Read Ice Creams at Carrington’s Online

Authors: Alexandra Brown

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Romance

Ice Creams at Carrington’s (3 page)

BOOK: Ice Creams at Carrington’s
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‘Well, that would be brilliant. I’ll chat to Nathan about it. It might put him off the nanny idea for a while longer.’

‘Are you really that against it, then?’

‘Hmm, I can’t help wondering – what if she tries it on with him and they end up having a steamy affair? I know it’s a cliché, but you hear about that kind of thing all the time, and the way I feel at the moment, I’m not entirely sure I’d have the energy to confront them, let alone slap her before chucking them both out,’ she laughs wryly.

‘Don’t be daft. Nathan adores you, so that would never happen. Besides, you could get a manny …’

‘A male nanny! Yes, now that’s a good idea. Like a fit pool boy … But with childcare qualifications obviously,’ Sam confirms, sounding a whole lot perkier, and more like her old self now.

‘Yes, something like that.’ I smile.

‘You could help me with interviews?’

‘Of course I could.’

‘Wonder if I could get away with issuing a uniform – tiny running shorts, perhaps? Perfectly reasonable, seeing as they would definitely be doing lots of running around, the twins will make sure of it.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, enough of this manny talk – more importantly, what are you wearing to the soirée? Indulge me with a few minutes of adult chat about frivolous things like dresses and shoes, instead of eco-friendly reusable nappies because, to be honest, I couldn’t give a shit … oops, no pun intended,’ we both snigger, ‘what little Luella wears on her backside.’

‘Who’s Luella?’

‘Oh, just another overheard conversation in the café – a group of eco-mummies were having a nappycino —’

‘A
whaaaat
?’ I yell, wondering if a bonkers barista somewhere has come up with yet another kind of hot beverage. Hmm,
skinny soya nappycino
to go
– sure doesn’t sound very appetising.

‘Well, it’s not an actual coffee.’
Oh that’s a relief.
‘But from what I can gather, it’s some kind of get-together to chat about nappies. I didn’t join in or anything – was too busy working.’

‘Of course you were,’ I offer in solidarity.

‘Anyway, it got me all edgy about my seemingly indulgent use of disposables, but I can’t get my head around having buckets full of pooey nappies all over the place, waiting for the recycling van. Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough!’ Sam laughs, but I’m sure I detect an edge in her voice. ‘Sooo, your outfit? I bet it’s gorge.’

‘It is,’ I confirm quickly, sensing she’s keen to change the subject. ‘I’m going with that new butterfly print silk maxi-dress that I bought in the Womenswear sale – beautiful, and such a bargain with my staff discount.’

‘Lovely. And shoes?’

‘I was thinking the silver strappy Laurent sandals.’

‘Oh yes! Divine and very super-yacht yah-yah,’ she says in an exaggerated plummy accent.

‘How about you?’

‘With a bit of luck, something baby-gunge free.’

‘Don’t be daft, you always look amazing.’

‘Aw, thanks, and you always cheer me up.’ A short silence follows. ‘Oh for crying out loud –
Jeeeeeeesus.
I don’t believe this …
Nathaaaaaaan
, where the hell are you?’ My stomach tightens.
What on earth has happened?
Something catastrophic, by the sounds of it
.
I hold my breath. ‘Gotta go – Ivy has just tipped raspberry yogurt over Holly’s head.’

And the line goes dead. I sigh with relief.

Stowing my mobile on the bathroom shelf above the mirror, I flick the shower on and select my favourite body wash – Soap & Glory Sugar Crush. Sam has always wanted a big family full of children, and I’m thrilled that she has the twins, and she really does do a fantastic job all round, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for all that just yet.

As the warm water saturates my hair and cascades down my back, I can’t help thinking how wonderful my life is right now, just the way it is – why change it? When I have a job that I adore – two, in fact, plus fab friends, money in the bank, and a cosy, secure home of my own. Dad is back in my life, with Nancy now too, and we’re getting on really well – the three of us are close, loving and supportive, like a proper family should be, and I have a brilliant boyfriend who loves me, and I love him. (I make a mental note to make sure we find the time for us to talk about living together; perhaps he could move in with me? Now there’s a thought … My flat may be small but it’s much more of a proper home than his sterile new-build apartment.) And I honestly can’t remember ever having all these wonderful things, together, at the same time … It’s perfect. And I truly hope it stays this way forever because it’s been a long time coming, but so very worth the wait.

3

T
aking Tom’s hand, I carefully step onto the narrow wooden gangway and through a twink-ling fairy-light-studded voile tunnel, arriving in a Maplewood-panelled stateroom swathed in streams of silver satin with opulent mountains of fruit – grapes, plums, pineapples and pears – all piled high in pewter platters set on head-height pillars. There’s even a ceiling curtain cascading from the enormous central chandelier. A string quartet is playing Mozart in one corner, and a group of waiters – who surely must be Ralph Lauren models, they’re that fit – are loading up silver trays with canapés in the other.

The whole yacht looks like an Italian Renaissance painting. On one wall, there’s even a giant mural of Botticelli’s
The Birth Of Venus
– I know, because I read up when Tom and I first got together. He’s a talented artist in his spare time, and I wanted to appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. And I can see where he gets it from now; I imagine he grew up surrounded by this stuff – a million miles away from the Take That poster I had pinned to the space beside my bed.


Ciao, mio bel figlio
. Tom, daaahling, you made it!’ It’s Isabella, looking resplendent in a floor-grazing lemon lace Givenchy gown. And blimey, she’s even wearing a jewelled tiara on top of her immaculately coiffed jet-black hair. She loops her arm through Tom’s and immediately steers him away from me. I smile as he glances over his shoulder to mouth ‘sorry’ when Isabella refuses to let him go. She’s definitely not taking no for an answer; even when he tactfully tries to release his arm from her grasp, she grabs his hand instead and practically catapults him towards her guests. Poor Tom. He hates being cantered out like some kind of show pony.

‘What’s she come as? Queen of fucking everything!’

An arm circles my waist. I spin around – I’d recognise that outrageously acerbic voice anywhere.

Eddie!

Oh my God. We chat on the phone and Twitter all the time, but I haven’t actually seen Eddie, physically, in ages, and now he’s here, standing right in front of me and looking more like a superstar than ever. His dapper blond hair is now all messy quiff, and he’s wearing an exquisitely tailored charcoal grey Tom Ford suit. And on closer inspection he’s had a little lifting work around his sparkly blue-green eyes and his brows have definitely been manscaped. He looks fantastic. Flawless. And smells divine, too, of tropical summer holidays – coconut and citrus.

‘What are you doing here?’ I fling my arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. ‘God I’ve missed you. I thought you were in LA.’ Eddie is my other best friend and used to work at Carrington’s as Tom’s BA, or boy assistant – that was before he was ‘discovered’ on Kelly’s TV show and practically became a superstar overnight. He has his own chat show with a Saturday night primetime slot, and a reality series called
Eddie: I Do It My Way
, and lives between his villa in the Hollywood hills and a penthouse apartment overlooking Mulberry Marina. And he’s actually stayed at Simon Cowell’s house in America, as Simon’s personal guest! Doesn’t get much starrier than that.

‘Tom invited me – as a nice surprise for you,’ Eddie says, as we pull apart.

‘Aw, how lovely. He’s so thoughtful,’ I beam.

‘Ooh, he is – the quintessential gentleman. Delish too. Not as beautiful as my Ciaran, mind you, but still, a very close second.’ He nudges me.

‘How is Ciaran? Is he here?’ I scan the deck.

‘No, he’s looking after Pussy – you know what a diva that dog is, hates travelling and refuses to go in a crate, so Ciaran’s flown straight back to LA with her on his lap after she created the most almighty fuss when Claire dared to go near her.’ I laugh and shake my head. Pussy is Eddie’s fluffy white bichon frise, and thoroughly spoilt, so it’s hardly surprising. Claire is Eddie’s manager, Peter André’s too.

‘Straight back? What do you mean?’

‘Only a fleeting visit, petal. Filming starts on my second series tomorrow. We were in Ireland yesterday, at some windswept tiny town that time forgot …’ He rolls his eyes. ‘For Ciaran’s cousin’s wedding – Sinéad, Shona, Sorcha; something like that, anyway … I forget which one, he has that many … and I wasn’t even drinking.’ He waves a dismissive hand in the air and I smile, thinking, same old Eddie, as grandiose as ever, fame really hasn’t changed him one bit; he must be the only person I know who can go to a wedding and then claim not even to know the bride’s name the very next day. ‘Yes, it was a last-minute decision – we weren’t going to bother after the way his family shunned him when he finally leapt out of the closet. Anyone would think he’d tried to poke the Pope, the way they all carried on.’ Eddie pauses to pull a face while I wonder if perhaps it was just that they were a bit shocked. I mean, Ciaran did actually come out at his own wedding, to a
woman
, after all. It was all annulled quite swiftly, but still, his mother is practically on first-name terms with the Pope, so I can’t imagine it was easy for her. ‘But you know how Ciaran is for all that family stuff, and then when his Catholic guilt kicked in, I just couldn’t bear watching him perched on the proverbial spike doing all that hand-wringing, so we dashed to the airport and managed to get last-minute flights. Plus I needed to check on the apartment and then remembered Tom’s invite, so I thought, why not pop in and see my most fabulous bestie in the whole wide world. So,
surprise surprise
!’ Eddie bats a hand in the air. ‘But I haven’t got long, I have to check in for the return flight in like …’ he pulls back a sleeve to glance at his watch, ‘an hour!’

‘Oooh, get you. Jet-setter.’ I nudge him with my elbow.

‘I know. Fabulous, isn’t it? And see the group behind me …’ I glance over his shoulder, and a guy shaped like an American fridge-freezer stuffed into a black suit, with a curly plastic wire hanging from his ear, is lurking ominously nearby. And there’s a woman in leather skinnies and a floaty top who keeps checking her mobile phone and muttering something to a younger guy with an eager look on his face.

‘I see them.’

‘Meet my people!’ Eddie laughs.

‘You have people? Oh my God!’ I ponder for a second before adding, ‘Ed, do you actually
need
people?’ My forehead creases with curiosity.

‘Vital, darling! You can’t make it in Hollywood without an entourage.’

‘But what do they do?’

‘Well, Ross is security, natch … and a total leather queen! You’d never guess, would you?’ He makes big eyes, and I shake my head. ‘And Carly is my PA – the boy is her assistant.’

‘Wow! Your PA has a BA …’ Blimey, how things have changed. It feels like only yesterday that Eddie was Tom’s BA, bored and desperate to escape Mulberry-On-Sea for a mythical, seemingly unattainable world of stardom – or so it seemed back then. I shake my head, bemused but thrilled that Eddie is living his dream. I give him another hug.

‘So, how are you, sugar?’ he asks, letting me go – Eddie has never been big on prolonged displays of physical affection.

‘I’m very well, thanks. Life is wonderful for me too.’ I take two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, who looks as if he’s just stepped off the front page of
GQ
magazine, and hand one to Eddie.

‘Ooh, peachy! And I’m so happy for you, Georgie. Just one pesky fly in the ointment though …’ He raises an eyebrow.

‘What do you mean?’ I frown again.

‘Her highness over there.’ He flicks his eyes to the far end of the deck, where Isabella still has a vice-like grip on Tom’s arm. ‘Did she even acknowledge you from behind that surgically enhanced mask of hers?’

‘I think her gaze may have hovered on me momentarily,’ I smile magnanimously.

‘Darling, it’s called a bitchy resting face!’ Eddie plucks a canapé from another waiter’s tray and takes a big bite. I try not to smirk, just in case Isabella is watching, or Tom – he has no idea how Isabella makes me feel, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it. At least until I feel more relaxed around her … And then there won’t be an issue in any case – we’ll be best friends and everyone will be happy, especially Tom. I hope! Yeayy. Well, that’s the plan.

Sam arrives, looking exquisite in a crimson silk jumpsuit that flatters her tiny size six figure and perfectly frames her natural blonde corkscrew curls. She gives Eddie a hug before turning to me.

‘You look beautiful – no baby gunge in sight,’ I whisper in her ear as she engulfs me in a big Cavalli-fragranced cuddle. ‘How’s Holly doing after Yogurt-gate?’ I grin, hoping calm has now been restored.

Sam steps back to get a proper look at me.

‘Love the maxi-dress. But where’s Tom?’ she replies, swiftly sidestepping the yogurt enquiry. Oh well, maybe she just wants to put it behind her and enjoy the rare afternoon off.

‘Whisked away.’ I motion with my head towards the other end of the deck, where Tom is now getting his arm pumped and his back slapped by an older beer-bellied guy wearing a straw boater, navy blazer and pleated mustard-coloured corduroy trousers.

‘Ew, not up to your standards, honeypie.’ Eddie pulls a face and hands the rest of the canapé to Sam. She hesitates before popping it into her mouth, and then pulling a face too, in between chewing and swallowing as fast as she can.

‘Hmm, they should have come to Cupcakes At Carrington’s – we would have laid on a lavish feast compared to this manufactured mush,’ she manages, after rinsing her mouth with a generous swig of bubbles. ‘I’m going to find out who their supplier is – always good to keep one step ahead of the competition. Although, it does surprise me …’

BOOK: Ice Creams at Carrington’s
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