Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  ‘Not really that perverted,’ I say out loud, utterly overwhelmed by the revelation. ‘You were – are – only two years older than me.’

  ‘I felt a hundred years older.’ I think about his horrible grief and squeeze his hand.

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘When do you think it might have been appropriate?’

  ‘I suppose now’s as good a time as any,’ I laugh shakily. ‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so much longer to realize, but please, please, come home with me now. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.’

  ‘Oh Bella.’ He leans across to kiss me again, then stops himself. ‘No. Not in the car.’ He drives on until we’re right outside my flat, then parks, gets out and comes round to my side of it, opening the door for me.

  ‘Give me your keys.’ I fumble in my handbag until I find them. He walks over to open my front door, then comes back, picks me up and carries me up all four flights of stairs. He must be bloody strong.

  He carries me into my bedroom and gently puts me down on my bed. We gaze at one another.

  ‘May I?’ he says, as he makes to unzip my dress. I nod, tongue-tied. He is so gentle, treating me with the utmost tenderness. I’m so not used to this. He pulls my dress over my head and gazes at me some more.

  ‘You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.’

  ‘You saw me in a bikini in Ibiza.’ Why can’t I just shut up?

  ‘It’s different,’ he says simply, undoing my bra and kissing the tips of my breasts. Suddenly the gentle tenderness isn’t enough. I need more, and reach up to pull his T-shirt over his head, desperate to feel his skin against mine. As his chest touches mine, Andy seems to lose control too. He starts kissing me with the utmost passion, his hands pulling at my hair as his pelvis grinds against mine. I can feel how hard he is through his jeans, and reach down to touch him.

  ‘Oh Christ.’ He moves away and looks at me. ‘Oh my darling, I’ve waited for this moment for so many years. I wanted to take it slowly, but I’m not sure that I can.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I breathe. ‘I’m as ready as you are.’ I am desperate to feel him inside me and pull my knickers off as he drags his jeans down. He takes his glasses off, raises himself onto his elbows and, looking me in the eye all the while, lunges right into me.

  ‘Oh Andy, oh my God, oh don’t stop, oh oh oh …’ I am tearing at his hair, kissing him all over his face. It’s ridiculous. Within seconds we have both come. As we come to our senses, we both start laughing.

  Andy kisses me on the lips and says, ‘Right, now we’ve got that out of the way, shall we start again?’

  And ever so lightly, he starts to kiss my collarbone, moving his way with deliberate slowness across my whole body, just as I dreamt about that time in his car. He certainly knows what he’s doing. Serious, clever, principled Andy. Who’d have thought it? The thought of still waters running deep turns me on even more and by the time he reaches my cunt I am more than ready for him again.

  ‘Oh please, I want to feel you inside me again.’ He looks up at me and smiles.

  ‘With pleasure.’ He is hard again, and as he slides his cock into me, he takes my face in his hands, gazing at me and smiling. The sensations inside me are beyond exquisite.

  ‘I love you, Bella Brown.’

  ‘I love you too, Andy Marshall.’

  But now the sensations are gathering momentum again and neither of us can talk as we fuck and kiss and fuck and kiss and all that matters is his cock inside me, filling me up and touching my soul until, crying out, I have the sweetest, most long-drawn-out orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.

  Dappled sunlight filters through the shutters onto his naked body in my London bed. I savour the moment for – well, more than a moment – then, not wanting to disturb him, pad to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I’m almost hungover from euphoria as I recall the urgency, then the extraordinary sweetness of the sex. In all my years of – erm – experience, I can honestly say that nothing has ever come close. I cannot believe Philip Henderson’s message to Alison about grinning and bearing it, but each to his own, I suppose. And Andy is most certainly my own now. If any more confirmation were needed, last night was it.

  When I re-enter the bedroom with two cups of tea, he is awake and sitting up, broad-shouldered against my white lacy pillows.

  ‘Hello beautiful.’

  ‘Hello handsome.’ If I wasn’t me, I’d nauseate myself. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Let’s leave it to cool down for a bit.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘Oh just come here, you lovely thing.’

  ‘Blimey, Alison and Philip Henderson,’ I say, resting my head against Andy’s chest. He kisses the top of it. ‘Are you sure you’re OK with it?’

  ‘Apart from the old ego blow, yes.’ I can hear him smiling. ‘And it is a blow. Apparently it started the night your dad was arrested, when I was meant to be picking up the Order of Service from the printers. It was immediately after that I remember Al starting to lighten up.’

  I giggle. ‘So Mr Coutts chequebook started to make her feel like a wo-man again?’

  ‘Shut up.’ He cuffs me gently on the shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t be above giving him a good whack, slimy bastard.’ Then he softens and puts his arms around me again. ‘But that’s only natural, surely? You must realize, Bella, that what I feel for you is the most important thing that’s ever happened to me? Actually, I wanted to hit Mark more than I’ve wanted to hurt anyone in my entire life, when I saw the two of you together in Soho.’

  ‘As soon as I saw you, I realized it wouldn’t go any further than one kiss.’ I kiss him to prove my point.

  ‘Really? Mark with his muscles?’

  ‘Yes, Mark with his muscles, who now has Sam with her tits.’

  ‘Which are pretty nice, in a young, surgically enhanced kind of way.’

  ‘I thought you only had eyes for me!’ I’m part joking.

  ‘Of course I have. But she is paid to take her clothes off in the tabloids.’

  ‘Grrrrrrr.’

  ‘I’m joking, silly. Come here.’

  And he kisses me so thoroughly I don’t care if nothing nice ever happens to me again. Presently …

  ‘Aaandy?’

  ‘Yessss?’

  ‘Ummm … you know I told you I was going to go to Ibiza to get over you?’

  ‘Yessss …’

  ‘Why don’t we go together? There’s still time to catch my flight and there could easily be last-minute cancellations …’

  For a second he looks taken aback, then laughs. ‘OK, why not? I booked the time off work for my honeymoon, after all.’ He pauses. ‘But do you mind if we don’t stay with your friends? I’d like to have you to myself at least some of the time. Besides, that Damian has a severe case of professional jealousy.’

  Epilogue

  The little stone cottage in the north of the island belongs to a mad, dreadlocked old girlfriend of Dad’s, who has gone to Goa for a month. The condition of occupancy is that we look after her parrot, which, amusingly, is called Poppy. The cottage’s shutters are painted cornflower blue; they match the sky and clash vividly with the bougainvillea climbing the walls. Another plant, whose name escapes us, has flowers that change from deepest purple to palest aqua, according to the time of day or night. They are now indigo, as the sun starts to set over the hills. I can just about make out the sea glittering in the distance over the fragrant expanse of pine and olive trees.

  I am picking basil and rosemary from the herb garden, just outside the cottage’s French windows. The haunting guitar strains of Concierto de Aranjuez can be heard from inside. Still in my bikini, warmth radiating from my sun-soaked body, I take a sip from my glass of rosé, whose exterior beads of moisture proclaim its delicious coolness in the still fierce early evening heat. I wave at Andy, splashing away in the palm-tree-surrounded pool that belongs to the big house. He waves back, grinning.

  Today, after a pleasurely leisurely start, we took the ferry to Formentera, w
here we ate lobster and chips at ramshackle tables on the white sandy beach and swam for hours in the unfeasibly clear, turquoise waters. On the boat ride back, some Italians got out guitars and started playing old hippy stuff – Santana and a bit of Pink Floyd. We felt it appropriate, then, to stop for late-afternoon drinks, jamón and olives at Anita’s Bar, the original hippy bar in San Carlos, the village just outside which we’re staying.

  Later we might meet the others in Ibiza Town for vodka limóns and the constant cosmopolitan promenade. We might join the hardcore at Space, or head to Playa s’Estanyol, a beautiful, pine-surrounded little cove where there are rumours of a beach party tonight. We might even end up back at Natalia’s, as we did the other night, when she hosted the most outrageous after-party. Man, that was fun. Or we might just do nothing at all, as everything we need is right here.

  Whatever we do, we’ll be doing it together. And that makes me very happy indeed.

  If you enjoyed Revelry, follow Bella, Poppy and their friends in Vanity as they go from St Tropez to New York, LA to Paris, facing the reality of friendships pushed to the limits, and embarking on a road trip that they’ll never forget …

  Glamorous Poppy seems to have it all, and after a long tough year she is damn well going to enjoy it. But as Poppy’s career in New York goes from strength to strength, her husband, Damian’s takes a nosedive and she begins to wonder if love really can survive anything.

  In London, Poppy’s best friend Bella is basking in that new-couple glow with her boyfriend Andy. But, not everything is as perfect as it seems, and Bella can’t help but be a little jealous of her best friend’s Big Apple adventures. Meanwhile, their arch-nemesis, shallow but beautiful Ben, is in Hollywood to make his name on the silver screen, and annoyingly, is doing rather well at it!

  From St Tropez to New York, LA to the impossibly chic Paris; join Bella, Poppy and their friends as they face the reality of friendships pushed to the limits, and embark on a road trip that they’ll never forget …

  Click here to buy now

  VANITY [ePub edition] 978-0-00-744175-4

  Acknowledgements

  Firstly I’d like to thank my agent, Annabel Merullo, for all your help and encouragement, and being behind me, every step of the way; Juliet Mushens, for your invaluable advice on pretty much every detail of Revelry, and Arabella Foster, for spotting its potential in the first place.

  Sarah Ritherdon, my brilliant editor – you were absolutely right about all those changes, Sarah! Also Hana Osman, for bringing everything together beautifully, and the rest of the team at HarperCollins.

  My parents, Elizabeth and Christopher, for their unwavering patience, humour, support and love; my sister Caroline in Australia, for keeping me entertained and enriching my vocabulary with countless games of online Scrabble; and my lovely husband Andy, who has had to put up with night after night of me hammering away at my laptop while he makes dinner for us both and watches telly on his own.

  And I would like to give a special thank you to my brother Nick, a brilliant writer himself, who persuaded me to stop wasting my time on rubbish jobs and start writing. Thanks Nick, you’re a star.

  About the Author

  Lucy Lord is a journalist and columnist who has written for The Times, Guardian, Independent, Evening Standard, Time Out and Arena. Her favourite pastimes are reading, writing, lying in hammocks, lunching on beaches and throwing parties. She lives in London with her musician husband. Revelry, her first novel, isn’t autobiographical in the slightest.

  Revelry is the first book you have had published, how did you come to write it?

  I’ve been writing books (and not getting beyond the first few chapters) for years. With Revelry, suddenly the time seemed right. I had had a few summers that had been unbelievably good fun and thought that if I combined them all into one mad summer it could make a good background for a sort of light hearted romantic romp, with a flawed but (hopefully) likeable heroine. And all my friends told me I had to use the story about the dwarf!

  Did you develop a particular way of writing? Describe a typical day for you whilst producing Revelry.

  When I was writing Revelry, I was working full-time so most of it was done in the evenings. Now I am writing more or less full-time, a perfect day would be getting up between 8 and 9, going for a run and a bit of yoga in Hyde Park, having some breakfast and doing my chores. Then writing pretty much solidly between midday and 6, when it’s time for Eggheads or Friends, depending on my mood (and whether I can actually quote the Friends episode verbatim). This doesn’t always go according to plan though. I can get very carried away, writing more and more ludicrous stuff into the wee small hours, in which case I am unlikely to rise before 11, a massive editing job is in order and exercise gets pretty short shrift.

  Did you always want to be an author, and if not what else did you want to be?

  I have always wanted to be a writer, and have unfinished manuscripts under my bed from the age of about 11. Apart from journalism, every other job I’ve ever had has been a means to an end. The chapters where Bella is temping are written from the heart!

  Bella’s taste in men is not always perfect, and some of her dalliances were hysterical. What is the funniest dating story you have heard recently?

  A friend of mine met a man at the Hampstead Heath Summer Solstice (which should have been warning enough in itself). He belonged to a men-only re-birthing group and was heavily into crystal readings. Despite all this, she went on a date with him, which was predictably tedious (although she did discover he’d studied tantric and erogenous massage). When he said goodbye to her at the tube station, instead of kissing her goodbye, he bit her neck, hard. She thought it was an odd thing to do until, sitting on the tube 5 minutes later, she started to feel incredibly turned on. Yes, he’d attacked one of her erogenous zones and here she was trying not to make it apparent to all the other passengers that she was having an orgasm on the underground. She never saw him again.

  Bella has been best friends with Poppy for years. How did you meet your best friend?

  Just like Bella and Poppy, I met my best friend, Emma, at school. There are a lot of similarities: we were new girls together, obsessed with the 1920s and 30s, we both wanted to be private detectives and we were inseparable until I went off to university and she became a model. The similarities end there, though – she has never seduced any of my boyfriends (in fact I can think of nothing she would like less!). She now lives in LA, and even though we hardly ever see each other, I still consider her my best friend. Corny though it may sound, my other best friend is my husband, Andy.

  The trip to Glastonbury sounds incredible. Did you write about it from experience?

  The last time I went to Glastonbury it rained solidly for four days and I have never been so glad to see my own bed as I was at the end of it! The Glastonbury in Revelry is a kind of wishful thinking and made up of bits and pieces from various wonderful (sunny) Glasto’ experiences in years gone by. Sadly I have never been seduced by a drop-dead gorgeous male model at a festival.

  During the summer Bella and her friends go not only to Glastonbury, but also to Ibiza. Where would your dream summer holiday take you?

  Oh God, that’s almost impossible to choose – there are so many amazing places I’d love to see. Obviously, I love Ibiza, and have been going for years now. Villa holidays with friends can be wonderful (or disastrous, though the less said about that the better). I love the Greek islands – anywhere with unspoilt beaches and clean, clear sea. This year, for a complete change, Andy and I will be cycling round Tuscany, tasting wine and staying at beautiful agrotourismo places – ancient farmhouses, country villas and the like. It all sounds terribly energetic, so I have insisted on one day on/one day off cycling and made sure that everywhere we stay has a pool!

  Although Bella has to do a job she hates, what she really loves is painting. Are you at all interested in art?

  Absolutely, and during our Tuscany trip we will of course be doing all the
cultural stuff in Florence and Siena. I wouldn’t say I have any discernible artistic talent, though I do get a huge thrill from finding old bits of furniture in junk shops and tarting them up. I’m currently in the process of transforming a fairly ordinary pine wardrobe into a Provençal gem, with toile de jouy panelling, new handles and distressed paintwork. I’m not quite there yet.

  Revelry is the perfect beach read. What is your favourite book to read whilst you are on holiday?

  I’d recommend Solzhenitsyn’s Cancer Ward as the perfect feel-good holiday read. Seriously? Anything by Jilly Cooper – she is the queen – and I always buy a load of new paperbacks at the airport.

  We hear you are writing a sequel. What can we hope to see from Bella, Poppy and their friends next?

  Vanity, the sequel, starts with Poppy and Damian’s boho beach wedding in Ibiza. The action then takes us to LA (where Ben is an up-and-coming film star), New York, St Tropez, London, the Hamptons and backpacker beaches in Thailand. Towards the end, Bella and Poppy find themselves on a road trip across the States in a hired Cadillac (something I’ve always wanted to do). You’ll have to read it to find out how they get there!

  An exclusive extract from Lucy’s next book

  Vanity

  Out January 2013

  “Bollocks,’ said the blushing bride, scrutinising her crotch through her wedding dress in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. ‘It’s too see-through in daylight, isn’t it? I’m going to have to wear those bloody remedial granny pants.’

  The pants in question were an exorbitantly expensive pair of sheer nude silk Myla boy shorts, hardly the passion-killing girdle the comment implied. But Poppy Wallace had set her heart on going commando on her Big Day.

  ‘Never mind,’ said her best friend Bella, topping up their glasses with Veuve Clicquot. ‘Damian can rip them off with his teeth later.’

  They both looked at Poppy’s reflection. Transparency problem aside, she looked more beautiful than Bella had ever seen her, and that was saying something. The sheer white cotton voile dress, suspended from spaghetti straps and embroidered with daisies at the hem and strategically across what there was of her chest, skimmed her tiny body and floated to her delicate ankles. Her streaky white-gold hair flowed loose, halfway down her bare brown back, crowned with a sweet-smelling garland of white and yellow spring flowers. Her only jewellery was her vintage diamond and emerald engagement ring and an anklet fashioned out of silver daisies. She was barefoot and her lovely little face, all wide green eyes, small nose and perfect teeth, was glowing.