Vanity (6 page)

Jennifer Jackson. Nutritionist and personal trainer.

He recalled the girl with the dreadlocks, smile and fantastic arse. Now, she would be a way forward. He'd had enough of his previous life and the no-hoper Brits weighing him down. He thought for a second, then took out his phone and dialled the number on the card.

‘Who is it?' A very cross-sounding voice eventually answered.

‘Hi, Jenny, it's Ben. We met on the beach today—'

‘Oh, for God's sakes. Don't you know what time it is? If you want to talk about training, call me in the morning.'

And she put the phone down on him. Ben wasn't sure that any woman had done that to him in his life before. He rather liked it.

‘Jenny, hi, it's Ben. We met on the beach yesterday.' He put on his poshest RADA accent.

‘Oh my. The Brit who woke me up at midnight?'

Ben chuckled in what he hoped was an endearing manner.

‘Mea culpa, I'm afraid.'

‘Well, I hope you'll make it worth my while.' She sounded crosser than ever. ‘I only had four hours' sleep because of you. I was training Tom Hanks at five a.m.'

‘Oh, fuck, I'm so sorry,' said Ben. ‘Tom Hanks, really?'

‘Of course I wasn't training Tom Hanks, you British idiot. Do ya think I'd be handing out my card on the beach if I was Tom Hanks's trainer?'

Ben laughed sheepishly.

‘No, I suppose not.'

‘So, d'ya want me to train you, or are you just gonna annoy me with late-night calls? Your abs could do with some work. But it'll cost ya. And
nobody
calls me Jenny. My name is Jennifer.'

Bitch. My abs are fine, thought Ben, stroking his washboard stomach. But he definitely wanted to see her again.

‘I thank you.'

Natalia smiled graciously as she accepted her champagne and caviar from the BA stewardess. She was flying from Heathrow to Kiev on her annual June trip to check up on the two charities to which she had been contributing
generously
for years. After her
mamushka
had died, there had been no real reason to go back home, but she had to make sure her money was being put to good use.

At least she had the luxury of being able to choose which time of year to return, she thought, pulling her cashmere blanket a little more tightly around her shoulders to keep out the chill of the air conditioning. Despite its soft warmth, she shivered as the memories of Ukraine in the depths of winter came flooding back …

‘Madam? Can I get you something else?' asked the
stewardess
, looking at Natalia oddly.

‘Excuse me?' Natalia was snapped back into the present, into the softness of her White Company
cashmere
blanket, so different to the itchy wool she had wrapped herself up in all those years ago. ‘No, no, I thank you, I am fine.'

Once the stewardess had left her alone once more, she stared out of the window for some time, unwelcome tears blurring her view of the pillowy white clouds below.

Poppy Wallace's bite of the Big Apple is somewhat larger than she'd initially anticipated.

Bella looked at Poppy's Facebook update with love and irritation. It wasn't Poppy per se who bugged the shit out of her, but all her old London media friends who fell on her every word and tried to outdo themselves with how well they knew her and how cool they could prove
themselves
to everyone else online. Some of the fawning acolytes responded to Poppy's Facebook update with such stomach-churning stuff as
miss u loads, baby girl
(from a female journalist – there was loads of faux-dykey bollocks) and
hoxton's not the same without you, sweet poppy lops. remember OBESE-gate?

Bella was tempted to add,
remember OVERDOSE-gate?
She wasn't able to be cool on Facebook, as some of her old friends and family members actually used exclamation marks and plenty of xxxxs at the end of their messages. It seemed rude not to respond in kind. Also, as Andy worked late so many evenings, she found herself drinking wine on her own and writing things she thought hilarious at the time, then waking in a cold sweaty panic, wondering what the fuck she had thought essential to share with absolutely everyone who knew her. The computer needed a Breathalyser.

She clicked onto Poppy's latest photos: rollerblading in Central Park, gorgeous in old-skool grey marl shorts and Yankees T-shirt; drinking at the round table at the Algonquin Hotel in a flapper dress (cue comment from fawning female journo:
you are Dorothy Parker, but a million times prettier –
nineteen other equally sycophantic comments followed); sunbathing by the pool on Soho House NY's roof terrace in a green bikini that matched her eyes and showed off her exquisitely lithe body (
wowser! looking hot babe, hubba hubba
,
etc., etc., ad nauseam); sitting on the stoop of some lovely old brownstone house in rolled-up jeans and sneakers, her hair in an insouciant ponytail, reading the
Herald Tribune
(her comment on her own photo was clever, cool and abstruse).

Bella looked out of the window. At nearly half-past eight the sun hadn't yet set, but it wouldn't have made any difference if it had, she thought morosely. The English summer, which, by some freakish Act of God, had been so wonderful last year, had reverted to its usual depressing, drizzly self. She reminded herself to snap out of it. Her day had started with some great sex and she still loved Andy so much she barely even looked at other men any more. Well, she looked, but she wasn't tempted. She didn't have to go to vile offices, was paid pretty handsomely for her painting, and her life was, just about, perfect.

Yet … It was just the bloody weather, she told herself, and a niggling loneliness. One of the reasons she loved Andy so much was his innate goodness, which manifested itself in his dedication to his work, but sometimes she wished more of that dedication could be sent her way. Like coming home in time for dinner.

She clicked onto Poppy's next photo, in which she was giggling with loads of people Bella didn't know, in a club that was probably the Studio 54 du jour. Damian was conspicuous by his absence. Bella hoped that all was well with them. She opened another bottle of wine and started to think about all the fun she'd had in the past. She used to be that clubbing chick, the one with the cool photos and funny stories.

Then her phone beeped.

Bella my love, I'm outside. So sorry I've been neglecting you. Bloody job. I love you! Come down. Anything you want to eat and drink is on me, wherever you want to go. And everything you want me to do to you, I'll do double. Triple. Xxxxxxx

Bella looked out of the window and saw Andy, arms outstretched, smiling up at her. Her heart soared as she ran down the rickety steps of her flat and realized she wouldn't trade any of her hedonistic, uncertain past for what she had with him, right now.

‘I mean, I love her, you know I do, but it's just so fucking annoying!' Bella looked over her glass of Pouilly-Fumé at Andy. They were in her favourite restaurant, The Wolseley. Enormous iron chandeliers glowed overhead, the excited hum of chatter buzzed around her, she was with her favourite person in the whole world. Yet her second favourite dish in the whole world (moules marinières; spaghetti vongole was her first, but they didn't do it here) lay practically untouched in front of her.

‘Poppy's life is just so bloody exciting, and EVERYONE loves her!'

‘I don't love her.' Andy leant across the white linen'd table and held both Bella's hands in his. ‘In fact, I think she's a self-centred pain in the arse, but I do love you.'

Bella smiled and kissed both his hands.

‘Thanks and sorry. I love you too.'

‘Not bored with me already, are you?' He said it lightly, but Bella could tell he meant it.

‘I'll never be bored with you, my love. I just sometimes get a bit bored with life in grey old London, with its endless depressing news, when everybody else seems to be having so much fun, in such exotic places. Bloody Facebook.'

‘You spend far more time on that site than is healthy, my darling. And let's look at it mathematically: you have – what? – 350-odd Facebook “friends”?' Andy did the inverted commas fingers signal and Bella nodded, slightly shamefaced.

‘Most of us go on holiday at least once a year, so let's divide that by twelve.'

‘Um – nearly thirty people on holiday every month?'

‘Exactly! It may look as if everyone is having the times of their lives on beaches or mountains, while we're stuck in dreary old London, but it's a snare and a delusion. We were in Ibiza only a couple of months ago, after all.'

‘Oh, I know, I know, I'm being horribly spoilt.' Bella sighed and took another swig of her wine. ‘But Poppy IS getting her huge bite of the Big Apple, even during this horrid recession. I don't know why I can't be more pleased for her.' In the old days she'd have been happy,
unreservedly
, for Poppy, but ever since the Ben thing, something sour had crept in. She had loved helping her plan the wedding, and the nuptials themselves had been wonderful, of course, but this new, extra level of success was a little galling.

Six weeks earlier, three weeks after Poppy and Damian had returned from their honeymoon in Cuba,
Stadium
had folded, the latest victim of the recession. Simon Snell had immediately found another job on
Esquire
, but Poppy had put a spanner in Damian's job-seeking by simultaneously being offered a promotion in New York. And it wasn't just any old promotion. One of her company's proper big shots had been visiting from New York, taken one look at Poppy and decided that she was wasted behind the camera. With her gamine beauty, quick-wittedness and sarcastic London cool, the Big Shot was hoping Poppy would be the new Alexa Chung, presenting a quirky magazine/documentary-type show – an English girl's take on the Big Apple.

Damian, not wanting to be apart from his new wife so early in their marriage (and, Bella thought, probably still not entirely trusting her, left to her own devices in an exciting new city), had bravely decided to take his chances at freelancing in New York.
Stadium
had left him with plenty of contacts, after all.

‘I hope Damian's getting on OK,' said Andy, and Bella grimaced.

‘Not much good for his ego if he's not.'

‘No,' said Andy. ‘And we both know what his professional ego can be like when wounded. So enough of the Poppy jealousy, OK? Would you want to be in her shoes, constantly reassuring Damian that he's cleverer than her, while he mopes about, sulking all day, in what I imagine is their vast warehouse apartment?'

Bella laughed. ‘That's such a vivid image! S'pose not.' She was smiling broadly now, as Andy's foot, which had been rubbing her leg all night, had made its way up to her knickers.

‘Aren't you going to finish your mussels?' Andy smiled into her eyes, increasing the pressure of his foot.

‘I'd rather you finished my muscles at home.'

The next morning, Bella woke around nine a.m. and stretched contentedly. She still loved the fact she would never again be
rudely awoken by a shrill alarm signalling another dreary day in another dreary office. She felt much happier today. The sun was shining through muslin curtains, Andy was wonderful, her life was wonderful, everything was wonderful. She pottered about at a leisurely pace, putting the radio on and making herself a cup of tea. She filled her pretty eau-de-nil watering can and went out onto her balcony to water her window boxes. This little daily act gave her a disproportionate amount of pleasure. Her mint and chives were coming along a treat. She kissed her fingers and patted the plants.

‘Grow, my babies, grow.' She was glad nobody could see her and wondered if this might be a sign of broodiness. She certainly didn't yearn for a baby right now. She was perfectly happy with things just as they were, and although she knew she wanted one eventually, and reckoned Andy would make a great father, she had no intention of rocking the boat.

Though her flat was really much too small for two, and she and Andy had talked about selling it and buying somewhere bigger, she loved it too much to leave quite yet. The crappy property market was as good an excuse as any, and Andy was still paying off the enormous loan he'd taken out to pay for his wedding to Alison last year, which had been called off at the last minute. The fact that Alison had been shagging her boss, so it should have been her financial responsibility, still rankled with Bella, but Andy was a slave to his tiresome principles.

By the time she'd showered, dressed, made the bed (arranging and plumping up all the artfully mismatched cushions exactly to her satisfaction) and read a chapter or two of her book over a boiled egg and thickly buttered toast, it was nearly midday. Guiltily, Bella shut the book. There wouldn't be time for her run now – she'd booked her jointly rented studio for 12.30. She couldn't imagine how she'd ever managed to get up in time to arrive, bad-tempered and dishevelled, at whichever horrible office she'd been temping at for a nine-a.m.-prompt start. Actually, the promptness had happened rarely, if ever. She felt another surge of happiness that those days were over.

As she walked towards the door and automatically checked herself out in the mirror next to it, she stopped and shook her head in dissatisfaction. Something was wrong. Bella had longish legs and a larger than average bust for her 5 foot 7, size 10/12 frame (despite slender ankles, wrists and shoulders, she always felt like a bloody carthorse next to Poppy). She'd had vague hopes of channelling Audrey Hepburn today in high ponytail, black Capri pants and a boat-necked, horizontally striped T-shirt. From her shoulders up she looked great, the ponytail and boat neck setting off her collarbones, high cheekbones and big brown eyes a treat. Audrey was not an entirely preposterous idea. Her legs were fine in the Capri pants.