Divas (2 page)

Lola’s eyes were big and dark and slightly slanted; her nose, while nothing special in itself, had been minimally straightened and shaved down so it was perfectly symmetrical. Her lower
lip was markedly fuller than her upper one, but (a) that was actually very pretty, and (b) she had never seen anyone have a successful time with collagen-in-lip injections, so why fix something
that wasn’t broken?

Ditto with the breasts. Hers weren’t large, but they were lovely, small and round, and because they weren’t too big, she could wear anything she wanted. She could even wear a frock
slashed right down to the waist and look elegant. Sexy, yes: vulgar, no. Which was important, because women envied you much more for looking elegant than they did for looking vulgar.

And Lola’s aim was to be envied by every single woman in the world. Women on the street. Women in her social set. Women who bought weekly glossy gossip magazines, or monthly fashion
bibles, thick and heavy with advertising, and thumbed through them for insights as to how the one per cent of really rich, beautiful people lived. Women who stopped at a picture of you and wished
with all their hearts that
this
was how they looked, that they were inside Lola Fitzgerald’s shiny, golden body, tossing her mane of gilded hair, living Lola Fitzgerald’s
sun-kissed, charmed, beautiful life.

‘Miss Fitzgerald?’ the receptionist repeated, a degree of desperation entering her voice.

After her detailed survey, Lola decided that, to be utterly honest, it wasn’t as if her face was really capable of that much improvement. Not after the peels and the fillers and the Botox.
It wasn’t that she
needed
Botox, but if you had it in your twenties as a preventative measure, you didn’t need plastic surgery till your late forties, according to Dr Block.
Almost everyone Lola knew Botoxed on a regular basis.

She glanced over her shoulder at the reception desk, the nervous tweetings of the receptionist having finally penetrated her consciousness.

‘I’m
so sorry
, Miss Fitzgerald, but your card isn’t going through! Do you have another one I could try?’

Sighing impatiently, Lola flipped out another card from the pink calfskin cardholder she’d just bought in a sweet little boutique in St Trop – it would be perfect for this summer,
she’d throw it at her cleaning lady after that and get something a couple of shades darker for autumn. With a half-smile and a small bob of the head, the receptionist scraped the card along
the desk with her long fingernails till it reached the edge and she could lever it up and insert it into the chip-and-PIN machine.

Lola tapped in her code with a perfectly manicured finger. Just then her phone beeped, and she fished it out of her bag.

‘Lo? It’s India.’

‘Hi, darling! I’m just finishing up at Dr Block’s.’

‘Well, hurry up! We’re all here waiting for you—’

The receptionist was saying something, which Lola found highly annoying. She had her regular appointments already booked in; she was fully stocked with Dr Block’s skin wipes and cleansers
and polishes, as the receptionist ought to know, as it was part of her job to send new ones out whenever Lola was due to be running low; so there was really
nothing
this woman with over-long
fingernails needed to say to her at all, especially not in the middle of a very important phone conversation—

‘Miss Fitzgerald?’ The receptionist’s face was screwed up into a tight little knot, as if she were carrying all the embarrassment on Lola’s behalf. ‘This card
– it’s been declined as well . . .’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Lola said impatiently. ‘No, not you, India! Some stupid—’

But then, by complete accident, she actually caught the receptionist’s eye.

Lola never looked directly at service people. Why bother? It made her feel awkward, because their eyes were always needy. They wanted to be her – they wanted some of her gilding to rub off
on them and make them, for one brief moment, as shiny as her. Even if they resented her, even if they downright hated her, they still wanted that touch of gold. Poor things. As if, even if they had
it, they’d know what to do with it.

This woman looked needy, of course she did, but she was visibly nervous, too. She suddenly reminded Lola of Devon’s horrible husband’s poor Labradors, who he kicked all the time
while loudly announcing that they loved it. So Lola took a breath, changed direction, and continued:

‘. . . Some stupid problem with my cards, ’ and, to be extra nice, she gave the receptionist a dazzling smile as she removed the card from her clasp and slid it back into the pink
calfskin.

‘Oh God, I hate that!’ India was hugely sympathetic. ‘I had that in St Bart’s in February, there was some sort of transfer that hadn’t gone through and it jammed me
up so badly at this boutique –
so embarrassing
—’

‘It’s just some ridiculous mistake I don’t have time to deal with right now, ’ Lola said to both India and the receptionist. ‘Look, just bill me – I’ve
really got to dash, it’s my hen night—’

The receptionist nodded subserviently. She was more than happy to assume that this was a momentary glitch in the extremely well-oiled system that funnelled vast sums of money from Lola’s
father’s bank accounts into Lola’s own.

Lola clipped away from the desk, her white jeans so tight it was hard to walk fast in them. The floor of the office was marble, and the atmosphere in here was always reverentially quiet,
church-like, every visitor a worshipper at the shrine of artificial beauty. Lola’s Jimmy Choos clicked at the marble in fast, tiny little stabs, like the injections Dr Block had just dotted
into her face.

‘India? I’m literally down the street. Be there in five.’

After the respectful hush of the dermatologist’s office, New Bond Street in early spring was bustling as always with rich old men, young men in suits who worked in galleries and auction
houses, and perfectly groomed girls who dated both types of men at the same time. Lola wove through the crowds, drawing her customary more-than-appreciative stares from the men, and noticing, as
was second nature to her, the quality of the brief glances the women gave her. Women wouldn’t stare – that would be paying her too much of a compliment. But they flashed their eyes
quickly, up and down, a razor-blade slice of assessment of their competition.

The nail salon was half a block down New Bond Street, one floor up. Lola managed to wiggle up the stairs –
God, these jeans had no give in them at all
– and entered to cries
of her name. Her four friends were draped over white leather sofas in the antechamber, looking, inevitably, like one of those photoshoots for the glossies that brings together a group of young
socialities and accompanies it with breathless captions about each girl. All of them were heiresses with fat trust funds, girls who were photogenic and loved by the gossip magazines because they
dressed to the nines and partied hard. India was aristocratic, Devon had married a marquis, Lola and Madison were American, so it didn’t matter that their money was new, while Georgia had
already divorced a rackety Russian count and was on the prowl for husband no. 2. They all looked as if they had been styled by Italian
Vogue
: bright colours, sparkling jewellery, artfully
mussed hair. There was only one brunette, and no one was wearing even a touch of black. You didn’t starve yourself and spray on fake tan and work out to the point of collapse just to hide
your trophy body.

‘I love it! You managed to
be late for your own hen night
!’ Georgia purred.

‘I’m so sorry—’ Lola clipped over to Georgia and gave her two enthusiastic air kisses. ‘Dr Block was running late and the bloody receptionist buggered up my card or
something—’

‘Ooh!’ Devon’s eyes widened. ‘You were having the vitamin C shots! Do they work?’

‘You tell me, ’ Lola said, sitting down between Devon and Georgia on one of the sofas and presenting her face under the white-bright lights of the nail salon for detailed
observation. The girls craned in, eyes narrowing as they squinted at her.

‘I think you look a bit shinier, ’ Devon pronounced. ‘In a good way, ’ she added swiftly.

‘Yeah, ’ Madison agreed. ‘Kinda glowier.’

‘Needles in your
face
, ’ India whispered in horror. ‘I don’t know how you can
do
it.’

‘India! Your eyebrows are going to
drop right on top of your eyes
when you’re forty if you don’t have Botox now!’ Madison said passionately. As the only American
in the group, she was naturally the most evangelical about plastic surgery.

‘Crow’s feet, India. Think about it. You blink too much as it is, ’ Devon added.

India’s round moon-face pulled the kind of expression that every other girl present was incapable of making, the crucial facial muscles being temporarily paralysed by Dr Block’s
cunning needles.

‘I just
can’t
, ’ she said hopelessly. India was the poshest by birth, the sweetest by nature and the only one of the group who was plastic-surgery free. Everyone else
thought she was a little slow, frankly.

There was a mass shrug from the rest of them. They had done what they could. Now India was alone with her incipient wrinkles.

‘So!’ Georgia announced. ‘Pedi time! Shoes off, ladies!’

Naturally, Georgia had reserved the whole salon for them, so five minutes later, the anteroom resembled the most exclusive shoe shop in London. Pairs of Jimmys, Manolos and Ginas – all
sandals, of course, chosen to show off the imminent pedicure to best advantage – nestled into each other, glittering and glistening, reflected in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, catching extra
light from the ironic mirrorball twirling slowly in the centre of the room. While each of their owners was ensconced in a state-of-the-art padded white leather chair with full massage system, their
feet soaking in whirlpool baths of water filled with rose petals and gold leaf, about to have pedicures with real diamonds applied to their toes, drinking rose-petal martinis.

‘Oh,
Georgia
. Best hen night ever, ’ Lola sighed happily.

‘First of many!’ Madison said, hoisting her glass aloft. ‘And may you come out richer every time!’

‘
Mad
, ’ India said a little reproachfully. ‘You’re so
American
sometimes. You said that at Dev’s hen, too, and Dev actually loves Piers, you
know.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mind, ’ pretty blonde Devon said easily. ‘Besides, I’m obviously never going to divorce Piers, because of the title.’

‘I still can’t believe you’re going to be a
duchess
, ’ India sighed.

‘Yeah, in twenty years’ time, ’ Devon snapped. ‘When I’m too old to look really fabulous in the coronet.’

Everyone tutted in sympathy. Devon
was
very unlucky that her father-in-law, the current duke, was a spry sixty-year-old with no degenerative diseases.

‘Maybe he’ll have a shooting accident, ’ suggested Madison hopefully.

‘I love you, Mad, ’ Devon commented, ‘you’re always so optimistic . . .’

‘Ahem!’ Lola, justifiably feeling that the focus had wandered away from her own nuptials, coughed loudly and wobbled her glass to call the attention back to herself.

‘Oh God, Lo, I’m sorry!’ Devon said. ‘To Lola and Jean-Marc! First of many and richer every time!’

Everyone giggled, even Lola.

‘I
do
love Jean-Marc, ’ she protested.

‘Of course you do!’ cooed India. ‘We all love Jean-Marc!’

‘Jean-Marc is the most lovable man in the whole of Europe, ’ Devon pronounced. ‘He just has to say “
Enchanté!
”, and smile at you, and you fall in love
with him on the spot.’

‘He is so lovely, ’ Lola agreed complacently. ‘I do adore him.’

Plus, Jean-Marc was the man that every girl in Europe and New York had wanted to marry, but she, Lola Fitzgerald, had walked off with him without even flexing her perfectly manicured fingers to
beckon him towards her. Jean-Marc had proposed within weeks of their first meeting. He was adorable. She loved him to bits. They were going to have the most wonderful life together. Already they
were a staple of the upmarket glossy magazines . . . They had already received tons of requests to style and photograph the two of them smiling in pre-marital bliss . . .

‘He knows all the best clubs, ’ Madison said.

‘And all the best drugs, ’ Georgia chimed in.

‘And all the best places to buy jewellery, ’ Devon added. ‘Those earrings are
unbelievable
.’

‘Yellow diamonds, ’ Lola said smugly, tilting her head so the girls could ooh and aah at the sparkle. ‘He wanted them to match my ring exactly. He says they’re the same
colour as my hair.’

‘
Divine
, ’ Madison breathed.

‘You two are going to be so happy!’ India exclaimed. ‘I’m so jealous!’

‘Jean-Marc could have had anyone, ’ Georgia commented.‘I went after him hard myself. He doesn’t like redheads.’ She sighed, flicking back her auburn locks.

‘You
are
a specialised taste, ’ Madison said seriously. ‘This complete whoremonger friend of my dad’s – after his third divorce he only dates Russian
prostitutes—’

‘Bloody Natashas!’ Devon exclaimed. ‘They’re everywhere! And they’ll do
anything
for money!’

‘Sluts, ’ Georgia agreed.

‘Anyway, ’ Madison went on, ‘he says that the madams don’t keep more than one or two redheads on their books, ever. Because a lot of men just don’t like them. But
if they do, they go crazy for them.’

‘I’m a niche market, ’ Georgia said. ‘Matching collar and cuffs.’

‘
Right
, ’ Madison said witheringly. ‘Like any of us have any pubic hair left.’

That was so true that the conversation fell off for a moment, a natural pause as they all nodded in agreement and sipped their cocktails.

Lola adjusted her shoulders so that the knobs of the massage chair were kneading her just where she wanted them, and settled back, already blissed out. She gazed round the room. Here they were,
five of the most beautiful, most socially successful, wealthiest girls in London, each with her own pedicurist in a white uniform kneeling before her, coaxing one pampered foot after the other out
of the whirlpool baths for a long luscious massage. Five gorgeous examples of what happened when very rich men bred with very beautiful women and used their enormous fortunes to ensure that their
daughters had the best of everything from the cradle onwards, from nutritionists to personal trainers to plastic surgery as soon as the doctors would agree to perform it. They were the girls
everyone wanted to be friends with, the thoroughbreds who shook their manes and cantered through the best parties everywhere, jingling with the sound of tiny bells, shining like stars.