The Gatecrasher (37 page)

“Some people do,” said Bethany miserably. “Kirsten Davis eats what she likes and she’s size eight.”

“Then she’s lucky,” retorted Mrs Bridges. “Most of us aren’t so lucky. We have to choose. We have to exercise self-control. We have to make sacrifices in life. Isn’t that right, Chloe?”

“Well,” said Chloe. “I suppose so. Anyway, as I explained earlier, I am actually going on holiday today. And the taxi’s just arrived to take us to Gatwick. So perhaps if we could arrange—”

“You want to look like a princess! Every girl wants to make the effort to look her best on the day she gets married. I’m sure you did, didn’t you?” Mrs. Bridges’s gimlet gaze landed on Chloe. “I’m sure you made yourself look as beautiful as possible for your wedding day, didn’t you?”

“Well,” said Chloe. “Actually—”

“Chloe?” Philip’s mop of dark curly hair appeared round the door. “Sorry to disturb—but we do have to get going. The taxi’s here . . .”

“I know,” said Chloe, trying not to sound as tense as she felt. “I know it is. I’m just coming—”
when I can get rid of these bloody people who arrive half an hour late and won’t take a hint
, her eyes silently said, and Philip gave an imperceptible nod.

“What was your wedding dress like?” said Bethany wistfully as he disappeared. “I bet it was lovely.”

“I’ve never been married,” said Chloe, reaching for her pinbox. If she could just prise the girl out of the dress . . .

“What?” Mrs. Bridges’s eyes darted to Bethany, then around the room strewn with snippets of wedding silk and
gauze, as though suspecting a trick. “What do you mean, you’ve never been married? Who was that, then?”

“Philip’s my long-term partner,” said Chloe, forcing herself to remain polite. “We’ve been together for thirteen years.” She smiled at Mrs. Bridges. “Longer than a lot of marriages.”

And why the hell am I explaining myself to you? she thought furiously.

Because three fittings for Bethany plus six bridesmaids’ dresses is worth over a thousand pounds, her brain swiftly replied. And I only have to be polite for ten more minutes. I can bear ten minutes. Then they’ll be gone—and we’ll be gone. For a whole week. No phone calls, no newspapers, No worries. No-one will even know where we are.

Gatwick Airport was as hot, crowded, and noisy as it had ever been. Queues of charter-flight passengers lolled disconsolately against their trolleys; children whined and babies wailed. Tannoy voices almost triumphantly announced delay after delay.

All of it washed over the head of Hugh Stratton, standing at the Regent Airways Club Class check-in desk. He felt in the inside pocket of his linen blazer, produced four passports and handed them to the girl behind the desk.

“You’re travelling with . . .”

“My wife. And children.” Hugh pointed to Amanda, who was standing a few yards away with the two little girls clutching one leg. Her mobile phone was clamped to her ear; as she felt his gaze she looked up, took a few steps towards the desk and said, “Amanda Stratton. And these are Octavia and Beatrice.”

“Fine,” said the girl, and smiled. “Just have to check.”

“Sorry about that, Penny,” said Amanda into the mobile. “Now before I go, let me just check the colours for that second bedroom . . .”

“Here are your boarding passes,” smiled the girl at Hugh, handing him a sheaf of wallets. “The Club Class lounge is on the upper level. Enjoy your flight.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh. “I’m sure we will.” He smiled back at the girl, then turned away, pocketing the boarding passes, and walked towards Amanda. She was still talking into her mobile phone, apparently oblivious that she was standing bang in the path of passengers queuing for Economy check-in. Family after family was skirting around her—the men eyeing up her long, golden brown legs, the girls looking covetously at her Joseph shift dress, the grannies smiling down at Octavia and Beatrice in their matching pale blue denim smocks. His entire family looked like something out of a colour supplement, Hugh found himself thinking dispassionately. No imperfections, nothing out of place.

“Yup,” Amanda was saying as he approached. She thrust a manicured hand through her dark, glossy crop, then turned it over to examine her nails. “Well, as long as the linen arrives on time . . .”

Just a sec, she mouthed at Hugh, who nodded and opened his copy of the
Financial Times
. If she was on the phone to the interior decorator, she might be a while.

It had emerged only recently that several rooms in their Richmond house were to be redecorated while they were in Spain. Which ones precisely, Hugh still wasn’t sure. Nor was he sure quite why any of the house needed redoing so soon—after all, they’d had the whole place gutted and done up when they’d bought it, three years ago. Surely wallpaper didn’t deteriorate that quickly?

But by the time Amanda had brought him on board the whole house-doing-up project, it had been obvious that the basic decision—to do up or not to do up?—had already been made, presumably at some level far higher than his. It had also become crystal clear that he was involved only in a consultatory capacity, in which he had no powers of veto. In fact, no executive powers at all.

At work, Hugh Stratton was Head of Corporate Strategy of a large, dynamic company. He had a parking space in front of the building, a respectful personal assistant, and was looked up to by scores of young, ambitious executives. Hugh Stratton, it was generally acknowledged, had one of the finest grasps of commercial strategy in the business world today. When he spoke, other people listened.

At home, nobody listened. At home, he felt rather like the equivalent of the third-generation family shareholder. Permitted to remain on the board because of sentiment and the family name, but frankly, most of the time, in the way.

Candice Brewin pushed open the heavy glass door of the Manhattan Bar and felt the familiar swell of warmth, noise, light, and clatter rush over her. It was six o’clock on a Wednesday night and the bar was already almost full. Waiters in dark green bow ties were gliding over the pale polished floor, carrying cocktails to tables. Girls in slippy dresses were standing at the bar, glancing around with
bright, hopeful eyes. In the corner, a pianist was thumping out Gershwin numbers, almost drowned by the hum of metropolitan chatter.

It was getting to be too busy here, thought Candice, slipping off her coat. When she, Roxanne, and Maggie had first discovered the Manhattan Bar, it had been a small, quiet, almost secretive place to meet. They had stumbled on it almost by chance, desperate for somewhere to drink after a particularly fraught press day. It had then been a dark and old-fashioned-looking place, with tatty bar stools and a peeling mural of the New York skyline on one wall. The patrons had been few and silent—mostly tending towards elderly gentlemen with much younger female companions. Candice, Roxanne, and Maggie had boldly ordered a round of cocktails and then several more—and by the end of the evening had decided, amid fits of giggles, that the place had a certain terrible charm and must be revisited. And so the monthly cocktail club had been born.

But now, newly extended, relaunched, and written up in every glossy magazine, the bar was a different place. These days a young, attractive after-work crowd came flocking in every evening. Celebrities had been spotted at the bar. Even the waiters all looked like models. Really, thought Candice, handing her coat to the coat-check woman and receiving an art deco silver button in return, they should find somewhere else. Somewhere less busy, less obvious.

At the same time, she knew they never would. They had been coming here too long, had shared too many secrets over those distinctive frosted martini glasses. Anywhere else would feel wrong. On the first of every month, it had to be the Manhattan Bar.

There was a mirror opposite, and she glanced at her
reflection, checking that her short, cropped hair was tidy and her make-up—what little there was of it—hadn’t smudged. She was wearing a plain black trouser suit over a pale green T-shirt—not exactly the height of glamour, but good enough.

Maggie Phillips paused outside the doors of the Manhattan Bar, put down her bulky carrier bag full of bright, stuffed toys, and pulled unceremoniously at the maternity tights wrinkling around her legs. Three more weeks, she thought, giving a final tug. Three more weeks of these bloody things. She took a deep breath, reached for her carrier bag again, and pushed at the glass door.

As soon as she got inside, the noise and warmth of the place made her feel faint. She grasped for the wall, and stood quite still, trying not to lose her balance as she blinked away the dots in front of her eyes.

“Are you all right, my love?” enquired a voice to her left. Maggie swivelled her head and, as her vision cleared, made out the kindly face of the coat-check lady.

“I’m fine,” she said, flashing a tight smile.

“Are you sure? Would you like a nice drink of water?”

“No, really, I’m fine.” As if to emphasize the point, she began to struggle out of her coat, self-consciously aware of the coat-check lady’s appraising gaze on her figure. For pregnancy wear, her black Lycra trousers and tunic were about as flattering as you could get. But still there it was, right in front her, wherever she moved. A bump the size of a helium balloon. Maggie handed over her coat and met the coat lady’s gaze head on.

If she asks me when it’s due, she thought, I swear I’ll smother her with Tinky Winky.

“When’s it due?”

Roxanne Miller stood in the ladies’ room of the Manhattan Bar, leaned forward and carefully outlined her lips in cinnamon-coloured pencil. She pressed them together, then stood back and studied her reflection critically, starting—as she always did—with her best features. Good cheekbones. Nothing could take away your cheekbones. Blue eyes a little bloodshot, skin tanned from three weeks in the Caribbean. Nose still long, still crooked. Bronzy-blond hair tumbling down from a beaded comb in her hair. Tumbling a little too wildly, perhaps. Roxanne reached into her bag for a hairbrush and began to smooth it down. She was dressed, as she so often was, in a white T-shirt. In her opinion, nothing in the world showed off a tan better than a plain white T-shirt. She put her hairbrush away and smiled, impressed by her own reflection in spite of herself.

Then, behind her, a lavatory flushed and a cubicle door opened. A girl of about nineteen wandered out and stood next to Roxanne to wash her hands. She had pale, smooth skin and dark sleepy eyes, and her hair fell straight to her shoulders like the fringe on a lampshade. A mouth like a plum. No make-up whatsoever. The girl met Roxanne’s eyes and smiled, then moved away.

When the swing doors had shut behind her, Roxanne still stayed, staring at herself. She suddenly felt like a blowsy tart. A thirty-three-year-old woman, trying too hard. In an instant, all the animation disappeared from her face. Her mouth drooped downwards and the gleam vanished from her eyes. Dispassionately, her gaze sought out the tiny red veins marking the skin on her cheeks. Sun damage, they called it. Damaged goods. Then there was a sound from the door and her head jerked round.

“Roxanne!” Maggie was coming towards her, a wide smile on her face, her nut-brown bob shining under the spotlights.

“Darling!” Roxanne beamed, and gaily thrust her makeup bag into a larger Prada tote. “I was just beautifying.”

“You don’t need it!” said Maggie. “Look at that tan!”

“That’s Caribbean sun for you,” said Roxanne cheerfully.

“Don’t tell me,” said Maggie, putting her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know. It’s not even approaching fair. Why did I never do a single travel feature while I was editor? I must have been mad!” She jerked her head towards the door. “Go and keep Candice company. I’ll be out in a moment.”