s voice, and she wondered why he didn’t seemed charmed by her beauty like every other man was. She quickly took her dictaphone from her handbag and put it on the small round table between them.
‘Um, why don’t we begin by you telling me what your book is about,’ Mia said with a smile. She had been so wrapped up in working out what to wear, and wondering if William would recognise her, that she hadn’t prepared any interview questions. It was unprofessional and absolutely unlike her. William sighed heavily,
his broad shoulders slouching slightly.
‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the same,’ he said. ‘My publicist should have sent you the notes beforehand, but I’ve got a spare set here if you want.’ William leant down and produced a scruffy-looking rucksack from behind the chair. In comparison to his expensive suit and the opulence of the room it looked out of place, and it reminded Mia sharply of the William she’d fallen in love with, not of the shaved and polished version in front of her.
‘Thanks, that’s very kind,’ Mia said, before tentatively wondering what her next question should be. ‘What inspired you to write Caviar Society?’ she asked finally, and after a long pause in which William tried not to roll his eyes, he spoke. His voice was gentle, but there was a slight patronising edge to it.
‘If you know anything about the book you’ll know it’s a pastiche of society in London. I mostly grew up in the country, but I sometimes had to visit the city with my father when he did business. I immediately noticed how shallow people were in London compared to those who lived in the country, and it seemed like a natural idea to write about. They say “write about what you know”, and I did just that.’
Mia swallowed. She imagined William writing the book at The Royal Oak, and memories of his bedroom – and how his bed had smelt deliciously of him – flooded her mind. Mia yearned to tell William who she was, to touch him, but she knew she couldn’t. She needed to get a grip.
‘What is it specifically about London that you don’t like?’ Mia asked, hoping her voice sounded neutral. She settled further back into her chair, and didn’t realise that her already short skirt had slid up her thighs. William ignored Mia’s tanned, toned legs and looked around the room. He seemed to be amused.
