Bad Brides (33 page)

Lady Margaret slanted her eyes sideways to watch Tamra’s reaction to this, her weatherbeaten face cracking into a smile as Tamra answered: ‘Oh, bad luck for you! I bet that really
pisses you off. Never mind – if you like ’em young, dumb and full of come there should be plenty to go round this weekend.’

She flashed her best dazzling smile at Minty for the briefest of seconds and then turned it off again. This was always a terrifyingly intimidating tactic, like a Gestapo interrogation light
wielded by a beauty queen, and even Lady Araminta, used to the snubbing stares of the highest echelons of the British royal family, wilted beneath it. Tamra turned to Sophie, clearly signalling
that Minty had been dealt with, and saw that the princess was giggling.

‘That put you in your place, didn’t it, Minters?’ Sophie said cheerfully. ‘And I
love
“young, dumb and full of come”! That’s
perfect
for Dom.’

‘He’s actually the same age as Edmund,’ Lady Margaret observed. ‘But Edmund’s had all the responsibility of Stanclere on his shoulders for yonks, of course. Had to
grow up fast. Makes a difference.’

‘Shall I show you to your rooms?’ Tamra asked Sophie and Minty: Edmund’s disappearance with Dom had demonstrated his willingness to assign hostess duties to Tamra, so not even
Minty could accuse Tamra of overstepping her authority in Stanclere Hall.

‘That would be
lovely
,’ Sophie said, linking her arm through Tamra’s and looking around for somewhere to put her empty glass: a maid appeared instantly with a tray to
place it on. ‘I hear you’ve got five-star hotel bathrooms to go with the rest of the do-over.’

‘Sadly no jacuzzis,’ Tamra said, in a light, self-mocking tone. ‘Which, as an American, makes me feel
totally
uncivilized, but the plumbing just wasn’t up to it.
I
am
hoping to get a hot tub on the terrace as soon as I can convince Edmund . . .’

‘Ha ha!’ Sophie giggled appreciatively. ‘
So
funny! I’ll have a go at him too. Every stately home should
definitely
have a hot tub.’

Lady Margaret, sinking back down onto her comfortable velvet sofa by the fireplace, reaching for a cigarette, watched her friend and protégée with great appreciation as Tamra
escorted Sophie up the stairs. Tamra’s manner was exactly right, remaining herself, poking fun at her American identity and her vast wealth while also unabashedly enjoying all the good things
that her wealth brought. She entertained her friends while giving no ammunition to her enemies: it was the perfect tactic. Just now, she was adding: ‘Oh yeah, and these stairs are hell in
heels. I need to figure out where to put an elevator. Or two,’ as Sophie cooed in agreement.

‘Minty! Sophie! Darlings, there you are!’ called a clear, bell-like voice from the gallery that ran along the half-height of the Great Hall, the extension of the staircase wings: it
was Milly, an ethereally beautiful fairy figure in white lace almost the same shade as her skin. Tarte Bellini gel blush and rose-pink lipstick, together with a lot of dark brown mascara, gave her
features definition. Even Tamra, narrowly assessing her with a quick, stiletto-like glance, had to admit that Milly’s clothes and make-up were extremely successful. Milly had been clever
enough to copy almost exactly the look that had worked so well on her shoot with Tarquin. It was a textbook example of knowing what suited you best, rather than trying to compete with someone
else’s style.

‘Hi Milly,’ Sophie said as Milly flitted up to them. ‘God, you look pretty. Are you going to be in the photos tomorrow?’

‘Of course!’ Milly said brightly.

‘I’m
so
looking forward to it,’ Sophie continued, quite unaware of the rivalry between Milly and Brianna Jade.

‘Daddy gets grumpy when I’m in the mags too much, but I love having my photo taken, and he
so
approves of old Ed that I totally get a free pass with this one. You
are
lucky to be able to do real fashion shoots,’ she added glumly. ‘I’d really love to be properly styled in all those wacky outfits.’

She stroked back her long straight blonde hair wistfully. Sophie would not have made a true high-fashion model – she was not quite tall enough, and her features were too pretty – but
she could certainly have worked in perfume or jewellery spreads, or done the kind of
Tatler
photo shoots that were based on a certain celebrity status.

‘I’m
totally
banned from modelling,’ she complained. ‘Minters does some and I’m always madly jealous of her. Come up and talk to us while we get dressed,
Milly?’

‘There’s champagne waiting in your room,’ Tamra said to Sophie. ‘And just let me know if you need more cocktails sent up while you change.’

‘Oh God, the bliss!’ Sophie sighed again as Tamra led her and Minty along the gallery in the opposite direction from which Milly had come, towards the newly refurbished wing of the
house.

Milly fell back, looping her arm through Lady Araminta’s. They had made friends some years ago on the party circuit, recognizing a fellow capacity for bitchiness and back-stabbing that
meant they were much better off partnering up rather than becoming rivals, and also quite aware of the fact that the similarity in their names made them better known in tandem than apart: it was a
form of branding. Milly provided access to actors’ gossip, Minty the inside track on the aristocratic circuit, so that between them they were much more powerful than they would have been
separately.

It was an alliance rather than a friendship, but since neither of them had the capacity for the latter, the former suited both girls perfectly. And, in a perfect example of how they operated,
Milly was brimming with information that she wanted Minty to diffuse throughout the house party.

‘You’re never going to
believe
what I overheard earlier!’ she hissed delightedly. ‘
Le scandale!
Just
wait
till we’re alone!’

But though Milly filled Minty in on what she had overheard a short time before, the gossip did not spread until the next day. Minty had wanted to start dispersing it instantly,
but Milly was much too strategic for that. The atmosphere that evening was too quiet, and Milly had no intention of wasting her powder. Tamra had made it clear that she expected everyone to have a
fairly sober Friday night so that they would be fresh and energetic for the photo shoot: Saturday evening, to compensate, would be a bacchanalia.

It hadn’t been a hard rule to impose, as even the most well-connected aristocrats were eager to follow Sophie’s lead and appear in
Style
, the most prestigious high fashion
magazine in the world. And one look at Brianna Jade, glowing and gorgeous after her cold shower and pot of coffee, had made the English girls realize that they needed to be in bed by midnight at
the latest, Clarins Beauty Flash Balm or Guerlain’s Midnight Secret worked into their faces and only a few drinks working their way through their systems, so they wouldn’t look
puffy-eyed and hungover next to Brianna Jade’s healthy blonde radiance. None of the Brits worked out regularly, preferring the Three C diet – coffee, cigarettes and coke – and
though they were all wafer-slim, the difference in their skin tone and Brianna Jade’s was noticeable.

‘I need to go to the gym more,’ Sophie sighed as they were being made up, staring at Brianna Jade’s flawless golden complexion in the clear white autumn morning light.
‘By which I mean at
all.
’

‘Oh, it’s not just working out. I go to the dermatologist every month too,’ Brianna Jade assured her, incurably honest. ‘And I get tons of facials. With
extractions.’

‘Ow, that sounds horrible,’ Sophie said.

‘It
is
. You have to go straight home afterwards and lie low, ’cause you have little red marks all over your face. But it cleans out all your pores. Especially on the
nose.’

Sophie, in the next make-up chair to Brianna Jade, squinted in more closely at her hostess’s nose.

‘It looks very smooth,’ she agreed.

‘God, she’s practically
poreless
,’ sighed Gary Jordan, one of the top make-up artists in the country, who was working mascara into the inner corners of Brianna
Jade’s eyelashes, coating every single lash with great care and attention. ‘It’s like making up a china plate.
Love
her. Don’t ever believe us when we say we
don’t love working on the pretty people best, because we
do
.’

The morning room had been set up as a make-up room for the shoot because of its high French windows that faced east onto the best light: hence its name. It was also big enough to accommodate the
racks of clothes that the magazine stylists had brought. Autumn colours were the order of the day, since the shoot was not for the magazine – which would usually have to be planned months in
advance – but for the website, so that the images could be uploaded in just a few days, post-Photoshopping.

The racks held warm rusts and lichens and deep umbers, glowing richly against the range of russet and chocolate tweeds: Jodie Raeburn was obsessed with tweeds for the current A/W season, and
practically living in the Prada tweed A-line skirt which was pretty much the only piece from the range that she could wear. Since she had conquered the eating disorder that had taken her below a
hundred pounds and to a life-threatening size zero, she had settled back to a UK ten to twelve, and though she was much happier and healthier at this size, she still stood by the racks fingering
the size six tweed trouser suits wistfully.

‘You can’t wear those, you silly bitch,’ Gary called over to her: he was famous for his absolute refusal to be deferential to anyone, and the fashion pack loved him for it.
‘You’re not a stick insect.’

‘You don’t know how much I’d give just to be able to put this on for a day,’ Jodie said gloomily, lifting the trousers of one suit, softly checked mushroom and beige
threaded with a hint of green. ‘It’s just so
now
.’

She looked over at the line of women in the make-up chairs: they were already mostly finished. The
Style
team had arrived pretty much at dawn, and they were all crack operators, used to
working fast and perfectly. Jodie herself had flown in from Milan late last night, otherwise she would have stayed at the Hall.

‘I do wish we could have gone more Seventies with the hair,’ she said, assessing the nearly finished results. ‘But I know that would have knocked it over into too-styled, and
with Your Royal Highness in the mix—’

‘Call me Sophie,
please
,’ Her Royal Highness said firmly. ‘I’d have loved a big bouff too, but Daddy would kill me if I looked like I was modelling.’

Gary sniffed. ‘I’d’ve needed to bring a hairpiece,’ he said, picking up a strand of Sophie’s fine blonde hair. ‘Even after I’ve teased it to buggery,
you’ve got no body here at all.’

Even Jodie’s eyes widened at this lèse-majesté, but Sophie had built up a very good rapport with Gary over the last hour and a half of hair and make-up, and she giggled at
this.

‘I
know
, it’s such a bore,’ she agreed. ‘Me and Minty both! Look at Brianna Jade with all her fantastic American hair . . . Milly, yours is pretty, I love your
ringlets, but she’s just got so much of it!’

Milly and Minty exchanged narrow glances of fury at Sophie singing Brianna Jade’s praises, something that didn’t escape the sharp-eyed Gary.

‘Right, you’re done,’ he said, pulling away the black shoulder cape that had been fastened around Brianna Jade’s neck to avoid any loose powder spilling on her dress.
‘Fabulous, if I do say so myself!’

Brianna Jade was wearing tweed, a carefully selected, tailored Roland Mouret dress that skimmed her statuesque curves. The trouser suits were for Sophie and Minty, skinny enough to carry them
off, while Milly had been styled in a loose lace blouse and tweed mini-shorts, worn over dark green tights and Isabel Marant ankle boots. Their make-up was discreet, their hair as Seventies as the
stylists had been allowed to go, done in the faux-natural, blown-out look which suited everyone. Though they were all blondes, their styles were very different: Brianna Jade, buxom and glamorous,
was beauty-pageant gorgeous next to Sophie and Minty’s pretty, foxy-featured little faces and Milly’s saucer-eyed flower fairy look.

‘I’m really happy with this,’ Jodie said calmly, which made every single
Style
employee and freelancer shiver with happiness; that phrase was her highest accolade.
‘OK, the guys are all done. Let’s get out on that bridge.’

The men were gathered on the terrace, Tarquin and Edmund chatting pleasantly about the past shooting season, while Dominic and Lance, the drummer from Ormond and Co, lounged against the
balustrade, smoking, their eyes fixed on the French doors through which the women would emerge. The videographer, who had already shot ‘candid’ moments of everyone during their hair and
make-up – all the subjects perfectly aware of when the camera was on, naturally – was waiting on the terrace to capture the moment, stationed on the top step down so that she could also
pan to the men and see their reaction, which was duly impressed. The four young women, perfectly well aware of how good they looked, walked out at a self-consciously slow pace, their blown-out hair
bouncing on their shoulders, their smiles wide, turning to glance at each other because they knew it would make their blonde hair bounce even more effectively.

‘Whoa, it’s an all-blonde Charlie’s Angels goes to the country,’ drawled Dominic, coming off the balustrade and flourishing an elaborate bow. ‘Miladies, allow me to
compliment you on your get-ups.’

But then, behind them, Tamra could be seen, exchanging a word or two with Jodie, both of them hanging back to avoid being in the shot. Tamra was not in this video, which was all about the
engaged couple and what
Style
would describe as their ‘connected country set’. Still, being Tamra, she was dressed and made up as wonderfully as if she were styled for the
shoot, in a tweed jacket over jeans tucked into Tremp russet patent high boots, glossy as conkers, her rose-gold hair bouncing from a hot rollers set. Technically, the jeans were too tight for
British country style, the jacket too fitted and nipped-in at the waist, but, as Tamra had already realized, she was much better off owning her glamorous American self rather than trying too hard
to fit into a world whose rules weren’t hers.