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Authors: Jenny Colgan

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BOOK: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

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I hadn’t even realised he was awake.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘You know, the guys who repossessed all the stuff from your house?’

‘Uh-huh . . .’

‘Well, they shouldn’t have taken your diamonds.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That was obviously not your dad’s, was it? It was obviously gifted to you. They’ve stolen your property. I’m sure of it.’

‘Oh, Eck,’ I said, with a sigh. ‘I’m sure they did everything exactly right.’

‘Shouldn’t you at least talk to a lawyer again?’

‘You really are sounding like an accountant now,’ I said, smiling.

Eck was sounding quite awake now. He’d obviously been thinking about this.

‘I mean, it would be worth asking, surely. There would be enough if you sold them for, I don’t know. A deposit on a flat.’ He tickled me. ‘Big enough for two?’

I tickled him back, but didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I could face tackling it all again.

‘Maybe if I sold any pieces at my degree show we could hire a lawyer.’

‘Maybe if you finished them,’ I said. I did feel a bit guilty about that, Eck was always rushing home to make supper for me rather than staying late at the studio, like Cal was doing.

‘Actually, I have a lawyer,’ I said, thinking about Leonard. He had offered to help in any way he could. ‘I suppose I could ask him again. Just for advice. But I’m sure if there was any way at all he could have helped . . .’

He took my face in his hands.

‘Brilliant! Sorry for pushing so much about the future. It’s just, sometimes, when I see you . . . well, I just think you’re so amazing. I get carried away. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘But you know . . . if I got my diamonds back. I’d keep them. They were gifts. From Daddy. They’d be all I have left of him. At the moment I don’t have anything at all. Apart from my camera.’

‘Of course,’ said Eck, stroking my shoulder. ‘Of course you would.’

We settled down to sleep.

‘We should definitely go and see your lawyer though, don’t you think? He might even know what’s happened to your diamonds. ’

‘Of course,’ I said, thinking of the 15-carat pendant with the blue-tinged teardrop he’d fastened round my neck on my twenty-first birthday. I remember at the time being slightly peeved because I’d wanted the rose cut. God.

‘Everything is going to work out all right,’ said Eck solemnly, taking my head in both his hands and planting a kiss on my forehead. ‘I promise.’

‘I know,’ I said.

Chapter Sixteen

It felt like it had been raining for about six thousand years but finally it cleared up. Spring was now definitely in the air. I could probably take off the hideous fleece I’d borrowed from Eck about a month ago and which he’d now said I could keep. I threw on a couple of vest tops, sniffing them suspiciously. Sometimes the washing got mixed up, and the boys liked to dry out their clothes by leaving them soaking in the wet tub as long as possible. Thing was, I wasn’t exactly a laundry expert either. I was improving, but things were, on the whole, pinkish and occasionally a little musty.

The wedding was taking place at the Dorchester the following day. Only Carena could book the Dorchester with less than a hundred year’s notice. I wondered what to wear. I didn’t want to look like a guest, or like I wanted to be a guest. On the other hand I didn’t want to look like I was making a massive point by wearing jeans and boots. They were having a separate, more traditional photographer for the church. Only Carena would book two sets of photographers.

‘What should I wear?’ I’d asked Eck. ‘Come on, you’re artistic.’

‘You look gorgeous in anything,’ he said, not helpfully. I’d called Delilah.

‘Hello, Fairy Godmother,’ I said, answering the door.

‘Bleeding ’ell,’ she said, taking one glance at my hair. ‘Look at your roots.’

‘These aren’t roots,’ I said carelessly, as if nothing could be of less interest to me than my hair. ‘It’s directional.’

‘It’s a freaking liberty,’ she said, dumping her huge beauty suitcase on the bed. ‘Right, let me see.’

‘You have bleach in there?’

‘Yeah . . . you never know.’

I was too frightened to watch and couldn’t have seen in our tiny mirror anyway as she set about me with a small paintbrush. I just concentrated on psychically beaming pictures of Gwyneth Paltrow into her head.

Unsuccessfully, obviously. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I missed a hairdresser. The
first
thing I was going to do with my wages was go to the hairdresser. The FIRST thing. When I had a chance to examine it in full daylight, my head was the colour of Big Bird from
Sesame Street
. A huge, Day-Glo yellow sheet.

‘Boy,’ Eck said.

‘You look like a golden retriever,’ said Cal.

‘What Cal said,’ said James.

‘Shut up everyone,’ I said. ‘I did this on purpose.’

‘On purpose for what?’ said Cal. ‘To attract passing shipping? ’

‘So
where
are you off to again?’ said James, shaking his
Daily Telegraph
.

‘The Dorchester,’ I said. ‘It’s a five-star hotel in the West End—’

‘We know what it is,’ said Cal, interrupting me. ‘Shall we crash it?’

‘No!’ I said.

‘Ooh, yes,’ said James. ‘Just think of all the totty! Girls always get mental at weddings and start panicking about their ovaries and things. What are ovaries anyway?’

‘They’re like womb monsters,’ I said. ‘You have to stand well clear or they start popping at you. Don’t come, please.’

‘It’ll be easy to find,’ said Cal. ‘Just follow the glowing Belisha beacon.’

Shut up boys!

I woke with a start. Today was the day. It was hard to get the Belisha beacon comment out of my mind while I got dressed, Eck still snoring loudly in the bed. I had thought about sleeping in my own bed, mostly as a way of keeping Wolverine out of the room or, worse, to stop Eck renting it out to someone else. I was terrified he was going to suggest something like that. Also, weirdly, I’d kind of wanted to spend the night in my own bed. It wasn’t because I didn’t think Eck was amazing or anything, I just wanted a little space. The problem - which I’d never had before - of starting a new relationship with someone who lived in the same house was that you jumped over the dating stage and straight into living together before you’d got to know each other’s freckles. It was a little peculiar.

All black? No. I’d look like I was in mourning for Rufus. Red? A harlot from the past. Finally, sighing, I settled on a grey chiffon top over skinny jeans, which toned down my hair a tiny bit, and made me look professional without being too scruffy.

It was the most gorgeously sunny morning. Julius was travelling separately, in the van full of kit that I’d have to unload, but for the moment it was nice heading up to town on the bus, watching the sunlight bouncing off the river, the South Bank flooded with tourists wearing Union Jack top hats and looking slightly lost on their way to the wheel. I got off at Trafalgar Square, enjoying the walk. The back roads of Piccadilly were thronging with staff on their way to work; chefs outside of restaurant kitchens having cigarettes; waiters yammering to each other in a dozen different languages; smartly if cheaply dressed girls on their way to the arcade shops; or the more glamorous ones, dressed to the nines. The only giveaway that they weren’t off for a day of leisure, but instead to man the tills at Armani or Tiffany was the hour. I treated myself to a cup of coffee to sip whilst I strode along the W1 streets I knew so well. I was one of them now. I swung my lenses case. A working girl.

The ballroom at the Dorchester holds five hundred people, and we were going to be photographing most of them. Carena had requested a ‘grotto’ where people could come in pairs or groups and get their picture done. It sounded a bit unusual - just a way of being able to go through the photos in ten years’ time and say, ‘Who the hell was that? Didn’t they get divorced? How fat are they now?’ but it was plenty of work for me, so I was excited.

I almost skipped up the steps and smiled cheerfully at the doorman.

‘The ballroom wedding please.’

He eyed me up and down. ‘Oh, yes,’ said the doorman, pointing a finger. ‘The staff entrance is that way.’

Well, that burst my bubble. I slouched slowly off round the back. As I did so, a van zoomed into view, hurtling down Park Lane and beeping loudly. It was Julius. He skidded into a left turn to pull up just outside the main entrance.

‘’Ello, darling,’ he said, jovially. ‘Good to see you’re here on time.’

‘They’ve sent me round to the back door!’

He screwed up his eyes. ‘Well, of course they did. We’ve all got to work for a living, darling. Even you.’

I sniffed. ‘I know. It’s just, the last time I was here . . .’

‘Never mind about that,’ said Julius kindly. ‘All you have to think is, they’re all a bunch of nobs anyway, aren’t they? That’s all you have to do. Just think, What a bunch of utter wankers.’

‘They are
mostly
wankers.’

‘Neh,’ said Julius. ‘They’re all wankers. And don’t you forget it. Right, hop in the van and we’ll pop round the back.’

Oh my, the room looked beautiful. Perfect. Every lily in the world had been used for the occasion, and there were great streams of flowers and ribbons hanging from every table. The mezzanine was cleared for champagne and cocktails, hundreds of bottles of Dom P. ready to be popped when the party arrived from the church. I hadn’t seen Carena in a church since she used to paint her nails in assembly service, but I’m sure any vicar would have been delighted to welcome them. I wandered over to look at the seating plan whilst Julius made some vital decisions about the lighting. Sure enough, name after name I recognised, double barrels all the way down the listing. The only person missing, it seemed, from everyone I’d met my entire life, was me. Oh, and my stepmother wasn’t there either, although my father certainly would have been invited if he’d been alive. Another tiny snub. I thought for a moment, Well, at least I’ll get to see it, but that was stupid and wistful.

Julius saw me gazing at the table plan.

‘
All wankers!
’ he hollered to me loudly. ‘
Don’t forget!
’

‘I won’t,’ I said, shaking my head.

The ‘grotto’ was in a side room off the main ballroom. There was a chaise longue surrounded by flowers. I was to hang about there gathering groups whilst Julius did ‘reportage’, i.e. the arty black and white photographs everyone had to have these days that were supposed to make them look like they’d got married in the 1950s. I suppose the idea was that if you looked like you’d got married in the fifties, you’d have similar divorce rates. The grotto was pretty too. Everywhere in the main room staff were scurrying to and fro, carrying champagne and flowers and vases and lights, all ready to make everything perfect. At one end was a huge five-tiered cake, icing-sugar roses spilling over it in a heady profusion. The whole room smelled of orchids and lilies and the heady scent, coupled with the fact that there was no natural light in here (on such a sunny day - what were they thinking?), made it feel a little overwhelming. Or perhaps I was just feeling light-headed. I winked at one of the Filipino waiters and he grinned back and wandered over.

‘Haylo.’ He smiled politely.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m starving. Is there anything to eat?’ I wondered if he’d be able to get someone to knock me up a sandwich or if I could just call room service.

He looked shocked. ‘Oh no. Staff can’t touch the food.’

‘Oh. OK,’ I said.

‘I can get you a menu.’

BOOK: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

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