Laura smiled at the woman looking back at her. She was poised, groomed and rich. Her hair shone like spun gold, her make-up, thanks to the expert hand that had applied it, was immaculate, and the dress she was wearing – baby-pink Marchesa with waterfall ruffles – hit all the right notes: formal but still funky, expensive but young. She barely recognized herself.
The knock at the door made her turn and Cat came in, quivering delicately in a long strapless grey feather dress. ‘Oh. My. God.’ Cat grinned at the sight of her. ‘Jack who?’
Somewhere inside, Laura winced at the mention of his name, but her smile didn’t slip. That bottle of Dom at lunch had kept her on a mellow ride all afternoon.
‘Are you absolutely sure about me wearing your dress?’ Laura asked. ‘It’s so expensive. What if I knock wine down it or something?’
‘It looks sensational on you. Far better than it looks on me.’ She came and stood behind Laura, staring at their mutual reflections in the mirror. They were like Gemini. Apart from their eyes, they really didn’t look dissimilar. Cat was prettier, blonder, skinnier and taller, obviously, but they were the same ‘type’.
‘I still don’t know how you’ve managed to make my eyes look like this,’ Laura said, peering closer in the mirror. ‘Whenever I’ve tried it before, I’ve ended up looking more like a victim of crime.’
‘Years of practice,’ Cat smiled, changing position to see the dress from another angle. She popped a hip, model-style.
Laura picked up her clutch bag, wondering whether she should stand like that when they were at the party. Cat grabbed her palest grey fur shrug, Laura the shahtoosh Cat had loaned her, and they caught the lift together, striding across the hotel lobby looking like it was Oscars Night in Bel Air.
The car Rob had ordered for them was waiting outside and they slid in with perfect synchronicity, the pavement in front of their boutique hotel miraculously clear of snow and ice as though it had been heated with hairdryers. Laura looked out of the window as they drove past the ornate black and gold gates of Kensington Palace and alongside the gardens into Hyde Park. Christmas was in the air as definitively as cinnamon and cedar; tracks left from bikes, walkers and animals criss-crossed the snowy lawns like dot-to-dot drawings, and pools of light punctuated the dark paths as office workers, Christmas shoppers and residents all hurried homewards. Laura looked across at Cat, excited that they – by contrast – were on their way out. When she thought of the evening she ought to be having – home alone in the studio listening to the tide rushing past and rifling through her trinket boxes; when she thought of the night she’d just had – sitting in Ottersbrook village hall watching the primary school’s nativity concert. . . And last weekend in Verbier. Where would she be next week? What was her baseline now? Not Suffolk, of that she was certain.
‘What’s the name of the charity this is in aid of?’ Laura asked, shuffling around so that she was facing Cat side-on.
‘Who knows? We go to so many. But this is one of the biggies. It makes bucketloads. Honestly, what some of the lots go for . . . even my eyes water!’
Just the minibar prices had brought tears to Laura’s eyes. ‘Will there be lots of celebrities?’
Cat laughed, amused. ‘No doubt. So brace yourself – there’ll probably be lots of pappers outside. Don’t worry. They’ll leave us alone as soon as they see we’re not famous.’
Laura nodded happily, feeling strangely invincible knowing she had Cat as her ally.
Traffic was light along the park and they were cruising into Knightsbridge within minutes. Laura looked on, dazzled, at Harrods’ year-round lights, which seemed so especially fitting at this time of year, and the opulent Christmas windows that had passers-by, even now, congregating in front of them. They passed Burberry, flying its distinctive checked flags and plastered with enormous black and white billboards of sulky, beautiful, young Brit things who could rival anything in Times Square. Laura was glad the traffic lights turned red before they could pass Harvey Nichols, and she and Cat scrutinized the displays hungrily: psychedelic snowflakes, ice caves, frozen stalactites and swooping snowy owls were the backdrops for insouciant mannequins draped in beaded dresses and felted wool coats.
‘I love that skirt,’ Cat gasped, pointing indistinctly to one in a row of eight windows.
‘Mmm, me too.’
The lights changed and twenty seconds later they were pulling up outside the hotel. As predicted, banks of photographers were huddled, shivering, on the pavement, waiting to get their money shots before they could go home and thaw out. Laura and Cat got past without much bother, just one or two ‘complimentary’ flashes for the effort they’d clearly put in.
Champagne was in their hands the moment they walked through the door – when was it not, in Cat’s world? – and Laura clocked Jemima Goldsmith and Boris Johnson within moments.
‘Come on, we’ll start over here,’ Cat said, nudging her gently with her elbow. Laura tagged along happily, smiling back as famous and frozen faces looked at her, the oblique question in all their eyes: have we met? Simply being in the room meant you were in the club.
Laura took in the room discreetly as they walked towards a table at the back where the lots were displayed. Cat had been right: long was de rigueur, and there was an astonishing number of variations on how men wore black tie these days. The ceiling was a vaulted golden rotunda, and deep, thick, red velvet ribbons had been swagged from corner to corner of the room so that it felt gift-wrapped. The magnificent tree – as wide as it was tall – was decked in hundreds of smaller velvet ribbons, and microscopic vanilla fairy lights made the room prickle with starlight.
Cat stopped by the table. ‘Fancy that?’ she asked, holding up a thick cream card. Lot 21: Private tennis lesson with Rafael Nadal.
‘I think Rafa would be the only person capable of getting me to a decent baseline return.’ Laura giggled. ‘I usually play like I’d do a better job with my arms in plaster.’
Cat laughed, moving along. ‘How about this?’
Lot 14: Dance class with Lady Gaga.
‘I’d be terrified,’ Laura hissed, eyes wide.
‘I know! What the hell would you wear?’ Cat gasped.
‘Ooh . . . that looks fun,’ Laura said, noticing Lot 12: One week at Donna Karan’s villa in Turks & Caicos.
‘Been there . . . Not to Donna Karan’s place, obviously. But let’s face it – nowhere’s slumming it out there,’ Cat remarked.
‘Are you going to bid on anything tonight?’ Laura asked curiously.
Cat looked around to check nobody was listening. Nobody was, although plenty of people were staring. ‘Well, I have to play my cards very carefully at things like these. Rob will refuse to put his hand up even for extra water if he thinks I’m expecting anything. But . . .’ She took Laura by the hand and walked further along the table. ‘Between you and me, I’m rather hoping he’ll go for this. It is my birthday after all.’
Laura looked at Lot 18: Styling session with Rachel Zoe.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Laura!’ Cat laughed. ‘She’s only Hollywood’s uber-stylist. She does everyone.’
‘But you don’t need to be styled. You always look great.’
‘I look passable,’ Cat said with raised eyebrows. ‘We both know there’s a lot more I could be doing.’ She saw a waiter approaching and drained her glass quickly, nodding for Laura to do the same. ‘What would you bid for?’ she asked as their glasses were refilled.
‘Ummmm . . .’ Laura walked slowly down the table, reading the cards: Share a table at Annabel’s with Kylie. Drive the Amalfi coast with Jenson Button in a ’63 Alfa Spider. A weekend charter on P Diddy’s yacht in St Tropez.
Laura stopped at Lot 19, and Cat read it over her shoulder: ‘Paragliding in Scafell. Seriously?’ she laughed, squeezing her arm affectionately. ‘You’re an absolute riot!’
‘Cat.’
The distinctive voice made them both turn, and Cat’s laughter died in her throat. A man with shaggy black hair, a beard and Arctic-blue eyes was standing in front of them.
‘Ben,’ Cat replied in an unfamiliar voice, prompting Laura to look over at her.
‘How are you?’ His Highland accent was tumbling and melodic; Laura knew instantly who he was.
A heavy, black silence settled between the three of them like a thundercloud.
‘You must meet Laura,’ Cat said suddenly, bringing Laura round so that she could ‘present’ her.
‘Hello,’ Laura said, smiling dutifully. ‘Laura Cunningham.’
‘Ben Jackson,’ he said, shaking her hand gently. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
Cat looked around the room as though searching for an emergency exit, making no effort to engage.
‘Are you, uh . . . are you bidding tonight?’ Laura asked, reaching for conversation.
‘Possibly. But I’ll be honest, I’m more interested in knowing how much my lot will go for. I’m up for grabs tonight.’
‘Oh.’ Laura didn’t miss the way his eyes darted fractionally towards Cat. ‘You’re the artist.’
His eyes came back to her with her use of the determiner. ‘That’s right. Have you seen my work?’
‘Not . . . not in person, no. But I’ve heard about you. Lots.’
He watched her, his eyes keen and sharp on her face. ‘Well, come over here. I’ll give you a private view.’
Laura glanced at Cat – eyes wide with excitement – as he led them towards an easel shrouded with a black cloth in the far corner of the room beyond the serving station. He lifted one corner of the cloth and stepped back to allow Laura and Cat alone a fleeting glimpse of the canvas beneath. It was a landscape in oils, so thickly daubed that in some areas the paint had clotted like cream into knobs you could hang a hat on. Its moorland vista was wild and open, the palette a smoky green, charcoal and black with just a vein of acid yellow streaking through it. It was like looking through a window into another world – fresher, blowier, wilder than the cultivated scents intermingling in this room. Rather like him. He looked incongruous, so wild and ungroomed in his dinner jacket, which was boxier than the waisted styles most of the men were wearing and appeared more likely to have belonged to his father – or at least his father’s generation.
‘It’s stunning,’ Laura breathed, looking up at him. He smiled back, quietly satisfied. ‘Can you see it, Cat?’ Laura asked, stepping away so that she could take a closer look.
But Cat merely gave a slight tip of the chin. ‘It’s lovely,’ she smiled, drumming a finger on her glass.
Lovely? It was like saying the Sistine Chapel was pretty. But Ben appeared not to be offended.
‘Our beautiful friend thinks I have sold out, I fear.’
Cat shook her head lightly. ‘Not at all, Ben. We all have to make a living.’
‘Well, some of us do,’ Ben replied, smiling, and Laura saw Cat straighten herself stiffly. ‘That was below the belt, I apologize.’ He looked at Laura. ‘It is to Cat that I owe my illustrious career.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Laura replied loyally.
‘You do?’ Cat frowned.
Laura faltered. ‘Orlando told me.’
‘Oh.’
‘We were talking about your great eye and everything you’ve done at the Cube,’ Laura shrugged. ‘And your job came up, at Min Hetherington’s gallery in Holland Park.’
Cat didn’t react to the mention of Min’s name.
‘Are you still there, Cat?’ Ben asked her, with a certain amount of incredulity. ‘I’d have thought you’d have moved on to Mayfair by now.’
‘It suits me working for Min. She’s happy to let me do only three afternoons a week. I know how to handle her, and it’s good for the motorways. ’
Laura winced at the lie, but was this just pride talking? After all, Cat had enjoyed enormous success with Ben’s exhibition. Laura could well see how she might not want him to know she’d been sacked.
‘Ah yes, Surrey,’ Ben teased with sparkling eyes. ‘And how are the Home Counties? Still so neat and tidy? Green and pleasant?’
Cat shot Laura an unimpressed look. ‘Ben prefers to live in mossy caves and under gorse bushes.’
‘Not strictly true – any more,’ he grinned, but Cat looked far from amused. In fact she looked positively icy. Min had said she hadn’t represented Ben after the Exposure exhibition, and now she could see why. The atmosphere between Ben and Cat was glacial; how the devil had she persuaded him to exhibit in the first place?
‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ Rob said, finding the three of them tucked away in the corner. He looked at Ben. ‘Hi. Rob Blake.’
‘Ben Jackson,’ Ben replied, shaking his hand.
Rob paused a second. ‘Are you the Ben?’ Rob looked at Cat for clarification. ‘At Min’s?’
‘That’s right,’ she nodded.
‘You must be Cat’s husband. Sorry not to have met you that night,’ Ben replied.
‘I was in New York, if I remember rightly. The private view was a great success, by all accounts.’
Ben nodded. ‘Thanks to Cat. Your wife’s a remarkable woman, so much more than just a pretty face.’
‘I’m always trying to tell her that, but . . .’ Rob shifted his weight. ‘She still spends three hundred pounds on face cream!’
Everyone, bar Cat, laughed.
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I just stopped by to say hello. I’m supposed to be schmoozing my newest patrons. They’ve just commissioned four giant murals for the lobby of their new HQ in Farringdon.’ Ben widened his eyes just enough to show his real feelings about the project. ‘The commercial reality of artistic life.’
Rob watched Ben disappear into the sea of smartly tailored backs before he turned to face them. His eyes fell upon Laura for the first time and she breathed in nervously as he clocked her in his wife’s £1,000 dress.
‘I thought you bought that dress to wear here? You bought it specially,’ he said to Cat.
But Cat seemed lost. Laura watched as she stared at the floor, unblinking.
‘Uh, to be honest, she was helping me out,’ Laura interjected. ‘Nothing suited me in the shop, and the things that did I couldn’t afford. Cat said I could borrow this instead.’
That wasn’t quite how it had happened. Laura had set her heart on the grey dress herself – it matched her eyes – and she did have just enough to splurge on it if she lived on baked beans for a month. But she’d seen the fleeting wistful expression on Cat’s face in the mirror as she’d tried it on, and it had been the least she could do to let her have it after everything Cat had done for her.
‘So you’re telling me Cat bought a new dress so that you didn’t have to? Well, that’s certainly what I’d call redistribution of wealth.’
‘Don’t be horrid, Rob!’ Cat said coldly. ‘You know full well that most of the women in this room are in couture gowns worth ten times the cost of this.’
A tense silence settled, as Rob looked away from the two of them and Cat downed her glass. Laura turned her head away, embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time she’d been caught between them.
‘Maybe you should slow down a little,’ he said pointedly.
Cat shot him a hateful look. ‘I’m going to the ladies’, Laura. I’ll be back in a minute.’
Laura made as if to go with her – she had rapidly become accustomed to doing everything with Cat in the past twenty-four hours – but Cat had already turned and disappeared. Falling back, Laura kept her eyes on the crowd, pretending to celebrity-spot as a waiter appeared from nowhere and refilled both their glasses.
It was the first time they’d been alone together since their kiss in the lift.
‘Having a good time?’ Rob asked her.
‘Can you point out Bertie Penryn to me?’ she asked briskly. ‘I need to make myself known to him tonight.’
Laura noticed how his mouth flattened at the comment. ‘Fine. I’ll introduce you after dinner.’
‘No, there’s no need. I’ll introduce myself. I’m perfectly capable.’
The way his eyebrow lifted fractionally showed he wasn’t so sure she was.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. If that’s what you want.’ He pushed a hand casually into his trouser pocket, making no effort to hide his scepticism.
‘I don’t need your help,’ she reiterated.
‘No? You’re sure? Because it’s just that I’m seeing you in this room on my wife’s ticket, wearing my wife’s dress, with your hair and make-up exactly the same as hers . . .’ His intimation was clear.
‘Cat has invited me here tonight to make a valuable new business contact. And that’s precisely what I intend to do.’
They were quiet for a minute, staring at the people laughing and talking all around them. Laura watched the way the jewels on the women’s necks, wrists and ears sparkled beneath the lights, how the men expressed one-upmanship with back slaps and power handshakes.
‘Did you get my email?’ he asked in a quieter voice, looking straight ahead.
Laura sniffed in affirmation, and he turned to face her.
‘I was wrong to do what I did.’
She turned the other cheek to him, not wanting to have this conversation, to meet his eyes. ‘I know.’
Her answer wasn’t what he’d been expecting and they fell quiet again.
‘Should we talk about it?’ he asked after a moment.
She gave a humourless laugh. ‘No.’
He stepped into her line of vision, apparently irritated by her response. ‘Have you even thought about it?’
Laura felt her heart pound wildly, suddenly, within her ribs. Nought to sixty in an instant. ‘No.’
‘No?’
She looked away, worried he would see the lie. ‘I’ve had other stuff going on.’
His eyes narrowed as he remembered the way Cat had shepherded her into the helicopter, loaned her the sunglasses. ‘You mean whatever you and Cat were talking about this morning?’
She said nothing.
‘You seemed upset.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Is it Jack?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘But it is Cat’s?’
‘She’s a friend.’
‘And I’m not?’
‘What do you think?’ she said sharply. ‘From the moment we’ve met, you have – in chronological order – tried to bully me to get your way, been rude, abrupt and aggressive, jumped on me, and for the past twenty-four hours you’ve been blanking me. I wouldn’t say we’re close, no.’
He watched her quietly as she studied Keira Knightley wafting past in Chanel.
‘I was angry at you for the way you treated Kitty yesterday.’
‘And how did I treat Kitty?’ she retorted.
‘You abandoned her the second Cat clicked her fingers.’
‘That is not true. Cat offered me the opportunity of my career coming here tonight. Bertie Penryn could transform my business. Kitty totally understands that.’
His expression showed he disagreed, but he didn’t bother to argue further. Laura turned back to studying Keira. Kitty did understand, didn’t she?
‘As for the rest of it – well, you frustrate the hell out of me,’ he went on. ‘I thought you were – I don’t know, a kindred spirit or something on Combin. I thought you felt the same escape, exhilaration, freedom . . . But now I think you probably just liked riding in a helicopter.’
‘That is not true!’
‘I know!’ he said, pouncing on her indignation. ‘I saw it in your eyes then, and I can see it now. I get flashes of this wild spirit with you, and then just as quickly you revert to creeping around like—’
‘I don’t creep!’ she hissed.
But he was unrepentant. ‘You creep around like you’re apologizing for the very space you take up in a room. You put less food on your plate than anybody else. When we sat on the sofa at Kitty’s, you tucked yourself into a tiny ball because God forbid we should actually touch!’ His eyes burned into hers. ‘It’s like you feel guilty for breathing. You want to be invisible.’
Laura stared at him defiantly. ‘I don’t care what you think.’
‘You’re hiding something.’
‘No.’ She shook her head.
‘Yes! But my mistake was thinking that it made you interesting. I got it into my head that there was something about you that was different from everyone else. You intrigued me. I thought you were only trying to be ordinary. I thought it was all an act. But maybe I was wrong. I was obviously trying to see something that isn’t there.’ He was goading her, daring her to prove him wrong – she could see it in his eyes. But she wouldn’t play this game.
‘Th-that’s right. You were.’ She stared back at him, refusing to back down, aware that her breath was coming fast and shallow.
‘Why is it that every time I try to apologize, we end up arguing more?’ he asked, taking in her upset.
‘You’re the one with an agenda. I just want to be left alone to do my job. You asked me to interview Cat’s friends and family, and I’ve done that.’
‘Except that you’ve done more than that, haven’t you?’ he pressed. ‘They’ve become your friends too – Kitty, Orlando, Cat. Even Alex – you’ve kissed her first love too. It’s like you want to be her.’ He leaned in fractionally towards her. ‘But what are you going to do next week when the necklace is finished, Laura? Are you going to just disappear back to Suffolk and leave them behind you? Go back to Jack?’
She stared at him, devastated. He had unwittingly stumbled across her Achilles heel.
He stepped closer again. ‘Or are you going to stay in our spare room? Live with me and Cat? Is that how it’s going to be? I commission a necklace from you and end up with a lodger in return?’ His words were hard and angry.
‘She’s become a friend. What’s so wrong with that? I can keep out of your way if that’s what you want.’
‘How would you know what I want?’
Laura stared back at him, determined not to cry. ‘I don’t know why you’re attacking me like this. I didn’t ask for any of this to happen – I didn’t ask you to walk into my studio. I didn’t ask you to take me to Verbier. I didn’t ask you to kiss me—’
‘I didn’t ask to kiss you either, but it still fucking happened.’ He inhaled sharply, his hands on his hips, and he wheeled away from her, grabbing a brandy from the tray of a passing waiter. He downed it in one, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You have to go, Laura. As soon as the necklace is handed in, you have to cut ties with everyone. Not just Cat, but Kitty and the others too.’
‘But why?’ she asked, aghast. ‘What does it matter to you who I’m friends with?’
‘I don’t want you around us.’
His words cut her to ribbons but she could see the same high emotion in her face reflected in his. ‘You don’t want me around Cat? Or around you?’
‘Laura? It is you!’
Laura looked to her left. A tall man with short cropped hair and a shaving rash was peering at her.
‘Timothy?’
‘My God, it’s been so long!’
He swept her up in an exuberant hug.
‘How are you? Wowzers, you look sensational! And who’s this lucky chap?’ Timothy asked, reaching out a friendly hand. ‘Don’t tell me you’re married now?’
‘God, no!’ Laura replied quickly, prompting a look from Rob. ‘This is Rob Blake, a clie—’ She had been about to introduce him as a client when Cat reappeared, fresher and more glowing than ever.
‘I’m afraid he’s my husband, poor soul,’ Cat smiled, proffering a hand. ‘Although I’m quite sure he’d have asked Laura instead if he’d met her first. I am the world’s worst wife: can’t cook, won’t iron, never been inside a Waitrose.’
‘Well, th-that’s what staff’s for . . .’ Timothy mumbled, dazzled by her radiance.
‘What do you do – Timothy, was it?’ Her eyes were bright and interested; she was clearly restored to her vital self.
‘Yes. Yes. Timothy Gresham,’ he said eagerly. ‘My company has donated one of the lots for tonight.’
‘Oh, which one?’ Cat asked excitedly. ‘There are so many excellent things up for grabs. Such a worthy cause.’
‘Paragliding off Scafell in the Lake District.’
There was a short pause.
‘Oh,’ Cat said, looking at Laura and giggling. ‘That’s the one you were going to bid for, wasn’t it, Laura?’
‘No, no, no, I wasn’t actually going to bid,’ she replied hurriedly, placing an apologetic hand on Timothy’s arm. ‘I think the bids in this room are going to be somewhat out of my league, you understand.’
‘Yes, but it was your favourite,’ Cat insisted.
‘Well, pipe dreams and all that.’
‘Laura, you know that you don’t need to bid tonight to take to the air.’ Timothy smiled down at her. ‘You’ve done more than enough hours to just turn up at ours.’
‘You paraglide too, then, Laura? Why am I not surprised?’ Rob asked, with sarcasm posing as interest.
‘Tell me, how’s Caroline? Is she here?’ Laura asked quickly. ‘I’d love to see her.’
‘Uh, yes, yes – she’s over there somewhere.’
‘Would you mind? I’d love to catch up with her.’ Laura grabbed his arm as she smiled at Cat. ‘I’ll come and find you in a bit. Must just say hello.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Cat nodded, thoroughly bemused by the sudden exit. ‘You go mingle. We’ll see you later at the table.’
Laura let Timothy lead her into the heart of the crowd, away from Rob’s cold words and watchful eyes. Her friendship with Cat wouldn’t survive if he was opposed to it. He wanted her gone and – she remembered Sam’s words, slurry and indistinct, in the bedroom in Verbier – what Rob Blake wanted, Rob Blake got.
Laura rested a rosy cheek in her hand as she leant against the table, watching the goings-on as the chairman of Sotheby’s expertly wooed the crowd into shelling out small fortunes with every £25,000 increment. The bidding had been furious and ostentatious for over an hour now, and the atmosphere in the room was giddy with excitement and testosterone.
The woman on her right, Simone Cappell, Rob’s COO, was knocking back Cîroc vodka shots, having already lost out twice in the bids: once for the week in Donna Karan’s villa, which went for almost as much as a trip to the moon, and again for backstage passes for a Black Eyed Peas concert at O2. The man to her left, Garth Kesswick, Rob’s CEO, was far more interested in trying to find out why, at the grand old age of thirty-two, she still hadn’t been ‘snapped up’.
‘To be honest, I’m not convinced that I’ll ever marry,’ Laura said provocatively, knowing just how combustible this comment would be. As a waitress moved between them, removing the dinner plates, she took another sip of wine – one of hundreds this evening – feeling increasingly defiant and angry. Who the hell did Rob think he was? Ordering her to drop her friendship? Laura didn’t answer to him, and from what she’d seen, neither did Cat.
‘What?Apretty thing like you?’ Garth flirted, clearly under the impression that he was much more of a catch than his ruddy cheeks and subtly highlighted hair would suggest. ‘You might find you don’t have much say about it. Some lucky chap will just march you off to the nearest registry office and, hey presto – trouble and strife, you’re a wife. If I wasn’t already shackled, I’d do the job myself.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Laura said archly, which only seemed to excite Garth further.
Rob, who was seated opposite her, and who was entertaining Garth’s wife, Camilla, so much that her mascara was running, glanced over at them.
The auctioneer broke up their conversation for the fifteenth time.
‘And now for Lot fifteen, ladies and gentlemen: an original oil by a man who has already, in his short but illustrious career, been hailed as one of Britain’s greatest living artists – Ben Jackson. Measuring two point six metres by two point three, and entitled Wind IV, it is the final oil in a celebrated series that achieved record sales in Manhattan last month. I have with me here a starting bid of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Who’ll give me one seven five?’
Laura settled back in her chair and rested her eyes on Ben Jackson, three tables away. He was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his chin down modestly, listening to something the man next to him was whispering in his ear. He was as striking as his paintings to look at, and Laura wondered how much of the untamed wildness of his work was inspired not only by nature, but his own character. Many of the women in the room were far more interested in scrutinizing him than the painting on the easel as the biddings rapidly topped the half-million mark, but Cat wasn’t one of them. Her eyes caught Laura’s.
‘Loo?’ she mouthed.
‘Now?’ Laura mouthed back. Etiquette demanded the room was quiet and still to allow the easy observation of bids placed. Getting up now would be like leaving Wimbledon in the middle of a final.
But Cat scraped her chair back and rose like a goddess. Laura followed suit, aware of the eyes swivelling as they passed. They walked together, conspicuously, through the seated room, and the auctioneer broke off from the escalating bids to call them back.
‘Ladies, please – was it something I said?’ he cried jocularly, prompting a rumble of titters.
Cat turned as if she was on wheels and smiled. ‘On the contrary, we’ll return when the real bidding begins.’
A chorus of laughter rippled through the crowd.
‘Surely Ben Jackson is enough to tempt you to stay?’ the auctioneer asked, delighted by this unexpected repartee with the beautiful stranger.
‘He’s sweet, but sadly not . . .’ Cat replied loftily.
Sweet? Ben Jackson? He was as sweet as a wildcat.
Even in a room full of celebrities and the super-rich, Cat commanded attention. Laura stood next to her, mute and stricken with panic that the auctioneer was going to turn his attentions to her next.
‘I already have him hanging in our drawing room, you see. I’m after someone new.’
‘Ooooh!’ rumbled the audience, absorbing the veiled insult in her words. Ben Jackson was motionless in his seat.
‘Mrs . . . ?’
‘Blake. Cat Blake.’
‘Mrs Blake. And your sister?’
Cat squeezed her arm tightly. ‘Laura.’
Laura looked at her in surprise. Cat hadn’t corrected him? She felt her heart quicken. So Cat saw it too, then, their similarity? Maybe that was why they’d been so drawn to each other – maybe that was why she’d helped with her hair and shared her clothes. In a way she’d lost her sister too; after all, Olive had made it very plain their relationship was beyond repair.
‘Mrs Laura . . . ?’
‘Oh no. Laura’s not married,’ Cat purred, eliciting a roar of anonymous wolf whistles and cheers that made Laura blush furiously. ‘She’s deliciously single.’
‘Not for long, apparently,’ the auctioneer joked. ‘Well, you set a high bar, Mrs Blake, if Ben Jackson can’t whet your appetite. I’m not sure whether your husband is one of the luckiest or bravest men in this room. Where is the great man?’
Garth stood up instantly and pointed eagerly at his boss. ‘Here!’
Rob, leaning one cheek against a fist and looking thunderous, gave a reluctant nod as the room erupted into laughter and cheers.
‘Mr Blake, so good to make your acquaintance. I have a feeling we’re going to be getting to know each other better tonight.’
The crowd roared with laughter, and Rob could only roll his eyes as Cat – playing to the crowd – blew a kiss and sashayed out of the room, pulling Laura after her.
‘How are you able to do that?’ Laura asked as they strode down to the loos. ‘I’d have died if he’d spoken to me in front of the entire room. I mean, all those celebrities . . .’
‘Follow me,’ Cat smiled, opening the door to the marbled bathrooms.
She disappeared into a cubicle, and Laura went to go into another, but Cat called her back. ‘In here.’
Laura threw a look at the toilet attendant, who was wiping down the immaculate basins, and tiptoed over to where Cat was standing. ‘What is it?’
Cat closed the door behind her and locked it. She opened her bag. ‘This is the secret,’ she smiled, pulling out a tiny plastic bag and compact.
‘Cat, I . . .’ Laura stared at her, agape, as she carefully sliced some white lines on the mirror. ‘Look, thanks but it’s not really my thing.’
Cat looked up at her with knowing eyes. ‘Have you ever done it before?’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, but—’
‘So then how do you know you won’t like it?’ She pressed a soft hand against Laura’s bare arm. ‘It’s just a little fun, Laura, and it’ll give you some confidence. You’ve had a shitty week and this will just give you a lift. Tonight’s supposed to be fun!’
Laura looked away nervously.
‘Laura, it would be easier to count the number of people in that room who aren’t on this. You trust me, don’t you? Would I ever steer you wrong?’
Laura looked at Cat, so like her that they could be sisters – wasn’t that what the auctioneer had assumed? And Cat had encouraged him to think it; she felt the same way as Laura.
She nodded.
Cat winked. ‘So, okay then. Let’s live a little.’