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Authors: Jenny Colgan

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BOOK: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

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A twenty-six-pound club sandwich. I didn’t think so.

‘No, I’m all right,’ I said. ‘Can I get a glass of water?’

He nodded his head discreetly towards a door and I slipped through it.

At once, I entered chaos. In the ballroom all was quiet and serenely floral. In here, it was madness. Dozens of chefs were lined up alongside great steel rows of huge ovens and stainless-steel chopping stations, all going ten to the dozen. Acre after acre of exquisitely dressed hors d’oeuvres were being arranged on plates, as horseradish was squirted onto smoked salmon and caviar appetisers. Olives were being expertly stabbed into rolls of prosciutto. Rows of pheasant with their legs tied together were being roasted on spits or taken in and out of ovens, and veg was being chopped at blurred speeds by young skinny men and women - it was impossible to tell what sex they were beneath their huge white hats and terrified expressions. The noise was incredible and it was at least ten degrees hotter in here than outside. I mouthed ‘water’ to the nearest boy/girl and they, without pausing in their chopping motion, hurled me a bottle of water, much re-filled. I didn’t care and drank from it anyway. Suddenly a loud hooter went off. Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and stood to attention. The door behind me clanged, and dozens of waiting staff burst through it and filed up in lines.

A huge man with a frightening expression (not helped by the huge cleaver he was holding in his hand) shouted out, ‘All in your places? You bastards better be ready. Good luck, and have a good service. The party is starting to arrive. And, one two, three -
go
!’

With that, the whole place leapt into action. Two waiters at a time darted forward to receive a pristine tray of canapés, then another two, and another. I managed to slip out of the door just ahead of the relentless onslaught, and just in time to see the double doors at the head of the room open up, and the first guests arrive. Adrenalin shot through my body. This was it.

Amazing. Of course, the hair, and the plain clothes, and my very obvious status as staff all contributed, but still, not a soul recognised me. Everyone swam past me wearing the most incredible outfits. It had been so long since I’d seen people properly dressed up for going out, I’d slightly lost the point of why anyone bothered; especially now I had no money and Eck waiting for me at home. Clothes were fun, I supposed, if you didn’t care how much they cost, and wore a sample size.

There were lots and lots of women with fragile ankles and wrists, wearing tiny buttoned jackets over their delicate bodies and sporting elaborate fascinators and discreetly expensive earrings. They greeted each other with a kind of exhausted delight, remarking upon the last time they’d been there. All the women were blonde, different shades of blonde but all had poker straight, perfectly styled hair.

The men, red-faced and choleric, hung around chatting about money and grumbling about not being able to smoke cigars. ‘She’s a pretty filly all right,’ I heard one of them say.

‘Yes, lucky bastard,’ said another.

‘Oh, had one wife, had them all,’ said the first, and they all guffawed in unpleasant tones. I searched the crowd for Julius. He was at the very front, walking backwards in the best tradition of the paparazzi. The wedding party was arriving. I went back to take my place at the grotto room, but couldn’t resist stopping to stare. Then the orchestra - none of your string quartet low-key nonsense here - struck up a wedding march and they walked in.

Carena looked exquisite. A proper queen. Her dress was a shimmering fall of palest cream satin, a little exquisite beading on the bust and straps; a huge diamond necklace and tiara the real glowing stars of the outfit. Her arms looked like two sticks down her sides holding the elegant black lilies of her bouquet; but very much from the Angelina Jolie school of beautiful stick arms and legs so it didn’t matter.

Behind her Philly and Carena’s cousin Samantha were radiant in Schiaparelli pink prom dresses, showing off vertiginous heels. Philly had a smaller version of Carena’s tiara. I wondered whose idea that was. They were carrying lilies of the palest pink, and they glowed like princesses from a fairy tale. The throng parted and Carena gave a smile designed to make her look beautiful and modest. I sighed. It was working. Behind her, reaching for her hand, was Rufus, as wolfish and roguish-looking as ever in his grey morning suit. He was being mobbed by a gang of his school friends. They were all laughing uproariously and passing a hip flask, and they all seemed pretty drunk already. The whole tableau looked beautiful and care-free and joyous, and even this jaded crowd clapped as they passed into the room; the couple’s happiness was palpable. Yep, OK. I had to admit it. I was jealous. I was so jealous I wanted to explode. I was so jealous I wanted to take my backup camera and hurl it at them. Throw tomato juice all over the tulle layers of that beautiful dress. Scream ‘IT’S NOT FAIR!’ over and over again to the ceiling. Yes, things were getting a
little
better for me. I had a nice boyfriend and something approaching a future was beginning to take shape. I wasn’t trailing in the gutter.

Yet somehow that was worse. When everything is as bad as it can possibly be at least you stand out for being a complete disaster. You’re still special, just special for being such an unbelievable fuck up. People speak about you in vaguely hushed tones all the time. Whereas when everything is patently going to be average and you’re just going to have to get through it - that, in a funny way, is much harder. I couldn’t throw my hands up in the air and go to bed for a week. I had to soldier on. I raised my camera like a gun and sidled back to my room, just as I heard Rufus announce, ‘My wife and I . . .’

A great cheer went up, and the waiters and waitresses converged, like a swarm of petite wasps, dispensing champagne and canapés. The sound of laughter loudened as the orchestra launched into something light and lovely. It was gorgeous. I wanted to cry.

‘
Sophie?
’

Of course. It was Philly, bearing down on me like a glamorous pink truck.

‘You got Julius! What’s up with your hair? You look like a golden—’

‘Labrador, I know.’

‘I was going to say retriever.’

‘Oh.’ I stood there.

‘So are you
working
here?’

‘Of course.’ I’d never been to a party where I hadn’t seen Philly hand out business cards, but I didn’t mention it.

‘Wow, that’s amazing.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a shame the fame thing didn’t work out.’

‘I’m over it.’

‘Well, Good For You!’ she said as if talking to a slow child. ‘That’s brilliant! Does Carena not mind you coming here? I thought, you know, it was insensitive . . .’

‘I’m Julius’s assistant,’ I said. ‘It’s up to her to object.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t have you
thrown out
,’ said Philly in a way that suggested she wasn’t sure at all.

‘Well, that’s what friends are for,’ I said.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Well, you know, I do have a lot of duties to do . . .’

‘Off you go,’ I said as cheerily as I could muster.

The dinner seemed interminable, course after course of tiny things with sauce smeared on the plates. Nobody would want their pics taken till later, till they were a bit pissed. I amused myself by watching the amazingly fluid choreography of those manning the tables; the way they whizzed in and out of the huge kitchens bearing dozens of plates and mountains of dirty crockery, re-emerging seconds later with a whole new tray. The level of chatter in the room was high and spirited, rising to a crescendo by the time Rufus rose to his feet, tapping a glass sharply.

‘Hello, everyone,’ he said in that ridiculously posh baritone I’d once known so well. There he was. Rufus the doofus.

‘I just wanted to say how delighted I am that you’re all here today - and how thrilled I am to have my beautiful bride seated beside me.’

A huge roar went up. He thanked his parents, his friends, his farm manager, his relatives and his dog. I waited patiently, but he didn’t thank me for so gracefully stepping aside the second he met someone he liked a bit better. My mature tolerance could only take so much backslapping, and I retired to my grotto and sat there on my own. Oh well. All the cameras were ready and set up. There was absolutely nothing to do. I wandered about and finally turned off the main lights, sat down in a corner (the chaise longue was wildly uncomfortable) under a table and, like a bored dog, sleepy after sharing Eck’s bed for a fortnight, simply dozed off.

I wasn’t sure how long I was there before I came to and realised there was someone else in the room. They couldn’t have seen me, I was tucked away in the corner. And they were sobbing. I rubbed my eyes and got up slowly and quietly, worrying about startling whoever it was by appearing out of the half-light.

‘Hello?’ I said quietly. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Who’s that?’ Came a startled voice I knew very well.

‘Carena?’

‘Sophie?’

My eyes adjusted to the light. There she was on the chaise longue, the beautiful dress spread out behind her like a queen’s train.

‘What are you doing here?’ she hiccupped, rubbing at her eyes.

‘I’m helping the photographer. I texted you.’

‘Yeah, I change my number once a fortnight!’

‘OK, good for you,’ I said. ‘Well, I didn’t sneak in, if that’s what you were thinking.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, it doesn’t matter,’ said Carena savagely. I looked at her more closely.

‘Are you . . . are you all right . . .?’

That’s when I realised. Honestly, I’d never seen her cry, not even when she broke her shoulder the year we skied at Vail. You could say what you liked about her, but she was incredibly brave. I think the long years of parental neglect had taught her that crying didn’t help anything terribly much.

She looked at me for a moment, as if about to dismiss me once more. Then her face wobbled and crashed.

‘Oh, Sophs,’ she said, which she hadn’t called me for years. ‘It’s just so much crap.’

‘What? How?’ I said, going over and sitting down next to her. I patted her shoulder ineffectually, and she leaned in and started to seriously cry; my chiffon top was getting wet.

‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘It’s OK.’

I glanced nervously at the door.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, stuttering. ‘I’ve locked it. So none of
them
can get in. They’ll think I’m doing my face. They think that’s all I do.’

She stuttered and coughed a little more, and I gave her the clean dusters from the camera box to wipe her face with.

‘Thanks,’ she said. She pulled a bottle of champagne from under her skirt.

‘I liberated it,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d drink it quickly by myself and then things wouldn’t seem so bad.’

‘But . . . it’s
gorgeous
,’ I said. ‘You look so beautiful, and you all seem so happy, and you’ve got this big posh wedding, and everyone’s so pleased, and you’re going to live in his beautiful house . . .’

Carena uncorked the bottle and took a huge long swig. Then she passed it to me.

‘He’s an idiot, of course,’ she said.

‘Well . . .’ I didn’t know what to say about that, so I took the bottle and took a long swig myself, which gave me enough time.

‘He’s so handsome,’ I said. ‘And so successful - he’s the one everyone wanted. Everyone envies you. I wanted him so much.’

‘Who cares about that?’ she said. ‘And he’s getting stuck in to the other women already and we’re not even married - I’m sure he’s slept with Philly.’

‘Oh, God, there’s about two people in SW3 who haven’t slept with Philly,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t let that worry you.’

She half-smiled. ‘They do say fidelity is a terribly middle-class concept.’

I thought about Eck, who would never cheat on me. And then, strangely, I thought about Cal, who would never do anything else.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said.

BOOK: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

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