Vanity

LUCY LORD

Vanity

To my wonderful parents, Elizabeth and Christopher, with all my love.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part 2

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Read on for an extract from Lucy Lord’s next book TREACHERY

About the Author

Also by Lucy Lord

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

‘Bollocks,’ said the blushing bride, scrutinizing her crotch through her wedding dress in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. ‘It’s too see-through in daylight, isn’t it? I’m going to have to wear those bloody remedial granny pants.’

The pants in question were an exorbitantly expensive pair of sheer nude silk Myla boy shorts, hardly the passion-killing girdle the comment implied. But Poppy Wallace had set her heart on going commando on her Big Day.

‘Never mind,’ said her best friend Bella, topping up their glasses with Veuve Clicquot. ‘Damian can rip them off with his teeth later.’

They both looked at Poppy’s reflection. Transparency problem aside, she looked more beautiful than Bella had ever seen her, and that was saying something. The sheer white cotton voile dress, suspended from spaghetti straps and embroidered with daisies at the hem and strategically across what there was of her chest, skimmed her tiny body and floated to her delicate ankles. Her streaky white/gold hair flowed loose, halfway down her bare brown back, crowned with a sweet-smelling garland of white and yellow spring flowers. Her only jewellery was her vintage diamond-and-emerald engagement ring and an anklet fashioned out of silver daisies. She was barefoot, and her lovely little face, all wide green eyes, small nose and perfect teeth, was glowing.

Bella’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, Pops, you look gorgeous. Can I hug you without ruining anything?’

‘Course you can, you silly arse. Come here.’ She flung her little arms around Bella. When she released her, Bella could see that her eyes were suspiciously shiny too. Poppy only cried on the rarest of occasions (unlike Bella, who found herself gently weeping like George Harrison’s guitar with embarrassing frequency now she was in her thirties. Sad news stories, soppy song lyrics, old episodes of Friends she’d seen a million times before – it didn’t take a lot these days).

‘If it wasn’t for you, Belles, I wouldn’t be standing here today. So thanks, lovely. For everything.’

They downed their champagne and Poppy added, ‘Looking pretty gorgeous yourself, if I may congratulate myself on my exquisite taste. In friends and clothes.’

‘Such a pretty dress.’ Bella dabbed at her eyes with her fingers, then licked them, trying not to get any watery black residue on her cotton voile halterneck bridesmaid’s frock (she’d predictably forgotten to pack waterproof mascara). She and Poppy had spent ages choosing the exact shade of coral pink that most flattered Bella’s dark hair and eyes.

‘Thanks for not putting me in lilac frills.’

‘It was touch and go, especially when you kept going on about having my hen do at School Disco.’

They both laughed.

‘Shit, look at the time!’ said Bella. It wasn’t hard to miss, a fluorescent LCD display projected against one of the whitewashed walls of the ultra-glamorous, ultra-modern villa. ‘Take one last look at yourself as a single woman, babe. No last-minute regrets?’

Poppy shook her golden head. ‘No last-minute regrets.’ They both looked at her reflection again, different memories racing through each of their minds.

‘Let’s go then. But you’d better put your knickers on first.’

Mark looked around the crowded beach and smiled broadly. What a way to get hitched, man. Playa des’Estanyol, a little sandy cove halfway up the east coast of Ibiza, was a bugger to get to, located at the bottom of a long and bumpy pine-tree-shaded track, but that hadn’t fazed Mark. He’d relished bombing down in his hired jeep, sending up clouds of white dust, fucking up the tyres and making his girlfriend Sam squeal. And even his unromantic heart had thrilled at the beauty of the beach, nestled into warm yellow rocks and backed by the lush green forest. The scent of pine groves mingled with the sea air, and clear tourmaline water lapped the pale shore. Further out, where the ocean changed to navy, pristine white sails breezed across the horizon.

Nudists habitually basked on the rocks and in the crystal waters at the southernmost end of the beach, but today they’d kept away out of deference to the nuptials. Spoilsports. In Mark’s experience, the more a nudist wanted to flaunt their bits in your face, the older and saggier they were (Scandinavians aside), but sometimes a young chick with a hot bod slipped through the net and he wasn’t above a sneaky peek. Still, it was early season, only May, and, although it was a beautiful day, in the high 20s already, the sea was probably still cold enough to freeze your nuts off.

Arctic camouflage material fluttered above the stone-clad bar/restaurant area, giving a dappled shade to the tables that had been laid for the wedding feast. Sam had said it looked like crochet from a distance. Now she was ordering a drink at the bar, possibly unaware of the fact that every male eye on the beach was currently feasting on her.

That’s my girl, thought Mark proudly, taking in her pretty little body in its short yellow dress, huge knockers threatening to burst through the thin floral fabric. Her long, straightened, henna-red hair was caught by the breeze as she noticed him watching her. A genuine smile lit up her sweet young face and she waved, tottering over the sand on foolish heels. Mark could have fucked her right there, in front of everybody.

‘Isn’t this wicked?’ she breathed in her husky voice as she reached him. ‘I can’t wait to see Poppy’s dress. And Bella’s. I bet Poppy’s got her something really nice to wear – they’re such good mates. Not like when Karen made me wear puke-green satin.’ She made a face to illustrate and Mark laughed.

‘You’d look gorgeous in anything, babe.’

Much as Mark couldn’t believe his luck about Sam, he had long harboured threesome fantasies about Poppy and Bella: Poppy so fair, Bella so dark, both of them so fit. And he’d nearly had his wicked way with Bella a couple of times last year. But that was before she got together with Andy. And before he met Sam, of course.

Damian was doing the rounds, sweating slightly in his cream linen suit. He’d be glad when he could take the bloody jacket off. It was great seeing all their friends and family gathered on the beautiful beach, the result of months of excited planning. The planning had been amazing, without doubt the best nine months of his life. He’d nearly lost Poppy last year, in more ways than one, and the joy he’d felt when she’d surprised him with a proposal had been overwhelming. Relief had turned to magical excitement as they planned every last detail of what they hoped would be the best day of their lives, and he’d never felt closer to anyone. But by God was he nervous now. He was almost 100 per cent sure he was doing the right thing.

‘Not getting cold feet are you, darling?’ asked Simon, his best man and fellow journalist on the men’s style magazine Stadium. ‘Here, have some of this.’ He passed him his drink, an ice-cold White Russian.

‘Thanks, mate.’ Damian took a swig. ‘And no, I’m not. Well – maybe a bit.’ He laughed. ‘But only stage fright, not the till-death-us-do-part bit, I’m absolutely convinced about that.’ He looked at Simon through his wraparound rock-star shades, fully aware of what most of his friends had made of Poppy’s behaviour the previous year. ‘And I’m bloody hot in this suit.’

‘Il faut souffrir être beau.’ Simon’s affected campery could be misleading sometimes. ‘Anyway, you’re lookin’ mighty fine, dude.’ And Damian was. The cream linen set off his half-Indian, half-Welsh complexion beautifully, and the sharp cut emphasized his lean build. The shades, which he planned to take off during the ceremony, concealed soulful dark eyes that slanted down at the corners.

‘But maybe you should have taken a leaf out of that couple’s book.’ Simon was now laughing in the direction of an ageing pair of ravers in matching purple sarongs. The man was bare-chested, the woman improbably pert-breasted in a gold-and-lilac paisley bandeau bikini top. They were boogying barefoot in the sand to Moby, half pissed already by the look of it.

‘That’s Bella’s dad and his latest,’ said Damian, laughing too now and waving over at them. ‘Hey, Justin, hey, Jilly.’ They waved back, blowing kisses.

‘You don’t mind them not making more of an effort?’ Simon was very conscious of his own and others’ sartorial standards. Today he was impeccably dressed in a white open-necked shirt under a similar suit to Damian’s (only in a muted café au lait shade, so as not to upstage the groom).

‘Why do you think we’re getting married on a beach, you twat?’

He just wished Poppy would hurry up so they could get this over with.

Natalia Evanovitch sipped her Cristal and surveyed the scene coolly from her hillside vantage spot. She would descend in her own time. She had only known Poppy and Damian since they’d been engaged, and in that time she had grown very fond of them; they were a good-looking, intelligent, fun-loving couple who were a great addition to her little black book. Hence the generous offer of her extraordinarily glamorous clifftop villa as both the reception after-party venue and somewhere for the wedding party to stay for the week.

Natalia was seriously loaded. As she looked down at the hipsters milling around the beach in their Alice Temperley frocks and designer shades, she reflected on the contrast between her new sunny, carefree world and her cold, dark past in Kiev. And they say that money cannot buy you happiness, she thought scornfully. Ерунда!

But if it wasn’t for her past, the money almost certainly wouldn’t exist. For a moment she gazed out over the sea, lost in thought. With an effort she snapped herself out of it. Across the pass, the wedding jeep was making its juddering way down the hill. Natalia adjusted her multicoloured silk minidress, checked her smooth platinum-blonde ponytail in the rear-view window of her state-of-the-art silver Ferrari and made a leisurely descent to the beach.

Justin and Jilly were having a whale of a time. They’d been nearly the oldest swingers in town at Pacha last night and snorted much of Colombia’s finest. The Viagra-assisted screwing had lasted till dawn, so they’d only had around three hours’ sleep.

She’s not bad for an old bird, thought Justin, checking out Jilly’s childless flat stomach and lifted tits. Even though he was at least ten years older than her, he was used to much younger totty, and his forty-five-odd years of experience as a fashion photographer generally guaranteed him access to it. But he was still smarting from the hideous events of the previous year. A young model he’d screwed had accused him of rape after he’d failed to get her picture on the cover of Italian Vogue. Justin’s moral boundaries were pretty vague, but rape? No way, José. He’d assumed she fancied him; he was still pretty buff, if he did say so himself. He thought he’d taken her to heaven and back.

So, for the time being, Jilly was as good a compromise as any. She wasn’t what you’d call a babe (too old), or a beauty, like his ex-wife Olivia (also too old, but her eyes made up for it), but she was fun, with a body that could pass for a much younger one if he closed his eyes. Which he found himself doing with increasing frequency.

‘Another tequila, you naughty old wretch?’ Jilly brandished the bottle she’d hidden in her purple, suede-tasselled handbag.

‘Thanks, angel tits.’ Justin took a hearty swig then belched slightly. Heartburn. How the fuck did Ronnie Wood do it?

‘Justin! Jilly!’

They both looked around guiltily.

Olivia regarded them with affectionate amusement. Some things never changed, and by God was she glad she wasn’t married to the silly old ‘See You Next Tuesday’ any more. She and Jilly were good friends, and knowing Jilly’s disastrous track record she thought the stupid buggers probably deserved one another. Olivia was looking beautiful in one of her Ossie Clark original maxidresses. Her chocolate-brown hair was piled into a messy up-do, her expressive dark eyes lined with kohl. The resemblance to her daughter Bella was startling.

‘Isn’t this absolutely beautiful?’ she said to Jilly, ignoring Justin, who was trying to hide the tequila bottle down the front of his sarong. ‘I must say I think we’re honoured to be invited. As far as I can make out, the only other aged Ps belong to the bride and groom.’

‘We are parents of the bridesmaid, Liv,’ said Justin pompously, giving up with the tequila bottle and chucking it on the sand. He started rolling a spliff. ‘And we’ve known Poppy since she was a little girl. She must have been about … seven?’ After the excesses of the years, details could get a little hazy.

‘Ah, yes, I remember it well,’ said Olivia drily. ‘Bella first brought her home from school when they were both ten. God, they were sweet.’ Always maternal, she smiled fondly at the memory of the two little girls in bunches and ankle socks, holding hands.

‘Here’s your vino, Princess.’ A gargantuan man in a lurid tropical-print shirt appeared at the edge of the group and thrust a glass of white wine into Olivia’s slender hand. His own fingers were fat and bedecked with signet rings.

‘Thanks, Bernie, darling.’ Olivia smiled at him.

‘Bernie, mate!’ Justin was effusive in his greeting, even though the four of them had lunched together at Las Salinas beach only the previous day. He had a lot of time for his ex-wife’s partner (horrible word, but what else could he call him? Boyfriend was ridiculous, at their age, and he drew the line at lover when talking about his ex-wife).

‘Fancy a toke on this?’

‘Not my bag, me old china, but cheers anyway.’ Bernie’s beady little eyes were as amused as Olivia’s large brown ones. ‘So did you two find anywhere to carry on partying last night?’

‘On this island? With this body?’ Jilly thrust her hips in a manner that even Justin found faintly embarrassing and hard to respond to.

‘Pacha,’ he said quickly. And because he was a nice man, despite everything, added, ‘You were the most gorgeous babe in there. Just check out those abs!’

‘Oh, do shut up, you ridiculous old man. They’re coming! Don’t you want to see our daughter in her moment of glory?’ Olivia put a finger to her lips with one hand and smacked her ex-husband’s wrist with the other.

They watched in silence as Poppy floated down the beach on her mother’s arm, Bella a few paces behind. An aisle leading down to the water’s edge had been fashioned out of terracotta tubs of miniature orange trees, in full bridal blossom. Damian, now without his shades, was waiting where the sea lapped the shore. Even from where they were standing near the bar, Olivia could see how nervous he was.

‘Doesn’t our little girl look beautiful?’ said Justin, wondering if he really could make out Poppy’s nipples underneath the embroidery on her dress.

‘You may now kiss the bride,’ said the be-garlanded, white-suited registrar. ‘Un beso, por favor!’

Damian clasped Poppy to his linen breast and Bella felt her eyes misting up again at the sight of them, so perfect against the gradated blue of the horizon. She looked around for her boyfriend, Andy, who smiled at her. She smiled back. He looked very handsome and very tall in an olive-green linen jacket over faded Levis. The bright spring sunshine bounced off his oblong specs, which (by luck, rather than design; Andy was not a vain man) emphasized high cheekbones and a strong jaw.

‘I declare this sea well and truly open!’ shouted Poppy, chucking her bouquet over her shoulder and dragging Damian into the water with her. Bella ran to catch the bouquet but just missed it. She picked it up, trying to shake the sand off the pretty yellow and white flowers, and turned to see Andy looking at her again. He wasn’t smiling now. She ran over, slightly embarrassed.

‘Think I’d better ask them to put these lovely flowers in some water.’

Andy nodded. Bella knew he was wary of marriage, but he needn’t be quite so fucking obvious about it.

Soon everybody was dancing in the sea to Groove Armada – singing about sand dunes and salty air – some more careless of their costly garb than others.

Mark had been right about the temperature of the sea, but the mood was infectious and it was ages before they all sat down to lunch.

The meal was typically Ibicenco and utterly delicious. Local ham with rustic bread, aïoli and olives, followed by huge paellas bursting with fresh seafood, peppers, rabbit and chorizo, served from big, hot pans at the tables. Bella squeezed a wedge of lemon over her steaming rice and wiped her fingers on a linen napkin.

She was sitting in the dappled shade of the Arctic camouflage net with Andy, Simon, Natalia, Mark and Sam. The bride and groom were sharing a table with Damian’s parents and Poppy’s mother. Poppy had been heartbroken that her father, in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s, was too ill to be at her wedding – whether it had been held in the UK or not. He wasn’t even aware she was getting married, poor old love, despite the happy couple’s repeated and increasingly desolate announcements, complete with ring flashing, at his care home.

The two hundred-odd guests sounded pretty happy with their lot as decibel levels rose with the rosé consumption. At the next table, Bella’s mother, father, Bernie and Jilly were already on their fourth bottle.

‘What a lovely day,’ she said, full of tipsy sunshiny happiness. ‘I just knew Poppy would get it right.’

‘I think she had a lot of help from her devoted friend, no?’ said Natalia, turning her slanting grey-blue gaze on Bella. The diamonds in her ears and scraped-back hair emphasized the height and acute angle of her cheekbones.

‘I guess so.’ Bella grinned, recalling the hours she and Poppy had spent poring over fabric swatches, menus and playlists. ‘But I enjoyed every minute of it.’ She glanced over at the bridal table.

Poppy was throwing her head back in peals of laughter at something Damian had just said. Bella was so happy they were back together. This time for real. Last year, she’d caught Poppy in flagrante with Ben Jones, Bella’s then boyfriend, an up-and-coming actor. At the time, Bella had hated them both with every fibre of her being, and, were she honest, wished them both dead. But Ben went on to cheat on Poppy, who subsequently OD’d on a cocktail of drugs, both recreational and prescription. Despite the Balearic sun, Bella went cold as she recalled finding Poppy unconscious in her flat, surrounded by narcotic paraphernalia. Thank God she’d found her when she had.

Everything’s worked out for the best, she thought contentedly, gulping back her delicious chilled rosé and turning her face up to the sun. She was happier with Andy than she’d ever been in her life. Eight months on, she was still waking every day with an idiotic grin on her face.

Impulsively she leant over and kissed him on the cheek.

‘What was that for?’ He smiled at her.

‘Nothing really. Just thinking how happy I am that everything’s worked out like it has.’

With the crema catalana came balloon glasses half filled with ice and hierbas, the potent local hooch made, as its name might suggest, from mountain herbs.

‘So how are things in the men’s magazine world?’ Andy asked Mark and Simon, who worked alongside Damian on Stadium, the men’s ‘style’ magazine that liked to think it had more substance than the rest. Simon and Damian were columnists, which involved churning out variations on a superiorly misogynist theme, month after month. Mark was the art director, which gave him so much opportunity to ogle naked female flesh you’d think (erroneously) that he could take it or leave it by now.

Andy’s career – he was an investigative reporter for one of the better respected broadsheets – earned him grudging respect from Simon and slight resentment from Damian, who had always harboured ambitions in that direction himself. Still, as Simon said, the perks and parties at Stadium more than made up for a little professional jealousy. Or at least they used to.

‘Not great, to be honest,’ said Simon. ‘It’s a bloody drag. Sales have been hit badly by the recession. The downmarket rags – Nuts and Zoo and now Front; did they really need another one? How many boobs does the Great British Public need? – are cornering the market.’

Bella nudged Andy. Stadium was not exactly what you’d call a boob-free zone, though the boobs it showcased tended, with the odd honourable exception, to be smaller. Classier, you see.

‘Well that whole bespoke ethos is a bit anachronistic at the moment, isn’t it?’ said Sam, one of the honourable exceptions, in her husky voice, earning a look of surprise from Simon. ‘You should see your face! I’m not that thick, you know, and I’ve been reading Stadium cover-to-cover ever since I first appeared in it. I like to keep up on Marky’s job.’

Sam had taken up glamour modelling to pay her way through London University, where she was studying philosophy and psychology. She and Mark had met on a shoot. Fond though Bella was of Mark, she reckoned Sam was streets ahead of him intellectually. But she was young and easily impressed and Mark was seriously sexy, in a brawny, doltish sort of way. Today he was wearing tight white jeans and a scarlet racer-back vest top, revealing rippling biceps, triceps, pecs and lats in all their worked-out glory. To say nothing of the vast packet. His head was shaved, his smile crooked. When Bella first met him (long before she experienced the full – ahem – thrust of his lust), she’d had her doubts as to whether he was Arthur or Martha.

As if to prove the point, he laughed and kissed Sam way more explicitly than manners dictated, groping her left tit and shoving his tongue down her throat. Bella remembered what it was like kissing him and reached for Andy’s hand, flushing suddenly.

‘Ugh, get a rrrrroooom, please,’ said Natalia, shuddering. Sam pulled away from Mark and laughed.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘He does get carried away sometimes. Anyway, where were we? Oh, yes, surely all that handmade suit and expensive trainers stuff just doesn’t cut it when people can’t even pay their mortgages?’

‘It’s aspirational luxury though.’ Simon stuck stubbornly to his guns. ‘People need things to cheer them up when times are tough. Just look at the Busby Berkeley movies of the thirties.’

‘Are you comparing Stadium to Busby Berkeley movies?’ Bella laughed. ‘Not sure what your emphatically not gay metrosexual readership would make of that.’