Midnight Girls (43 page)

Maybe it would help if she got what she wanted from sex: some kind of satisfaction, some fulfilment. But she was still tormented by that ugly little voice, mocking her, telling her how pointless it was, how she was wasting her time.

She padded back through the flat, picking up her discarded shoes and stockings and lacy pants. Then she saw it on the chair: a small rectangle of ivory card, engraved with grey capital letters that read ‘Adam Hutton’. Below this was a mobile telephone number and an email address.

She let out a half laugh. This one was audacious. Then she threw the card down on a bookshelf and went to bed.

Chapter 36

London, Spitalfields

‘IMOGEN, IS THIS
your box?’ Fiona appeared in the doorway. ‘It ended up in my room.’

Imogen looked up from where she was unpacking. She’d thought she had hardly any stuff, but there seemed to be mountains of it now. ‘Oh, yes, that’s mine. Thanks, Fi.’

‘No problem.’ Fi put it down and went back to her own unpacking. They’d been in the flat only a few hours and were both keen to get it sorted as quickly as possible, make it cosy and homelike. It was exciting – a first proper flat. No more rooms in shared houses or student digs. Life was going to be a bit more settled for a change. Imogen and Fiona, a sweet-natured Australian girl from Perth, had made friends at law school and now both had articles with Guthrie & Walsh, a high-flying City firm where they were now trainee lawyers, so it had made sense to get a place together near the office.

Her student days were behind Imogen. Now she had the business-like dark suits, the briefcase, the tiny laptop, the Blackberry, and all the other accoutrements of the young professional. She’d been with the firm for four months now, starting to move through the different departments, gaining experience in every area of their practice so that she could decide which she would specialise in.

Imogen got up and went over to the box that Fi had deposited by the door. She frowned. What was this? She couldn’t remember seeing it earlier that day when they’d packed up the van. It looked older than the others, and dusty. She knelt down, pulled the tape off and opened it. Inside, she could see piles of papers, exercise books and photographs.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. She knew what this was now. Her keepsakes from Westfield. Her father must have brought this down by mistake when he drove down some of her other boxes from home. ‘I haven’t seen this lot of years.’

She sat down on the carpet next to the box and started leafing through its contents. ‘Talk about Memory Lane,’ she muttered as she pulled out a photograph of herself, Allegra and Romily, sitting on desks in their classroom and grinning broadly at the camera. On the back was scrawled: ‘
Midnight Girls 4 Ever!
’

It was odd to look at her younger self, with that long mousy hair she’d clearly grown in imitation of Allegra’s, and those plump pink cheeks and wide, candid grey eyes.

She put a hand to her hair, which was now the colour known as ‘blondette’, a cross between blonde and brunette. A good hairdresser had taken her in hand and given her a flattering long bob with a loose fringe, adding light and bounce with some clever colouring. And she was a great deal thinner than the plump schoolgirl she’d once been. Had even discovered some cheekbones lurking below her puppy fat. She was never going to look like Allegra, who even at fifteen was clearly a beauty, but she made the most of what she had and tried to show herself off to her best advantage.

The biggest difference, though, she thought wryly, was that the innocence in those eyes had vanished. Imogen felt like she knew the big bad world pretty well these days.

And there was Romily, with all her sophisticated French
flair
. What the hell was she doing now? It had been two years since Imogen had seen her last, since the whole notion of the Midnight Girls and their unbreakable bond had come to a shuddering, terrible end. She traced a fingertip over the outline of Romily’s face, remembering what had happened on their last encounter and the choice Romily had asked her to make.

A letter had come just after Imogen had finished her finals – a mysterious and exciting invitation from Romily to visit her at Lake Como, but with no mention of Mitch or why she was in Italy.

Imogen had thought it would be a wonderful reunion; after all the romance and excitement of the wedding, they’d been close for a while. Imogen had sent her friend some photographs she’d taken of the day, and there’d been some happy telephone calls, and gushing postcards and letters raving about how happy she was, but then silence. It seemed as though marital bliss had swallowed her up entirely.

The trip had started well enough: arriving in Italy had been like stepping into a beautiful fairytale. Imogen left behind cold grey Scotland and arrived to balmy warm weather, with the sky a clear baby blue and the sun shining.

A driver met her at Milan airport and drove her out of the city and into the hills, along winding roads and through villages until they turned off down a long driveway. They were waved through electric gates by a guard, down a sun-dappled lane, and finally came to a halt in front of a large and beautiful villa. It was three storeys high and built of white stone, with swooping carved flourishes around the windows and ornate balconies. It was charming and graceful.

‘What a gorgeous house,’ Imogen breathed as she climbed out of the car.

The front door opened and Romily came dashing out. She
was
simply dressed in a plain white shirt, black trousers and flat sandals, but Imogen knew that with her such simplicity was deceptive: nothing that Romily wore would be anything less than the best.

‘Midge, Midge!’ she called, and flung her arms around her old friend, kissing her cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. How are you?’

‘Hello! I’m great – but all the better for seeing you. You look wonderful. What are you doing here? Is Mitch with you?’ Imogen glanced around for him.

‘We can talk about all that later. Come in, come in!’ She put her arm through Imogen’s. ‘I can’t wait to hear all your news.’

They walked together into the hall. ‘It’s a Liberty-style villa from the turn of the last century,’ Romily explained. ‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Imogen sincerely. Inside, the floors were covered in intricate Art Nouveau mosaics of wide-petalled flowers and twirling vines in soft greens, oranges and yellows, and the walls were frescoed with more flowering plants and fruit.

‘Wait until you see the back,’ Romily said. ‘This way.’

She led Imogen through the cool rooms and out on to a weathered stone balcony wreathed in ivy. They were high up and the rear aspect seemed to rise from the steep summit of the hillside, with the ground beyond plummeting away beneath them. ‘What do you think of that?’ With a wave of her hand Romily indicated Lake Como lying below them, a great dark body of water surrounded by mountains, stretching away in every direction. The view was stupendous.

‘How amazing!’ cried Imogen. She leant on the balcony and gazed out over the tranquil lake.

‘We’re on the western side,’ Romily explained. ‘I keep a mooring down by the water so we can get to Como quickly
by
motorboat. We’ll go over later for dinner perhaps. Or tomorrow if you don’t feel like going out. How was your flight?’

‘It was fine. I was feeling tired when I got off, but this place has completely reinvigorated me.’

Romily smiled. She held Imogen’s hand and said, ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’

‘You too.’ Imogen smiled back. ‘Thank you for asking me.’ Then she looked about. ‘Is Mitch coming?’

‘Oh, he’s not here,’ Romily said lightly. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, let’s go to your room. I’m sure you’d like to get yourself together after your trip.’

In her bedroom, Imogen luxuriated in a feeling of comfort and ease. Her room had a magnificent high ceiling painted with frescoes of flowing drapery and cherubs proffering baskets of grapes. Tall shuttered windows looked out over the lake beneath. She had said that she was more than up to dinner in Como, so Romily had left her to take a long lazy bath in the pink marble bathroom that opened off her bedroom before she dressed for their outing.

An hour and a half later she ventured out, feeling refreshed and ready for a good gossip. She’d packed carefully, knowing that, with Romily, she’d need to keep up with a world-class wardrobe. She’d done her best, with a scallop-edged short skirt in pale pink organza that had the look of Chloé about it, even though she’d bought it in a chain store. With that she wore a loose dove-grey silk T-shirt with ruffles down the front, cinched in with a grey snakeskin belt. A row of enamelled bracelets in pastel colours ran up one arm, and she finished the outfit off with nude patent peep-toe heels it had taken her an age to find because she wanted the look of Louboutin without the price.

She’d pulled her honey-brown hair back from her face,
and
emphasised her eyes with lots of mascara and her lips with shell-pink gloss.

‘Oh, you look gorgeous!’ Romily announced as Imogen joined her in the main sitting room, having found her way there with the help of directions from a housemaid. She herself was wearing an elegant black Prada shirtdress which she’d dressed up for the evening with a silver belt and platform heels. ‘I love your outfit. That skirt could definitely be Chloé!’

‘Do you think so?’ Imogen said, pleased. After all, Romily really knew her designers and if she thought the skirt looked good, she must be right.

‘Mmm. And all the lovely pastels … just right.’ Romily looked quizzically at her. ‘Imogen, what’s happened to you? You’ve really blossomed! Last time we talked, I got the distinct impression you were nursing a broken heart.’

She flushed a little. ‘Well … that was ages ago … I’m over it now.’

‘Was it that boy you told me about? Sam?’ Romily gestured to the place on the sofa next to her. ‘Come and sit down.’

Imogen obeyed. It felt so lovely suddenly to be back with Romily, with her serenity and her poise and her attitude that everything could be worked out in the end. ‘Actually,’ she said, a little hesitantly, tracing her finger over the embroidery of a cushion, ‘there was someone else. Someone I was crazy about. And we had a couple of passionate encounters but it didn’t work out. He wasn’t keen enough in the end. I offered him my heart and he said “Thanks, but no thanks”.’

Romily leaned forward, her brown eyes full of sympathy. ‘Oh, Midge, I’m sorry. He must have been an idiot.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it was for the best. I moped around for a couple of terms, then decided … you know … sod him. I needed to get on with my life, so I had a bit of an
image
makeover and put him out of my mind. I’ve been out with plenty of guys since – no one special yet but I’m still hoping.’

‘Of course you’ll meet someone! Especially now you look so gorgeous. No man could resist you.’ Romily put a hand on her arm and smiled encouragingly. ‘And I think it’s brilliant that you’ve moved on.’

‘I have. Completely.’ Though it wasn’t entirely true, Imogen knew that. There was still a bit of her heart that belonged to Xander, and always would, no matter what.

‘I want to hear more over dinner. We ought to go now. But I know what you need …’ Romily jumped up. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, and dashed away. When she reappeared a few moments later, she was carrying a camel-coloured trench coat over one arm and, over the other, a grey leather tote with a gold chain and gold charms hanging off the strap. ‘A coat for the boat!’ she declared. ‘It’s cold on the water. And a Dior bag. I love my Diors and this will look just perfect with your outfit. It needs a tiny touch of gold to lift it.’

Imogen sighed over the beautiful bag. Romily was absolutely right, of course: the richness of the gold transformed her high-street outfit into something special. ‘Never underestimate the power of accessories,’ Romily said wisely. ‘Now, shall we go?’

She pressed a buzzer to the side of the massive fireplace and, a moment later, a burly man came in, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. With his solemn expression and pumped up muscles, he could only be one thing.

‘Carlo, we’re leaving now,’ she said, slipping on a white mackintosh. ‘Carlo is my bodyguard,’ she explained as they left the villa. ‘It’s a bore, but there it is. I’ve got so much security here, you wouldn’t believe it. But I make them be as discreet as possible. I can’t bear the thought of being
surrounded
and watched all the time – although I am. Once we get to town, you’ll forget he’s there.’

Imogen thought they’d be climbing into one of the expensive-looking cars parked in the driveway but instead they walked through the gardens and out of a small gate at the back, opened by a code taped into an electronic keypad.

‘We’re going to the water the quick way,’ explained Romily, her eyes sparkling. ‘You’ll enjoy this.’

A few moments later they emerged by a cable-car station. A small red car was already waiting for them and they boarded.

‘Come and see,’ Romily said, indicating the window overlooking the descent. ‘It’s an amazing view as we go down.’

A moment later the engines began to grind and the cable car bumped into life, then they were descending the mountain face.

‘Good thing I’m not afraid of heights,’ said Imogen, seeing the great drop yawning below. ‘Wow!’

Darkness was beginning to fall. The water of the lake was fading to black, the sky above to a misty charcoal. Along the shore, lights sparkled and twinkled in the exquisitely pretty little towns.

Romily said, ‘We’ll be in Argegno in four minutes. That’s where the boat is.’

A few minutes later the cable car swung to a stop in the lakeside station and they disembarked, their burly escort keeping close by and evidently alert to everything around them. They walked down cobbled streets, stepping from stone to stone on tiptoes to save their heels, until they came to the water. There, a powerful motorboat with a handsome young driver was awaiting them.

‘
Ciao, Marco. Come stai
?’ called Romily cheerfully, and chattered away to him in a flood of Italian as they boarded.
They
took their seats as he started up the engine. The next moment the boat was moving a trifle bumpily out of its mooring and towards the middle of the lake.