Glittering Fortunes (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

‘W
OW
,’
BREATHED
B
ETH
,
shaking her head in wonder, ‘this place is incredible.’

On the night of the festivities, the girls arrived at Usherwood on foot. Flo had dropped them at the cemetery and they had elected to walk the rest of the way (the 2CV had now been resurrected, and while Olivia wasn’t normally one to care too much about what other people thought, there were already enough reasons why she and Beth would stick out from the glossy crowd without adding one more). A queue of sleek dark cars was slipping greasily through the gate, their blacked-out windows a frustration to the clique of unauthorised photographers gathered there.

Cameras snapped half-heartedly as the girls passed in the hope they might be someone important. Beth was in a cocktail dress she’d picked up in the sales but had never had occasion to wear, while Olivia wore a duck-egg-blue creation she’d sewn herself, scalloped at the knee with capped lace sleeves. A winding path of flickering candles lit their way—hundreds, dancing in cups at the roadside and snaking off into the distance. The evening was warm, the sunset thick, and from afar the liveliness of the house drifted over. It was strange to hear anything except the usual trickle of the Usherwood brook and the gentle swish of the trees—life, civilisation,
people
, as if they had found a split in the fabric of time and had slipped into another decade.

‘Wasn’t “rundown” the word you used?’ Beth raised a sceptical eyebrow when the building appeared, a fairytale illustration of shimmering windows, the sun settling above the spires as if it were a balloon about to burst on a needlepoint. A swathe of red was laid at the door, bright as a letterbox, where VIPs were posing for paparazzi, emerging from cars in expensively tailored suits and gowns that sparkled like starlight. ‘You should see the flat Mum and Dad have just moved into. I don’t know, somehow I get the feeling they’d be happy to trade...’

Olivia felt bad. Beth’s parents had recently been forced to sell their home and relocate to rented accommodation. It was a further blow after another tough year with the bank. She wished there was something she could do—she’d grown close to them over the years and it was horrible to see them struggle.

‘It doesn’t normally look like this,’ she reasoned. In fact she thought that Usherwood was far more beautiful the less adornments it boasted—no doubt the house had dressed impressively for the ball, but in the way of an already attractive woman who had slapped on too much make-up and whose shoes didn’t quite fit.

‘Can we give you a lift?’

A gleaming Mercedes stopped and the window wound down. A guy with perfectly arranged hair and a face the colour of leather leaned out.

‘No, thank you,’ answered Olivia, just as Beth gave her a sharp dig in the ribs.

‘Be a shame to get those dresses dirty,’ the man pressed, with a glinting smile that flirted on the wrong side of lascivious. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘I’m not practised in the art of persuasion, you know. Ladies tend to say yes.’

‘That must be nice for you.’

The smile vanished. ‘Suit yourself,’ the man growled, as the car sped off.

‘Ugh,’ commented Olivia, ‘what an absolute creep.’

‘Do you realise who that was?’ Beth exclaimed. ‘Sam Levy!’

‘Is he on TV?’

Beth rolled her eyes. ‘That’s what you get for having been brought up without a telly. Seriously? Sam Levy, of
Charterhouse Priory
? Dating Emily Windermere?’

‘Who?’

‘I despair.’

Olivia laughed. ‘Look, Susanna’s organised this whole red carpet thing. It’ll be a jungle of egos and guaranteed to be all over the papers tomorrow. We’re walking in like anyone ordinary,
which we are
, not climbing out of Sam Levy’s A-class. He’s a total perv. I can’t believe you get reeled in by all that bullshit.’

‘Spoilsport.’

‘Star-fucker.’

Beth stuck out her tongue. ‘Speaking of fuckers,’ she said, ‘where’s Addy?’

Olivia tried not to flinch at his name. Each time she thought of their date she wanted to curl up in a ball and die. Fortunately the whole disastrous beach thing was a blur, but unfortunately not quite blurry enough to spare her the sporadic rearing up of an agonising detail: his touch, his kiss, his breath in her hair, the lap of water against her skin...and her buckled, bedraggled figure as she bent over the sand.

It was the most embarrassing thing ever. She never got sick through alcohol and could only put it down to the adrenaline of the night (but as Florence had pointed out the following morning as she had groaned and writhed in bed, the five large glasses of Pinot Grigio might have had something to do with it).

‘Dunno,’ she admitted.

‘He hasn’t called?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think he’s an arse,’ diagnosed Beth loyally. ‘Scrap that—I
know
he is. Big deal if you puked. I’ve done worse. My opinion? You’re lucky it happened.’

‘Lucky?’

‘It spared you. Honestly, it’s high time you got over Addy. He’s a dick. Don’t you remember how he used to ignore me when we were little? Just pretend like I wasn’t there whenever you invited me along to things. He still does it now, like I’m not cool enough for him or something. It’s tragic.’

‘Come on; he was, like, eleven. Hanging out with one girl was bad enough.’

‘That isn’t you talking. It’s him. Filling your brain with his shitty excuses. He picks you up and drops you whenever he feels like it; and, big surprise, he’s gone and done it again. When are you going to wise up and move on?’

Olivia stopped. ‘Beth, seriously, it isn’t your concern.’

‘Yes, it is. It’s my concern because I care about you.’

‘Well, don’t—at least not tonight. Right now I don’t want to see Addy, I don’t want to hear about Addy, I just want to forget about him. OK?’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Good.’

At the entrance to the house, the girls linked arms, their almost-argument forgotten. They wandered through, Beth grabbing her every thirty seconds with another hissed name Olivia had only vaguely heard of. In the Usherwood hall, waiters weaved with trays piled high with canapés: figs wrapped in crispy prosciutto and tiny salmon blinis lumped with caviar. Gold flutes were raised amid the contented hum of conversation. A string quartet played Pachelbel’s
Canon in D
—a predictable choice of Susanna’s, Olivia thought, before telling herself off for being mean.

* * *

S
USANNA
TILTED
HER
chin, pushed her chest out and admired her reflection in the mirror. She could hear her guests arriving downstairs and all but swooned with anticipation.

‘
I
give you,’
she murmured through crimson-painted lips, quietly lest Cato hear her from the bathroom, ‘
Lady Susanna Lomax!’

‘Jesus wept!’ exclaimed Cato from the en suite, making her jump, as another blast of freezing cold water shot through the taps. ‘Wretched pipes!’

Batting her eyelashes, Susanna composed herself, hand to chest, to practise her acceptance. ‘
You really mean it?
Moi?
Why
,
of course
,
Cato
,
I’ll marry you!’
Her eyes widened prettily. ‘
In front of all these people
,
how irresistibly romantic...’

‘What in Christ’s name are you doing?’ boomed a voice as the door swung open, releasing an angry puff of apple-scented steam. ‘Talking to yourself?’

Susanna smiled. ‘Something like that.’

Cato strode to the bed and began tugging on his clothes. ‘Everybody’s here: enough dilly-dallying, woman. If I hadn’t had to spend half the evening in the bloody shower trying to get a lather up we’d have been down there thirty minutes ago.’

‘There’s no rush, darling. We can be elegantly late.’ She turned to award him an unobstructed view of her designer gown. It was deep red, velvet at the shoulders and sheer across the bust, and pinched her waist with just the right degree of pain.

‘Goodness, are you wearing that?’

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘It’s bloody see-through.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Susanna smoothed her hands over the material. It was—a bit. You couldn’t quite make out her nipples, nestling behind a velvet detail, but the outline of her tits were there, and who knew, at the right angle...

‘You know me,’ she purred, ‘I like to make an impression.’ And with any luck that impression would be all over the tabloids in the morning.

‘Not always the right one,’ he growled.

‘
Don’t you dare ruin this for me
,
Cato!’
she screamed, shrill as a bird, her hands balled at her sides as tantrum clouds gathered ominously.

‘Keep your knickers on.’ Cato was unfazed. ‘If you’re wearing any.’

It was hard to stay mad when her lover looked so obscenely handsome. Oh, but it had to be improper to wear a tuxedo this rakishly. The suit made him look every inch the British scoundrel, and Susanna half wished he had shaved himself an RAF moustache.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ she replied, pausing to catch her breath. It wouldn’t do to appear highly-strung and flustered when they took their positions at the top of the stairs. Susanna had rehearsed many times her sweeping descent, flanked by family portraits, arriving at the party like Cinderella at the ball.

‘Come on, then.’ Cato knotted his tie. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

* * *

I
N
THE
EVENT
it was even more magical than Susanna had anticipated. As she and Cato hovered regally above their minions, a reverential hush descended.

The compere she’d hired stepped forward and boomed: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present your esteemed hosts for this evening... Lord Cato Lomax and Susanna Denver!’

Cameras rushed to capture the moment. Susanna linked her arm in his and threw her best red-carpet smile, which she tinged with a whiff of refined detachment.

The sea of upturned faces was smacked with awe. Someone started an impromptu round of applause, and she sensed the beady eyes of every woman trained upon her: her dress, her man, her beauty. Never had she felt so coveted.

All too soon it was over and they were mingling with the hoi polloi. Susanna felt fizzy from the champagne she’d quaffed.

‘Darling, you are a
vision
!’ A British star she’d worked with years ago craned in for an air-kiss. ‘We
are
pleased to be here, what a fantastic venue. Did you hire it?’

Did this person not read the papers?

‘On the contrary, Annabel,’ she replied, ‘this is Cato’s ancestral home.’ She leaned in, unable to resist. ‘Soon to be mine, darling, but let’s keep that between us.’

She was satisfied at how the actress’s Botoxed face cracked with the news. Annabel Lacey-Smythe was a West End dinosaur, devoted to the theatre, and during their acquaintance had always made Susanna feel like a half-baked aspirant because she had never taken to the boards herself. In Susanna’s view it was far easier to dance about a stage at arm’s-length from the audience than it was to have a lens shoved in your face and every flicker, ever waver, captured for criticism.

‘Well, that is rather fortunate,’ enthused Annabel sourly.

‘Isn’t it?’ Susanna tossed back another flute of champagne. She clocked one of the bar staff and made her excuses, floating across to issue her instructions.

‘Fix me a martini,’ she told him. Cato was across the room, charming the Marquis of Sallington. She wondered whether if she fed a hand into Cato’s suit pocket right now she would be able to feel the telltale box waiting to be opened...

‘Dirty, two olives—I’m in the mood to celebrate.’

* * *

A
FTER
THE
ENTRANCE
of the Queen of Sheba (come to think of it, that piece of music might even have been playing), everyone began filtering into the ballroom.

Olivia spotted Barbara clearing glasses and headed over. ‘You’re working?’ she asked incredulously. ‘They didn’t give you the night off?’

The housekeeper wiped her brow. ‘Heaven forbid Ms Denver allows that.’ Sensing she’d spoken against the family, she quickly added, ‘Mr Lomax, Charlie, did insist, but all this...it isn’t for me. I’m far more comfortable behind the scenes.’ She swiped away Olivia’s efforts to help with a ticking-off, ‘Stop that, you’re a guest!’

‘Barbara, meet my best friend Beth.’

‘Well,’ Barbara smiled, ‘it’s nice to see two such normal—looking people—and I mean that in the best possible way.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Have you seen how much plastic surgery there is floating about? It’s like a waxwork museum in here.’

Beth giggled.

‘Speaking of looking under the weather,’ she turned to Olivia, warm with concern, ‘are you feeling better?’

Olivia nodded. She had been laid low at home with a cold, most likely brought on by her drunken night with Addy. ‘Yes, much,’ she said, ignoring Beth’s sidelong glance. ‘How’ve things been at the house?’

‘Not a great deal to report except for what you can see. We’ve had more strangers in ahead of this party than I care to remember.’ Barbara amassed a fist of discarded napkins, one of which bore a pout of red lipstick. ‘Charlie’s missed you.’

Olivia blinked. ‘Well, I—’

‘The sun’s been relentless, he’s worried the planting won’t take.’

‘Of course.’ What had she thought Barbara meant? ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Go on, then.’ Barbara shooed them on. ‘Have fun!’

Beyond the vaulted entrance, the magnificent ballroom was festooned with lights. A chandelier twinkled up high and strings of tiny bulbs, delicate as bracelets, threaded to all four corners of the room like a giant, glittering spider’s web. Olivia spotted a dazed gaggle of Taverick Manor sixth-formers, the boarders released on special privilege and chaperoned by a portly matron wearing a chintzy floor-length number and a pained expression. Close by were Serendipity Swain and Finn Avalon, exotically glamorous as they regaled a circle of admiring hangers-on, and after a bout of good-natured jostling Finn took to the piano and struck up a high-tempo jazz tune. Olivia listened for Susanna’s squeal of delight and sure enough it rang out.