Trophy Life (6 page)

She spotted him sitting on a bean bag by the TV reading one of the magazines routinely left lying around. There were a couple of others in the room, a pair of girls wearing Birmingham Rugby Team tops deep in conversation. It was only when she saw him that she realised that she had wanted to see him. She found herself wondering if sitting next to him would be too forward. She berated herself. She didn’t need to worry about being too forward or where she sat. Why would she? And with that, she strode forward, determined to portray with her confident steps that this was perfectly normal.

'Hi,' she said as she stopped beside him, her shoes by his leg. He looked up. 'Remember me? Amy.' Well done, that was a sparkling opener, she told herself silently, glumly.

'Amy, come sit. Draw up a bean bag,' he said expansively. 'What brings you to movie night? Couldn’t resist a bit of comedy action mixed in with a splash of heresy?'

'Who could?' she laughed as he sat on the floor beside him, resting uneasily against a dull red beanbag that had definitely seen better days, its bobbled cover limply sagging with a dearth of filling. 'I was here for the weekend and this looked fun. What about you?'

'Yeah, same story really. Loads of my mates went home, but I couldn’t face it.' His eyes darkened for just the shortest of moments before clearing again. 'I like it here on the weekends, really quiet. They show good movies as well. Last week was
Cruel Intentions
.' He sat up, resettling himself on his own beanbag before he spoke again. 'So, how are you finding life here in Brum? How is law treating you?'

Amy was flattered that he’d remembered her course subject. 'Yeah, it’s been mad, but great fun. My course is good.' In truth, her course had been an afterthought in the past month. She had been far more focused on her new friends and the newspaper. Freddie seemed to sense her hesitation.

'You don’t sound thrilled. Do you not enjoy it?' He was looking directly at her and in an instant, she decided to be completely honest with him. It was as though the warmth of his eyes had melted away her pretense.

'I never really chose law. I just sort of fell into it. My mum thought it was the best way to ensure that I had a job after uni.' She felt herself faltering as the words came out. She hadn’t said this out loud before, not even to Will. She had barely admitted it to herself. So why was she telling a virtual stranger? What was she doing? Trying to deflect the attention from herself she tried to minimise the gravity of her admission. 'But it’s ok, there are interesting bits. What about you. Psychology, right?'

Freddie paused for just a second before replying, cocking his head to the side as though trying to decide whether to accept her change of subject at face value.

'Yeah, it’s good. Can’t say I’ll ever be Freud, but there’s stuff that’s really good to know. I was the same; I had no idea what I wanted to do. Actually, the only thing I do know is that I’d like to move away from home as soon as I get the chance.' He laughed a short, brittle laugh that Amy thought betrayed the truth behind the words.

They sat in companionable, comfortable silence as they both took this in, broken only when someone turned down the lights and the screen flickered to life. As the film started, Amy felt herself being very aware of her movements, her proximity to Freddie and even how loud she was chewing her popcorn.

Every now and again, Freddie would lean over to her and whisper something like, 'I love this bit' or, 'This is so clever' and she would find herself taking in his scent. She wondered what that aftershave was. Was it even aftershave? She shook her head as if to empty it of such thoughts.

By the time the movie had ended in its gory, funny glory, they were both practically supine on their beanbags, groaning and squinting as the lights turned back on with a shock. Looking around, Amy saw that the rugby girls had gone. Clearly they had been unimpressed by the cinematic offering. They laughed as they struggled to sit up and Freddie said, 'You know, they show
Friends
here on Friday nights. The whole Channel 4 line up actually. Not that many people turn up, but it’s fun if you find yourself at a loose end.'

'Great. Maybe. When I’m up here.' It felt good being non-commital. Polite. She didn’t really think she would come again. Most weeks she was intending to go home or to Cambridge to see Will. But there was no need to tell this stranger that. He seemed nice and Amy thought she’d probably bump into him here and there given they were living in such close proximity. They would say hello and maybe make small talk, but that was as far as it would go. 

'Well, I’d better-' she started, gesturing towards the door of the common room.

'Yeah, me too.'

They both stood up and a distinct sense of awkwardness pervaded the space around them as they simultaneously walked to the door.

'Ok, well, I hope I’ll see you around,' he said, only slightly lifting his hand from his side, as if considering a wave but then changing his mind.

'See you,' she smiled.

And then each turned to walk off in different directions down the corridor, Amy only just resisting the overwhelming urge to turn around for one last look.

Chapter 5

They were the most beautiful shoes Amy had ever seen, let alone worn, they really were. And they gave her 5'2 frame essential height. But perhaps if she had known that the venue of this month’s London Ladies meeting was going to be a country hotel surrounded by an impenetrable moat of pebbles, she might not have chosen five inch stilettos, even if they did have the trademark red sole that marked them out as Louboutins. More specifically, Giselle might have
told her
to wear different shoes.

Amy had only jokingly mentioned her mother-in-law’s comment to Giselle at a barbeque at Giselle and James’s palatial St John’s Wood home.

'I’m supposed to join the London Ladies’ Society, but I’m not sure Andrea is confident in what I can do,' she had said. 'She even suggested that you could dress me.' Partly to demonstrate that she was joking, partly just because she always did this when she was nervous, Amy had laughed at this point, watching as Giselle’s twin toddlers ran around in the garden. Antonio kept launching stones towards the barbecue being managed by the professional chef hired for the occasion, while Jasper was finding any unattended drinks and pouring their contents into what looked like an almost full plant pot.

Yet, rather than laugh along and reassure her that she dressed perfectly well, Giselle had taken this as a request for a complete assessment of her sartorial competence. With the languid brutality of a cat plucking the legs off a spider, her sister-in-law picked her outfit off item by item, then moving onto her hair and makeup.

'Your face is good. Pale, but good.' Amy almost felt flattered. But then with her trademark bluntness, Giselle brought her crashing back down to earth. 'Of course you are too short,' Giselle was saying breezily, surveying her figure with the expert eye of a surgeon his patient, her clipped German accent in no way softening the effect of the words. 'And we need to do something about your jewellery. And your eyebrows. And your shoes. Your bag is ok though.' This last part was delivered just a touch too cheerily, as though Giselle had only just located the very thin silver lining of a cloud roughly the size of South America. She completed her appraisal by declaring that, 'We will go shopping tomorrow.'

When Amy had first met Giselle, she had found her unutterably terrifying. Not only was she a stunning, 5'9 blond swimwear model, but she was unflappably tough and unflinchingly candid. She had given birth completely naturally and stoically, to twins following 2.5 hours of labour and had been back at the gym the following week. The doctors had told her that twins tended to come early, but Giselle had, like only 4% of all pregnant women, managed to deliver on her exact due date. At the time they were introduced, Amy couldn't imagine being considered as the same specie as Giselle, let alone part of her family. But as time went on, Amy had learned that her sister-in-law was not a cruel or bad person. In fact it seemed to her that Giselle’s bluntness came from her work in the modelling world, where it was not uncommon to have a completely frank evaluation of everything from one’s weight to their eyelash length. 

Giselle and Amy had met in Harvey Nichols at 10am sharp the next morning, where Giselle had clucked over Amy’s lack of muscular tone, lack of height and general lack. In the end, they had settled on a pair of these-will-make-you-taller stiletto ankle boots, a tight leather it-will-even-out-your-posture skirt, a strappy white silk vest and a ‘so Millie Macintosh’ tweed blazer, all of which Amy was wearing today.

Giselle had also made Amy an appointment at a permanent makeup salon, where Amy’s formerly wispy eyebrows were turned into dark, perfectly shaped brows that Cara Delevingne herself would be proud of. Meanwhile Giselle had given her written instructions to pass on to Jean-Paul.

'It is not enough simply to cut and blow dry your hair,' she had chided her. 'You need colour. Shape.'

Jean-Paul had been beside himself with excitement as, over the course of three hours he transformed her usually poker straightened brown hair into a mass of carefully coiffed waves with delicate golden highlights.

'She’s all eyes and hair. Like Natalie Portman, just without the killer abs,' said one of the salon staff to Jean-Paul as he spritzed her here and there, surveying his work.

'Nah, too pale,' said another. 'Maybe Anne Hathaway with those elastic lips. Just smaller and with more hair. And of course
those
,' she said, gesturing at Amy’s chest. Both girls along with Jean Paul had tilted their heads with considered looks on their faces. 

So, now ready for her big Society debut, Amy tried her best to maintain a smidgen of dignity as she gingerly made her way to the glass frontage of the hotel. Finally on the safety of secure flooring inside, she was directed to a plush sitting room overlooking extensive gardens and what Amy knew was a golf course beyond.

The women who comprised the London Ladies were scattered around the room, standing carefully on their sky-high heels, like a flock of prize flamingos. Standing was a matter of pride at dos such as this, like an endurance challenge. Only a few elderly members sat, as if on thrones, in armchairs so large they looked ready to swallow their age worn frail bodies. Some of the faces Amy knew well, including the grumpy visage of Lady Fenella, the aged wife of an Earl, some she had seen at events. Amy recognised others from the insides of her
Hello!
magazine, especially from the party pages. She saw a minor royal mixing with the unprepossessing form of the wife of a sports star. Without exception, every woman there was preened and pristine and Amy imagined that the cost of their handbags alone could rival the gross domestic product of a small nation state.

'Amy, you’re here.' Giselle came over and air kissed her on both cheeks. Amy really wished she could hate Giselle. If only she was the bitchy, ice maiden that films promised girls this beautiful invariably were. Just looking at her tall, slim frame flawlessly encased in the most unforgiving white dress that had surely ever been created, Amy felt like a child dressed up in mummy’s wardrobe. 'Welcome. Do you know everyone?'

Amy shook her head, looking around nervously. Giselle needed no further encouragement than this. Leaning in towards Amy – a challenge given their diverging heights – she used her eyes to signal towards a group of older ladies in the corner.

'Over there is Lady Fenella and her friends. She is like a hundred years old and totally crazy. Completely nuts, but you know she comes from one of the oldest families in the country. Although I’m pretty sure there’s no money left. I’ve seen her house. Giant but falling apart.'

She turned here and there, subtly laying out the field of play. 'Most of the women are the wives and daughters of aristos. Like Lady Arabella over there.' She indicated a graceful looking forty-something with determinedly blond hair and a youthful complexion. 'Super wealthy. Husband owns half of Dartmouth or Portsmouth or something,' she whispered with a wave of her hand.

'Those are two quite different places,' Amy said with a smile. Giselle ignored her and carried on.

'Titles are important. The older, the better. They don’t like
new
money. They let it in because they have to.' She made the word 'new' sound like poison. 'Unless you’re a celebrity, but you never see them at meetings. You’ve got your country folk like Harriet Feather-Smalls. Horsey as they come. And your city people. Irina Barachovsky is a good example. You can’t walk down Bond Street without bumping into them. But the one group you want to avoid is the- Oh crap, here she comes. Look normal.' 

As if out of nowhere, Amy’s whole view was eclipsed by that of the face of an almost maniacally smiley Olivia Hollingcroft. It took Amy a second to focus on Olivia’s features. With her straight bob of blond hair and large blue eyes, makeup applied to perfection and a row of sleek, white teeth, she should have been pretty. However, it was all just a bit too big for her face, lending her a bulging quality that made her appear permanently alarmed.

A family friend of Harry’s who knew him since childhood, Olivia was a constant presence at the parties and events Amy and Harry attended. She and Harry never seemed close, but Olivia was simply an undeniable force. She made it her business to know everyone and everything about them. Like a gravitational pull, Amy always dreaded being drawn into Olivia’s orbit for fear of her probing questions and candid judgments, always delivered in the form of the most unsubtle of back handed compliments.

'Amy!' she cried, quickly enveloping her in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 before issuing a brief hello to Giselle. 'I heard you were finally joining the gang.' She snorted in a way which was almost a punch on the arm. 'Let me introduce you around. Get you in with a good crowd.' Amy felt her hand being clasped by Olivia's and persuaded on a straight course towards the drinks table. She looked back at Giselle, who shrugged and just managed to mouth the word, 'sorry'.

Approaching their destination much as the Titanic might have a rather large block of ice, Amy directed a polite smile at the two women she now saw were awaiting their arrival. Still being towed along by Olivia, Amy's face froze into what she imagined was a grimace as they drew closer to their mark. It couldn't be. Could it? Surely if there was a shred of mercy on this whole planet or at least in leafy Hertfordshire then the slim blond in front of her wasn't-

"Binky!"

Oh look, an iceberg.

Binky Hijinx was standing before her, looking carefree and effortlessly beautiful in a simple jumpsuit, her hair in beachy waves. Binky of the Hijinx Hotties. Binky, whose history was so inextricably intertwined with Amy's. She waited for a reaction. A slap in the face. Perhaps Binky's Martini thrown in her face. But Binky's face was blissfully blank. Amy’s muscles relaxed as she assured herself that she was not about to be outed as the worst trainee solicitor of all time and she refocused on the group. Within two minutes, she had learned the identity of the clique's final member, a tall, brunette with hang-dog eyes. She was Darcy Highgrave, daughter of a Marquis. Together with Olivia, all three women were so skinny and tall they looked like a clump of reeds swaying in the wind.

'So, you’re
Harry’s
wife?' Binky drew her words out slowly and was looking confused as well as a tad suspicious. It wasn’t the first time Amy had been asked this, but this time it felt somehow more sinister. Dangerous even. Her shoulders tensed involuntarily. It felt wrong, audacious even, to be in such close proximity to this particular ex-client of Drakers. And it was even stranger that she was asking her who she was given their history. It was like they were on different sides of a thin veil which could so easily blow away, taking with it Amy’s whole existence. There again, she and Binky had never actually met before. Amy had just been a lowly trainee, not even a solicitor at the time of their last encounter. Binky would never even have known Amy’s role in the failed enterprise. 

In any event, Binky was still busy struggling with Amy’s current status.

'Harry
Green’s
wife?' she was now saying. 'Andrea never mentioned that.'

'Um, well yes. We’ve been married two years.' Amy heard her tone rise at the end of the sentence, as though she was asking a question rather than stating an incontrovertible fact. She had to resist the urge to laugh in relief that it seemed to be taking longer than usual to establish who exactly she was. She wondered if she should present some identification.

'And it’s taken you two years to join,' Darcy said amazedly, shaking her head slightly.

As they all stared at her, Amy felt like she was being inspected by a particularly curious flock of birds, each wide eyed.

'Amy used to work in the city,' Olivia said in supposed explanation, her voice a combination of awe and mild condescension. It was the same way Julia told Amy about the fact that Flynn had done a wee in the toilet.

The two women’s faces glazed over and their mouths opened in small ‘O’ shapes, clearly unsure what to make of her. A foreign specie. A short silence fell over them all as Darcy looked at her nails while Binky browsed her phone, seemingly bored. Across the room, Giselle shared a look with Amy as if to say, 'told you so'.

Then, the distinct ping of a fork on wine glass filled the air and she turned to see her mother-in-law smiling around the room with the benevolence of a cult leader, resplendent in a tailored grey skirt and blazer the Queen herself would have selected. To her left side stood a small, pudgy figure, looking almost as if she’d been squashed down by a giant hand. Amy recognised her as Andrea's ever obsequious sidekick, Esther Stumpingfield.

'Welcome,' Andrea said, 'to this month’s meeting of the London Ladies. Unfortunately, due to the annual repainting of the main hall having been delayed we have had to decamp, but don’t worry, we’ll be back home shortly.' The headquarters of the London Ladies was located in a prime townhouse in the streets of Knightsbridge.  

'So lovely to see you all. Let’s begin by going through last month’s agenda.' It transpired that last month’s meeting had been dominated by numerous issues of etiquette, including whether members could bring their pets to meetings, after a beloved Chihuahua had left their mark on a nineteenth century ottoman.

'Lots to get through today,' Andrea said briskly. And there was. To Amy’s surprise the group was comprised of various subcommittees, each with their own activities, issues and agendas. It seemed that the chess club and bridge club were vying for a particular night of the week for their weekly game whilst it emerged that there was a massive divide in the baking society over the issue of readymade pastry versus homemade. Apparently, there was a threat of a split into two different societies, which simply wouldn’t do. Impassioned speeches, tears and UN-style negotiations followed, after which a tentative compromise was reached. Once calm had been restored, Andrea moved the meeting forward.