Cocktails for Three (39 page)

It was too hot to work, thought Chloe, standing back and pushing tendrils of wispy fair hair off her forehead. Certainly too hot to be standing in this airless room, corseting an anxious, overweight girl into a wedding dress that was almost certainly two sizes too small. She glanced for the hundredth time at her watch, and felt a little leap of excitement. It was almost time. In only a few minutes the taxi would arrive and this torture would be over, and the holiday would officially begin. She felt faint with longing, with a desperate need for escape. It was only for a week—but a week would be enough. A week had to be enough, didn't it?

Away
, she thought, closing her eyes briefly.
Away from it all.
She wanted it so much it almost scared her.

“Right,” she said, opening her eyes and blinking. For a moment she could barely remember what she was doing; could feel nothing but heat and fatigue. “Well, I've got to go—so perhaps we could leave it there for today? If you do want to go ahead with this particular dress—”

“She'll get into it,” cut in Mrs. Bridges with quiet menace. “She'll just have to make an effort. You can't have it both ways, you know!” Suddenly she turned on Bethany. “You can't have chocolate fudge cake every night and be a size twelve!”

“Some people do,” said Bethany miserably. “Kirsten Davis eats what she likes and she's size eight.”

“Then she's lucky,” retorted Mrs. Bridges. “Most of us aren't so lucky. We have to choose. We have to exercise self-control. We have to make sacrifices in life. Isn't that right, Chloe?”

“‘Well,” said Chloe. “I suppose so. Anyway, as I explained earlier, I am actually going on holiday today. And the taxi's just arrived to take us to Gatwick. So perhaps if we could arrange—”

“‘You want to look like a princess! Every girl wants to make the effort to look their best on the day they get married. I'm sure you did, didn't you?” Mrs. Bridges gimlet gaze landed on Chloe. “I'm sure you made yourself look as beautiful as possible for your wedding day, didn't you?”

“Well,” said Chloe. “Actually—”

“Chloe?” Philip's mop of dark curly hair appeared round the door. “Sorry to disturb—but we do have to get going. The taxi's here….”

“I know,” said Chloe, trying not to sound as tense as she felt. “I know it is. I'm just coming—”

—when I can get rid of these bloody people who arrive half an hour late and won't take a hint
, her eyes silently said, and Philip gave an imperceptible nod.

“What was your wedding dress like?” said Bethany wistfully as he disappeared. “I bet it was lovely.”

“I've never been married,” said Chloe, reaching for her pin box. If she could just pry the girl out of the dress…

“What?” Mrs. Bridges eyes darted to Bethany, then around the room strewn with snippets of wedding silk and gauze, as though suspecting a trick. “What do you mean, you've never been married? Who was that, then?”

“Philip's my long-term partner,” said Chloe, forcing herself to remain polite. “We've been together for thirteen years.” She smiled at Mrs. Bridges. “Longer than a lot of marriages.”

And why the hell am I explaining myself to you?
she thought furiously.

Because three fittings for Bethany plus six bridesmaids' dresses is worth over a thousand pounds,
her brain swiftly replied.
And I only have to be polite for ten more minutes. I can bear ten minutes. Then they'll be gone—and we'll be gone. For a whole week. No phone calls, no newspapers, no worries. No one will even know where we are.

Gatwick Airport was as hot, crowded, and noisy as it had ever been. Queues of charter-flight passengers lolled disconsolately against their trolleys; children whined and babies wailed. Tinny voices almost triumphantly announced delay after delay.

All of it washed over the head of Hugh Stratton, standing at the Regent Airways Club Class check-in desk. He felt in the inside pocket of his linen blazer, produced four passports and handed them to the girl behind the desk.

“You're traveling with…”

“My wife. And children.” Hugh pointed to Amanda, who was standing a few yards away with the two little girls clutching one leg. Her mobile phone was clamped to her ear; as she felt his gaze she looked up, took a few steps towards the desk and said, “Amanda Stratton. And these are Octavia and Beatrice.”

“Fine,” said the girl, and smiled. “Just have to check.”

“Sorry about that, Penny,” said Amanda into the mobile. “Now before I go, let me just check the colors for that second bedroom…”

“Here are your boarding passes,” smiled the girl at Hugh, handing him a sheaf of wallets. “The Club Class lounge is on the upper level. Enjoy your flight.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh. “I'm sure we will.” He smiled back at the girl, then turned away, pocketing the boarding passes, and walked towards Amanda. She was still talking into her mobile phone, apparently oblivious that she was standing bang in the path of passengers queuing for Economy check-in. Family after family was skirting around her—the men eyeing up her long, golden brown legs, the girls looking covetously at her Joseph shift dress, the grannies smiling down at Octavia and Beatrice in their matching pale blue denim smocks. His entire family looked like something out of a color supplement, Hugh found himself thinking dispassionately. No imperfections; nothing out of place.

“Yup,” Amanda was saying as he approached. She thrust a manicured hand through her dark, glossy crop, then turned it over to examine her nails. “Well, as long as the linen arrives on time….”

Just a sec, she mouthed at Hugh, who nodded and opened his copy of the
Financial Times
. If she was on the phone to the interior decorator, she might be a while.

It had emerged only recently that several rooms in their Richmond house were to be redecorated while they were in Spain. Which ones precisely, Hugh still wasn't sure. Nor was he sure quite why any of the house needed redoing so soon—after all, they'd had the whole place gutted and done up when they'd bought it, three years ago. Surely wallpaper didn't deteriorate that quickly?

But by the time Amanda had brought him on board the whole house-doing-up project, it had been obvious that the basic decision—to do up or not to do up?—had already been made, presumably at some level far higher than his. It had also become crystal clear that he was involved only in a consultatory capacity, in which he had no powers of veto. In fact, no executive powers at all.

At work, Hugh Stratton was Head of Corporate Strategy of a large, dynamic company. He had a parking space in front of the building, a respectful personal assistant, and was looked up to by scores of young, ambitious executives. Hugh Stratton, it was generally acknowledged, had one of the finest grasps of commercial strategy in the business world today. When he spoke, other people listened.

At home, nobody listened. At home, he felt rather like the equivalent of the third-generation family shareholder. Permitted to remain on the board because of sentiment and the family name, but frankly, most of the time, in the way.

 

The Gatecrasher

Fleur Daxeny wrinkled her nose. She bit her lip, and put her head on one side, and gazed at her reflection silently for a few seconds. Then she gave a gurgle of laughter.

 “I still can't decide,” she exclaimed. “They're all fabulous.”

The saleswoman from Take Hat! exchanged weary glances with the nervous young hairdresser sitting on a gilt stool in the corner. The hairdresser had arrived at Fleur's hotel suite half an hour ago and had been waiting to start ever since. The saleswoman was meanwhile beginning to wonder whether she was wasting her time completely.

 “I love this one with the veil,” said Fleur suddenly, reaching for a tiny creation of black satin and wispy netting. “Isn't it elegant?”

 “Very elegant,” said the saleswoman. She hurried forward just in time to catch a black silk topper which Fleur was discarding onto the floor.

 “Very,” echoed the hairdresser in the corner. Surreptitiously he glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be back down in the salon in forty minutes. Trevor wouldn't be pleased. Perhaps he should phone down to explain the situation. Perhaps…

“All right!” said Fleur. “I've decided.” She pushed up the veil and beamed around the room. “I'm going to wear this one today.”

 “A very wise choice, madam,” said the saleswoman in relieved tones. “It's a lovely hat.”

 “Lovely,” whispered the hairdresser.

“So if you could just pack the other five into boxes for me…” Fleur smiled mysteriously at her reflection and pulled the dark silk gauze down over her face again. The woman from Take Hat! gaped at her.

“You're going to buy them all?”

“Of course I am. I simply can't choose between them. They're all too perfect.” Fleur turned to the hairdresser. “Now, my sweet. Can you come up with something special for my hair which will go under this hat?” The young man stared back at her and felt a dark pink color begin to rise up his neck.

 “Oh. Yes. I should think so. I mean…” But Fleur had already turned away.

 “If you could just put it all onto my hotel bill,” she was saying to the saleswoman. “That's all right, isn't it?”

“Perfectly all right, madam,” said the saleswoman eagerly. “As a guest of the hotel, you're entitled to a fifteen per cent concession on all our prices.”

“Whatever,” said Fleur. She gave a little yawn. “As long as it can all go on the bill.”

“I'll go and sort it out for you straightaway.”

“Good,” said Fleur. As the saleswoman hurried out of the room, she turned and gave the young hairdresser a ravishing smile. “I'm all yours.”

Her voice was low and melodious and curiously accentless. To the hairdresser's ears it was now also faintly mocking, and he flushed slightly as he came over to where Fleur was sitting. He stood behind her, gathered together the ends of her hair in one hand and let them fall down in a heavy, red-gold movement.

“Your hair's in very good condition,” he said awkwardly.

“Isn't it lovely?” said Fleur complacently. “I've always had good hair. And good skin, of course.” She tilted her head, pushed her hotel robe aside slightly, and rubbed her cheek tenderly against the pale, creamy skin of her shoulder. “How old would you say I was?” she added abruptly.

“I don't…I wouldn't…” the young man began to flounder.

“I'm forty,” she said lazily. She closed her eyes. “Forty,” she repeated, as though meditating. “It makes you think, doesn't it?”

“You don't look…” began the hairdresser in awkward politeness. Fleur opened one glinting, pussycat-green eye.

“I don't look forty? How old do I look, then?” 

The hairdresser stared back at her uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. The truth was, he thought suddenly, that this incredible woman didn't look any age. She seemed ageless, classless, indefinable. As he met her eyes he felt a thrill run through him; a dartlike conviction that this moment was somehow significant. His hands trembling slightly, he reached for her hair and let it run like slippery flames through his fingers.

“You look as old as you look,” he whispered huskily. “Numbers don't come into it.”

“Sweet,” said Fleur dismissively. “Now, my pet, before you start on my hair, how about ordering me a nice glass of champagne?”

The hairdresser's fingers drooped in slight disappointment, and he went obediently over to the telephone. As he dialed, the door opened and the woman from Take Hat! came back in, carrying a pile of hat boxes. “Here we are,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “If you could just sign here…”

“A glass of champagne, please,” the hairdresser was saying. “Room 301.”