Friends & Rivals (38 page)

‘I do,' grinned Kendall.

‘You look amazing honey, truly.' Stella squeezed her hand. ‘Now, everybody get out of here and leave the bride alone. She needs a few minutes to herself before the cars arrive.'

The bedroom door closed, and Kendall enjoyed the first minute of absolute quiet since she'd opened her eyes. She twirled and preened in front of the mirror, enjoying her princess moment and drawing strength and confidence from her reflection. She
did
look beautiful. It wasn't vanity. It was an objective fact. The magazines tomorrow would be full of pictures and comments, all of them pronouncing her wedding look a dazzling, triumphant success.

Enjoy it
, she told herself.
Just enjoy it.

When the phone rang beside her bed, she picked it up without thinking. All the nerves of the past few days and hours had gone. No one could bring her down now.

‘Hello, this is the bride speaking,' she giggled.

‘Hi, Kendall. It's me.'

Lex's voice was like a glass of cold water in the face. Serious. Joyless. Distant. Only last night, she'd been desperate to speak to him. Now she felt her confidence and
joie de vivre
draining away like rainwater in a gutter.

‘I can't really talk now, Lexy,' she said nervously. ‘Thanks for calling and everything, but I'm about to leave for the ceremony.'

‘I know.' He sounded strained, as if he were already regretting the call. ‘I should've called earlier but I didn't … I wasn't …' He cleared his throat. ‘I didn't know exactly what to say. So I put it off.'

‘Well, “congratulations” is probably the safest option. Traditional, you know,' Kendall joked weakly. ‘A lot of people go with that.'

‘It's not too late,' Lex blurted.

The words came out so quickly that at first Kendall wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘You don't have to marry him. You don't have to go through with it.'

Kendall sank down on the bed. She was shaking, frightened and angry at the same time. ‘Why are you saying this? What the hell's wrong with you? It's my wedding day.'

‘Just because people expect it, just because there are cameras and fans out there waiting, it isn't too late,' Lex pressed on. ‘You can still change your mind. That's all I'm saying.'

‘And what makes you think I want to change my mind?' said Kendall coldly. How dare Lex call, minutes before the biggest moment of her life, and throw a bomb like this in her lap? Yes, she'd treated him badly in the spring. But she didn't deserve this. No one deserved this. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I might be happy? That I'm marrying Ivan because I love him?'

‘No,' said Lex bluntly. ‘It hasn't. I know you don't love him.'

‘Oh, right,' snapped Kendall. ‘What are you now, telepathic?'

‘Any more than he loves you,' Lex went on relentlessly. ‘This is all about publicity, about business, and you know it.'

‘Fuck you!'

‘You'll regret it, Kendall. Ivan Charles is a monster. He's an opportunist, a womanizer—'

‘I don't have to listen to this.'

‘… a back-stabber, a liar—'

‘Back-stabber? And how would you describe Jack's recent actions, your beloved partner? What he did to Jester, then going after Ava like that? I'd call that some pretty fucking A-level back-stabbing, wouldn't you?'

‘We're not talking about Jack,' said Lex. ‘We're talking about you making the biggest mistake of your life.'

‘Yeah, well, not any more we're not,' said Kendall, slamming down the receiver. ‘Jerk,' she said out loud. She was still shaking. ‘Asshole. Fucking ASSHOLE!'

Stella Bayley came running in. ‘Is everything OK?' she asked anxiously. ‘What happened?'

‘Nothing,' said Kendall grimly. ‘Everything's fine.'

Rosie stuck her pretty, smiling head around the door. ‘The cars are here. Are you ready?'

‘Absolutely,' said Kendall, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Fuck Lex Abrahams. Fuck Jack. Fuck all of them. I'm going to marry Ivan and we're going to be ecstatically happy.
‘Let's go.'

Across the lobby of a New York Hotel, where they were both staying on business, Jack Messenger saw his partner looking troubled.

‘You OK?' he asked Lex.

‘Fine.'

‘Who was that on the phone just now?'

Lex turned on him furiously. ‘None of your damn business, Jack, OK? Jesus. Can't I even make a private call without you breathing down my neck?'

He stalked off. Jack let him go. Today was Kendall and Ivan's wedding in London. Everyone at JSM knew that Lex still held a torch for Kendall Bryce, but no one knew it better than Jack. Poor kid. No wonder he was on edge.

Nay-sayers and would-be malicious gossips were disappointed by the Bryce/Charles nuptials. The least you expected of pop stars and TV talent-show hosts was that their wedding should be brash and vulgar, but Kendall and Ivan's ceremony was exquisite, a triumph of understated good taste. You could practically see the girl from the
Daily Mail
gnashing her teeth at the lack of glitter ponies and Jordan-esque bling. Instead the small, celebrity-packed crowd of around a hundred guests were treated to an intimate, touching ceremony under a marquee at the Chelsea Physic Garden. Discreetly hidden gas heaters kept everyone from freezing as they stepped out of the frosted wonderland into a Victorian Christmas-themed tent, decked simply in boughs of berry-laden holly and scented with oranges, cinnamon and cloves. It was dark by the time Ivan and Kendall said their vows beneath a mistletoe-covered arbor, which lent the service an even more festive and magical air.

Unable to stomach the thought of being given away by a male acquaintance, or worse, an exec from her record company, Kendall decided that she and Ivan would arrive and walk down the aisle together. In the exquisitely simple lace and silk dress, Kendall looked as young and virginal as The Lady of Shalott. Leaning into Ivan, uncharacteristically shy now that the big moment was actually here, she appeared like a little lost lamb, clinging to her shepherd. Ivan, dashingly handsome in a classic Savile Row morning suit, was more than happy to play her protector, guiding her with a firm, loving hand to the temporary ‘altar' while the string quartet played Handel in the background.

‘Are you OK?' he asked, just audibly, once they'd greeted the minister.

Kendall nodded mutely.

‘Try and relax,' said Ivan. ‘You look beautiful. You
are
beautiful.'

Kendall smiled and squeezed his hand, to a collective ‘Ahhh!' from the guests in the front row. But her unexpected nerves seemed to continue throughout the service. When the minister asked, ‘Do you, Kendall Lorna Grace take Ivan Peter St John Charles to be your lawful wedded husband?' Kendall's ‘I do' was as faint and tremulous as that of a little girl on her first day at nursery school, answering her teacher's question. And her hands shook visibly as her new husband slipped on the plain Tiffany wedding band.

Ivan, by contrast, spoke clearly and with conviction, especially during the ‘forsaking all others' part, when he made a point of looking Kendall deep in the eyes. His ‘till death do us part' boomed mellifluously around the marquee like Richard Burton narrating at the Pyramids of Karnak.

‘Bloody hell. I think he really means it,' an old friend from Oxford whispered to his wife.

‘I think you might be right.'

All in all, it was a touchingly romantic ceremony from a couple everybody knew as a pair of tough-minded careerists. Perhaps the traumas of recent events really had changed them and strengthened their bond as a couple? Kendall certainly seemed gentler, and Ivan mellower and more content than any of their friends could remember them, smiling and laughing as they walked back down the aisle to a standing ovation.

After an extended break for press photographs and interviews, it was finally time for the reception. As the guests sat down to a sumptuous candlelit dinner of smoked salmon parfait, roast goose with all the trimmings and a towering traditional Christmas cake, decorated with silver snowflakes and spun sugar ballet figures dancing
The Nutcracker Suite
, much of the talk was of the bridesmaids, who had both looked ravishing in simple, floor-length midnight-blue gowns. Rosie Charles was a natural beauty, and Stella Bayley, the object of so much public ‘pity' (actually gleeful
Schadenfreude
) since her husband left her, positively dazzled in her borrowed Fred Leighton diamonds, smiling and laughing like a woman on a genuine high.

Numerous famous married men openly hit on Stella during the reception, to the relief of the
Daily Mail
journalist who'd been panicking she'd have nothing at all for her feature tomorrow. Sometimes it was tough working for a paper whose motto was the opposite of that of mothers the world over: ‘If you can't say something nasty, don't say anything at all.'

But Catriona Charles had been wrong about one thing. Nobody, not even Rosie, had outshone the bride. Not only was Kendall radiantly beautiful, but she and Ivan seemed so in tune with one another, so naturally and obviously in love, it was impossible to do anything other than wish them well. At dinner Kendall talked excitedly about their upcoming honeymoon in St Bart's (thereby helpfully letting the press know where to find them; the innocent lamb from the earlier service was gone now, replaced by the more familiar ballsy pop star the nation knew and loved), while Ivan gave a touching and funny speech about their colourful romantic history together. He finished up by praising his young wife's enormous talent and toasting the success of
Flame
, ending sweetly: ‘To the woman who lights up
my
life:
my
flame,
my
passion. To my darling Kendall.'

It wasn't until 2 a.m., when they finally climbed into their chauffeur-driven vintage Jaguar en route to their ‘top secret' wedding-night location (a modest hotel in West Sussex, near Gatwick) that the bride and groom had any real time alone together.

‘Well done,' said Ivan kissing her. ‘You were fabulous, perfect, a work of art. I'm a lucky man.'

‘Thanks, honey,' sighed Kendall. She leaned into him, exhausted.

‘I can't wait to see the papers tomorrow,' said Ivan. ‘Can you? You were the sexiest bride ever. There isn't a hot-blooded male alive who won't rush out and buy
Flame
once they see you in that dress.'

It was the sort of comment that usually wouldn't have bothered Kendall. Indeed, it would have pleased her. This was the way she and Ivan always communicated. But tonight, on her wedding night, Lex's words came back to haunt her.

‘
This is all about publicity, about business, and you know it.
'

Did she know it? During the service it hadn't felt that way. It had felt like something more. But like Lucy stepping back through the wardrobe and leaving the magic of Narnia behind, reality reasserted itself unpleasantly now as the car sped away. Lex was at least partly right. Business was and had always been her and Ivan's glue.

‘What's the matter?' said Ivan, seeing her face fall.

‘Oh, nothing,' she said quickly. ‘I'm just tired I guess. It's been a long day.'

Ivan took her face in his hands and kissed her again, more passionately this time. When he pulled away he asked: ‘Are you happy, Kendall?'

She stroked his face with her hand, exploring it the way a blind person might examine a stranger. Even after two years there was a part of Ivan that remained a stranger to her. She wondered if there always would be. But they were together now, man and wife, till death do us part. The die was cast. It was up to her to make it work.

‘Yes, Ivan,' she said, a new note of determination creeping into her voice. ‘I am happy. Very happy.'

He wrapped his arm around her and they drove on into the night.

Ava Bentley sipped her freshly pressed grapefruit juice and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Behind her, Eduardo, probably the top hairstylist in Beverly Hills, picked up strands of her lightly highlighted hair with distaste, as if he were peeling some particularly smelly seaweed off a rock.

‘You don't like it?' Ava asked meekly.

Eduardo shrugged. ‘When did you last get it cut?'

Ava thought back. No one had touched her hair since Louise Galvin last year, but she was too embarrassed to tell Eduardo that. Instead she admitted vaguely: ‘Not for a while.'

‘And the colour?'

Ava blushed. ‘Probably nine months?'

Her Yorkshire accent was so striking, the smart LA women seated near her all turned to stare.

‘So what you want today?' demanded Eduardo. ‘You want shorter, yes?'

Ava didn't want shorter, but the record company had insisted on something ‘dramatic'. The general consensus in the States was that the makeover Ivan had got for her in the UK, the ‘new look' that had felt so radical at the time, was actually pathetically half-hearted. ‘You're a rock star, not a dreamy school kid,' Ava was told. ‘Let's see some edge.'

Ava relayed this information to Eduardo, simultaneously waving her corporate AmEx card in his general direction.

‘Hmmm.' The stylist lifted her head, turning it from one side to the other to get a better view of her jaw line and the strengths and weaknesses of her pretty, elfin face. Finally, unexpectedly, he broke into a broad grin. ‘Perfect!' he exclaimed. ‘I make you very, very sexy. It's good?'

‘I guess so,' giggled Ava. In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, it wasn't just the record company that she was hoping to please. She had to be ‘sexy' if she was ever going to get Lex Abrahams to notice her. Sexy and sophisticated, a young woman, not a child. Tonight a select group of JSM's senior management and some record-company people were hosting a small dinner in her honour at Sushi Roku in West Hollywood. Ava was determined to show up with a new look that would turn heads. One head in particular.