Do Not Disturb (13 page)

“Lucas’s,” said Matt, pulling out the order sheet like a shield. “One vodka ice fountain, Cupid,” he read, adding somewhat rashly, “You signed off on it, Julia.”

“It’s obscene,” she snapped. “Get it out of here. And find me another ice fountain within the next hour. Something that doesn’t piss on people.”

This really was the last straw. Against her better judgment, she’d allowed herself to be browbeaten into letting Lucas organize tonight’s event, a vitally important evening for the hotel. From what she’d seen so far today—burlesque pole dancers, pornographic ice sculptures, some ludicrously overpriced DJ who’d cheerily told her a few minutes ago that he’d spent the past four months in Belmarsh for drug offenses—he seemed to have decided to turn the place into a brothel for the night.

Right on cue, Lucas, looking even more devastating than usual in a bespoke Ozwald Boateng suit (still unpaid for) and blue silk shirt, sauntered into the bar.

“Sorry I’m late, Julia,” he said, with a casual insouciance that made her want to strangle him. “Something came up.”

“Your dick, I shouldn’t wonder,” she shot back furiously. Lucas almost laughed but then wisely thought better of it. “What on earth were you thinking, Lucas?” Julia looked around her, gesticulating at the seminaked women writhing around on poles behind them, practicing their routine. “We’re a traditional, conservative hotel. I have the leader of the Tory party and his wife coming tonight!” she added, tearing at her hair in exasperation.

“From what I hear, he’s quite a fan of dancing girls,” said Lucas. But one look at Julia’s face told him flippancy was not going to score him any points. “Look, it’s edgy, I grant you,” he admitted.

“Edgy?” Julia looked apoplectic.

“Trust me,” said Lucas. “It’s what this place needs. People are going to love it.”

“People are going to be offended!” she shouted at him. “How stupid are you? This isn’t Ibiza. It’s SW bloody three. We’ve got national press in here taking pictures, and you want to have the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire sucking vodka out of a baby’s dick?”

“It’d sell some papers, that’s for sure,” he laughed.

But Julia was implacable. “This isn’t a game,” she hissed. “You’d better pray I’m wrong about how tonight goes down. Because whatever little boys’ club you think you have going on with Anton, trust me, all Tisch really cares about is reputation.”

This was undoubtedly true. Anton was the most rampant social climber Lucas had ever met, and he’d met a few. He wasn’t even going to be at the party tonight, after receiving a last-minute invitation from the Duke of York to join him at the opera. Tisch wouldn’t have missed the chance to rub shoulders with royalty for his own mother’s funeral, never mind the Cadogan’s Christmas drinks. “You think you can drag this hotel’s name into the mud and live to tell the tale?” Julia gave a short, derisive grunt of a laugh and shook her head pityingly. “Maybe you are as dumb as you look.”

Infuriatingly, Lucas couldn’t think of a comeback and could only stand and watch as she stormed off.

Bitch.

“Matt, get me a whiskey, straight up,” he said, taking a seat at the bar for a moment. The drink appeared, and he downed it in one gulp, shivering slightly as the amber liquid burned his throat and chest. He’d tried to act cool in front of Julia. But the truth was he was riddled with doubt himself about whether tonight’s gamble would pay off. He’d been so full of confidence when he organized it all. So blindly certain that a genuinely hip, cutting-edge event aimed at younger clientele would catapult the Cadogan out of her safety zone as a classy, well-run boutique and into something truly iconic: the hotel synonymous with Cool Britannia, the place to be seen in London.

But maybe Julia was right. Maybe it did all look like a tacky, vulgar publicity stunt in the cold light of day?

She was certainly right about one thing. If it wasn’t a success, his days at the Cadogan weren’t just numbered. They were over. And what would he do with his growing collection of overdue bills then?

By ten thirty, the bar was heaving.

Flitting from group to group, glad-handing and flashing his teeth like the Big Bad Wolf, Lucas still wasn’t sure if things were actually going well. Everyone was congratulating him, naturally, but he knew better than to trust in that. These people were so fake, they’d say whatever they thought you wanted to hear to your face. Still, it was a relief that they had at least shown up.

Whatever he might privately think of the “in” crowd who hung out at the Cadogan, it was Lucas’s job to court them and keep them coming back for more. There was no doubt that the movers and shakers crammed into the bar and lobby tonight were a PR man’s wet dream. Actors, rock stars, politicians, artists, aristos, they were all mingling like old friends, their inhibitions broken by a free flow of cocktails that was costing the hotel a small fortune.

“Lucas, isn’t it?”

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, Lucas spun around. He knew he recognized the strident, pushy little blonde from somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place her. Part of the problem was that so many of these London socialites looked identical, with their expensive honey highlights, year-round St. Tropez tans, and Luella Bartley accessories. He’d seen countless women like them in Ibiza—spoiled, rude, and vacuous, not one of them had treated him with respect when he was a lowly laundry boy. But now that
he could provide or deny access to the hottest venue in London, he couldn’t seem to beat them off with a stick.

“Don’t you remember me?” The girl cocked her head to one side like a hurt puppy and pushed her surgically inflated lips forward in a theatrical pout. “Caroline. Caroline Hambling. We met at Oscar’s Halloween bash at Momo’s.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said, unconvincingly. “I’m so glad you could make it. Are you enjoying the party?”

“It’s OK.” She shrugged in the manner of a person whose name was on the guest list at every A-list social event in town. “There aren’t enough sexy boys, though. Naughty Lucas!” She wagged her finger at him flirtatiously. “You didn’t want any competition, did you? Well, your wicked plan has worked, my darling. You’ve got my full, undivided attention.” Lucas smiled thinly. He mustn’t be rude to guests. But did she really think she was sexy, this girl, with her braying British accent and her pearls and her address book full of Tom, Dick, and Harrys?

Thankfully he only had to endure a few minutes of listening to what a marvelous time she’d had at the Billionaire’s Club in Sardinia last summer—“Don’t you think Flavio’s a
hoot
?”—before he spotted a familiar burly figure fighting its way through the throng toward him.

“Fuck me,” Ben panted, finally arriving at Lucas’s side. “How many people did you invite, mate? ’Ave you seen that bar? It’ll be bloody New Year’s Eve before you get served over there.”

Oddly, Lucas and Ben hadn’t seen much more of each other since Lucas moved to London than they had when he was in Switzerland. Both of them were so busy at work there never seemed enough time to get the beers in. But they spoke regularly, and Ben wouldn’t have missed tonight’s extravaganza for anything.

“Caroline,” Lucas grinned, “meet my friend Ben. Ben, Caroline.”

“Hello.” Ben turned to face the girl, smiling broadly. With his huge frame covered in a thick Aran sweater and his face even browner and more freckled than usual after a business trip to Asia, he looked more like a surf bum, or possibly a trawlerman, than a city highflier. “So,” he asked brightly, “how d’you know Lucas then?” Caroline, who was not a fan of cockney accents, or fisherman’s sweaters, gave a little shudder of distaste. “We met at a party,” she said frostily. “Actually, er, I’ve just seen someone I need to have a word with. Will you excuse me?”

“Blimey,” said Ben, frowning as she shimmied off. “That was quick. Was it something I said?”

“More likely something you didn’t say,” said Lucas. “Like your last name, perhaps?”

Had Caroline realized that the working-class lug with the appalling dress sense was in fact Ben Slater, founder, owner, and CEO of the most profitable hedge fund in the UK, Lucas had little doubt that her bra would have spontaneously unhooked on the spot.

“Forget it,” said Ben. “If that’s all she’s interested in, I’m not bothered.”

When they’d first met in Murren and Ben had told Lucas what he did for a living, Lucas hadn’t thought much of it. It was only after he arrived in London that he began to piece together quite how successful, not to mention rich, his friend really was. You’d never know it to look at him, or even to stay in his apartment—which, though comfortable, was hardly a billionaire’s lair. But his Stellar Fund was one of the top three hedge funds in Europe.

Most of the playboys and grandees who hung out at the Cadogan had their heads so far up their asses it was painful, bragging about their funds and their yachts and their mistresses like so many yapping dogs. But Ben, who could have bought out all of them and still had change for a twenty, was ultra-low-key about his wealth. Sometimes, Lucas thought, he was actually
embarrassed about it. Certainly he blushed like a virgin whenever anybody complimented him on his skills as an investor or when the papers referred to him as “Fund God Slater.”

In many ways—most ways—the two boys were very different. While Lucas slept around shamelessly with the apparently endless stream of models who threw themselves at him, especially since the
Tatler
thing, Ben was a hopeless romantic. He was forever bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t seem to find a nice, decent girl who would see past his money and love him for himself alone.

“This place looks the bollocks, by the way,” he said admiringly, changing the subject as he found his arms full of one of the writhing burlesque dancers. “Julia must be pleased with the turnout.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Lucas bitterly, shooing the girl away. “Actually she’s done nothing but bitch at me all evening. Apparently the whole thing is ‘vulgar and tasteless.’”

“Well, Tisch is gonna love your ass, whatever she says,” said Ben. “I just spoke to a mate of mine from the
Daily Mail
, that bloke collapsed by the bar.” He pointed to a slumped figure on the other side of the room.

“He says they’re doing a huge write-up tomorrow. Best Christmas do he’s ever been to, he said, and believe me, he’s been to a few.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Lucas. “But enough about my career prospects. You just rescued me from Caroline, the most appalling woman in London, and one good turn deserves another. Let’s get you laid, my friend.”

Ben laughed and held up his hand. “Uh, no, no thanks,” he said. “I prefer to let these things happen naturally.”

But Lucas had already dived into the crowd like a harpoon fisherman. Within a minute he was back, hand in hand with a stunning Brazilian in a yellow miniskirt so tiny it might have started life as a napkin.

“Kiki was asking to meet you.” He grinned at Ben, ignoring his pleading eyes and head shake and shoving the girl forward. “She’s
fascinated
by the hedge fund business. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

The girl nodded blankly and smiled at Ben. Clearly her English was not the best.

“Hello, Kiki.” Ben shook her hand awkwardly, looking daggers at Lucas. Part of him envied his friend’s seemingly limitless sexual confidence. But he could never treat sex as a sport the way that Lucas did. What was he supposed to say to this girl who couldn’t understand a word he said and only wanted to sleep with him because Lucas had told her he was richer than the Aga Khan?

“Look, I’m sorry but I’m not staying,” he said, slipping his coat back on despite Lucas’s protests and the girl’s disappointed pout. “I’ve got a big meeting in the morning. I need my beauty sleep.”

Lucas sighed as he watched him go. What was the point of being rich and successful if you never used it to get women? Or to buy yourself a decent wardrobe? Tomorrow, he decided, he’d go over to Ben’s apartment and burn that awful sweater.

“He leaving?” Kiki looked up at Lucas, bewildered. She might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she had the little-girl-lost thing down pat. And by God she was sexy.

“Don’t you worry about him, sweetheart,” said Lucas. Figuring Slater’s loss may as well be his gain, he slipped a warm hand under the sliver of yellow fabric that passed for a skirt. “I’ll take care of you. Come on. Let’s find ourselves a drink.”