She kissed Clive on the mouth and then floated away.
“You two? I never would have called that,” I said. “Hard to believe she’s the same Pudge who could barely sit up at Klosters.”
“Hard to believe you’re the same Bex,” he said, giving me the once-over, then pulling me to the window. “Have you taken in the view yet? Pretty impressive stuff.”
The racecourse was set in countryside as green as my emerald. The crowd hummed with excitement as the bookmakers began taking punters’ money for the day’s races under their colorful umbrellas, and every ten seconds another wonderful, ridiculous hat wandered into view: a bust of David Beckham; a Mad Hatter’s tea party recreated in elaborate clay sculptures, the Cheshire Cat’s tail flicking the wearer’s ear; even a tiny topiary trimmed in the image of Nick’s face. And directly beneath us, a drunk woman was being escorted out under great protest—possibly because her hat, while chaste looking at eye level, from above was clearly a graphic depiction of a vagina. In her defense, it was Ladies’ Day.
“Amazing,” I said. “I never thought I’d be standing here.”
“Nor did I,” Clive said frankly.
I cast him a sidelong glance. “Yes, I know.”
“How are you doing with all of this?” he asked. “You look smart, but if I know anything about The Firm, it’s that appearances are deceiving when they need to be.”
“Yes, no one ever accused me of being smart by any definition,” I quipped, though his remark needled me. “I’m…so-so. It’s hard without Nick. Marj is throwing stuff at me faster than I can keep up, and every day I find out I’m supposed to have a stance on, like, monograms, or something. And, man, the press is weird—no offense.”
“None taken, man,” he said.
“The other day, Xandra Deane said Nick and I are fighting because I want our children to be born in America.” I shook my head. “Nick was at sea, and the last thing I want to discuss when I finally see him is childbirth.”
“Xandra Deane is a professional royals hater,” Clive said. “No one knows why—maybe because vitriol sells papers. But she’s mysterious in general. Loads of people claim they know someone who’s met her, but it’s never a firsthand story.”
“Maybe you can hunt her down,” I said. “Weren’t you applying for stuff at the Mail?”
He stiffened. “No takers,” he said. “I missed the two biggest Lyons stories to come out in years, so I lost my momentum. But I’m making my way. Human interest profiles are very enriching. It’s a real way to touch people.”
I saw through him. His recent Recorder piece on an ancient male MP, who writes raunchy mysteries under the pseudonym Petunia Cortlandt, had read like Clive found it beneath him after the heady rush of the polo scoop from a year ago, and I think he regretted discarding the supremely socially connected Davinia Cathcart-Hanson before his ascent had been assured. I felt responsible. Bea said I didn’t owe everyone my patronage, but no one taught me the distinction between that and loyalty.
“I’ll talk to Marj,” I said. “I know it’s a delicate balance between being our friend and…”
“…and my career?” Clive supplied. He smiled absently, staring out the window. “It is hard,” he said. “Nick only knows the half of how discreet I’ve been over the years.”
“If it’s Paris you’re alluding to,” I said with a slight edge, “neither of us did anything wrong that night, so maybe I’ll just tell Nick and be done with it.”
“No, Bex. No,” Clive said. “Don’t tell him. My point is only that it’s hard to make it clear to him just how loyal I am, when I can’t do it without…you know.”
“You’ve been great,” I said. “I bet we can work something out.”
Clive lit up, which made me wonder fleetingly if I’d overpromised. I was saved by Gaz and Cilla, with Bea in tow, looking impeccable in blue.
“Incoming,” Cilla breathed.
I glanced past her and saw Lacey heading over from near the elevator, smart in a red suit and a striking black hat, albeit one that looked hastily affixed.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, and I detected a distinct whiff of alcohol on her breath. “I came with Tony’s friends, and they had to make a stop.” She gestured at the small purple button attached to my dress. “Where can I get those little passes for them to come up?”
I froze. Did she really think I could invite random guests? This wasn’t even my party.
“This isn’t a nightclub, Lacey, it’s the Royal Box at Ascot,” our good old Lady Bollocks said, and I shot her a grateful look. “You can’t just have the bouncer lift the rope.”
“Why not?” Lacey asked. “This place is huge, and they’re with me, and I’m with her, and she’s with the heir.” She looped an arm through mine, wobbling in her heels. I wondered what all had been consumed in that limo.
“If you don’t understand, then I am not wasting my breath explaining,” Bea snapped.
Nigel sidled up, white as a sheet. “Er, did you say Tony is coming?” he asked quietly, tugging at his waistcoat. “Bloody hell, I owe him a hundred…never mind. Just tell him to, er, be cool.” He scampered away.
“An excellent demonstration of why your drug runner can’t come up here,” Bea said.
Lacey looked crestfallen. “But I can’t tell them I couldn’t get them in,” she said.
“Why ever not?” Bea said, then glanced down at her racing form as if the subject were closed. “Great Scott, ten-to-one odds on Jolly Roger in the first? He’s a brute. Can’t pass that up.”
Lacey bit her lip. “Shit,” she said, loudly enough that I saw Pansy Larchmont-Kent-Smythe swing around and glare at us. “Fine. But when I get back, I have some news,” she said, steadying herself ever so briefly before leaving.
“It never ends,” Cilla said under her breath.
As I watched Lacey go, my mother and I met eyes across the room. I didn’t want to ruin her day, so I gave her a sprightly thumbs-up, then turned back to my friends and sighed with what amounted to my whole being.
*