8
Sophie was having second thoughts. As she tottered across Waterloo station’s busy concourse on five-inch heels, she felt overdressed and unbalanced. She clutched the hem of her dress – Lana’s dress, actually – desperate to keep it off the smeared floor. Three of the sequins had already come off in the taxi, and she was pretty sure that the fabric was too delicate to dry-clean.
‘Why did you let me wear these bloody shoes?’ she hissed at Francesca. ‘I can barely walk.’
‘You’re wearing them because they’re beautiful, and they make your legs look thinner.’
‘But no one can see my legs – they can’t even see the shoes.’
Francesca stepped daintily on to the escalator and tossed her long hair back.
‘Stop complaining,’ she smiled. ‘This party is going to be fabulous, we’re going to be fabulous. And remember, you’re Lana Wosserface, otherwise we’ll never get in.’
‘Oh God,’ Sophie whispered to herself as she looked towards the entrance. The party was being held in the old Eurostar terminal – according to the invitation, actually on the platform – and the archway that had previously been the security screening area was the only way in. It looked incredible: the whole structure had been covered with shimmery blue material, and a bright blue carpet had been rolled out to meet the bottom of the escalator.
‘Be cool,’ said Francesca as they walked up to the clipboard girls standing behind the velvet rope – who were dressed in azure sequinned minidresses, like sexy mermaids. Fighting the urge to run away – not that she could have run in those shoes – Sophie simply smiled at them and handed over the invitation. She had spent enough time on the other side of the rope to know that people on the door can smell fear.
‘Lana?’ said the girl, looking her up and down. Her expression was serious. Sophie’s heart was pounding, fearing they were about to get caught out. ‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed dinner. But I’m sure we can get someone to sort you out some food,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Don’t worry about food,’ smiled Sophie, realising they were in.
‘Have a good time,’ grinned the clipboard girl.
Sophie beamed. ‘We will.’
Her jaw almost dropped as they walked inside. The whole of the Eurostar terminal had been transformed into a fantastic dining-room-cum nightclub. The track had been covered over and turned into an ad hoc dining area, with huge flower arrangements in the centre of each circular table, the blue and white flowers mixed with peacock feathers. At the far end of the platform was a flashing dance floor and a stage, and suspended from the hangar-height roof were thousands of glowing blue lanterns. It was so magical it almost took Sophie’s breath away.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ she whispered, staring at the stage.
George Clooney was standing at a podium offering a weekend on a yacht in the Caribbean as an auction prize, which brought on a flurry of frantic bidding.
‘And you wanted to stay in tonight,’ giggled Francesca. ‘This is the party of the bloody decade!’
She walked over to a board which had the seating plan laid out on it.
‘According to this, we’re on table 53,’ said Francesca.
‘No, Lana’s on table 53,’ corrected Sophie. ‘And she’s probably been seated right next to her best friend. We can’t just go and sit down in her spot, can we?’
Francesca sighed.
‘I suppose not. Anyway, dinner’s over. I think the live act is about to come on any minute. That Damien Hirst-customised Range Rover has got to be the star prize, hasn’t it?’
Sophie watched in amazement as a white 4×4 drove on to the stage and parked up next to George Clooney’s podium. What credit crunch? she thought.
‘Listen, I’ve got to pee,’ said Francesca. ‘Get me a drink, would you? Nothing with any calories, think of the wedding dress, okay?’
Sophie looked after her friend anxiously, feeling exposed and fraudulent.
‘May I offer madam a Silver Fir?’ said a handsome waiter carrying a tray of glasses containing something that looked cool and green.
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Sophie, reminding herself that she was playing a role. She needed to behave as if this sort of thing happened every day. In fact, shouldn’t I look a bit bored? It was a hard look to pull off, especially as this had to be the most exciting party she could remember going to. She had already seen two actors – three, if you counted the master of ceremonies – and one woman who she recognised as a fashion designer. Every other person looked as if they could be – probably were, for all Sophie knew – talented, famous or both. She was certainly glad that Fran had talked her into wearing this dress; at least she fitted in among the acres of couture. God, she thought suddenly, was her dress couture? Didn’t they cost like fifty grand each? She consciously held her drink further away from the fabric, which suddenly felt even more flimsy than before. Knowing her luck, there would probably be only one of them in existence and word would get back to Lana quicker than you could say ‘house-sitting charlatan’.
‘It’s quite a party, isn’t it?’
Sophie turned to see a man watching her with evident amusement. He was handsome, with dark blond hair pushed off his face, lightly tanned skin and bright blue eyes that seemed to assess everything. Francesca would have noticed his sharp navy suit, and the chunky watch, but Sophie reminded herself that she wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.
‘Yes, it’s fun,’ she said, sipping her drink nervously. She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be wildly enthusiastic or feign indifference.
‘They must have raised about twenty million tonight.’
‘Really?’ said Sophie, then remembered her cover story and tried to look as if twenty million was a trifling sum. ‘How much did the car go for?’
‘Well, I bid fifty grand, but I stopped listening when it reached two hundred.’
‘Lucky escape, then,’ said Sophie without thinking.
He gave a smooth, easy smile.
‘You’ve got me. I always bid first on the star item because I know someone will outbid me. Besides, it would have taken me three months to ship the thing home.’
‘To America?’ she said, flushing slightly. Of course he’s American, you idiot, she scolded herself.
‘Is it the accent?’ smiled the man, then held his hand out. ‘Nick Cooper, from Houston. Well, I’m from some no-account backwater actually, but Houston’s where I’m based right now.’
‘Sophie Ellis. I’m from a backwater too. Surrey.’
Nick frowned.
‘Isn’t Surrey like ten miles from London?’
‘When you’re in Chelsea, that’s like being a hillbilly,’ she laughed, widening her eyes.
‘I see,’ he drawled. ‘Moonshine and ’gators, that sort of thing?’
‘Very similar, although it’s more like Pimm’s and ponies.’
‘I clearly haven’t ventured far enough outside the Riverton,’ he said, name-checking one of the most deluxe hotels in town.
‘You should,’ she giggled. ‘Actually no, you’re probably better off staying at the Riverton.’
He laughed, his blue eyes flashing.
‘Listen, can I get you another drink?’
‘Yes, that’d be nice, one of those silver things, please.’
Wow, he’s good-looking, she thought as she watched him move through the crowds. And rich enough to bid on a car he obviously didn’t even want. Her mother would be very pleased.
‘Soph, you’ll never believe it!’ Francesca rushed up to her, her eyes frantic. She looked close to tears.
‘What? What’s happened?’
Francesca held up her mobile. ‘I just spoke to Charlie. He’s had his briefcase snatched.’
‘Oh no. Is he okay?’
Francesca nodded and bit her lip.
‘Yes, he’s fine, but he’s shaken up, I can tell.’
Sophie pulled her into a hug.
‘It’s okay honey, as long as he’s not hurt, that’s the main thing.’
Her friend pulled back.
‘No, you don’t get it,’ she snapped. ‘That’s not the bad part – he wants me to go and give him my set of house keys.’ Sophie immediately saw that what she had assumed was teary concern for her fiancé was in fact fury at Charlie’s poor timing.
‘You’re not leaving?’
‘I have to, apparently,’ said Francesca, throwing her hands in the air. ‘He’s with clients from Hong Kong and he doesn’t know what time he’s finishing.’
‘Why doesn’t he just come to yours when he’s finished?’
Fran pulled a face and shook her head. Sophie had always thought her friend wore the trousers in her relationship with Charles, but it was clear now who was in control.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Francesca, turning towards the exit.
Just then, Sophie spotted Nick weaving back through the crowd holding two drinks in the air, and she caught Francesca’s arm.
‘Listen, Fran, do you mind if I stay? I can come out and find a cab with you . . .’
Francesca frowned. ‘I can’t leave you here.’
‘Why not? I’ll be fine.’
Over Sophie’s shoulder, Francesca spotted Nick approaching and her face twisted.
‘Oh, I see, it’s like that, is it?’ she said tartly. ‘It’s all right for some, isn’t it?’
Sophie knew she forgave her friend for too many tantrums, too many sarcastic remarks – at the end of the day, she was grateful that Fran did not abandon her when she moved out of Chelsea, and with it her old lifestyle. But this time she was going to put her foot down.
‘Come on, Fran. Don’t be like that. We’ve just got here.’
‘Fine. You stay and have all the fun,’ said Francesca bitterly before striding off.
‘Fran!’ called Sophie. ‘Don’t . . .’
‘Is there a problem?’ said Nick, handing her a drink.
‘I hope not,’ she said, running to follow her friend, but Fran had got lost in the crowd. Sighing, Sophie returned to Nick.
‘Who was the blonde?’
‘Fran? An old school friend.’
‘She seemed pretty pissed off.’
Sophie laughed wearily.
‘She can get like that,’ she replied diplomatically.
‘Do you need friends like that?’
His honesty disarmed her.
‘That’s the thing about boarding school, you get thrown together. I guess she’s like the sister I never had. Maybe we don’t have as much in common as we used to, we’ve grown apart, but I couldn’t imagine her not being around.’
She looked at Nick and shrugged. She couldn’t believe she was telling this complete stranger things she hadn’t even really admitted to herself.
‘Well, I’m glad you stayed,’ he said, clinking his glass against hers.
‘What’s the toast?’
‘To old friends. And new ones,’ he said playfully.
They were disturbed by a voice behind them.
‘Nicky boy, I don’t believe it.’
There was a man standing there with his arms open. He was tall, muscular, with dark tousled hair and a scrub of stubble that made him rough around the edges. But his black suit fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, although he wore it with white sneakers. New money, definitely, thought Sophie. She had met his type many times before in the Chelsea clubs. He probably had a yellow convertible Ferrari double-parked outside, cocaine in his pocket and a model waiting for him in the loos.
Nick looked as pleased about the interruption as she was.
‘Hey, Josh,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’
‘How come?’ said Josh, his voice cocky, with a soft Scottish burr. ‘Everyone’s here tonight, aren’t they? If there’s a better place to do business, then I want to hear about it.’
He turned his attention to Sophie, his intense grey eyes disarming her.
‘I’m sorry. We’ve not been introduced. Josh McCormack. I’m an old friend of Nick’s, aren’t I, Nick?’
‘Sophie Ellis. Hello.’
He turned and ignored her, which irritated her more than it should have.
‘So how long are you in town for?’ he asked Nick.
‘Just another few days. Then back to Houston.’
‘So how was Paris? How long were you there for in the end?’
‘Four months. On and off.’
‘That’s right,’ said Josh, nodding. ‘You said you might stay a while when I saw you. Was it fun?’
‘Well, it was business, not a holiday.’
Nick took a sip of his drink and let the silence hang between them.
‘Well, I’ll leave you two love birds alone,’ said Josh finally. ‘Nice to meet you, Sophia.’ He pulled out a card and handed it to her.
Joshua McCormack, Bespoke Horologist.
‘Bespoke horology?’ she asked. ‘What’s that?’
The corners of his mouth curled upwards.
‘Watches. I source them, buy them, sell them to a very select and demanding client list.’
‘I thought the richest men in the world wore Timex these days,’ said Nick.
‘Not everyone, my friend,’ said Josh, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I see Sophia here with a Patek Philippe Gondolo. Rose gold. Alligator strap. Sexy. Stylish. Call me if you need anything sorting out.’
He winked at her and she felt herself bristle. He couldn’t even get her name right, and he was clearly trying to sell her something.
‘Enjoy the evening,’ said Nick, raising his glass.
Josh grinned and disappeared.
‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ smiled Sophie as he went.
Nick shrugged. ‘He’s all right, I suppose, a bit of a bullshitter. I wouldn’t buy a watch off him, put it that way. What was it you said about your friend? I think we’ve grown apart.’
Sophie smiled.
‘So what do you do that takes you to Paris?’
She’d been trying to avoid the question, as ‘What do you do?’ was the classic cocktail party way of sussing people’s worth; she had learnt that particular lesson at her mother’s knee. Whether you were a surgeon, hedge-funder or astronaut, your occupation was an instant, silent indicator of how much money you made and, in her mother’s case, whether you were worth talking to. But still, Sophie was curious.
‘I’m in investments.’
Sophie waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, she burst out laughing.
‘What wrong?’ he frowned.
‘Why is everyone who works with money so guarded? Is it perhaps because you don’t want us to see that what you do isn’t actually very glamorous?’
‘Ouch. You wound me,’ said Nick, mock-hurt. ‘For your information, my work is pretty interesting.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Sophie. ‘My last boyfriend worked in the City. Listening to him talk about work was about as exciting as watching croquet.’
‘I thought the British loved croquet.’ Nick smiled.
Sophie grinned.
‘Okay, then,’ he sighed. ‘I buy and sell companies. Mainly in the oil and gas sector. Also oil and gas royalties, mineral rights. Hence I live in Houston, rather than New York.’
‘And what’s that like? You’re living in the desert, right?’
‘The desert!’ he laughed, almost choking on his drink.
‘I’ve seen pictures of Texas,’ replied Sophie. ‘The orange soil. Scrub, cactus, blue skies, all that?’
‘Not Houston,’ said Nick, shaking his head. ‘It’s pretty green,’ he smiled. ‘Real hot, but green; we got a subtropical climate, it’s on the banks of a bayou.’
‘I guess I’m not as well travelled as I thought.’
‘Travel’s overrated,’ said Nick. ‘When you do what I do, you see a lot of identical minibars and not much else.’
He led Sophie over to a table and they sat down. Everyone else seemed to be up on the dance floor now throwing shapes to Michael Bublé, but all Sophie wanted to do was listen to Nick. He told her how he’d been to India, the Australian outback, Afghanistan; he’d even been fishing in the Faroe Islands: ‘An amazing place, but I wouldn’t recommend it unless you really like eating baked puffin or whale meat.’
In return, she told him about her six months in Florence, the tiny apartment overlooking the Ponte Vecchio, the family Christmases at the Sandy Lane hotel in Barbados, a ski trip to Jackson Hole with Will and his friends the New Year before. She told him only the good stuff, obviously. It was such a magical evening, she didn’t want to ruin the mood with tales of her dad’s death and her money problems. She had spent so long feeling sorry for herself lately, it was fun to just imagine herself in Lana’s life for real, pretend that everything was wonderful and effortless and sparkling. There was no harm in that, was there? And she loved the way Nick listened to her stories – really listened to them. Every other boy she’d dated in the last ten years only seemed to want to talk about themselves: who their friends were, what kind of car they were driving, what japes they’d got up to at university. She supposed that was the difference: Nick was a man, not a boy. And damn, he was sexy.
‘And what do you do, Sophie Ellis?’