Simply Divine (29 page)

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an impossibly lithe brunette whose legs went up to shoulder blades which protruded like Cadillac fins. On her head was something that looked like a meringue with a feather in it.

'Oh, that's Fluffy Fronte-Bottom,' twittered Oonagh. 'Great girl. One of the Basingstoke Fronte-Bottoms. They say she eats nothing but chips and pizzas, but you cant believe
that,
can you?'

Depends if they ever reach her stomach, I suppose, thought Jane. The girl was so thin that in profile she was almost invisible.

'And who's that over there?' she asked. A stunningly arrogant-looking man with a riot of thick dark curls was looking over with an appreciative expression. A thrill ran through her.

'Careful,' whispered Oonagh. 'That's Sebastian Tripp. Apparently has the most
enormous
you-know-what. Women have been hospitalised, I'm not joking. Don't touch him with a bargepole. He's a serial shagger.'

A case of wham, bam and see you in Casualty, ma'am,' said Jane.

'Exactly,' said Oonagh. 'Oh, and that's the Hon. Barnaby Fender over there, talking to Princess Loulou Fischtitz.' She nudged Jane in the direction of a tall, gangly man stooping to talk to a very short, plain, plump girl. 'He's a very sought-after banker. Bonuses are quite beyond belief, apparently.' Oonagh gave Jane a dirty wink. 'But bats on the other team, they say. Friend of Dorothy. Shame, as Loulou's his perfect woman. Just the right height to give him a blow job. Standing up. Anyway, I'm off, dear. Must circulate. I'll leave you to your own vices.'

As Oonagh disappeared into the throng, Jane looked warily around for Victoria, whom she was determined to

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avoid at all costs. Thankfully, she was nowhere to be see in the vast crowd. Time, Jane decided, to put her bes front forward. The champagne was beginning to ha\ an emboldening effect. Knocking back a third glas; Jane launched herself into what she hoped was a sea c possibilities.

Her progress was made hazardous by both her hig heels and the waiters who, elaborately dressed in Nehr collars and turbans, also bore ceremonial swords whic threatened to shred the material of any passing dress. The reminded Jane strongly of Kenneth Williams in
Carry 0 Up the Khyber.
Anyone planning to squeeze by them als had to take into consideration their huge and unwield platters piled high with curries and Indian nibbles. Bearin in mind Tish's warning, Jane declined all offers of fooc There seemed little point in dressing up to the nines an then spoiling your chance with the handsomest man i London by having a samosa between your teeth at th crucial moment.

There really were some
extraordinarily
handsome me in the room, obviously all scions of families who fc centuries had had the pick of the gene pool. And the dee end at that. Everywhere Jane looked there were cheel bones, golden tans and more floppy blond fringes tha you could shake a silver-backed hairbrush at. None of tr women seemed larger than size eight, or sounded old< than age eight. 'Oh, Bunter, you shouldn't!' Jane overheai them squealing at their escorts in high, babyish tones ; she pushed by.

She slinked towards the back of the room, feeling lit sex incarnate. Feeling like sex with anybody, in fact. Nev< had her blood pounded so hard and fast in her ears. St looked down with awe at the unaccustomed sight of h<

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wobbling Mansfieldesque cleavage. A little over the top? she wondered. Actually, there was rather a lot over the top. Oh well, she told herself. Men like breasts. No boobies, no rubies, as Zsa Zsa Gabor once said. And tonight was the best chance she was going to get of picking up some family heirlooms.

Allow me,' murmured a voice at her elbow just as Jane found herself gravlaxed between two braying members of the minor aristocracy. They were locking overbites like stags locked antlers. Jane gratefully allowed a cool hand to lead her into a relatively uncrammed spot at the back of the room.

'Thank you,' she gasped, looking for the first time at her saviour. 'Mark!' she exclaimed. 'Mark Stackable!' Deep, crimson shame filled her. The last time she had seen Mark Stackable was in the company of a large pool of artichoke vomit she had deposited all over him, his floor and his waffle-cotton bedcovers. 'W-what are you doing here?' she stammered.

'First things first,' said Mark. He lifted two brimming glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Jane with a dazzling smile. 'Nice to see you again. Your very good health.' Jane blushed as she sipped. He had more reason than most people to say that.

Are you a Mover and Shaker?' she asked. It sounded graceless, she realised, as soon as the words were out. Because
of course
Mark must be. His bonuses could probably even give the Hon. Barnaby Fender's a run for their money. And she'd forgotten quite how handsome he was.

He, on the other hand, seemed to have forgiven her. His thick-lashed dark eyes, which may or may not have been midnight blue, were looking warmly, if not directly

240

at her, then certainly at the area of her cleavage. He switched on a large and brilliant white smile and pushed back his thick dark hair. Jane's knees felt weak as the surging crowd suddenly pressed her closer to him. His skin was close-shaven and tanned. He smelt rich.

'Apparently, although I'm not sure which,' grinned Mark. 'It's good to see you.'

Tm so sorry . . .' she began, not wanting to bring up, as it were, the subject of the artichokes but feeling it had to be broached.

'Don't mention it,' Mark said, making it sound more of an instruction than an act of politeness. 'Let's pretend it never happened?' He flashed another glimpse of his stunningly white tombstones. It was obvious that he bore no grudge. He seemed to have simply wiped it from his memory.

'You're looking very well,' Jane said. She felt surprised and relieved and grateful. Not to mention extremely randy. Her mind fumbled for some useful neutral territory that she might steer towards his asking her out for dinner.

'And you look wonderful.' He gazed appreciatively at her cleavage again. Jane, unsure whether he was addressing her breasts or herself, grinned. The evening looked more or less in the bag. She was about to start a conversation about restaurants but noticed, just as she opened her mouth, that his eyes had slid over the top of her head and had fastened themselves on someone behind her.

'Mark,
darling?
honked a familiar voice. 'Here you are, you
naughty
poppet. I've been looking for you
everywhere'

Jane froze. Champagne, she thought in horror. But how? She was supposed to be thousands of miles away in New York. How could she possibly be here? Jane could hardly bear to face her. Only the thought of Champagne

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getting a close-up view of her well-covered shoulder blades and random moles persuaded her. She turned round.

Champagne had never looked more beautiful. Her white-blonde hair streamed over her fragile shoulders. Her knuckleduster cheekbones glowed with the merest hint of blusher and, through the clinging folds of her thin Voyage dress, her nipples protruded like screwed-out lipsticks. Her brilliant green eyes raked Jane up and down like searchlights as she stretched out a chilly hand heavy with rings. Her wrist was so thin it was exactly the width of her Cartier watch face. You could not see the straps at all.

'I don't believe we've met,' Champagne said frostily.

'We have, actually/ Jane said boldly. 'I'm Jane from
Fabulous
magazine.'

Champagne's six-seater lips parted in astonishment.

'Well, you scrub up well, I must say,' she blurted. She looked pointedly at Jane's dress.

'I tried that one on,' she added sweetly. 'But it looked cheap and nasty on me.'

She paused.

'Suits you, though.'

Around the base of her champagne glass, Jane's fingers itched. She longed to empty it in that arrogant face. Instead she said, 'Aren't you supposed to be in New York? With your film director?'

'We flew back together in the end,' barked Champagne. 'Talked about the film idea on the way.' She reached towards a passing platter. 'Whoops! Oh dear. Clumsy me.
So
sorry.'

Jane felt a hot, slithering sensation down her front as a vast pile of chicken tikka masala streamed off the serving dish and slid down her front. Thick, greasy sauce of a bright orange hue spread slowly across the pristine cream

242

satin of the dress. Gasping as the hot, smelly slime seeped between her breasts, Jane briefly contemplated bludgeoning Champagne to death with one of the passing bottles of Bollinger. She did not have the faintest doubt that the food had been tipped over her on purpose. Clutching her arms to her breasts, impervious to the shouts of Mark behind her, Jane shoved her way through the crowd to the door and a taxi, her only thought to get home and change. She had been planning to take her dress off, admittedly, but not in these circumstances. Her hot, spicy evening had suddenly turned very cold.

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The staff of
Fabulous
were rarely at their best first thing on a Monday morning. In common with the rest of the nation, they shuffled slowly and unwillingly into the office. It had taken Jane a few weeks to realise that their reasons for doing so were rather different than most people's.

The clue was in the fact that they all carried large, expensive-looking weekend bags into the office on Mondays, and they all had bruises on their foreheads. Their dazed appearance, Jane gradually gathered, was the result of practically the entire
Fabulous
workforce spending its weekends in Grade One listed buildings. She knew from Mullions that banging one's forehead repeatedly against low doorways was the occupational hazard of the country-house guest. So perhaps it was hardly surprising the staff weren't the quickest of thinkers. All that cranium-crashing was bound to take its toll on the brain.

This ingenious theory, Jane realised, also explained why everyone smoked like a kipper factory during those first few hours in the office. The fear that you'd only stayed at Chatsworth while the person next to you had been to Windsor informed all discussions. The exaggerated, laid-back drawls with which information about weekends was exchanged obviously disguised panic of the highest order.

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The Monday after the Friday of the Movers and Shakers party, however, Jane entered to find the joint positively jumping. 'Wasn't Grotty
unbelievable?
Tash was shouting as Jane came in. 'Taking off those knickers and putting them on her head. Shame they were Totty Fotheringay's knickers, though. She looked furious,. . . And didn't Loulou look
completely out oftt?
Apparently at least four Rolls-Royces' worth have gone up her nose since January . . . Wasn't Bumzo hilarious? Trying to stick his tongue down Victoria's throat. She looked as if she was quite enjoying it, actually.. . And isn't Mark Stackable a
dreamt
Hunktastic or
whati
Champagne certainly seemed to think so. Did you see them go off together?'

Jane's heart sank. Another one bites the dust, she thought miserably. Mark must think her utterly mad anyway. As well as disgusting. Throwing up everywhere on the first date, getting covered in food the second. She was beginning to wonder if there was a curse on her.

'And did you see
Jane?
Tash sniggered conspiratorially. 'Rushing out with CTM all down her front! Talk about an
Indian takeaway'
Various coughs and agonised stretching of eyes alerted Tash to the fact that Jane was sitting at the desk behind her. Jane derived some comfort from watching the tide of mortified puce that now rose swiftly up the back of Tash's neck.