Divas

by Rebecca Chance

  ‘Dev! Have you seen the papers? She’s all over the damn tabloids, shoving a straw up her nose!’

  Leaning further over the balustrade now, Lola had a good view of the scene in the hallway. Piers, in the baby-blue sweater, stripy shirt and loose jeans of the Sloane at play, was pacing back and forth on the checkerboard marble tiles, waving a newspaper at Devon, who looked tiny next to his large, beefy frame.

  ‘We can’t have it, Dev, ’ Piers insisted. ‘They’re surrounding the bloody house. I caught one of the blighters trying to climb over the garden wall. Gave him a good spanking with a spade – he won’t be sitting down for a week.’ Piers chuckled. ‘But look!’ He waved the paper at Devon again, stabbing at the front page with a big pink finger. Painstakingly – Piers didn’t have that many A levels either – he read out:

  Troubled Lola is holed up at the Eaton Square mansion of her best friend, Devon, Marchioness of Claverford. Former It-girl Devon was present at the infamous hen night where these pics were snapped – and was apparently very appreciative of the bootylicious physique of Cris, the stripper who entertained the girls by letting them eat sushi off his naked body. And that was only the start of the evening! Turn to Page 11 for Cris’s tell-all story and saucy pics! EXCLUSIVE to The Herald!

  ‘Oh shit, ’ Devon gasped.

  ‘Exactly! The crumblies are going to hit the roof! I wouldn’t be surprised if this gave the old man a coronary!’

  From her awkward angle hanging over the banisters, Lola couldn’t make out Devon’s expression, but she was sure Dev had suddenly perked up at the thought of Piers’s father, the duke, having a coronary, and Piers becoming the Duke of Claverford in his stead. Which would make Devon the Duchess.

  ‘She has to go, Dev!’ Piers was insisting. ‘I know she’s a friend of yours, fair enough, loyalty and all that, but it’s gone too far now. God knows what the other papers are saying. We have our reputation to maintain!’

  Lola seethed at the lofty tone Piers was taking. Everyone knew he was a horribly lecherous drunk – no woman, not even a friend of Devon’s, was safe after Piers’s second bottle. He’d even cornered his sister Venetia once against the downstairs bar, too smashed on claret to realise who she was. She’d had to spray him with a soda siphon to get him to calm down.

  Still, if Piers was taking this line, she had lost her cosy berth here. Dully, absorbing one shock after another, Lola went back into what was now no longer her bedroom, and dialled George, her father’s old lawyer.

  Just as she was finishing the call, Devon tapped on the door, then stuck her head round it, pulling an apologetic face.

  ‘Come in, ’ Lola said, snapping her phone shut.

  ‘Lo, I’m so sorry, but—’ Devon started.

  ‘It’s OK, ’ Lola sighed. ‘I heard him already.’

  ‘His parents are such stuffy old things . . .’ Devon said helplessly. ‘They’re bound to get wind of this, and if they hear you’re still staying in the house, they really will hit the roof . . .’

  She tossed back her silky blonde curtain of hair, sitting down on the bed next to Lola and taking her hand.

  ‘We’ll ring round and see if we can find you somewhere else to go, ’ she offered.

  Lola grimaced.

  ‘No one’s going to take me in, Dev, not after this, ’ she said. ‘The paps’ll follow me wherever I go, and no one wants this kind of publicity.’

  She reached for the newspaper Devon was holding. The cover photo was a grainy, blurred snap of her, leaning over a black surface on which a series of white lines could clearly be distinguished, angling the straw she was holding so she could hoover up one of the lines of coke. From the background, it had been taken in the Japanese restaurant: she could make out some details of the painted screen behind her.

  ‘It must have been the stripper who took it, ’ Devon said, too quickly.

  ‘It wasn’t the stripper.’ Lola pointed out where, just visible at one corner of the photo, the main table could be seen. Cris was still lying there: if she squinted, she could just make out some pieces of sashimi that remained on his leg.

  ‘One of the waiters, then.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dev!’

  Impatiently, Lola dropped the paper on the bed. Devon immediately snatched it up to stop the cheap ink staining the Porthault sheets.

  ‘We both know it was one of us!’ Lola said. ‘No way a waiter managed to bring out a camera, let alone one with a flash, without any of us noticing! I don’t care how blasted we were, one of us would have spotted that!’

  Devon hung her pretty head, hair tumbling forward, a silent acknowledgement that Lola was right.

  ‘One of the girls sold camera-phone photos and their story to the Herald, ’ Lola continued bitterly. ‘I bet they made a ton of money off dragging me down.’

  ‘Oh, Lo, you mustn’t say that—’ Devon mumbled.

  ‘Why would anyone do this to me?’ Lola said, jumping up and striding to the window. Opening the curtains a crack, she peered down at the waiting paparazzi outside, drinking coffee from takeaway containers, talking on their mobiles, waiting for Lola to come out.

  ‘Jealousy, ’ Devon said simply.

  ‘Really?’ Lola let the curtain fall and turned back towards Devon, who was pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of her slim-legged jeans.

  ‘God yes!’ Devon lit up and waved away the smoke.‘Lola, you’re getting married to the guy everyone was after! Or you were, who knows now . . . And your father has more money than God! Everyone wanted your life! Well, everyone but me, ’ she added conscientiously, taking another drag. ‘Because I have the title. But let’s face it, Jean-Marc’s a lot hotter than Piers. I mean, you can’t have it all.’

  ‘So you think—’

  ‘Of course! Someone was out to get you! To be fair, they probably sold the pics before all the scandal broke. Otherwise, that would be too awful.’ The hand that was holding the cigarette sagged dangerously close to the expensive sheets.

  ‘I tell you, Dev, I don’t know anything any more, ’ Lola said bitterly. ‘I thought I was getting married to the catch of the century. It turns out he’s a drug-addicted tranny-lover. I thought my friends were 100 per cent reliable, and it turns out one of them’s sold me out to the tabloids. I thought I’d never have to worry about money, and look at me now!’

  Devon’s blue eyes went saucer-wide. ‘I thought your New York lawyer was sorting that out, ’ she breathed, reaching for the ashtray on the bedside table.

  Lola heaved a deep sigh.

  ‘I just spoke to him, ’ she said, collapsing on the bed. ‘He says we can challenge the power of attorney, and the fact that Carin’s controlling my trust fund. But it could take ages, and in the meantime, all I have is what’s in my bank accounts.’

  ‘How much is that?’ Devon asked.

  ‘About fifteen grand in the UK one.’

  ‘God.’ Devon pulled a face. ‘That won’t go far especially with lawyers’ fees to pay, and getting to the states – let alone staying there in a decent hotel . . .’

  ‘I know! And the US bank account isn’t much better. I barely use them. I mostly just live on the credit cards.’

  Devon stubbed out the cigarette and slumped back on the pillows.

  ‘I’m so sorry about kicking you out, ’ she said helplessly. ‘But you know what Piers is like when he gets an idea in his head.’

  She lit up another cigarette.

  ‘You know, ’ Devon said, inhaling, ‘what you were saying about sex . . . I feel like that with Piers. I don’t mind just lying there, but when he wants me to do stuff to him – you know – ugh, I really could live without it. I wish he’d go and get that somewhere else, I really do. I keep telling him it’s fine if he wants to.’ She glanced at Lola as she puffed on her Silk Cut. ‘I have enjoyed sex before. I’m not completely like you. But with Piers—’ She drew the corners of her mouth down sharply. ‘So I do understand. You can’t have everything, right?’

  Lola nodde
d. ‘Though I did with Jean-Marc, ’ she said sadly. ‘It was perfect. Even if we both got totalled and started messing around because we were off our heads, and it didn’t work out, we’d just giggle and giggle and fall asleep. I mean, sex just never mattered that way.’

  Just then, Lola’s phone, sitting on the dressing table, started to buzz. She dashed to see who was calling, and when she saw the number in the display window, she ripped the phone open eagerly.

  ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Yes, it’s me . . . Oh, thank you! That’s great! I’ll be there in twenty minutes . . . Thank you so much!’

  She snapped the phone closed and turned to Devon, face shining with excitement.

  ‘Jean-Marc’s conscious and can have visitors – and his horrible brother won’t be in till lunchtime, apparently! That nurse – Deirdre – rang me to let me know.’

  ‘The nurse rang you?’ Devon said, raising her eyebrows. ‘How did she get your number?’

  Lola smiled.

  ‘I wrote it down and gave her twenty quid when you lot were all fussing round the lifts, ’ she said. ‘I asked her to call me when it was safe to visit.’

  ‘Gosh, Lola, ’ Devon said, gazing at her admiringly. ‘I never knew you were so . . . enterprising.’

  ‘Me neither!’ Lola pulled open the wardrobe door and grabbed the trenchcoat, plus a scarf Devon had lent her which she could use to cover her head. ‘Now, ’ she said, ‘how are we going to smuggle me out of here so the paps don’t follow me? Can I climb over that garden wall Piers was mentioning?’

  Deirdre had instructed her to go round the back of the hospital, to the staff entrance. She was waiting there, pink-faced with excitement and she hurried Lola through a door and into a lift at the back of the building.

  ‘This is so exciting!’ the nurse gushed. ‘It’s like being in a film or something, smuggling you in. I know Jean-Marc is dying to see you, he keeps asking after you, and it’s so romantic, isn’t it! Bringing you two together in secret—’

  Lola smiled and agreed, trying to give Deirdre the thrill she wanted, but honestly, she didn’t know what she was feeling. She was worried about Jean-Marc, of course, hoping that he was recovering OK, but she was also furious with him at the scandal he’d dragged her into. Still, she needed money from him, which slightly weakened her righteous anger – God, she was a seething mass of emotions. Deirdre bustled her down some corridors, tapped on a door and cautiously put her head around it, to make sure that Niels van der Veer hadn’t suddenly materialised.

  The coast was clear. Beaming, she indicated for Lola to go in.

  And as soon as Lola saw Jean-Marc, looking pale and wan and pathetically frail in his hospital gown, both arms hooked up to IV drips, all her anger and fear drained away instantly. All she could think of was how much she loved him, and how she never, ever wanted to see him in this condition again.

  ‘Hello, darling, ’ he said, managing a smile for her.

  ‘Jean-Marc!’ Lola breathed in horror. ‘Are you – are you OK?’

  Deirdre had told her he was out of danger, but his skin was so grey, his blue eyes so dull. His golden hair seemed faded, limp. He was still handsome – with his bone structure, he could never fail to be handsome – but he was a shadow of the Jean-Marc Lola had seen on her hen night, so vital and lively that all the girls had been excited by his presence. It was more that he seemed to have been drained of some vital force, some essential fluid that he needed not just for survival, but to keep his spirits alive.

  ‘I’m fine, ’ he interrupted. ‘That is, I’m alive. They’ve probably changed all my blood by now!’ He hacked a little laugh. ‘So you’d think I wouldn’t be addicted to anything any more, wouldn’t you? But it doesn’t work that way, apparently. They’d need to give me a brain transfusion.’

  Lola pulled up the chair and sat down. She hadn’t been able to see anything but Jean-Marc when she came in, but now she realised that the side tables were crowded with bouquets of flowers, huge, expensive ones, each showier than the next.

  ‘I didn’t bring you anything, ’ she said hopelessly. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ His smile this time was a little more human. ‘You came! You got a nurse to smuggle you in! Darling, that’s more than enough!’

  His fingers twitched as his hand tried to reach for hers. Swiftly, Lola covered his with her own.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, curling her fingers around his as much as she could without imperiling the catheter in the top of his hand.

  ‘Oh, God, Lola!’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘I just wanted to make everyone happy, believe it not. And look how it’s all ended up.’

  Lola bit off a question. She sat there, holding his hand, sensing that he needed to keep talking without interruption from her.

  ‘I treated you so badly, ’ Jean-Marc was saying, his fingers trembling under hers. ‘I didn’t tell you about Patricia and her . . . friends . . . because I knew you’d leave me if I did. And I didn’t tell you about the drugs, because I knew you’d say I was crazy for trying all the bad stuff.’ He shivered. ‘Even Patricia told me I was going too far. But the closer it got to the wedding, the worse I got. And I wanted to marry you, darling! We were going to be so happy! I still want to marry you, have a couple of lovely little golden children, like we talked about. But I know I’ve ruined everything.’

  He looked as if he were on the verge of tears: his voice was trembling, his eyes moist.

  And Lola, squeezing his hand as best she could, realised that for some inexplicable reason, she hadn’t, in these past two days, truly wondered whether she and Jean-Marc would get married after all, whether their engagement could be salvaged. And, as she explored her feelings now, she realised too that she didn’t actually mind that much. She had loved the idea of marriage: the ceremony, the publicity, the security, the fiancé with whom she’d never exchanged a cross word, let alone fought, because somehow, nothing had ever been important enough to fight about.

  Now it was all over. The wedding planner had left her several increasingly desperate messages, but Lola hadn’t rung back: she hadn’t had the faintest idea what to say. As soon as she left here, she would: she’d tell the planner to bill Jean-Marc, who would certainly pay for everything and throw in extra for her trouble, being generous to a fault.

  And that would be that.

  It was odd how free she suddenly felt.

  ‘Can you even tell me that you love my brother?’ that obnoxious, bullying Niels had demanded of her yesterday. And she hadn’t been able to say ‘Yes’ – not in the way Niels had meant. Lola, who had no siblings, and had never wanted any – it was perfect, being the only apple of her father’s eye – knew that she loved Jean-Marc like the brother she never had. He was a kind of twin, golden like her, beautiful like her, always wanting to cuddle, to stroke each other’s hair, to tell each other how lovely they were, curled up in a nest of luxury.

  No wonder she had never really wanted to have sex with him. Nor he with her.

  ‘I don’t mind about not getting married, ’ she said. ‘Honestly, I don’t.’

  ‘Really?’ Jean-Marc looked amazed. ‘I thought you’d be devastated! I mean, all women want to get married!’

  ‘Not if it’s making you do drugs!’ Lola exclaimed. She frowned. ‘Why did it make you want to do drugs? I thought we were so happy!’

  ‘I did too . . . Oh, Lola, I did too. I thought I’d found the perfect woman.’ He smiled painfully at her. ‘You’re so pretty and sweet and we get on so well. I love you so much, darling.’

  ‘I love you too, ’ she said, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. With the hand not holding Jean-Marc’s, she scrabbled in her coat pocket for a tissue.

  ‘They’re sending me off to rehab, Lola, ’ Jean-Marc said.

  Lola nodded: she’d expected this. Tons of people she knew went to rehab, for all sorts of things. It was very fashionable nowadays.

  ‘The Priory?’ she asked hopefully, naming a famous one near Lo
ndon.

  Jean-Marc shook his head.

  ‘Niels says I have to go to Desert Springs, in Arizona. He’s being so strict about this, Lola, you cannot believe.’

  ‘But that’s so far away!’

  ‘I know! He wants me to be completely isolated. Ugh, I’m dreading it. I mean, London’s full of bad influences, but where isn’t?’

  ‘Tell me about Patricia, ’ Lola said, looking him firmly in the eyes.

  He closed his own. ‘I hate to talk about her, ’ he said faintly. ‘I know you deserve an answer, but I can’t bear to talk about her. It’s all so complicated. I hated her for what she did to me – I felt so degraded – but I kept on going back. I couldn’t stop. She knew exactly what . . .’ He shivered. ‘Please don’t make me talk about it. It’s over. I’ll never see her again.’

  But his voice wavered on the last two sentences. With horror, Lola realised that Niels van der Veer was right, much as she hated to admit it. Jean-Marc was hooked on Patricia, and the drugs she provided. It would take more than an overdose and a near-death crisis to make Jean-Marc give her up. He needed to be sent far away for a long time.

  ‘Jean-Marc, ’ she started, feeling that it would be OK now to broach the subject of money, ‘I need to ask you something – a favour—’

  ‘Anything!’ he interrupted, his fingers tightening on hers. ‘Anything! After what I’ve put you through, you only have to ask.’

  ‘All this awful stuff has been happening to me, you won’t believe it, ’ she began. ‘Carin’s cut off my trust fund and I need to get to New York, because—’

  ‘She’s cut off your trust fund?’ Jean-Marc boggled at her. ‘How can she do that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all so awful, Jean-Marc!’ The relief of having his sympathy and friendship was so huge Lola felt she might be about to burst into tears again. ‘Apparently Daddy’s—’

  ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ demanded a harsh voice from the doorway.

  Horrified, Lola and Jean-Marc turned their heads towards the sound, and jumped like a pair of naughty children, cowering under the fury of Niels’s stare. She was extra-glad, suddenly, that she’d never had a big brother. It would be awful to have someone like Niels, older than you, bigger than you, bossing you around like this all the time, always convinced that he knew best.