A Winter's Wedding (20 page)

‘What’s the matter, my love?’ Arabella said, rushing across to hug her.

‘It’s Jane – she just told me she’s engaged to Doug,’ Petra sobbed. ‘Can you believe it? They’ve only been dating for about five minutes, but he’s told her she’s
the one
.’

‘She must be having you on; I didn’t see a ring,’ Arabella said.

‘They haven’t announced it yet,’ Petra told her.

‘I wonder why not?’ Emily asked. ‘I mean, Jane would just love to be in all the gossip magazines, wouldn’t she?’

‘Doug’s lawyers told him they need time to check whether Daisy can sue him for pain and distress,’ Petra explained, dabbing her tears away with a pink napkin. ‘Apparently, Doug promised Daisy he would give her a starring role in one of his soaps. But now he wants nothing more to do with her. He says she has a temper on her like a volcano. She threw half his clothes in the pool last week, because he kissed Uma Thurman on the cheek at an awards do. But never mind all that! He’s with Jane now, and Doug’s so rich that Jane’ll never have to work again. And here’s me twice-divorced – with negative equity, a rubbish car and a set of clothes from the Ark.’

‘And your dignity, my darling; don’t forget you’ve still got your dignity. I’m
so
glad I’m single, I can tell you,’ Arabella said. ‘They all do the dirty on you in the end, the faithless brutes.’

Emily thought of Dylan and said nothing. After all, it was Arabella’s party – and she didn’t want to argue with her.

‘I’ll do the savouries, shall I?’ she offered.

‘Would you? I’d be so grateful,’ Arabella said, handing a cigarette to Petra and taking one herself. ‘Cheer up, old thing,’ she said to Petra, flicking her cigarette lighter open. ‘There’s not a single man on this earth worth ruining your mascara for. And it doesn’t matter how much money you’ve got when you’re lying awake at night, wondering what the hell they’re doing – and who they’re doing it with.’

‘I suppose so,’ Petra said.

‘That’s my girl,’ Arabella soothed.

‘I despise men,’ Petra said.

‘Me too,’ Arabella replied.

‘They’re all perverts,’ Petra declared.

‘Absolutely,’ Arabella nodded.

Emily said nothing.

She set two trays of mini-quiches in the oven, refilled the chips-and-dip tray, then went back to join the party.

21. Election Special

It was the 22nd of December. Emily and Arabella stood outside the imposing apartment door and tried not to giggle; they were so excited they could hardly speak. Arabella was practically hopping from one foot to the other with delight. She was wearing enough make-up to open a cosmetics company. Emily had pinned a silk hydrangea to the lapel of her denim jacket.

‘I cannot believe we are doing this,’ Emily whispered.

‘I know. Me neither,’ Arabella whispered back.

‘Why are we whispering?’ Emily whispered again.

‘I don’t know,’ Arabella mimed.

The two women clutched each other in silent mirth.

‘What a posh wreath,’ Emily said, sniffing the cinnamon bunches on the lavish wreath attached to the door knocker.

‘I know,’ Arabella agreed.

‘You ring the bell,’ Emily said quietly.

‘No, you do it. I’m too nervous,’ Arabella replied.

They both looked at the bronze buzzer with its barley-twist detail and started giggling all over again.

‘I don’t think I can bring myself to touch Jeremy’s buzzer,’ Emily said eventually.

‘Oh, listen. No double entendres today, please – or I’ll die laughing,’ Arabella squeaked.

‘I think I need the loo,’ Emily said anxiously.

‘Why don’t you ask Jeremy if you can use his?’ Arabella said. ‘I hear it’s made of solid gold.’

‘I reckon it’s only gold-plated. Would you pull yourself together, and stop making me laugh? I knew it was a mistake to let you come with me today,’ Emily hissed.

‘Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t miss this tack-fest for the world,’ Arabella said, rubbing her hands together with anticipation.

‘Well, listen. We’ve got to keep up some pretence of good manners,’ Emily warned her friend solemnly, ‘even if we never use the pictures, right?’

‘Right,’ Arabella agreed.

‘This will probably be a massive waste of time,’ Emily said crossly.

She was feeling giddy, cross, irritable, nervous, excited and terrified all at the same time. This was their highest-ever reader profile.

‘No, it won’t,’ Arabella told her. ‘We’ll get a jolly good laugh out of it, and we’ll have something to talk about for the next five years. This man could be Prime Minister some day. And we’ll be able to say we were in his bedroom. Go on, push the button.’

Emily pushed it with a shaking finger.

‘Emily just touched Jeremy’s buzzer,’ Arabella said softly. ‘How did it feel, Emily?’

‘Shut up! I mean it – we’ve got to behave professionally.’

‘I should never have let you be editor that time,’ Arabella said sadly. ‘The power has gone to your head completely.’

The door swung open. Both women stood up straight like soldiers on parade.

‘Good morning,’ said a handsome young man with three shades of blond highlights in his gelled-up hair. He was wearing an expensive lemon sweater, impeccable grey slacks and neat grey sneakers. His tan was glowing and golden, and his teeth were gleaming white. His eyebrows had definitely been shaped in a beauty salon.

‘I see you’ve met my partner, Julian,’ said a fiendishly sexy voice from behind them.

Emily and Arabella wheeled round to find Jeremy Cavendish MP standing in the corridor, holding a paper bag full of pastries from the most upmarket deli in London.

‘Jeremy, how absolutely lovely to meet you at long last,’ Arabella trilled.

‘Thank you so much for the invitation,’ Emily added.

Jeremy shook both their hands, and there was a bit of air kissing and bowing and hugging.

‘We’ve all heard what a keen decorator you are …’ Arabella said brightly.

‘And we’re so flattered you’d like to be in
Stylish Living
,’ Emily finished.

‘What an enchanting double act you are,’ Jeremy smiled.

‘I’ve made coffee,’ Julian told them, beckoning both women into the hall.

‘Shut this door and keep the heat in,’ Jeremy added, coming in and closing the heavy front door behind them.

‘I hope our humble home meets with your approval,’ Jeremy said, hanging up his scarf and coat in a cupboard with its door painted to match the hall walls.

Arabella and Emily couldn’t help craning their necks to see into the cupboard; it was all neatly laid out with Perspex shoe racks and a brass rail for the coats. No clutter to be seen, there was even a small painting of a pair of shoes on the wall, with a picture light above it.

‘I’m speechless,’ Arabella said, and for once it was true.

The apartment was beyond amazing – soft grey walls, solid wooden floor laid out in a parquet pattern, two old-gold chandeliers and an Impressionist-style artwork hanging above the console table. Two high-backed antique chairs stood sentinel on either side of the table, and there was a massive stone angel that must have come from a Victorian cemetery standing by the stairs. One entire wall was lined with custom-made bookcases; all the books seemed to be about art and sculpture. And that was just the entrance hall.

Arabella and Emily glanced at each other; this was not what they had been expecting. Rumours had been circulating around London for years that Jeremy Cavendish lived in a glorified gay disco full of pink scatter cushions, cheap silk flowers and modern art prints. But this apartment was so perfect, it was on a par with Coco Chanel’s boudoir.

‘Mr Cavendish – I mean, Jeremy – this is breathtaking,’ Emily said at last. ‘You have got to tell us the name of your decorator.’

‘Yes, please do,’ Arabella added.

‘You’re looking right at him,’ Jeremy said, nodding at Julian.

‘I don’t believe it. This delightful young man can’t be more than twenty-five,’ Arabella purred. ‘He can’t possibly be responsible for such perfection.’

‘That’s right, he is; he’s just out of college,’ Jeremy said affectionately. ‘An MA in Fine Art, but he makes a living doing interiors. He did all this, from top to bottom. And that’s one of his paintings there above the table. He’s the love of my life, ladies. We’re having a civil partnership next year.’

Arabella almost passed out. Could the UK really be in line to have a married
gay
PM some day? And married to an artist, no less; it was all so gloriously perfect!

Nobody mentioned the fact that Jeremy Cavendish was fifty-two. He was a good-looking man, and it was known that he went jogging every day to keep fit. And age-gap love affairs were all the rage nowadays, obviously, Arabella thought bitterly. David was twelve years older than Mary, after all. And look at Jane and Doug – a twenty-five-year gap between them. Still, all that stuff was behind her now; she was a single woman and the editor in chief of a prestigious magazine. And she was just about to get the scoop of her career.

‘Did somebody say coffee?’ Arabella asked politely.

‘Follow me,’ Julian said, striding down the beautiful hallway towards the kitchen.

‘I really can’t take it all in,’ Arabella breathed as Emily got out her camera and began lining up shots.

The kitchen was composed of six freestanding, distressed dressers. Each one was loaded with all-glass dishes, jars of wooden spoons and rustic bottles of olive oil. The table appeared to consist of two more cemetery angels with a glass top laid above them.

‘I’ll get a plate for the buns,’ Jeremy said, ‘and you two ladies, please be seated.’

‘I love that shade of green; so evocative,’ Emily said, indicating the olive-coloured walls.’

‘I’m
so
over white,’ Julian said modestly.

‘Me too,’ Arabella replied, making a mental note to have her own home repainted as soon as possible.

Greys and greens were the new whites, or so it seemed.

‘Where did you get the statuary?’ Emily asked, flicking out her notebook. She was afraid to reach for a pastry. The tall, chocolate-covered confections looked as if they cost ten pounds each.

‘The statue came from a reclamation yard in Austria. Help yourselves to the buns, please,’ Julian said, setting out green glass plates and cups.

‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ Arabella said as she gingerly scooped up a pastry and bit into it.

‘I say that to myself every night,’ Jeremy said mischievously, blowing Julian a kiss from across the table.

‘Concentrate, you naughty boy,’ Julian scolded, though he did blow a kiss back.

‘He loves to boss me about,’ Jeremy laughed.

‘This coffee is beyond delicious,’ Emily said quickly.

Her face was starting to blush. Jeremy was clearly obsessively in love with his new boyfriend. She wondered if a twelve-page feature on their fabulous home would propel Jeremy Cavendish straight into political history, or bury his career for ever under six feet of homophobia. Well, that was Arabella’s call. She accepted a pastry, and began to eat it delicately with a small silver fork. Then she picked up her camera and took a few snaps of her plate. She got a lovely picture of some of the spilt icing sugar on the glass table, with the statue’s face in the background.

‘Don’t mind our Emily, she’s devoted to her work,’ Arabella said proudly.

‘I loved your brochure on de-cluttering,’ Julian said kindly.

‘Thank you,’ Arabella said graciously. ‘That was Emily’s handiwork. So tell me about the apartment.’

‘I bought it last year, just before I met Julian, and he kindly offered to decorate it for me. And that’s it, really,’ Jeremy smiled.

‘Can we say what the place cost?’ Arabella asked. ‘Or maybe we shouldn’t mention cost? I don’t want to drop you in it regarding the MPs’ second-home allowance.’

‘No, my darling, it is not my second home,’ Jeremy said sweetly. ‘Do you think I’d have let you in the door today if it were? This is my one and only home, and I paid for it myself. Well, okay, I paid for it with an inheritance, thank you very much. It was £750,000. I can’t deny there’s some old money floating about in the Cavendish family coffers. But that’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Not at all,’ Arabella assented. ‘I wish some dear old aunt would pop her clogs and leave me a load of money.’

‘Indeed,’ Jeremy smiled, pouring more coffee.

‘At least I’ve invested my windfall in property and helped the economy,’ Jeremy added. ‘I could have nipped off to the Bahamas with it and left dear old Britain behind. This place hasn’t warmed up in years.’

‘That’s true,’ Emily admitted.

‘I’m almost afraid to ask this question, but do you think you’ll be PM some day?’ Arabella said, patting some chocolate sauce from her crimson lips with a paper napkin.

‘We will, of course,’ Jeremy said confidently. ‘I have no doubt of it. And then we shall set about making this country great again.’

‘So do you think we should focus on politics with this feature, or on your forthcoming happy union with Julian?’ Arabella wanted to know.

‘Both,’ Jeremy replied at once. ‘I think it’s time to put this country back on the map – both as a centre of art and culture, and as a country that respects committed relationships of all kinds.’

‘Bravo! Hear, hear,’ Julian said happily. ‘Let me show you the bedrooms, and then we can round off the tour with the sitting room, the study and the TV den.’

Arabella and Emily were out of their seats in a heartbeat.

‘Our bed is a reproduction four-poster, and it has twenty-eight pillows and cushions on it,’ Julian said proudly. ‘It takes half an hour each morning to make the bed. We had to sleep in the guest bedroom last night, because I knew there wouldn’t be time to stage our room for your visit.’

Oh boy, Emily thought to herself as the four of them went prancing up the stairs. This is going to be good.

And it was.

She got a super picture of the two men sitting rigidly on the bed together, holding hands but staring straight ahead like something from an art-house film.

Arabella was positively giddy for the rest of the day. She bought everyone in the office a box of luxury chocolates, and took them all to PizzaExpress for supper. She even gave Jane Maxwell a hug, and told her she was doing great work as a stylist.

‘Emily,’ Arabella said triumphantly to Emily in the taxi home that night, ‘we have arrived.’

‘We have?’

‘Yes. Not only will I be putting Jeremy and Julian and their bed on the next front cover of
Stylish Living
, I will also be relaunching the magazine as a truly upmarket celebrity style bible.’

‘Are you sure about that? What if we can’t find a celebrity for every issue?’

‘Are you serious? They’ll be queuing up to be in it. I’m sure Jane will be able to get us lots of big names now she’s partying with Doug and his pals. We might even go global, start shipping issues abroad. We’ll get more advertising, and you and I can go on junkets to Nantucket and Moscow. Oh, Emily, this is going to be huge.’

‘Welcome back to the wonderful world of
Stylish Living
,’ Emily said dryly.

But Arabella just threw back her head and laughed until the tears were running down her face.