Country Pursuits (40 page)

This was why she was so worried about Caro. She had never seen her granddaughter look so stunning. But at what cost emotionally? Her slim shape was clad in a beautiful olive-green dress that hugged her in a bodice and flared out at the bottom into a fishtail shape. Exquisite diamonds, given to her on her twenty-first by Johnnie and Tink, glittered at her ears, neck and wrists. Her hair, freshly streaked from the hairdressers, had been artfully put up in a sexy, almost casual chignon, a few select strands falling about her neck. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm, Clementine thought.

Aware of being watched, Caro looked up from a table plan and glanced at her grandmother. She smiled, but it failed to mask the sadness and hurt in her eyes. As if a fist was being squeezed around it, Clementine's heart contracted in sorrow and anger. She had seen Sebastian Belmont for what he was from the moment she'd met him. But Caro had been so head-over-heels in love Clementine hadn't been able to bring herself to interfere. Now, she wondered if maybe she should have. She had hoped Milo would tame Seb and give him a sense of responsibility for the first time in his life. To her dismay, he seemed to have had the opposite effect.

‘All ready, Granny Clem?' Calypso appeared beside her, patting the back of her hair to check it was still in place. ‘It's five to; I'm going to stand by the front door to welcome the VIPs.' Clementine nodded, feeling slightly nauseous as nerves and anticipation stirred in the pit of her stomach.
Calypso squeezed her grandmother's arm. ‘It's going to be fine!' she assured her.

‘I hope so, darling!'

Calypso hurried off and Clementine looked around the ballroom for the umpteenth time. It looked fabulous. Fifty tables decorated in the finest white tablecloths and laid with gleaming solid silver cutlery, a glorious winter flower display the centrepiece on each. An intoxicating scent from the flowers wafted across the room, mixed in with the heady smell of recently polished mahogany. Three huge arched windows ran along each side of the room, and floor-to-ceiling silk magenta curtains framed each one perfectly, pulled back to show the twinkling velvety night sky outside. The heavy, ornate chandeliers had been turned down low, casting a decadent, romantic glow over the room.

We've done our absolute best, thought Clementine. The rest of it was in the lap of the gods.

A few minutes later, the first headlights appeared at the bottom of the drive. They were swiftly followed by more and more. Angie, who was standing at the entrance, thought it looked almost biblical, the bobbing, swaying lights moving nearer like a procession through the distant darkness. Everyone suddenly galvanized into action, burly looking security men in dark suits with ear sets shouting instructions into their walkie-talkies, and the valets and car park attendants milling about expectantly. Inside, waiters in dicky bows hovered, champagne flutes at the ready.

A few minutes later the first car, a midnight-blue
Bentley, pulled up outside. The smartly dressed valet, who didn't look a day over sixteen, stepped forward and opened the door reverently and an old man, dressed in black tie, with splendid white whiskers, emerged. He turned to help his companion out, a grey-haired regal-looking woman in a lavender ball gown. Looking around as if they owned the place, they walked slowly up the front steps. They were followed by a younger, similar-looking couple.

‘The Earl and Countess of Radmore,' Calypso whispered to Angie. ‘That's their son Rollo behind, with his wife Millicent. Between them, they own half of Warwickshire. Oh look – there's the Marquess and Marchioness of Havensbury.' She smiled winningly as the guests swept imperiously in.

After that the floodgates opened. Car after expensive car pulled up and deposited their rich, famous and privileged guests. By 7.30 p.m., one could barely move in the car park for Bentleys, Rolls Royces and Mercedes, the chauffeurs standing around and chatting to each other. For most it would be a long night's wait, but they were used to it.

A sleek, black BMW pulled up, tyres crunching on the frost-covered gravel, and out stepped Elizabeth Hurley, looking every inch the superstar in a long, red, figure-hugging dress and fur stole. A dashing Indian man climbed out of the other side of the car and walked round. ‘That's her husband Arun Nayar, quite cute, isn't he?' Calypso whispered to Angie. Linking arms with Arun, Elizabeth glided up the steps, her dress moving like
flowing water. Across the entrance hall, Camilla looked on with admiration as Calypso greeted the couple, complimenting the celebrity on her outfit and beckoning over attendants to take coats. She is not the slightest bit star-struck, thought Camilla. Moments later, Calypso was air-kissing a debonair-looking Bryan Ferry and sharing a joke with the upper-crust environmental campaigner Zac Goldsmith. The whole Goldsmith clan was there, Zac's sister Jemima Khan looking impossibly glamorous in a cream Chanel number. When an over-excited male admirer rushed up to fawn over her, Calypso stepped in from nowhere and smoothly directed him away in the direction of the champagne.

Camilla jumped as she felt a soft pair of lips brush her neck. She whirled around to find Jed standing there. Her heart missed a beat. Under the soft light of the chandeliers Jed's chiselled face looked like a Grecian statue.

‘You look beautiful,' he said softly.

Camilla blushed. Why did he make her feel like a giddy schoolgirl? ‘Thank you, so do you,' she managed. ‘Well, not beautiful. Handsome.' They smiled at each other. ‘Oh, are you sure about sitting with me on Mummy and Daddy's table? Won't it be a dreadful bore for you?'

Jed caressed the top of her hand. ‘I'm looking forward to it, don't worry.' One of Johnnie and Tink's friends had pulled out that morning with a nasty bout of tonsillitis. They had generously given the place to Jed. Camilla had readily accepted and phoned Jed straight away, but now she was regretting it slightly. What if her parents didn't get
on with him? She couldn't imagine the easy-going Johnnie and Tink having a problem, but she would still have preferred a less full-on introduction for Jed.

Calypso was on cloud nine. Getting stars to confirm they were attending was one thing, actually seeing them turn up was a completely different story. To her delight, they had all arrived, including a famous American pop star and her new toy-boy husband, who swanned in looking fabulous in sunglasses and matching black tuxedoes. They were followed by a gamine-looking Kate Moss in a striking Alexander McQueen dress. Her trademark rock-chick locks had been cut into a startling peroxide blonde crop. The other guests started chattering wildly when they saw her, and Calypso fervently hoped the photographers loitering at the end of the drive had got a picture. The supermodel's new hairstyle would be all over the papers tomorrow and give them even more publicity.

‘Urgh, what's
she
doing here?' Calypso made no effort to stop her nose wrinkling as a heavily made-up Sabrina slunk in, wearing a rather tarty short pink satin dress. She was accompanied by a tall, thin brunette with legs up to her armpits, and a hard, knowing face.

‘Who?' asked Camilla. She'd just had a furious snog with Jed behind a suit of armour and had reluctantly disengaged herself to bring her sister a glass of champagne and to see if she needed any help. Caro was still rushing around the ballroom like a madwoman, making sure all the name cards were in the right place.

‘Sabrina Cox. And boy does she love them! She's
a low-rent model from Chelsea who makes a living out of latching on to rich playboys. Until they get bored of her, or vice versa. I hear she's shagging some Mafioso billionaire now.' Calypso looked her up and down as contemptuously as only she could. ‘God, what does she look like?' She took the glass from Camilla. ‘Thanks, Bills. I think all the VIPs are in now, trust old slaggy pants to come in last and try and upstage everyone.' She paused and studied Sabrina, who was looking around at the crowd like a meerkat. ‘I heard she was after Sebastian as well.'

‘
Caro's
Sebastian?' exclaimed Camilla. She watched as Sabrina grabbed a flute from a waiter, unsubtly yanking the neckline of her dress down to expose even more cleavage. ‘He wouldn't, would he? I mean, I know he's not perfect but . . .'

‘Bloody hope not,' said Calypso dismissively. ‘One thing I
do
know is that that old trout is about fifteen years older than she tells everyone. A girl who works at the Botox clinic she goes to told me she's
ancient
. About forty-three at least.'

As the glamorous guests filled the room, the place reeked of power, fame and money, both old and new. Caro was just using her compact to put on a hasty application of lipstick when she saw Benedict Towey walk in, Amelia on his arm. He'd obviously been away somewhere hot and exotic. His hair was bleached by the sun to a dirty surfer-boy blond, and a deep tan made his blue eyes sparkle. Momentarily he and Caro had eye-contact. He looked at her as if he'd just scraped her off the bottom of his Tod's loafer and turned sharply away.

In spite of receiving umpteen compliments on her appearance, Caro was feeling dead inside.
She'd had yet another row with Sebastian just before they'd come out. He'd wanted to wake Milo up to show him off to his awful City friends. They'd come down for the ball and had been gathered in the sitting room downstairs with their equally awful wives, downing glasses of Cristal and bragging about how much money they made. Caro, quite rightly, had refused. After all, she'd just put Milo down, and had to finish getting ready herself.

‘Don't be such a precious little bitch,' Sebastian had snapped at her, before stalking downstairs to announce to the entire room that his wife was clearly suffering from a bad bout of PMT and refused to get Milo up. ‘No shag for me tonight, then,' he had said, throwing back the last of his Cristal.

‘Oh, I'm sure that won't stop you getting your end away somewhere, Sebbo,' one of the men had drawled. The whole room had erupted: the men guffawing into their glasses, and the wives gleefully tittering and shooting nervous looks at one another, maliciously grateful it wasn't one of them in the firing line tonight instead. Caro, standing on the landing getting her tights out of the airing cupboard, had heard every word.

By now the reception was in full swing. Richard Branson was chatting with Naomi Campbell and the Duchess of York, making them laugh at a riotous joke. In the middle of the room, ex-
Daily Mirror
editor Piers Morgan was receiving glowering looks from several disgraced aristocrats he'd done risqué exposés on. Luckily Piers seemed blissfully oblivious to the animosity as he engaged in an intense conversation with Salman Rushdie. A large
group of guests were being entertained by the celebrated street magician Dynamo, who was wowing his audience by levitating one of their solid gold pens whilst simultaneously body popping on the spot.

Camilla was standing chatting to Poppy Cadwell, an old school chum of hers. ‘Have you heard Angus is here tonight?' Poppy asked her. As if on cue, Camilla caught sight of her ex-fiancé across the room. He was looking more red-cheeked than ever in a dusty dinner jacket. Beside him was a horsy looking girl. She was about Camilla's age, but matched Angus for height and broadness of shoulders. She was wearing an unflattering mustard-yellow taffeta dress, her long brown hair pulled back with a black Alice band. Angus said something to her and she threw back her head and brayed with laughter, exposing huge, buck-like front teeth. He gazed at her as if she was the prettiest girl in the world.

‘That's Tamara Knatchbull-Drake, I hear she's Angus's new girlfriend,' said Poppy, looking anxiously at Camilla. She needn't have worried. Camilla watched as Tamara downed a glass of champagne in one gulp and promptly put the glass on her head. Angus roared with laughter, and Camilla couldn't help but smile.

‘Poppy, I think they're absolutely perfect for each other. I mean it.'

‘Phew,' said Poppy. ‘I thought things were going to get a bit hairy, then.' She took a sip of her champagne. ‘I say, what on earth is wrong with Lady Fraser? She looks like she's seen a ghost!'

Camilla swivelled her head round. Frances was
standing in the middle of a group of men and women. She was looking as elegant as ever in a simple black cocktail dress, and had obviously been holding court when something had made her stop in her tracks. Her guests were looking at her with a mixture of bemusement and concern. Every drop of colour had drained from Frances's face, even her lips. She was standing stock still, staring through the crowds towards the front door.

Instinctively Camilla followed her gaze. What on earth was Frances looking at? At the door, she could see that some guests were gathered, drinking and laughing, while a pretty brunette had just walked in. Several men were eyeballing her with interest, but the girl seemed oblivious, surveying the room as if she was working up the courage to go further in. She looked vaguely familiar. It must be one of the celebrity guests, Camilla thought.

Then she looked again. And nearly keeled over as the features she knew so well suddenly fell into place. Later, she described the moment to her parents as like watching television with bad reception and suddenly getting the aerial fixed.

‘Harriet?' she tried to say, but it came out as a croak. It couldn't be!

She was snapped out of her shock by a long-drawn-out scream. Camilla turned around just in time to see Lady Frances Fraser slide gracefully to the floor in a dead faint.

‘But where have you
been
?' asked Sir Ambrose Fraser shakily. He, Frances, Camilla and Harriet were in a small, cosy sitting room at the back of the house.

‘Does it matter? She's back with us now, and that's all that counts.' Frances had recovered sufficiently, and was lying on a chaise longue, a glass of water in her hand. She looked at her daughter and her voice broke. ‘Oh darling, we thought you were dead!'