Vanity (7 page)

But in between – oh, dear. The horizontal stripes made her bust look vast (and not in a good way – matronly was the word that sprang to mind). And for fuck's sake, was she starting to develop a paunch? She supposed it was possible, with the ongoing eating and drinking of happy coupledom, and her increasing laziness when it came to exercise. She promised herself that she would hit the procrastinating on the head as she went back into her bedroom to change. Tomorrow she would definitely get up in time for her run.

Bella eventually arrived at Westbourne Studios at 1.30 p.m.

‘Yah, Daddy's just given me and Jazz a mil each to buy a flat, but you can't get anything decent round here for that sort of money,' Sienna was saying into her iPhone as Bella walked into her time-share studio. ‘Oh, hi, Bella.' She smiled and waved a thin, wafty hand.

Ludicrously overprivileged and good-looking, Sienna Sax-Hoffmann was studying History of Art at London University. She had told Bella that her father wanted her to have a bolthole for her studies, when ‘the Uni library gets too much. Dear Daddy, he can be so overprotective, but it's rather fun having one's own studio three mornings a week, don't you think?' Sienna only actually managed to get up in time to play on the Internet in her studio once a week, at most, but Bella didn't hold that against her (well, how could she?). She found Sienna rather sweet. Perhaps it was because she was so pretty. Bella knew that with her artistic eye, she always gave people who were easy on it less of a hard time than those who repulsed her physically – male or female. She wasn't particularly proud of this.

Sienna was about 5 foot 10, skinny as a catwalk model with an eating disorder, and pale as milk. Her naturally white-blonde hair cascaded in long waves around a coolly patrician face, all angular bones and huge, bruised, dark blue eyes. She played up her delicate appearance with fey, floaty, vintage garments, today looking breathtakingly fragile in a cream lacy maxidress, pearl choker (probably real) and jewelled flip-flops that showed off her narrow pedicured feet. Bella imagined that your average man's unimaginative, testosterone-driven protective instincts would go into overdrive at the sight of her.

‘Hi, Bella.' Sienna smiled as she put her phone down. ‘You're late.'

‘I know. Never been much good at punctuality.' Bella smiled back as she started setting up her easel.

‘I should be off then. D'you want me to pay you back for the extra hour? Not really fair for you to cough up for when you're not here. Daddy can easily afford it …' Sienna started and Bella laughed.

‘My lateness isn't your dad's fault, sweetie. Nope, this is my punishment for being the past-mistress of pissing about.'

Sienna laughed too. ‘Well, you'd better make the most of what time you've got left then.' She looked out of the window and groaned. ‘Oh, Goooood. Bloody Josh is out there
again
. I swear that boy is stalking me.'

Bella followed her gaze. Sitting at the wheel of a convertible red Porsche was a baby-faced boy of immeasurably arrogant demeanour. If the car wasn't clue enough,
everything
about his appearance screamed money – from the slicked-back dark brown hair and ruddy pink cheeks to the immaculately faded jeans and butter-soft leather jacket. While this might conceivably have had some allure on an older man, on a boy of barely 21 it was both
loathsome
and faintly ludicrous.

‘He is sooooo uncool.' Sienna rolled her eyes at Bella as she picked up her vintage lace parasol. ‘He hangs out at places like Whisky Mist and Mahiki, trying to suck up to Harry Wales. He's thick as pigshit too – God knows how he got into King's. But he's so loaded he's got half the boring wannabe Sloanes at college eating out of his hand.'

If Sienna thought he was loaded, reflected Bella, the baby-faced Josh must be rich as Croesus. Certain sectors of society had yet to be hit by the recession, it seemed.

‘Toby, shut up, you fucker! You're such a fucking loser!'

‘Cretin! Thunder thighs! Fatso!'

‘Loser! Wankstain! Fuckwit! Toby's a fuckwit, Toby's a fuckwit!'

Alison put her fingers in her ears and tried to ignore the screaming bickering of her teenage almost stepchildren as she concentrated on the details of the latest horrible case she was working on. You'd think the classically (some might say boringly) wood-panelled, leather-upholstered study would be soundproof, but no. Their spoilt, public-school, brattish voices, an entire floor up, would probably pierce the thick concrete walls of a torture cell (the like of which the creeps she was defending would doubtless end up in, if she didn't sufficiently deploy the Human Rights Act).

Alison was meant to have married Andy last year. They'd been together for thirteen years, ever since Cambridge, and it had seemed like a logical progression. But she'd become so caught up in the minutiae of organizing the perfect wedding, and keeping her bloody parents happy, that she'd lost sight of the fact that, somewhere along the line, they had fallen out of love with one another. When her older boss Philip, senior partner in her law firm, came on to her one night they were both working late, she'd felt properly alive again for the first time in years. They'd actually fucked on his desk. The age gap suited them both – it made Philip feel virile and Alison desired – something Andy hadn't managed at all in the last few years of their relationship, though he'd done his best to pretend. And the Eaton Square house was the pinnacle of her grandiose domestic aspirations.

She hadn't reckoned with the bloody teenagers though.

‘LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER!' Now they were stamping, banging on the floor above, to the extent she was worried the ceiling might fall in. Something sounded like gunshot. Little sods. She took a deep breath and ventured upstairs, to the room directly above her study – their
playroom
. For God's sake, at their age.

Toby was shooting an air rifle out of the window, trying to kill pigeons, while Imogen and one of her horrible little friends bounced around the room on state-of-the-art pogo sticks. They were all so bloody spoilt that neither of her parents had the nerve to tell Imogen that cropped leggings weren't the best option for her chunky little legs.

‘Children.' Alison tried to smile.

Toby turned around, pointing the air rifle right at her.

‘Children,' he drawled sarcastically. ‘Yes, what is it,
wicked step-mummy
?'

Both girls cracked up. Alison flinched away from the gun and tried to keep her temper.

‘Could you just keep the noise down a bit, please? I'm trying to work …'

‘Trying?' brayed Imogen, tossing her dyed-yellow hair. ‘Well, you probably need to try a bit harder then, don't you?'

‘Hahahaha! Oh, Imo, you're so funny!' spluttered her equally obnoxious (though not so blubbery) friend.

Never the most patient of women at the best of times, Alison snapped, ‘Just shut up, you little bastards …'

‘Really, Alison,' came a mild voice from behind her. ‘I'm sure it's not necessary to speak to my children like that.'

‘Dadddddeeeee!' shouted Imogen, running as fast as her fat little legs would carry her. She launched herself into her father's arms, as though she were 4, not 14.

‘Darling!' Philip swung her up and round in the air. Alison was amazed he didn't rupture himself. He put Imogen down and saluted his son, who had hidden the air rifle behind his bespoke pool table.

‘All shipshape, captain?'

‘All shipshape, sir.' Toby saluted back, grinning.

‘Righty-ho. Well, as it's half-term, who's up for Pizza Express?'

‘Oh, Daddy, you're the best!' Imogen snuggled up to him.

‘I was going to cook coq au vin,' started Alison, even though she hated cooking.

‘Darling, I thought I'd give you a break from the kitchen. It's not exactly your forte, is it?' Philip winked at Imogen, who giggled.

As Alison walked wearily downstairs after them all, Toby turned round and gave her the finger, glee written all over his smug, spotty little face.

‘Owwww!' screamed Poppy as Fabrice pulled the first strip of wax from her nose. She scowled at him in the mirror. ‘Surely this isn't necessary? Of all the things I've ever been accused of, having a hairy nose isn't one of them.'

‘Welcome to Manhattan grooming, Blondie.'

As the pain ebbed away, Poppy tried to smile, aware that it was important to keep the people behind the scenes on your side in this business. And it wasn't actually Fabrice's fault – he was only doing his job, after all.

‘Sorry – just haven't got used to it yet.
And
these ridiculously early starts. How on earth do you do it?' This week they were shooting the coolest places for power breakfasts and weekend brunches, a deliciously New York concept. That said, it was six a.m., Poppy had already been up for an hour and she
still
had Hair and Make-up to go. She was looking forward to the week they did cocktail bars.

Poppy's bosses had taken a huge punt in giving her, a complete unknown, such an enormous slice of airtime. Half an hour, Monday to Thursday nights at ten p.m., for twelve weeks. The later time meant that Poppy could be a little more risqué and attract younger, cooler viewers. Every week there was a different theme on
Poppy Takes Manhattan
. This week, breakfasts and brunches; last week, vintage clothes stores; the week before, hotels with roof terraces. To stay bang on trend, the programmes were broadcast the week after they'd been shot (so this week they were showing the vintage clothes store episodes, Poppy's favourites so far).

Already the show was gathering a loyal following. Poppy was proving to be a natural in front of the camera, chatty and conspiratorial without ever patronizing the viewer. She'd wondered how Americans would take to an English girl telling them what was cool on their territory, so she played up the fact that she was an outsider, acting delighted and awestruck with every new gem she discovered (most of the time she didn't have to act much). It worked. The natives lapped it up. The show was due to be broadcast in the UK later in the year, and Poppy hoped she'd go down equally well with British audiences.

‘Haven't been to bed yet.' Fabrice tapped the side of his own ink-black, perfectly waxed nose. He probably should have paid a little more attention to his nostrils though, both of which were ever so slightly crusty.

‘Ooooh – where've you been?' Poppy was always eager to hear about others' debauchery, but now she could
actually
indulge in her passion for gossip in the name of research. This job really, really couldn't be better. She knew how lucky she was and was working like a trouper to show her gratitude.

‘Where haven't I been?' Fabrice winked, and Poppy giggled at him in the mirror. She did like the way she looked, even with a smarting red nose.

‘Oh, my screaming Andy Warhols, you are just sooooo cute. If I had even an
atomo
of hetero hormones, I would be up your tiny tight pussy faster than HIV in a seventies 'Frisco sauna!'

‘Wow, thanks … I think. So, Fab, take me through your night. I want to hear it all – bars, restaurants, clubs, the lot!'

By the time Fabrice had hilariously and indiscreetly told all, Poppy felt they might be friends for life. The final wax strip barely stung.

Make-up passed without a hitch – New Yorkers didn't want to look like footballers' wives, after all – and she emerged looking like an even better version of herself (if that were possible). But ensconced in Hair, Poppy had a battle on her hands.

‘Um … I'm sure you know your job far better than I do …' She smiled winningly at the latest addition to her hairdressing team.

‘I do.' Jojo, a terrifyingly well-groomed middle-aged redhead, didn't smile back.

‘It's just that, if I'm meant to be the cool Anglo chick around town, I wouldn't be all blow-dried to within an inch of my life like this. I mean, my hair's always been a bit messy …'

‘U-huh.' Only New Yorkers could imbue so few syllables with such disdain. Jojo pulled a golden lock even harder around the round brush. Poppy tried to stay friendly.

‘… and I think that's kind of what they wanted – you know, for me to keep my – erm – unkempt London essence?'

‘If you think I am letting you out in front of those cameras looking how you looked before, then you are mistaken, Brit chick,' said Jojo grimly. ‘It's my reputation on the line here.'

Poppy smiled back sweetly, knowing she'd mess up the Stepford blow-dry as soon as she was out of the Nazi bitch's hands. It was her hair, and she'd wear it as she bloody well pleased.

Damian stared at his laptop morosely. Still no new messages, unless you counted the endless press releases and PR guff that flooded his inbox daily, as an ex-important journo (he was amazed they didn't update their files more frequently and put him in the box marked useless). It wouldn't hurt any of the editors he'd approached to at least acknowledge receipt of his features' ideas. A ‘thanks but no thanks' would be preferable to the interminable silence. Apart from anything else it was bloody bad manners. He wasn't some unknown hack, he was a former
Stadium
columnist, for fuck's sake. And he knew most of the editors personally – they had all drunk and snorted together at many a press hooley.

Oh, well. He tried not to let it get to him as he got up off his sun lounger. Wandering over to the bar, he marvelled at the number of New Yorkers able to hang out on Soho House's roof terrace in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. He imagined that a lot of them were, like him, newly unemployed. Recent victims of the recession. He laughed at himself. Victim wasn't quite the right word, not when you still had enough dosh for Soho House membership. And he wasn't the only one grabbing the opportunity to go freelance, which definitely had its perks. Networking in the sunshine over a cocktail or two wasn't such a bad way to spend your days.