Divas (16 page)

Lola grimaced. Her mother would never change. She eyed the stinky spaniel, which responded by raising its upper lip to show her its teeth and growling faintly. Very friendly.

‘So your father’s ill?’ Suzanne asked, sipping at her tea. ‘I don’t even quite understand what’s going on yet – you were babbling away outside
hysterically, and I had to calm poor Hamlet down—’

‘Daddy’s in a coma, ’ Lola blurted out. ‘And Carin’s in charge of everything and she’s kicked me out of my house. Apparently it’s not mine technically,
it’s all in trust—’

‘Oh my God!’ Suzanne’s hand shook as she lowered the mug to the table. ‘In a
coma?
’

‘A diabetic one, ’ Lola explained, taking off her Gucci sunglasses, which were propped on top of her head, and putting them on the table.

‘I
told
him!’ Suzanne wailed.‘I
warned
him! He was getting more and more unhealthy! But he just wouldn’t stop eating. It was compulsive. I couldn’t
bear to see him like that.’

‘He was getting pretty big, ’ Lola admitted, fiddling with the arms of the sunglasses.

‘Well, why didn’t you say something, Lola? He’s your father! Couldn’t you see his weight was out of control?’

Lola looked blank again. The idea of acting like a responsible adult around her father was completely alien to her.

‘I did tease him about it, ’ she offered.‘You know what he was like, he didn’t like me to put on a pound, and sometimes I’d say, “Well, Daddy,
you
try
living on edamame beans and sashimi and see how you like it!” He wouldn’t have lasted an hour! But he was
Daddy
. I mean, what could I have said to him? Why would he have listened
to
me?
’

Lola knew perfectly well what her role in her father’s life had been: to look pretty, to be frivolous, to lead a sparkling social life and be photographed in fabulous dresses at fabulous
parties, to be a glittering butterfly, demonstrating by her appearance how successful Ben Fitzgerald was. It certainly hadn’t been to tell him the truth about his lifestyle.

‘I despair, Lola. Really I do, ’ Suzanne said, sighing. ‘That woman was feeding him up like a pig to market, and you didn’t say a word. Lola, do you know what a diabetic
coma is?’

God, how Lola hated it when people asked her questions like that in a patronising tone of voice, indicating that she was too stupid to know the answer. George, Daddy’s old lawyer, had done
it too.

‘It’s a coma!’ she said crossly. ‘Like—’ Her only references were people in comas on TV, so she tailed off at this point.

‘He’ll be lucky to come out of it at all, ’ Suzanne informed her. ‘And if he does, he may well be brain-damaged. I don’t think you’ve quite realised how
serious this could be, Lola. Your father could die.’

‘Oh
no
, Mummy.’ Lola shook her head so vigorously that her blonde ponytail danced and her yellow diamond earrings sparkled in the pale light trickling through the window.
‘I’m sure you’re wrong. Anyway, I’m shooting off to New York, and I’m going to go and see Daddy and talk to the doctors and hopefully get my trust fund unblocked and
get everything sorted out,
so
. . .’ She looked hopefully at her mother. ‘I sort of need to borrow some money for all of that.’

Suzanne, who had been reaching for her now-cooling cup of tea, paused, turning to stare at her daughter.

‘Lola, ’ she said, ‘I really don’t understand this. Why on earth do you need money?’

‘Because Carin’s cut off my trust fund, Mummy!’ Lola’s voice raised to something like a wail. Her parents always had this effect on her: she ended up sounding like a
small child in their presence. ‘I don’t have any money! My credit cards don’t work – all I’ve got is what’s in my bank accounts, and that’s practically
nothing! And she’s kicked me out of my house! I don’t have anywhere to live!’

Lola wasn’t surprised that her mother had absolutely no idea of the dramatic events that had recently engulfed her daughter’s life. Suzanne had a basic internet connection, but she
only used it for email.

Lola knew her mother would much rather she was working as a volunteer for a refugee organisation in some war-ravaged area of the world. Or saving baby crocodiles from extinction. Well, then
Suzanne shouldn’t have married a multi-millionaire! She should have picked some Green Party worker instead, and brought their daughter up in some crunchy-granola Stoke Newington commune!

Thank God, at least,
that
hadn’t happened.

‘What about Jean-Marc?’ Suzanne asked, her beautiful face baffled.

‘He’s in rehab in Arizona, ’ Lola said impatiently.

‘Oh my God! Poor Jean-Marc! What happened?’

‘He overdosed in the flat of some sordid tranny, ’ Lola explained. ‘He’s fine now. I mean, they’ve pumped him out and now his horrible brother’s packed him
off to rehab and said I can’t see him any more, which means—’

‘
Lola
! You must be so upset!’

‘Actually, we decided we were better off as friends, ’ Lola said blithely, ‘so that part’s all OK—’

‘How much is in your bank account?’ her mother asked, frowning.

‘Barely fifteen grand!’ Lola said, throwing her hands wide to show how desperate the situation was. She decided not to mention Niels van der Veer’s cheque. That would just make
the waters even muddier than they were already.

‘That would be a lot of money for most people, ’ her mother observed.

Lola rolled her eyes.

‘I’m not most people, Mummy. And neither are you, ’ she snapped.

‘Oh,
Lola
—’ her mother started.

‘Mummy! You were the Sunsilk girl! People recognise you on the street thirty years later! You married a multi-millionaire and you live in a ginormous house! And I can barely move without a
ton of paparazzi chasing me. We’re
not
most people!’

‘Well, we should be, ’ Suzanne said, standing up and walking across the kitchen to the big sink, under the picture window. Leaning on it, she stared outside at the sea view, refusing
to look at Lola as she said:

‘I’m not going to give you any money, Lola. You’re going to have to do this on your own.’

‘
What?
’

‘Maybe Carin’s right. I’ve always disliked her, but maybe this time she’s right. You do need to stand on your own two feet, and perhaps now’s as good a time as any.
God knows, I told your father not to give you your own credit cards when you were barely fourteen, but he never listened to a word I said about you. You were his little princess, and nothing was
ever good enough for you. And it’s turned you into an extravagant, spoiled . . .’ Suzanne sighed. ‘Go and see your father. Find out how he is, and let me know. But I’m not
going to throw money at you like he did, Lola.’

Lola was finding it hard to get the words out, because she was gasping at her mother’s hypocrisy.

‘How dare you!’ she said finally. ‘You’re living in a huge house and you don’t have to lift a finger if you don’t want to – you haven’t worked
since you met Daddy—’

‘And I regret that.’ Suzanne turned round to look at her daughter, bracing her hands behind her on the rim of the sink. The faint English sunlight lit up her hair, turning it into a
halo around her head. ‘But I’m doing something good now. Saving animals, taking in the ones that no one else can look after. And if you find yourself running short of money, you could
always get a job. This could be the making of you, Lola.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Lola grabbed her bag, threw it over her shoulder and stormed towards the kitchen door. On the fridge were stuck a series of magnets holding notes, cards,
scribbled lists on torn pieces of paper. Lola reached out and grabbed one, a card from a local minicab firm. ‘I’m calling a car, ’ she announced. ‘I’ll wait
outside.’

‘Lola!’ her mother called, her tone suddenly urgent.

Lola spun on her heel eagerly, sensing that her mother was about to add something important – perhaps, seeing how upset Lola was, Suzanne was going to offer her some money after all . .
.

‘If it doesn’t work out in New York, ’ Suzanne said, ‘as far as the money side of things goes – of course you’re going to want to see your father and check
how he is, but what I mean is, if you can’t get any more money from your trust fund—’

‘Yes?’ Lola prompted impatiently.

‘You can always come back here to stay!’ Suzanne finished. ‘You’re my daughter. I’ll always make a home for you. You could help me with the animals. They always
need someone else to love them.’

Right
, Lola thought as she marched back down the garden path. She pulled her phone from her bag and dialled the number from the card, ignoring the gasp of breath and then the sheer
incredulity of the dispatcher that one lucky driver was about to make a fortune on a Heathrow run. That was all her mother had to offer? Living in rustic solitude while grooming geese and letting
her nails chip and break?

All that goose needs is a good punch in the mouth
, she thought furiously.
With a baseball bat
.

L
ola had forgotten how much she loved New York: it was as buzzy as a hive of bees lit up with a firework display. London seemed very slow by
comparison. Well, so did everywhere, apart from maybe Hong Kong. In New York, everyone was on the make, pushing and shoving for advantage, sharpening their elbows, desperate to be seen at the
latest trendy place first, to know the gossip before anyone else, to snatch that coveted job or magazine cover out of someone else’s grasp. New York never slept, not because some bodegas were
open 24/7 (New York wasn’t as much of an open-all-hours city as the myth had it: you just had to visit the Upper West Side at four a.m. to find
that
out) but because someone’s
brain was always whirring, figuring out a way to gain a toehold in society, work their way up the ladder, be a bold-faced somebody on Page Six of the
New York Post
.

It was Old World versus New World. In London, you knew who you were. In New York, you knew who you wanted to be.

“Miss Fitzgerald! Welcome back!” said the black-clad doorman as Lola stepped out of her limo.

New York boutique hotels: you just couldn’t beat them. There was so much competition that if you rested on your laurels, some other bright spark would nip in to steal your A-list customers
with an even sexier, trendier, hip venue. And though Lola always stayed here, at 60 Thompson, she expected a great deal for her loyalty. Immediate recognition by every one of the good-looking
black-clad doormen with their throat mikes and sexy Secret Service vibe; her favourite luxury suite, with champagne perfectly chilled in a designer ice bucket; a maid on standby to unpack her
suitcases and press anything that needed it; and, of course, in every member of the chic, black-wearing, hyper-attractive staff members, the perfect attitude of friendly but appropriate deference
to her social status and her unlimited credit.

Oh well, at least she had
one
of those left, Lola thought as the elevator whisked her up to her exquisite suite, all white upholstery and sexy dark polished wood, with a raised mezzanine
bedroom with the sweetest little balcony, so romantic. She had never realised how much Virgin first class one-way across the Atlantic actually
cost
. The woman at the Heathrow ticket office
did explain that it wouldn’t be quite so expensive if you booked it in advance, but Lola had just stared at her blankly. She practically never booked anything in advance if she could help it.
That would be stressful, because it would mean you were rushing around on someone else’s timetable rather than your own. Lola didn’t think she’d ever advance-booked a plane ticket
in her life: there was always a seat in first class available when she needed one. And she’d never bothered about the cost before, as her credit-card bills went directly to her father’s
secretary.

And often she would travel by private plane anyway, which was
so
much nicer. She sighed, remembering the luxury of the Van der Veer jet, on which she and Jean-Marc had often hopped down
to St Barts.

Anyway, Lola thought regretfully, she had better try to be a little careful with money: that ticket had eaten a larger-than-expected hole in her £35, 000. And 60 Thompson wasn’t
cheap . . .

She poured herself a glass of champagne, pulled out her phone and hit some buttons. It was nine p.m., which meant that downtown would be jumping. One of the reasons Lola always chose 60 Thompson
to stay at was that it was the epicentre of the small area of SoHo and Tribeca otherwise known as Eurotrash Central, where all her set hung out. To the west, its boundary was 6th Avenue and the
restaurants Bar Pitti and Da Silvano; then it ran down across Broome Street, where a friend of Lola’s lived in an enormous loft and threw parties that were always crammed with supermodels
playing pool with rap stars, over Canal to Odeon and the Bubble Lounge on Broadway, where they would slice a champagne bottle open with a sabre if you ordered one expensive enough.

Lola hit lucky with the second call: there was a posse hanging out at Cip’s Downtown, aka Eurotrash Headquarters. On the next block over, Cipriani’s was so close to 60 Thompson that
it practically backed onto it. Fabulous. She’d washed a sleeping pill down with a glass of champagne and crashed out on the lovely flat bed for most of the flight. Right now she was fresh and
ready to go – the bubbles were already helping to pick her up – and the maid, bustling away in the bedroom, had mostly unpacked her cases. Lola slipped on a black Hervé
Léger that wrapped her slim body like a series of incredibly expensive surgical bandages and a pair of wittily clumpy silver Miu Miu slingbacks, and pinned up her hair. Grabbing a tiny
clutch made from baby alligator stomach, she tossed a twenty on the bedroom chest of drawers for the maid, who picked it up gratefully.

Throwing a dyed sable stole round her shoulders – the sweetest thing, it was the palest buttercup-yellow, silky soft, and quite safe to wear in New York, where the anti-fur protesters were
much less vehement than in London – Lola tip-tapped out of the suite and into the lift once again. As the doorman threw open the big glass entrance door for her, she briefly considered taking
one of the waiting limos, and then rejected the thought with a rush of virtue. Cipriani Downtown
was
literally round the corner, after all. She would economise by not being driven. And
walking in these shoes wasn’t absolutely
impossible
. . .