Vanity (27 page)

With a deep breath, she picked up her phone and dialled his number.

Bella pottered about her kitchen, chopping onions and garlic, picking rosemary and thyme from her window box and pouring herself a glass of the red wine that she was going to use in the boeuf bourguignon. Andy had worked late every night that week – the bloody people trafficking story seemed to be taking over his life – but he'd promised he'd be home in time for dinner tonight.

Once she'd browned the meat in a separate pan and added it, with some stock, the herbs and the rest of the bottle of wine, to the casserole, she put the whole lot in the oven, which she had preheated to 140°C: for maximum tenderness, the beef needed to be cooked slowly.

It was dark already and pissing down outside, and Bella felt sad that summer really did seem to be over. They'd only had a few weeks' sunshine in London, and she and Andy hadn't been on holiday since Poppy's wedding, right at the beginning of May. Andy had told her, apologetically,
that he couldn't go anywhere until he'd got to the bottom
of his bloody story. She tried cheering herself up by thinking of all the yummy things she could cook – wild mushrooms, and game, and celeriac – and of how cosy the autumn nights drawing in could be (if only there was somebody to share them with).

With this in mind, she turned the central heating up, the overhead lights down, and lit every lamp in the flat, so that it would be warm and welcoming, as well as full of delicious smells, when Andy got in. Then she opened another bottle of wine, poured herself a glass and settled down with a glossy magazine. She flicked through an interminable piece about ‘autumn's exciting new trends', the main gist of which seemed to be that if you didn't spend obscene sums of money on coats, boots and handbags, you were a deeply unfashionable loser.

Even though she was now commanding quite high rates for her canvases, phrases such as ‘I'd happily pay double for something decent, rather than a bleurgh, mid-priced nonentity like this' (for a perfectly nice-looking bag costing £250) and, ‘I do hope this little beauty [£850 from McQueen] doesn't fall into the perma-tanned, French-manicured hands of the Essex mob' really stuck in her craw. They were in the middle of a fucking recession, for Christ's sake. Where did these moronic fashion chicks get off?

Her phone rang and, as ever, her heart leapt when she saw Andy's name and photo flashing up.

‘Hello, darling,' she said warmly. ‘Are you on your way home?'

‘I'm really sorry, Belles.' Andy sounded slightly nervous. ‘But I'm going to be a bit later than I thought.'

‘
What?
But Andy, you promised …'

‘I know, and I'm really sorry,' he said again. ‘But I've just had a call from Alison, and she says she's desperate to talk to me about the case she's working on … It sounds like she's dealing with similar people to the ones I'm investigating, and—'

‘
You're going to meet ALISON?
'

‘I'll only stay for one drink, I promise …'

‘So, let me get this straight –' Bella tried to keep her voice level, but it was rising by the second – ‘I've been slaving over a hot stove all evening making our dinner, and now you tell me you're going to meet your bitch of an ex, but I'm not meant to mind, because it's
only for
one drink
?'

‘Oh, don't be like that, Belles, please. You love cooking, and you're making boeuf bourguignon, right? Surely that improves the longer you cook it? I won't be
that
late – there'll still be time for us to eat together. Alison sounded really distraught – if you knew what these people—'

‘I know what these cunts do, you've told me enough times. What if I don't want to wait for you to get back? What if I'm bloody starving now? What if I am SICK TO DEATH OF FUCKING PEOPLE TRAFFICKERS?'

Andy's voice went cold. ‘Can you please stop being so childish? There are some things that are more important than your hurt feelings, you know. I'll be home by 9.30 at the latest – is it really such a big deal?'

If you loved me as much as you say you do, you wouldn't think that my hurt feelings were so trivial.

But all Bella could say was, ‘Oh, just fuck off, you pompous twat.'

‘Fine. I will.' Andy sounded angry as he hung up.

Bollocks. Bella hadn't meant to lose it like that, but she had been reminded all of a sudden of similar evenings when she had been waiting around for hours for Ben, while he cavorted with models and, on one particularly memorable occasion, ballerinas. It was shortly after that that she had found him in bed with Poppy; it wasn't surprising she was insecure.

But Skinny fucking
Alison?

Just as she was debating whether or not to call him back and apologize, her phone rang again.

‘Hey, Pops.'

‘Belles! How's it going? You OK? You don't sound your usual self.'

Bella hadn't meant to launch into her tale of woe immediately, but she couldn't help herself. ‘Andy's gone out for a drink with Skinny fucking Alison. He hasn't been home in time for dinner a single night this week … I don't understand why he'd
ever
want to see her again …' She stopped, and took a deep breath to stem the incipient flood of tears.

‘Well, it can hardly be because he wants to get in her knickers, can it? Come on, Belles, he must have told you why?'

‘Well, he came up with some crap about how she sounded really desperate to talk to somebody about some fucking case she's working on … but why couldn't she talk to her bloody sugar daddy about it? She's living with him, and he's a
hot-shot fucking lawyer.
'

‘I'm sure that if Andy thought it was necessary to talk to her, then it was,' said Poppy patiently. She was used to Bella's outbursts of insecurity. In fact, she felt partly to blame – Bella walking in on her shagging Ben had probably scarred her for life.

‘I'm getting too fat, that's why he doesn't want to spend time with me any more.' Bella morosely squeezed the flesh around her middle and took another huge swig of red wine. She had been getting rather too used to drinking on her own. ‘Not a fucking ounce of flesh on Alison, is there? Evil cow has far too much self-control for that.'

‘Belles, listen to yourself. You're not fat, and you're being ridiculous.'
How would you know? You haven't seen me for months
, thought Bella mutinously. ‘I've never known a happier couple than you and Andy, and I'm sure he's just being nice. Skinny's not exactly his favourite person, remember?'

‘Yeah, but he wanted to marry her, and he certainly doesn't want to marry me.'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, you know why he's wary of marriage. It's
because of
her. Belles, you're being ridiculous …'

‘You've already said that …'

‘I think you know it too. Come on, lovey, get a grip.'

After a long pause, Bella pulled herself together. She was really starting to annoy herself.

‘Sorry, Pops. Can we start again? What are you up to? Any gossip? Everyone's still absolutely raving about
PTM
here …'

Poppy Takes Manhattan
had hit the UK properly a couple of weeks after the episode they'd all watched at Olivia's house, and had been both critically and popularly received. Poppy had had the inevitable offers of nearly naked men's magazine shoots as a result, but had refused all of them. This was partly out of loyalty to Damian, who had been left so badly in the lurch by the men's magazine world for which he had worked so brilliantly. Partly, though, it was because she didn't think that getting her kit off for cameras should be part and parcel of her job; also, cannily, she thought that, even though she'd no doubt look just fine in the shots, her street-cred would be immensely improved by not going down that route. Just because everybody else did it, it didn't mean that she had to.

‘Ooooh, yippeeee! Thanks for telling me, Belles! I still can't believe I've got such an amazing job! Actually, at the moment, I'm in LA …'
Of course you are,
thought Bella. ‘…
PTM
is up for a Pluto award, so I've got to get all tarted up in a few days' time. I bet they try to put me in some hideous gown with borrowed diamonds, but I'll try to stay a bit me, if I can.'

‘Old Converse underneath to scruff it up a bit?'

‘Oooh, good idea. Not. A touch Lily Allen circa 2005?'

Bella laughed. ‘OK, that was a crap idea. How's Damian?'

‘Not great. We've been arguing pretty much nonstop ever since we got to New York. He's so bloody jealous and touchy about everything, I simply don't know what to do about it. It's not exactly how I envisioned married life.' And Poppy told Bella about Jack Meadows and the jocks in the Hamptons jerking off over her show.

‘Well, you can hardly blame him for being jealous, can you?' Bella hated herself for not being more supportive, but Poppy seemed so bloody pleased with herself. Film stars trying to snog her? Random strangers telling her that they wanked over her? Jesus H Christ.

‘
I KNOW THAT!
But for fuck's sake, Belles, I can't go on apologizing forever, can I?'

Bella looked around at her empty flat, out at the rain pouring down outside, and pictured Poppy, blonde, aglow and beautiful in the LA sunshine, about to receive an award for something that came so naturally and easily to her, just as everything came so naturally and easily to her. Then she pictured Andy sitting in some cosy pub with that skinny bitch Alison, and squidged the unwelcome flesh around her middle again.

‘Oh, I don't know, Pops. Whatever.'

When they hung up, both friends felt sad.

Andy, sitting with his pint of Guinness in the Antelope, just off Eaton Square, was feeling sad too.

He couldn't understand why Bella was being so ridiculously needy. Compared to the disgusting things he was currently immersed in for work, they had such a lovely life together; her mood swings were starting to become pretty tiresome.

He was sad about Bella, sad about people trafficking, and – yes – sad about Alison too.

He remembered the first time he saw her, debating furiously at the Cambridge Law Society. He had been so impressed with the fire in her eyes, her utter determination to make the world a better place, her height, her slim figure, her silky black hair. There was a kind of ice-queen reserve that everybody had wanted to crack, back in those days, when intelligence was valued above all, and Andy had gone out of his way to woo her, to get underneath that slightly stern façade. Finally, eventually, it had happened.

They'd been walking along Trinity Street, arguing passionately about Descartes, when it had started snowing. Spontaneously, he had taken her cold hands in both of his, intending to warm them up. She had looked up at him, startled, and he had bent his head to kiss her.

Just as he was remembering their first kiss, Alison walked into the pub. She'd kept her figure, and was looking very tall and slim in her impeccably tailored trouser suit. As she got closer, though, Andy saw how pinched and scrawny she really was. There were dark circles under her eyes, and two deep furrows between them.

‘Alison, hi.' He stood up to greet her, awkwardly.

‘Hi, Andy. Thanks for coming to see me. I – erm – well, it's good of you, anyway.'

This was the closest Alison could get to offering an apology, Andy realized, but he wasn't holding it against her. In fact, he just felt concerned about how haggard she looked.

‘What would you like to drink?'

‘A glass of red wine, please. As large as they can make it.'

Alison had never been much of a drinker, and Andy, realizing the extent of her turmoil, returned as quickly as he could. Which was easier said than done, as this pub was full of Old Etonian bankers and their hair-flicking girlfriends, who thought nothing of barging their way in front of any other customers waiting to get served.

‘Thanks.' Alison smiled briefly as she took the glass from him.

‘So what's the problem, and what can I do to help?' Andy was conscious that Bella was waiting for him, and however much she had annoyed him this evening, he didn't want to upset her unnecessarily.

So Alison started to tell him, in as much detail as she was legally allowed. As she spoke, Andy realized that the people she was defending were closely connected to the ones he'd been investigating for his paper. They talked for the best part of an hour, becoming increasingly excited with every new revelation. At last, the final piece of the jigsaw fell into place, and Andy knew, with absolute clarity, the identity of the big guy, the man behind the whole revolting operation.

‘Oh, my God,' he said slowly. ‘It has to be Alexei Lubanov.' He was referring to a Russian billionaire who had been living in London for the past ten years or so. His constant presence on the charity-ball and fundraising-gala scene, his insanely glamorous wife always at his side, meant that he was practically a household name.

‘Oh, my God,' said Alison. ‘I think you're right. It has to be. Wow.' She shook her head as the enormity of the realization sank in. ‘Well, this is brilliant news for you, Andy – it has to be the scoop of the century!'

‘I can hardly believe it. What a disgusting lowlife piece of scum.' Then a huge grin spread across his handsome face. ‘But it is going to be a fantastic scoop!'

‘I am pleased for you.' Alison's voice was sincere. ‘But what am I supposed to do? I really don't think I can continue to defend these sadistic thugs …'

‘You can always refuse,' Andy pointed out as he drained his pint.

‘Hardly good for my career.'