In her dress, that really was so very three years ago, and silver sandals that had already given her blisters, Amelia felt quite the poor relation, but George was still at her side and every now and again he’d smile at her, and Amelia wouldn’t have swapped places with any other woman in the room.
Not even Becky Sharp, who was moving towards them with a fluid grace, the crowd separating to allow her free passage, just like God had parted the Red Sea for the Israelites. In a room full of beautiful, beautifully-dressed women, Becky was easily the most beautiful and the most beautifully dressed.
Amelia suddenly thought back to the first time she’d met Becky on that first night in the Big Brother house when Becky had stuck salt-and-vinegar crisps between two slices of heavily buttered white bread and said mournfully, ‘All the other girls in here are so sophisticated. I’m glad you’re not like that.’
Now Becky looked like she lived on a diet of vintage champagne, gulls’ eggs and nectar. She’d acquired an iridescent, untouchable patina that only the truly famous seem to have, so Amelia wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d glided right past them. But Becky didn’t. She stopped in front of the foursome and held out her slender white arms in greeting.
‘I’m so glad you could all come. And Captain Dobbin too. What a lovely surprise,’ she said in the slightly breathy voice that now sounded as if she’d been born and bred somewhere in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. ‘Emmy, you look absolutely adorable. So brave to wear a cocktail dress when everyone else is in a gown. Good for you.’
Was it possible that Becky didn’t even remember the dress? Amelia was gathered up in a fragile embrace as if she might break Becky if she hugged her too hard.
Mind you, Becky had probably worn so many designer gowns in the last year or so that who could blame her if she forgot a frock or two? ‘You look lovely, Becky. Um, is that er … Gucci?’
Becky looked down at the blush-coloured tulle sheath dress that clung lovingly and glimmeringly to her. ‘Not Gucci, silly Emmy. It doesn’t look anything like a Gucci. It was custom-made for me. Unless you’re familiar with haute couture, you wouldn’t have heard of the designer,’ she revealed almost apologetically. Then she looked beyond Amelia to smile brilliantly at the three men she’d come with. ‘Now, let’s find some fascinating people for you to talk to. Come! Follow me!’
So Amelia, the Member of Parliament for Squashmore, a celebrated war hero, and the founder of the most successful protein-ball company on the West Coast, obediently and meekly followed Becky Sharp, as the glittering masses parted for her once more.
Becky’s hips undulated sensuously, which made Amelia feel as if her own hips were made of Lego, as they slowly climbed the sweeping staircase to the galleries above. In an alcove was a table littered with mostly empty bottles of champagne, and sitting around the table were a variety of people in various stages of inebriation.
Becky beckoned to a wizened old man who looked as if he’d wandered in off the street and pulled Dobbin forwards. ‘Do you know Sam?’ she asked expectantly, as if most people did.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Dobbin said, wondering why on earth he should.
‘He’s a very famous film director,’ Becky scolded. ‘Aren’t you, Sam?’
The gnome-like figure shrugged impassively.
‘Modest too. Anyway, he’s making a film about the war in Syria and you must have been to Syria doing soldier stuff, so I’ve decided that Sam absolutely has to talk to you.’ Becky nudged Dobbin further forwards. ‘Go on, he doesn’t bite, but I don’t think he’s turned on his hearing aid.’ She tapped Sam, the famous director, on the shoulder and gestured at his ear, while the old man smiled and put a proprietorial and liver-spotted hand on her bottom.
Becky didn’t even flinch, just calmly removed the hand and turned her attention to Jos. ‘I have someone all lined up for you too,’ she said, tucking her arm into Jos’s as she used to do during those few heady weeks when Jos had been the happiest man in London. ‘He helped to finance Rawdy’s last film and apparently his family own a chain of gyms in the Midwest and he’s very curious about your balls.’
‘Protein balls,’ Jos corrected as Becky dragged him over to the next table where Rawdon was holding court, in sunglasses and a leather jacket, while surrounded by a bunch of perma-tanned men, whose white teeth glowed in the dim light, and their female companions who all looked as if they’d come straight off a conveyor belt in a factory that made Victoria’s Secret models.
‘Becky seems to know everyone,’ Amelia said to George but he just grunted as if knowing everyone wasn’t such an impressive feat. Then when she took his arm to console herself that even though she was two stone heavier and six inches shorter than all the other women in their immediate vicinity, she was still worthy of George Wylie, he tensed and shook her free.
‘Don’t cling, Emmy,’ he admonished as Becky came towards them with a beautiful elegant woman in tow. He puffed out his chest, stood a little taller, a little straighter and Amelia steeled herself for Becky to introduce George to her stunning friend, but it was Amelia she reached for.
‘Emmy,’ Becky said, taking Amelia’s hand and pulling her out of George’s orbit. ‘This is Claire. It turns out that she was at university with the brother of one of the M’s.’
Amelia had recognised Claire immediately but could hardly bring herself to look at her, in case Claire’s otherworldly beauty sapped the life right out of her. ‘I’ve seen all your films,’ she breathed, while next to her George made the tiny, hissing sound which always meant that he was embarrassed by her latest display of gaucheness. Still, Amelia couldn’t help herself. ‘And I thought you were terribly good in that TV adaptation of Where Angels Fear To Tread.’
Claire inclined her head, which rested on a swan-like neck. ‘Thank you,’ she said gravely. ‘And of course I loved you in Big Brother. I wish I could cry on cue like that and not have to rely on glycerine drops.’
‘No, she really does cry that much,’ Becky said and Amelia wanted to point out that that wasn’t entirely true, certainly not lately, but Becky’s grip on her hand tightened. ‘Claire has to ride a horse in her next film and she’s absolutely terrified. I knew that you would be the perfect person to put her at ease. Why don’t you two go and have a chat?’ She pointed out a distant corner. ‘There’s an empty table over there.’
‘Will you?’ Claire asked earnestly, because her drama coach had told her that she lacked sincerity and now she over-compensated so no one would think that she was shallow. ‘I have so many questions. I’m particularly worried about what it will do to my thighs. Will it make them bigger? Those girls who do dressage at the Olympics all have thunder thighs.’
Amelia could feel her own thighs expanding under her dress as Claire led her away, nattering in her ear, so she didn’t even have a chance to look back at George to see if he minded.
And it was probably just as well, because Amelia Sedley and her thighs were the very last thing on George’s mind. Becky Sharp looked to her left and then her right, and once she’d established that she and George were the last two standing, she stepped closer to him. Close enough that he could smell the heavy, exotic tang of her perfume, like lilies a day away from decay. Close enough that George could see the gentle rise and fall of her breasts as she took a couple of deep breaths as if she were nervous. Close enough that not even a whisper could come between them.
‘Gorgeous George,’ she purred. ‘Alone at last.’
And when he walked her backwards into the dimmest, darkest corner, she didn’t even make a token protest.
Chapter 25
Amelia was lost.
Claire had talked earnestly about her fear of horse riding and what it would do to her body for well over half an hour before Amelia could escape her clutches. She hadn’t even had a chance to give the woman a few pointers on technique.
She’d wandered over to the table where she’d last seen Becky and George but they were nowhere to be found. Dobbin was
deep in conversation with the funny little man who Amelia still couldn’t believe was a film director. There were glasses and champagne bottles laid out in formation on the table in front of them, which meant that Dobbin was describing a particular battle or airstrike or some such. He looked up as Amelia hovered and smiled at her but she didn’t want to get in the way of what looked like such an interesting (and also quite dull) discussion, so she smiled and backed away.
Jos had been welcomed into the fold of the perma-tanned clique, whose biceps were all straining against their handmade shirt sleeves, so he’d obviously found his people. Amelia didn’t have the heart to disturb him and anyway, it was George that she wanted to see. He’d been so different, so attentive, since they’d been in Cannes, and she wanted to soak up every second before they had to go back to London and the spell would be broken. But he was nowhere to be found.
Amelia had done three complete circuits of the ballroom and the upper balconies trying to find George. She had even texted him to see if he’d got bored and gone back to the hotel, but there was no reply. Nor when she texted him again to ask if he was at the bar. Not even a reply to her third text message to see if he was on the terrace at the back of the ballroom looking out at the twinkling lights of the harbour.
She was on her fourth sweep of the upper floor when she finally caught a glimpse of him. He suddenly stepped out of the shadows, adjusting his bow tie, which was crooked, then glanced over his shoulder. Said something to someone and laughed as Becky stepped out of the shadows too, her hair loose, when before it had been pinned up.
Amelia felt the exact moment that her heart broke.
Becky placed a hand on George’s sleeve and curved her body into his, he said something to her, and she threw her head back and laughed. There was an easy intimacy between them as if they’d been lovers for a long time, rather than snatching a hurried half hour at a crowded party.
Her pain, her agony, must have screamed at the pair of them, because they both noticed Amelia at the exact same moment. George turned away, guilt written all over his face, from the shifty look in his eyes to the way he gnawed on his bottom lip. But Becky Sharp didn’t turn away. Although a faint hint of colour rose on her cheeks – perhaps the first time Amelia had ever seen her blush genuinely – she nevertheless held Amelia’s gaze steadily, with an expression on her face that was impossible to read. Then she lifted a hand and gestured at Amelia to come forward.
All that Amelia wanted to do was run and maybe hurl herself into the sea so she could be mown down by a super-yacht but her feet obeyed Becky, even if the rest of her didn’t want to.
‘Emmy! There you are,’ Becky exclaimed and then she had the audacity to pull Amelia into a hug so that Amelia could smell George on her. The citrus tang of his aftershave mingling with the heavy, cloying scent that Becky now wore. The olfactory assault made Amelia’s stomach roil and she thought she might be sick on Becky’s Louboutins. Almost wished that she was, but Becky was already thrusting her away.
‘You’re so red-faced,’ she said, placing a cool hand on Amelia’s blazing cheek. ‘Next time we go out, I’ll lend you my make-up artist – my treat. I’m sure he can do something with your complexion.’
‘George,’ Amelia said in a low voice, even as she had to fight the urge to scrub her face to get rid of the phantom touch of Becky’s hand. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What have you been doing? I texted you.’
‘I wondered why my phone was going off like a rocket,’ George said and he smiled blandly. Much as she loved him, even still, that bland smile of his always set Amelia’s teeth on edge. ‘I was doing what people do at these sorts of things. Having a drink, catching up with an old friend …’
‘Talking of drinks, I’m absolutely parched,’ Becky cut in smoothly. Her hand was back on George’s arm as if it belonged there. ‘Be a darling and fetch me some champagne, will you?’
‘Of course,’ George said and he trotted off quite happily to do Becky’s bidding, not even asking Amelia if she wanted anything. In fact, he didn’t deign to look at her as he brushed past.
‘God, these parties are boring,’ Becky complained, brushing past Amelia too so she could sink down on an over-stuffed pink-velvet-and-gilt opera chair. ‘My shoes are killing me. I’m thinking of having Botox in the balls of my feet so I won’t even feel the pain any more.’
‘I don’t think you feel anything,’ Amelia said bitterly. ‘Not anything good, like kindness or decency …’
Becky widened her big green eyes then blinked slowly. ‘What a horrible thing to say,’ she gasped, a hand to her heart as if Amelia had mortally wounded her. ‘I’ve looked after you, introduced you to Claire so you’d have someone to talk to, and I paid the £2,000 a head for the three of you out of my own pocket. Not that I minded, because this charity is so important to me. And you have the nerve to say that I’m unkind?’
‘You always do this! You twist everything. And you say the most horrible things but you say them in such a way that they never stick to you.’ Amelia gave a groan of pure frustration. ‘What have I ever done to you that you have to make me feel so ugly, so small?’
‘Only you are responsible for the way you feel,’ Becky said calmly. ‘I’ve never said one horrible thing to you ever. Not one! I just offered to treat you to a session with my make-up artist. Oh my goodness! What a colossal bitch I am!’
‘You’re twisting things again,’ Amelia complained. ‘I don’t want a session with your make-up artist so he can fix all the things that are wrong with my face.’
‘I knew it.’ Becky shook her head sadly as if all her worst suspicions had just been confirmed. ‘I know what this is all about. You’re jealous, aren’t you? Because now I’m the one with everything and you have nothing.’
‘I am not jealous.’ It was true. Amelia didn’t envy Becky any of it. Not the material things, anyway. The dresses and the shoes that looked heavenly but pinched like hell. She didn’t even envy the glamorous friends that Becky had acquired or even her handsome husband, but oh! how she wished that she had Becky’s self-belief, her confidence, her ease in whatever world she found herself in.
Even when Amelia had been rich, she’d never had that. And now the one thing that she did have, the one thing that made her happy, Becky was intent on taking away.
‘You can have any man you want, you’re married, so why would you try and take George, when you know what he means to me?’ she pleaded in a low, urgent voice.
‘Take George?’ Becky laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have him gift-wrapped.’ She crossed her exquisite legs and slowly rotated an ankle. ‘And even if I were to take him, you wouldn’t do anything about it, would you?’
‘What would you want me to do?’ Amelia asked hopelessly, her hands clenched into futile fists. She knew only too well that when Becky Sharp set her sights on something there was no weapon forged that could defeat her.
‘You could slap me round the face,’ Becky suggested. ‘Then call me a bitch and say that no one was going to come between you and your man. Or you could even thank me for showing you what a rat he is. Then you could dump Gorgeous George because why would you want to be made a fool of by someone who’s very clearly eager to get into my La Perla undies?’
‘You’re disgusting!’ Amelia gasped, blinking back the inevitable tears.
Becky put a hand to her mouth as she yawned theatrically. ‘I’d have a lot more respect for you, Emmy, if you grew a pair instead of just letting life happen to you and then crying when it doesn’t go the way you were expecting.’
‘I don’t cry all the time any more,’ Amelia sobbed and then she made a valiant effort to get the tears under control. She took a deep breath in, then exhaled slowly. Tipped her head back and blinked her eyes. ‘And I don’t let life just happen, but I do believe that when life gives you lemons then … you should ruddy well try to make lemonade.’
‘No, Emmy,’ Becky said wearily as if Amelia was a particularly stupid child. ‘When life gives you
lemons, you throw the lemons right back in life’s face.’ She straightened up. ‘I’m serious. You should dump him. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.’
‘You’d know all about that,’ Amelia snapped and Becky laughed delightedly.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said and then she looked past Amelia and doled out one of her utterly hateful yet absolutely dazzling smiles. ‘Ah, talk of the devil.’
George was back with a bottle of champagne, two glasses and an eager expression on his face. ‘You were talking about me? Good things, I hope.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Becky asked in an awful, purring voice that made a mockery of Amelia’s feelings.
‘We should go and find the others,’ Amelia insisted weakly, though she wished she had the guts and the upper body strength to physically haul George away to a place of safety. ‘Last time I saw Dobbin, he looked like he was getting carried away with his war stories. He was using actual props.’
‘How boring,’ George said, presenting Becky with a glass of champagne, which she received with another glittering smile. Then he poured out the other glass and Amelia waited for him to hand it to her but he kept it for himself. ‘Be a good girl then and liberate our Captain Dobbin before he recreates the Battle of Kamdesh.’
‘I thought you’d come with me,’ Amelia said and George made the little hissing sound she dreaded and a look of exasperation flashed across his face. He even tensed his jaw as if he was grinding his teeth.
‘We’re not joined at the hip, Emmy,’ he said quite evenly, even as his face still said something different. ‘You’re not going to be much good at political functions if you’re too scared to leave my side.’
It was the carrot and the stick. The promise that there would come a day when, instead of furtive dates in the outer suburbs, George would let her back into his world, and the threat that he might not, because he doubted that Amelia had what it took to be a dutiful political plus one.
The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp Page 21
