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Authors: Lucy Lord

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âTo love and friendship!'

âLove and friendship!'

âAnd enormous commercial success!' added Damian.

Back in her flat later that day, Bella was lying on the chaise longue with her feet propped up on Andy's lap, looking and feeling like the cat that got the cream.

âWhy did you change your mind about telling them?' asked Andy, who was massaging her feet.

âA couple of reasons. Partly the tempting fate thing â excited though I am, I'm starting to think that it would be better to wait till we've got the twelve-week all-clear.'

Andy laughed. âGod knows how you'll be able to pull it off around Poppy, bloody little bloodhound. You can't be on antibiotics for another whole month.'

âOh, I'll probably tell Pops anyway. The whole public announcement thing just suddenly seemed a bit premature, I suppose.'

âYes, I agree,' said Andy, and they were both silent for a moment, offering up an internal prayer that their baby was going to be fine. âOK, so what was your other reason?'

âDidn't want to take the limelight away from Damian. This screenplay is a huge deal for him â¦'

âYou sweet girl.' Andy leant over and kissed her tummy. âI hope our baby has your lovely nature.'

âGod, I don't! Self-pitying, jealous, insecure â¦ Wouldn't wish that on the poor little bugger. I hope he or she is exactly like you.'

âWhat, pompous and a slave to its tiresome principles?'

âWell it wouldn't be such a bad thing if those particular traits skipped a generation or two â¦'

Andy laughed and again leant over to kiss her.

âAnother cup of tea?'

âThanks
,
darling. I've got a feeling I'm going to get extremely bored with herbal tea over the next seven months â¦'

Andy went into the kitchen and Bella hugged her knees up to her chest.

A baby. Their very own baby. She still could hardly believe it. How grown up. How incredibly exciting. And how unutterably wonderful it was going to be to create a new person that they would love forever, out of their love for one another (it looked as though the conception had probably been in Paris).

Bella's head was full of distinctly impractical dreams of eco-friendly terry-towelling nappies and embroidered smocks and hanging fresh washing out on a line somewhere it would dry beautifully in the sun, when her phone beeped with a text.

It was Poppy.

I know you're up the duff, Belles! Antibiotics never stop you drinking. I promise not to tell anyone, but congratulations! I'm so so happy for you! Namewise I suggest Poppy if she's a girl or Paris (just a guess) if he's a boy. Love you! xxxxxxxxx

âGod that woman's got a nerve,' said Andy, reading over Bella's shoulder. âCan we veto those two names immediately? One Poppy in our life is more than enough. And Paris? Does she think we're the Beckhams or something?'

Bella laughed.

âBut do tell her that she and Damian can be godparents, if they want â¦'

âOh, they'd love that! Thanks, darling â¦'

âIt would set Junior up for life if Damian starts to earn as much as I think Hollywood screenwriters earn.'

Bella looked at him, smiling. âYou know what, I think that is possibly the least noble thing you've ever said in your life.'

Andy smiled back at her.

âI've never had a child before. I can quite honestly say, my love, that when it comes to our baby,
bugger my tiresome principles
!'

âBugger your tiresome principles.' Bella laughed,
overwhelmed
by happiness.

Andy kissed her. And then he kissed her tummy again.

To my fantastic agent, Annabel Merullo at PFD, for enabling me to do what I've always wanted to do, and the amazing Laura Williams, for your constant support and dedication beyond the call of duty (I didn't really expect you to respond to that Sunday night email immediately!).

Sarah Ritherdon, my brilliant editor, for being right â yet again! â the blood, sweat and tears behind the enormous rewrite were definitely worth it in the end; Kate, Elinor, Hannah, Alice and the rest of the team at HarperCollins for all your hard work behind the scenes.

My wonderful friends and family (especially the Mafioso team of cousins!), for being such fabulous promoters of
Revelry
. At times I've felt overwhelmed by all your love and support.

And, as always, to Andy. For having the patience of a saint combined with the culinary ability of Michel Roux; for making me laugh, keeping me sane, and just for being you.

Read on for an extract from Lucy Lord's next book
TREACHERY

Tamara Gold pouted at herself in the mirror as she applied a third layer of mascara. The mascara was unnecessary, as the long, fluttery eyelash extensions were individually applied on a weekly basis, but Tamara had yet to learn the meaning of âless is more'.

Tamara had been a cute kid, whose red hair, pretty freckled face and slightly goofy grin had landed her many a movie role and legions of fans. The child star was smoking weed by the time she was 12, snorting coke at 13 and had been in rehab three times by the age of 15. She had been clean for nearly 10 years now, and intended to stay that way.

The adult movie star bore little resemblance to the child actress; so successful had her transformation been that few people remembered the goofy little redhead. The tiny frame that had enabled her to carry on playing 10 year olds well into her teens had not blossomed as well as she'd hoped, so Tamara â encouraged by her unscrupulous parents â had paid for her first breast implants herself the day she turned 16. The teeth came next â Hollywood perfect veneers corrected the gappy grin shortly after the boob job, and âpreventative' Botox three times a year kept her crooked dermatologist in the expensive brandy and cigars he favoured.

Freckles were out of the question for an adult movie goddess, so Tamara kept out of the LA sun, and had her slender (yet boobalicious) body spray-tanned twice a week by one of her many beauty therapists. The ginger hair was dyed a lustrous chocolate brown that now fell in heavy waves down to her most recent breasts, and contact lenses in a vast range of greens gave the impression that she had extraordinary eyes that lightened or darkened to match her mood. Only her parents and Jack, her fiancÃ©, knew that they were really a sludgy shade of hazel. Tamara's sexy, bee-stung pout was, of course, pure collagen, and two hours a day with a personal trainer gave her delicate frame the muscle definition that Hollywood now required.

In short, pretty much everything about Tamara Gold was fake. But the effect was stunning, and she knew it.

âTamara! Surely you must be ready by now?' Jack Meadows, her fiancÃ©, was rapping at the bathroom door impatiently. âOur first guests have arrived.'

âGo greet them, then.' Tamara checked herself out again in the multi-mirrored bathroom. âYou're good at that, with your
educated charm
.' The final words were laden with bitter sarcasm.

She and Jack had met on the set of their first movie together, an enormously successful remake of Anthony and Cleopatra, in which they'd fallen deeply in lust with one another. Their on- and off-screen romance had been so widely publicised â the new Liz Taylor and Richard Burton â that they now rivalled Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie as Tinseltown's most high-profile couple. âJamara' didn't have quite the same ring to it as âBrangelina', though. âTack' didn't even bear thinking of.

Tamara thought she loved Jack â as much as she could love anyone, damaged little girl that she still was â but sometimes he could be a real pain in the ass. He had been educated at Dwight, one of the most prestigious boys' schools in New York, Princeton, and then â to cap it all â the Lee Strasbourg school of acting. He was respected, with or without her.

Whereas she had been a classic Hollywood car-crash kid, endlessly mocked in the tabloids, paparazzi constantly with their cameras up her skirt â even
after
she'd got clean, for chrissakes. Being with Jack gave her kudos. His kindness and decency also gave her the sense of security that had been lacking for most of her life. So she needed him.

But sometimes she just thought, â
Screw you Jack, I can do this on my own.'

Now, having slithered into a tiny emerald green satin bikini that matched the brightest of her contact lenses, she looked into the mirror that reflected the mirror behind her, which gave her a perfect view of her perfect, tight little bottom.

âKiss my ass, Jack,' she said, thrusting it out, patting it, kissing her own hand and then kissing her reflection in the mirror. âAnd all you fuckers out there can kiss my ass too.'

She took one more look at herself and smiled. Yes, she looked
beyond fabulous
, as her gay hairdresser was wont to say.

She was ready to face her public.

About the Author

Lucy Lord is a journalist and columnist who has written for
The Times
,
Guardian
,
Independent
,
Evening Standard
,
Time Out
and
Arena
. Her favourite pastimes are reading, writing, lying in hammocks, lunching on beaches and
throwing parties. She lives in London with her musi
cian husband.

Also by Lucy Lord

Party Night
(Short Story ebook)

Revelry

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers

77â85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Lucy Lord asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Source ISBN: 9780007441747

Version 1

FIRST EDITION

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