Midnight Girls (49 page)

The Kensington Palace Gardens house glittered with beautiful lights: crystal chandeliers hung in shimmering tiers from brass chains, exquisite lamps burned in alcoves and niches, and twisting silver candelabra held up their shining wax offerings on every other surface.

Beautiful women and distinguished men moved through the huge rooms, stopping to greet each other or gathering in small circles to talk as they sipped the ice-cold Bollinger offered to them by waiters or plucked delicious morsels from the trays carried by waitresses.

Romily moved through them, drawing admiring glances as she passed. She was wearing a deep midnight-blue gown, tightly wrapped round her body, emphasising her tiny waist
and
rounded hips, before flaring out to the ground. The satin glowed against her warm olive skin and her long dark brown hair fell in glossy waves over her shoulders as she made her way through the room.

‘Ah,
ma belle
! How wonderful to see you, I had no idea you were in London!’ An older woman in bright purple silk, her dark tan sunk deep into her pores from years of sunbathing, stepped into her path and offered her pursed, coral-coloured lips for an air kiss.

Romily stopped reluctantly. ‘Francesca, hello.’ She turned her head politely for the pretend embrace. ‘I can’t stay, I’m looking for Bianca …’ She glanced about the room, looking for the familiar dark hair being tossed over one shoulder.

Francesca gestured towards a doorway. ‘She’s in the other salon, talking to some ambassador or other – someone with a big ribbon and medals anyway.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, then …’

‘Come back later, do you hear? I want to find out all your news! And ask about your dear mother, whom I’ve not seen for an age.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Until then.’ Romily smiled firmly and walked purposefully away.
That’s the trouble with these parties. There’s no one I want to talk to
. It crossed her mind for a moment how much more fun it would have been to be here with Imogen or Allegra, able to giggle at the pomposity all around as well as to enjoy the luxury. But she pushed that thought away.
That’s all over now
.

She found Bianca in the red salon and drifted up to join her circle, greeting everyone with the usual kisses. A waiter brought her a glass of champagne and she sipped it as she listened to the conversation. Bianca had managed to extricate herself from the attentions of the ambassador and was complimenting Romily on her gown when she suddenly
gave
her a fierce nudge. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she hissed in a loud whisper, gazing across the throng.

‘Who?’ Romily asked, following the direction of her gaze. It was hard to make out anyone in particular in the ranks of dark-jacketed backs and vibrant silks and satins.

‘That devastatingly handsome man over there!’ Bianca said. ‘Next to Kevin Tong.’

Romily saw who she was talking about and immediately her insides seemed to turn to water. She felt as breathless as if she’d been running a mile. The tall man in the Gieves and Hawkes bespoke dinner jacket and sober black silk tie was none other than Mitch. He was talking to a younger man who looked Indian, and an elegant Chinese man sporting velvet evening slippers where most of the men were wearing patent leather shoes.

‘That’s Ted Mitchell, the mystery billionaire,’ Bianca said excitedly. ‘I saw him in the Dorchester last night – he was dining with Kevin then. I bet they’re talking about business … He’s American, and apparently he’s buying up the most glamorous clubs and restaurants in London. Maybe he wants to buy Kevin’s place.’ She sighed happily. ‘So rich and so good-looking. I just have to meet him!’ She pulled at Romily’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s go over, Kevin will introduce us.’

‘No, no,’ Romily protested weakly. She was still so stunned by the sight of Mitch that all the strength seemed to have left her body.

‘Come on,’ insisted Bianca, pulling her across the room. At that moment the men they were discussing seemed to feel their presence because Kevin turned round, saw Bianca and gave a broad smile.

‘The exquisite Countess Bianca! What joy. Come and talk to us, dear. And Romily de Lisle … I haven’t seen you in age, sweet thing!’ Kevin put out a hand to her and the next
moment
she was standing in their circle, only aware, as Kevin kissed her cheek, of Mitch just a foot or so away. She was blinded by confusion, unable to look up, seeing only dinner suits and the vibrant green of Bianca’s split-skirt Versace dress.

‘Now,’ Kevin said brightly, still holding her hand, ‘Romily, have you met Ted Mitchell? He’s the newest addition to the London scene and making rather a mark by buying up all our favourite watering holes!’

There was a pause where Romily was duly expected to smile and glitter, to say hello and how lovely to meet you and tell me all about it, but she couldn’t. As she fought her churning emotions, the pause lengthened into an awkward silence.

‘Well, I’m
dying
to meet you,’ gushed Bianca. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. Are you enjoying London?’

There was another pause as everyone waited for Mitch to answer. Kevin shifted uncomfortably.

‘I
was
enjoying it,’ Mitch said in an icy voice.

At the sound of it, a whirl of emotions rushed through Romily. That voice … how much it had meant to her! Oh God … she still remembered so much … a moment from their wedding day sprang into her mind and she heard his voice murmuring his vows.

‘Romily and I have met before, haven’t we?’ he said. She managed to look up and saw the cold smile that didn’t touch his brown eyes. She nodded and said nothing. The others swapped glances – the chilly, almost venomous atmosphere was unmistakable, though they clearly had no idea why it was so. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said harshly. ‘We’re old, old friends.’ Then Mitch glanced at the others in the circle. ‘I’m sorry, would you excuse me? I really must find our host. He’s expecting me in the library in five minutes.’

‘What was
that
all about?’ hissed Bianca, appalled and
intrigued
at the same time, as they made their way to the supper room quarter of an hour later.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling.’ Romily had recovered herself by now and spoke in an easy tone. She flicked a tiny piece of her satin gown between her fingers.

‘You and Ted Mitchell! How come you know each other?’

‘Oh, we don’t really, I don’t know why he said that.’ Romily shrugged carelessly and then allowed herself a tiny smile as she said, ‘I think he’s an old friend of my father. That must be it.’

She made her excuses as soon as she could, and summoned the Mercedes to the front of the house.

As the car glided away down the private road, she said to the driver, ‘We’re not going home, Walter. I have another appointment to go to first.’

Then she sat back on the seat and watched London sailing past, dark and shadowy in the autumn night.

The evening isn’t over quite yet
…

Chapter 42

ALLEGRA LOOKED UP
from her desk as Tyra put her head round the door.

‘Your visitor is here, Allegra.’

‘Yes, thank you, show him in,’ she said, not looking up from her screen where she was typing up an email to the company accountant. It was another PR visit. They came to call every now and again, persistent men who wouldn’t go away until she’d had a face-to-face meeting with them. Who was the latest? She flicked her gaze over to the note on her pad. Oh, yes. Hutton Productions. Well, she would spare their representative twenty minutes, listen politely and then send him on his way.

There was a gentle knock on the door and a figure appeared at the door to her office. Allegra looked up and froze in horror. The man in the doorway did the same, but recovered his self-possession after a moment.

‘Lady Allegra McCorquodale?’ he said, advancing into the room.

‘Yes.’ She stood up, her face flaming.

‘Adam Hutton.’ His coppery-brown eyes were friendly and a smile played about the corners of his mouth. He held out his hand to her. ‘I think we may have had the pleasure of meeting before.’

She took his hand and shook it, simultaneously having a flashback to him sitting naked on her dining chair while she
pumped
herself up and down on his cock. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, looking at her desk, then at her screen, and anywhere else she could avoid his gaze. ‘Hello. Well. This is a coincidence.’
Adam Hutton
. The name came back to her now. But she hadn’t given it a thought since she’d tossed that business card away weeks ago. ‘Please. Sit down.’

She sat in her chair, a beautiful Frank Lloyd Wright barrel design in honey-coloured wood with a mint-green leather seat, and gestured to him to take the one opposite.

‘Thank you.’ He gazed at her, his expression amused and almost kindly.

‘Now … why are you here?’ she asked, fighting to regain her self-possession. She set her shoulders straight and lifted her chin. When she spoke again, she sounded cool and controlled. ‘I’m happy to hear your spiel but I never use promotional companies. Colette’s avoids all aspects of PR.’

Adam Hutton settled into the chair and smiled again, friendly and confident. ‘Of course. That is part of Colette’s undeniable charm. Everyone appreciates that it operates on different terms from most nightclubs. Discretion is the better part of its particular valour.’

‘If you understand that,’ Allegra said slowly, ‘then what is the point of this visit exactly?’

These PR men were always the same: they tried to convince her that she needed to drum up interest in Colette’s with stories in the press, start holding promotional nights and invite young celebrities with big breasts and short dresses, create customer databases and send the members streams of emails imploring them to come to the club with ‘special offers’ and ‘two for one’ deals. It was laughable. All that was a world away from Colette’s usual style and what its members expected or wanted.

But Adam Hutton didn’t look like a typical PR man in an open-necked shirt, badly fitting jacket and jeans, mobile
phone
practically glued to one ear and hair that had the best part of a bottle of gel on it. Instead he wore a crisp shirt in tiny blue-and-white check with a navy silk Hermès tie, and a suit in dark charcoal that she was sure was Ralph Lauren. And she remembered his aquiline good looks very well now; his tall, well-honed body. She remembered him thrusting into her … and quickly pushed the memory away before she could lose her composure again.

‘I’m in complete awe of Colette’s,’ Adam Hutton said smoothly. ‘I’ve been there a few times and have never experienced anything less than perfection. It’s a hub of mature luxury in a world that seems increasingly obsessed with drunk teenagers.’

‘Thanks to you – or people like you,’ Allegra said pointedly. ‘In my experience, PR companies are only interested in the kind of people who feature on the front of cheap magazines on a weekly basis. Soap stars and glamour models.’

Adam nodded and gave a wry smile. ‘That may not be entirely fair. It’s a chicken and egg situation. Do we create people’s desires or respond to them? It’s a mixture of the two, of course. If it’s any comfort, I don’t actually deal with that kind of client. Hutton Productions is strictly upmarket. We prefer to attract high-end celebrities to our clients’ clubs and restaurants.’

Allegra frowned. She crossed one long leg over another, admiring her Christian Louboutin shoes as she did so. They were black leather on wooden platforms with towering five-inch heels that gave her sober Aquascutum office suit a sexy twist. Even though the last thing she wanted was to see one of her one-night stands again, she couldn’t help being glad she looked good today.
And he is rather attractive
, she thought, casting a glance at him from under her lashes.
Better than I remembered
. ‘But I don’t understand why high-end
restaurants
need to use promoters at all. Don’t they get enough customers as it is?’

‘No one can afford to rest on their laurels. Even somewhere like the Ivy – not that different from Colette’s in terms of its high-quality, desirable status and exclusive nature, not to mention its venerable years. It still needs to keep the stars coming in and maintain its reputation. Another fashionable place can open, the in crowd can flock there, and the next thing you know … you’re empty. There’s no shortage of contenders vying for the crown.’

Allegra rested back in her chair and fixed him with a steady, confident gaze. She felt in charge again. ‘It’s not like that at Colette’s, and I can’t imagine it ever will be. We have a waiting list to join, you know. It can be up to five years before people get membership, and then only after the committee has scrutinised their applications very carefully.’

‘If you don’t mind my asking, how much are your membership fees?’

‘I don’t mind at all. There’s a two hundred and fifty pound joining fee, and after that, subscription is a thousand pounds a year.’

Adam raised his eyebrows. ‘A thousand pounds?’

‘Seven hundred and fifty for under-twenty-fives,’ Allegra added.

‘Mmm. A bargain.’ She stared at him, unsure if he was being sarcastic, but his expression was innocent. He went on: ‘And you’ve got … how many members?’

‘Five thousand.’

He did some quick mental arithmetic. ‘So you have an income of around five million pounds a year, and that’s before you factor in the profit you make from the food and drink you sell, the parties you host and so on. And I seem to remember from my visit to Colette’s that it’s not particularly cheap. I bought a round of drinks for some friends and it
cost
me over a hundred pounds. You must be doing very well.’

Allegra nodded. ‘Yes, we are. But it’s not all profit. We have vast overheads: taxes and other charges, utilities, maintenance, staff wages, administration … It all costs money, a great deal of it.’ She gestured to the room around them. David had decorated it in cool colours, whites and pale greens, and it was hung with paintings of bright, hot scenes. ‘To keep your spirits up on rainy London afternoons,’ he’d said.