Midnight Girls (45 page)

Chapter 37

Lake Como
2008

‘PAPA,’ ROMILY SAID
sulkily, ‘I don’t understand why I can’t have a plane. Why can’t I?’

‘It’s an added expense, my darling,’ Charles de Lisle said from his office where the lighting was not exactly flattering. His face looked a little green over the web camera. ‘We have two planes already, can’t you use one of those?’

‘I can’t believe you’re being so mean! What does the money matter?’ Romily frowned into the web cam, pushed out her lower lip and made the face of a little girl deprived of the thing she wants. ‘I only want a little one!’

‘
Ma chérie
, you don’t understand. It’s not just the money – although planes don’t come cheap, even the little ones – it’s the logistics. Where will we keep it? Who will pilot it? How many staff will it require? When and where will maintenance be undertaken?’ Charles shook his head. ‘No, my darling, it’s all far too much of a headache. Charter whatever you need if ours aren’t available.’

‘It’s not fair!’ cried Romily. ‘I bet you get one for Louis!’

‘Only if he can fly it himself.’ Charles looked grieved, as he always did when Romily was upset. Ever since the end of her marriage, he’d granted most of her wishes, as though to make up for the great hurt and anguish he had caused her then.

‘Huh!’ Romily sighed heavily and looked away for a moment. Then she said, ‘Well, I must go, Papa. I’m very busy, I’m afraid.’

Charles’s expression was sad, his thin mouth turned down at the corners. He looked older these days, with his grey hair thinning and his wrinkles deepening. ‘Very well,
ma chérie
. Will we see you soon?’

‘I suppose so. I’ll let you know. ’Bye, Papa.’ She clicked off the connection and sat for a moment staring at the screen. What a shame. She had particularly been hoping for her own plane, which she’d already planned to kit out in white fur (fake, to please her vegetarian designer friend) and white leather (real, because there was only so much a vegetarian friend should expect) and platinum fittings. That would have set them all talking! But as it was, she was quite happy to turn her mind to some other delightful little schemes.

She opened her calfskin monogrammed diary and perused her engagements. In two weeks she had to be in London. The days she would be there were marked with heavy dark lines in pen. She was looking forward to it, anxious for it even, and the time was dragging. Until then, all she could do was plan her trip and prepare for it. There were always clothes to be bought, of course. A definite chill of autumn in the air meant it was time to think about berry-coloured crocodile-skin handbags, beautiful coats, fine buttery tweeds and oodles of cashmere. And, of course, shoes. She’d been drawn to the new shapes and colours like a bee to a lavender bush, and relished an afternoon trying out the latest styles in Milan.

Yes. That was how she would spend this afternoon. She picked up the house phone and her assistant, Monica, answered. ‘
Oui
, madame?’

Romily stood up and examined her reflection in the large
gilt
mirror opposite as she talked. ‘Call the car, please, Monica. I’m going to town today. Tell them five minutes. And please send an email to Countess Bianca to check she’s coming for dinner tonight.’

‘Of course. And, Madame … Vincente has telephoned five times already today.’

‘Has he? How charming.’ Romily watched her reflection smile wryly and thought how much she liked her new white shirt: chiffon with tiny velvet polka dots all over it. She ran one hand over the smooth grey skirt she was wearing. ‘I’ll call him from the car. I think he’ll be with us for dinner tonight. Will you tell Cook please?’

‘He wanted to confirm the menu with you—’

‘I don’t care about that,’ Romily said. ‘Whatever he thinks is best. He is the chef after all, not me.’ She hung up, thinking of the afternoon that lay ahead of her, surrounded by the best shoes in the world. She would probably spend a lot of money …
a lot
of money. Well, if they wanted her to be a spoilt heiress, what on earth did they expect?

She got back from Milan laden down with bags from expensive shops and boutiques. Monica was waiting for her in the cool hall, clutching her notepad and looking serious as usual.

‘Hello, madame,’ she said as Romily put down her goodies. ‘I’m leaving in a few minutes so I just wanted to update you …’

‘Of course.’ Romily patted her slightly windswept hair back into place.

‘Countess Bianca is arriving at seven and bringing a friend. Vincente will be here in half an hour.’

‘Thank you, Monica. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Romily said with a nod. She watched as her assistant went back to her little ground-floor office to tidy up. An ironic smile played
about
her lips.
She probably thinks Bianca is my closest friend
… She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the gilt-framed mirrors and sighed.
Actually, she probably is, these days. Ever since
…

She thought of Imogen with sadness. When Romily had laid out the stark choice between allegiances, her friend hadn’t been able to believe it. With tears in her eyes, she’d begged Romily not to ask her to make such a choice, but she’d held firm. It was impossible, she’d said, to remain loyal both to her and to Allegra, so which one was it to be?

When Imogen refused to make the choice, Romily had turned cold. She’d hoped so much that Imogen would choose to side with her, when she was so obviously the wronged party. Allegra had betrayed her, for God’s sake, and ruined her marriage! How could Imogen decide to stand by her?

‘Then you’d better leave,’ she’d said coolly. ‘I understand. I’m sorry it’s come to this but you must see that I can’t have anyone in my life who is in contact with that woman. I respect your loyalty, even though it’s misplaced.’ She’d held out her hand. ‘And I wish you all the best, Imogen.’

‘Romily!’ her friend had cried, tears spilling over. ‘Do you really mean it? You don’t want to see me ever again either?’

‘I’m afraid not. You remember what happened at school all those years ago, on that terrible night? You and I protected Allegra then but we both know the truth. She was the one responsible. We thought at the time it was an awful mistake, but now I know for sure that Allegra is rotten through and through. I just hope it’s not you who suffers next. Now, I’ll order the car for you.’

Imogen had left, miserable and weepy, unable to believe she was seeing Romily for possibly the last time. But Romily remained adamant: her life had to be cleansed of Allegra’s poison.

*

The evening sunlight cast brilliant rays into the drawing room, and the balcony radiated the heat it had absorbed during the day. The scent of late-summer roses filled the air.

‘Are you going to the Hennessy party in Cannes?’ Bianca asked idly. She tossed back her long black hair and crossed her tanned legs, admiring the coral polish on her toe nails as she did so.

‘I expect so,’ Romily replied, her voice as careless as Bianca’s.
We’re far too worldly to care about yet another party
, they seemed to be saying to each other. But in reality, each party was another fabulous excuse to compete with their clothes, their make-up, their coverage in the press and their tally of famous friends. They were sitting in the drawing room, enjoying a drink before dinner. Bianca and Romily had taken their places on the vast cream sofas while Vincente was lounging in an artfully shabby Deco leather club chair. Bianca’s date was still getting ready.

Romily sipped her champagne and said, ‘Do you like these, Bianca? They’re the latest range. I got them in Gucci this afternoon.’

‘Darling, I
love
them,’ purred Bianca, leaning forward to admire the high shoe boots, studded all over with tiny metal rings. ‘They’re so channelling the punk-Gothic feel I adore! I’m jealous you got them first.’

Romily smiled down at her beautiful and very expensive shoes. She’d teamed them with a silver chainmail mini-dress from a quirky boutique she’d seen in Como, and the effect was pleasingly metallic.

‘Am I coming?’ Vincente said in a mournful voice.

‘What?’ Romily looked over at him with a mildly irritated expression. He was half sitting, half lying in the armchair in his cream Armani suit and Dolce & Gabbana striped shirt.
He
was a short man with blond hair and ginger stubble that had grown out to a little goatee on his chin.

‘The Hennessy party. Am I coming with you?’ He looked over with pleading eyes.

‘Oh, I should think so. You usually come to these things with me, don’t you?’ Romily was fond of Vincente but his childishness sometimes annoyed her. He was always pretending he was helpless, just a boy with no idea of the way the world worked. She was sure it concealed a much sharper mind than he was letting on. But he was a genial man and, for the most part, good company, and he was useful for accompanying her to these endless parties and events. She hated walking down that red carpet on her own, with the bulbs flashing and the people staring. It was much better to have Vincente to hang on to, to deflect some of the attention. And he did so love it.

‘Great!’ he said, cheering up. ‘How are we getting to Cannes? Will your family send the yacht?’

‘I can ask them, I suppose.’

‘Yes, please,’ Vincente said happily. ‘I like the yacht.’

Romily rolled her eyes at Bianca. ‘It’s because of the recording studio Papa had installed on
La Belle Dame
. So many of our musician friends came to the yacht and then complained that they’d been struck by inspiration in the night and had nowhere to work that he decided to help them. Vincente likes to pretend he’s a pop star. When he’s not lazing on deck or swimming in the pool.’

‘Sounds charming,’ Bianca said, tossing her hair again in her favourite gesture. She sipped her drink. ‘Now, darling, we need to compare diaries. I’m going to be in London at the same time as you. We can go to all the parties together. Except …’ Bianca frowned. ‘You were at school in England, weren’t you? You probably have your girlfriends there to see and spend time with.’

‘Oh, no,’ Romily replied lightly. ‘I don’t have any special friends in London. Just the usual crowd. You know them all, of course.’

Bianca’s face cleared. ‘Good. There are so many parties and I can’t stand going to them without you,
cara
.’

The butler came in and announced that dinner was served.

‘Thank you,’ Romily said. ‘Now where is your Rudy? He’s so vain, that man. Still preening, I should think. Well, we’ll start without him.’

Later that night, after they had dined and spent a quiet hour on the terrace talking, Romily had retired and was sitting at her dressing table in a silken robe, preparing her face for bedtime by removing every scrap of make-up, cleaning, toning and moisturising using her tailor-made skin system. There was a knock on her door.

‘Who is it?’ she called, smoothing rich cream into her eyelids.

‘Me,’ a voice announced.

She sighed and turned towards the door. ‘Go away, Vincente!’ She went back to her mirror, rubbing in the lotion with light circling movements.

‘No,’ came the muffled reply, and he knocked again, more loudly. ‘Answer the door.’

Romily made a cross face at her reflection. Then she sighed again, got up and went to the door. Vincente was standing in the corridor outside looking sulky.

‘What is it?’ Romily asked, putting one hand on her hip and staring at him.

‘I suppose you’re not going to sleep with me,’ he said dolefully. ‘Again.’

Her voice was crisp. ‘Correct.’

‘Why do you never sleep with me?’ he moaned. ‘I’m very
good!
All my girlfriends have been most impressed with my technique.’

‘I’m sure you’re an excellent lover, Vincente, but I don’t want to. Thanks anyway.’

‘You never want to. It’s not normal. You must have a hormone deficiency,’ he said frowning, his honey-brown eyes earnest. ‘Perhaps you should see a doctor.’

‘I’m perfectly well. Leave me alone and go to bed. Good night.’ And she shut the door gently in his puzzled face, and returned to the dressing table thinking,
Thank God … London in only two weeks
.

Chapter 38

London

‘MR MITCHELL, GOOD
afternoon. Please come in.’

The man in the elegant dark suit led the way into an office. It was situated above a busy and exclusive restaurant, the kind where there was usually at least one photographer loitering outside, camera ready to snap a celebrity coming or going. Mitch followed with Malik, his assistant, close on his heels. The two of them made an impressive pair, he knew that, with their superbly cut Savile Row suits – Huntsman for Mitch, Kilgour for Malik – both well-built, tanned and handsome. He spent a lot of time making sure that they projected the right image. They had to look like they meant business, like they knew what they were talking about. They needed to be taken seriously in a world where appearances and being able to fit in meant everything. So far, everyone had taken him at face value – if they guessed that he was just an ignorant chef from a small town, who’d spent most of his life stoned on dope, they’d think he wasn’t worth the effort. They’d be wrong, of course, but there it was.

Their host took his place behind a large desk and gestured to them to take the seats in front of it. When he’d offered them drinks, which they refused, he sat back and said, ‘Now, gentlemen. Let’s talk about the reason for your visit.’

Mitch and Malik exchanged a quick look. There were times when Malik’s Harvard and Stanford education meant it was best for him to do the talking, but in general it was Mitch who led the way.

He smiled pleasantly at the man behind the desk. ‘Mr Evans, we’ve heard it on good authority that you’re considering a sale of the Belgrave Restaurant Group.’

Evans looked surprised. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

‘Just a rumour. It’s not widely known …’ Mitch shrugged and smiled. He found that playing the American naïf could be an effective card. People often underestimated him as a result and were lulled into a false sense of security by his good-natured, smiling bonhomie.