Private Lives

53



It was easy to spot who was going to a party. Cath was waiting for Anna outside Sloane Square tube station dressed in a sparkly silver dress, like a space-age flapper girl lost in the sea of drab commuters piling into the station to go home. Anna smoothed down her own emerald-green shift dress, wondering if it was dressy enough. She wasn’t entirely sure how this evening was going to go, but she was glad Cath was there to hold her hand.

‘This is so exciting,’ said Cath, giving Anna a hug. ‘Where are we going again?’

‘You’re excited about something you don’t even know about?’ laughed Anna, flagging down a taxi.

‘Hey, you’re the one who sent me this cryptic message saying “drop everything, I’m taking you to the most glamorous party you’ve ever been to”.’

‘It’s the launch of a big hotel. Very high end,’ said Anna as the cab rumbled down Lower Sloane Street towards Chelsea Embankment. ‘Think the Plaza in New York, only more modern.’

‘Will there be any celebrities there?’

‘Wall to wall.’

Cath gripped her arm. ‘Why don’t you invite me to things like this more often? I’ve got a dozen Karen Millen party dresses in my closet collecting dust and my best mate has a hotline to the stars.’

That wasn’t strictly true. They had Sam Charles to thank for this invitation; using his name had been the only way Anna could think to get inside. And she needed to get inside, because there was someone there she desperately needed to meet.

The traffic was in gridlock as they approached the Chelsea Heights, a stand-alone suite-only hotel catering specifically for high-rollers, people who came to the capital for Bond Street and Canary Wharf, people who thought nothing of spending over two thousand pounds per night, breakfast extra. It also incorporated the Duel, London’s first high-concept restaurant, where two Michelin-starred chefs, placed in separate kitchens, would compete nightly to create the best menu possible, no expense spared.

‘This place is amazing,’ gasped Cath as Anna gave their names at the door and they walked into the cavernous lobby. That was an understatement. It was as if someone had taken a giant apple corer and pulled out the centre of the hotel, replacing it with a golden waterfall that cascaded from the roof, disappearing into a hole in the floor of the lobby. It was a marvel of science or civil engineering or magic, thought Anna, not really sure which. It was certainly impressive, though. As was the gathering for the party. TV stars rubbed shoulders with novelists, artists and sports stars.

‘Wow,’ said Cath, clasping at Anna’s arm. ‘Is that David Beckham over there? And Elton John? Oh please, please tell me that you come to things like this every week.’

Anna giggled.

‘I’m afraid not. Most nights I’m still in the office at this time.’

Live jazz floated through the marble lobby, whilst the canapés were like miniature works of art. A handsome waiter handed them each a deep red cocktail and the two girls clinked their glasses together.

‘Well I’d say all that hard work was worthwhile,’ said Cath. ‘I work stupid hours too, and no bugger has ever invited me to anything more glamorous than All Bar One.’

Anna was happy Cath was so excited, but at the same time she felt bad about having dragged her friend into her deception. She scanned the crowd, but there had to be five hundred people packed into the hotel’s lobby, and besides, she only had images from magazines to go on.

‘Listen, Cath . . .’ she began, pulling an awkward face.

‘What is it?’ said Cath warily. ‘I know that look; you’re about to tell me we have to serve the nibbles or something.’

‘No, but I do have a confession to make. I’m here to find a man.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Cath grinned.

‘A specific man, by the name of Johnny Maxwell. He’s a society fixer and I need to charm him into . . . well, it’s something to do with work.’

Cath sighed, putting a hand on her chest. ‘Is that all? Honey, you can chat up Jabba the Hutt for all I care, as long as I get to ogle Beckham’s bum while drinking free booze.’

Anna pulled her BlackBerry from her clutch bag: one message. Sam. She clicked on it: ‘Missing You. S xx’

She looked up to see Cath examining her face suspiciously.

‘What are you smiling at, young lady?’ she said.

‘Just some work thing,’ stammered Anna.

‘I knew it!’ cried Cath. ‘It’s a bloke, isn’t it? You sly little minx. Have you been on Match.com like we told you?’

Anna shook her head, wishing her cheeks didn’t feel so hot.

‘It’s just Sam,’ she said, quickly slipping her BlackBerry back into her bag.

‘Sam who?’

‘Sam Charles.’

Cath looked at her incredulously.

‘Just Sam Charles. I thought he fired you?’

‘He did. But he came round to apologise. We’re working on something together.’

‘He came round to your house? OMG. You’ve slept with him, haven’t you? I don’t believe it, you dirty old sod. I knew there was something different about you today. It’s that “just been shagged” glow.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ said Anna, steering Cath to a quieter alcove. ‘I don’t want to get fired again.’

Cath’s mouth was still hanging open.

‘My best friend has shagged a Hollywood star. This is historic.’

‘It was only one time,’ she said. Four times in one night, she thought dreamily, but now was not the time to go into that.

‘Only once? I swear if it happened to me I would think my work on earth was done now.’

It felt good to finally tell someone about it. After their time on the longboat, she’d been resigned to the fact that it had been a one-night stand brought on by the romantic setting. The whole experience had had a decidedly holiday romance feel to it. They were drunk, they were in India, they’d been caught up in the drama. It had been wonderful, and he’d been funny and attentive on the flight home, but she wasn’t kidding herself that she could expect anything else. He was Sam Charles, for goodness’ sake – and anyway, after dropping her home, he’d flown straight back to LA. Who knew what bimbos were waiting for him in his swanky Hollywood Hills shag pad? But Sam had surprised her. He had called her. Part of her had felt happy and hopeful that this was the start of something. The other part felt as if she was about to step on to a rollercoaster, and wasn’t sure if she was ready for the ride.

‘If you’re going to get all soppy over Casanova, I’m going to have a crack at a footballer.’

Anna put her hand on her friend’s arm.

‘There he is,’ she said.

‘Who? Sam Charles?’

‘No, Johnny Maxwell.’

He was standing in a group of model-type girls. In his mid sixties, wearing a loud purple and green checked three-piece suit, with his shoulder-length white hair swept back, he looked like a rock star gone to seed. Every now and then he would use the silver camera hanging around his neck to snap a shot of one of these beautiful women.

‘Is that the guy you need to speak to?’

‘I need to chat him up, actually,’ said Anna.

‘So you and Sam have an open relationship, then?’ She looked over at Maxwell. ‘Anna, he’s about eighty.’

‘Sixty-four, I believe.’ She’d spent an hour Googling him that afternoon. Whilst Johnny Maxwell had a decidedly sleazy reputation as a party animal, his lineage was pure. The son of a wealthy minor aristocrat, he was an Old Etonian who had dropped out of Oxford to join the Carnaby Street scene. Inspired by Bailey and Donovan, he’d become a photographer, primarily as a way to get girls. Since then, he had never really gone away, becoming a fixture on whatever was the most happening scene: Studio 54, eighties LA, Britpop London, finding his niche somewhere between portrait photographer and society party planner.

‘What do you want to chat him up for?’ asked Cath, wrinkling her nose.

‘I need him to invite me to something.’

‘What? A Saga holiday?’

‘Just run with me on this one, okay?’ said Anna seriously. ‘Think of it as role play. We’re going over to speak to him, and when we do, we’re going to have to pretend to be someone else.’

Cath frowned. ‘Would it ruin the surprise to ask why?’

Anna took a swallow of her cocktail and prepared to tell her friend a little white lie. ‘Johnny Maxwell organises these big parties, networking things, for this society guy. I need to get to one of the parties, but the host hates Donovan Pierce lawyers because we’ve sued him.’

She hated lying to her friend.

‘It’s like James Bond,’ laughed Cath, and Anna gripped her arm.

‘Come on, we’re going over. He’s looking at us. I think he wants to take our pictures.’

‘Pictures? What for? You sure this is kosher, Anna?’

‘Absolutely,’ she whispered, and stepped forward.