‘Lucy, darling, you look wonderful,’ Clarissa gushed, stepping away from her guest and taking in her Chanel lemon-linen dress. Lucy did look wonderful, as always. Like her sister Max, she took pride in her appearance at all times even though their individual styles were very different.
She had been flattered by Clarissa’s invitation to join her and her fiancé, Clive, in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Clarissa was one of London’s most prominent socialites, her little black book reading like a who’s who of the capital’s aristocracy.
Lucy’s boss had stared in wonderment when the invitation landed on her desk, her beady eyes settling on ‘Clarissa Appleton-Smythe’. Through gritted teeth Genevieve said, ‘Oh lucky you. I hadn’t realized you knew Clarissa so well.’
In truth, Lucy didn’t really know her. And of course she was aware of the reason for the socialite’s sudden interest in her. It had little to do with Lucy herself and everything to do with her new boyfriend. For Lucy had recently started dating Hartley Balmyle, the fifth Earl of Balmyle – pronounced Bal-mile – and one of the most eligible bachelors in the UK.
In the three weeks since they had met, she had been on half a dozen dates with Hartley. Naturally, she had been welcomed into Team Clarissa with open arms when Clarissa met her a week after she’d stepped out with Hartley to a charity luncheon. Their picture had appeared in some magazine and Clarissa recognized Lucy at a fashion show in Mayfair. The Appleton-Smythe set laughed loudly at Lucy’s jokes, even when she said something she didn’t think particularly funny, such was their desire to meet Lucy’s new beau. At the end of the fashion show Clarissa had asked Lucy to join her at Ascot. She looked crestfallen when Lucy explained Hartley wouldn’t be able to make it and that she would be coming on her own. Lucy didn’t mind one bit, though. Clarissa’s warmth was contagious and, anyway, knowing her could only be useful for work.
Clarissa was well versed about the Balmyles. The fifth Earl of Balmyle was Scottish. His family had a huge estate on the outskirts of Edinburgh. This was the famous Balmyle Hall, surrounded by thousands of acres of land which was rich for farming. The Queen Mother had often visited the family on the estate when staying at Glamis Castle during the summer. It had been passed down the generations and was now run by Hartley, his father having died five years ago. The family had also kept a considerable property portfolio in the city, which had grown vastly in value with the opening of the Scottish Parliament in the capital. The Sunday Times had put the family at the top of their Rich List for Scotland. They were in the Top Twenty Rich List for the UK.
‘Darling, what scent is that? Is it the new Jo Malone? Oh it’s delicious, Lucy. Quite the trend setter.’
Clarissa was thirty-two, a generous size 14 and on such days out she seemed always to wear garish pink or purple taffeta skirt suits, topped off with a similarly outlandish hat. Lucy wondered if her attire was a calculated attempt to stand out in the society photos that graced the back of her magazine. Or perhaps it was just a sign of her eccentricity.
Without coming up for breath, she whispered conspiratorially in Lucy’s ear: ‘Straight ahead, twelve o’clock, powder blue, Lady Chalmers. You know the one, the American heiress. She’s had at least three glasses of Cristal since she got here an hour ago.’
Following Clarissa’s directions Lucy noted the pretty blonde who seemed to be enjoying herself, throwing back her head in laughter with her friends.
Lucy couldn’t help but giggle at Clarissa’s army-like precision when it came to spotting the rich and famous. Lucy was preparing to compliment Clarissa’s outfit – well, it would be rude not to make the hostess feel special – but she was cut off.
‘Lucy, darling. What bad luck Hartley couldn’t make it. I was just saying to Clive that we simply must have you over for one of our Friday suppers. You’ll love it. Jasper Whitaker – you know the jockey who hangs out with the royals – and Philippa Bonner of the Bonner publishing empire are regulars.’
Clarissa suddenly took a sharp intake of breath and her face flushed.
‘Oh no, I think Philippa knows Hartley’s ex.’ Looking over her shoulder, she lowered her voice almost to a whisper. ‘God, I hear she’s an utter b-i-t-c-h. Have you met her?’
Lucy shook her head. Thankfully she never had encountered Lady Bridget Beames but had seen her splashed across the society pages of the glossy magazines, looking so perfectly put together but severe and skinny.
And she had heard plenty about her. As soon as the girls at work had discovered she was dating Hartley, they relished telling Lucy the numerous dreadful stories they had heard about how rude she was.
Lucy smiled back at Clarissa. ‘Don’t worry if one of your guests knows her. It’s no big deal. I’ll survive.’
‘You’ll do more than survive, darling,’ Clarissa laughed, squeezing Lucy’s hand. ‘Your debut at my Friday-night supper will be the talk of parties for months to come.’
Lucy warmed to the theme, putting on her poshest voice. ‘Yah. London’s finest will be begging for an invitation to one of your gatherings but you shall have to turn them away, such will be the demand to attend.’
Clarissa clasped her hands in delight. ‘Exactly. And Bridget will hear of your mesmerizing beauty and impeccable manners and choke on her carrot stick.’
Lucy looked relieved. Yes, Clarissa had ruthless ambition but, unlike so many other girls, she was upfront about it. There was something undeniably likeable about Miss Appleton-Smythe. She thrived on making friends, fussing over them and gossiping at her Friday suppers.
As far as Lucy knew, Clarissa didn’t have a job, no doubt being provided for by rich parents and her fiancé, and so arranging her social calendar had become something of a career, at which she excelled.
She had become known within certain London sets as a bit of a fixer. ‘Oh you want to go to the March Ball? Let me give you Clarissa Appleton-Smythe’s number.’ ‘You want a minor royal to attend your charity auction? You really should talk to Clarissa.’
She was still talking. ‘So I’m planning a supper in three weeks and I won’t accept no for an answer, Lucy. I’m giving you plenty of notice; please say you’ll both come.’ Noting a slight panicked look, Clarissa squeezed Lucy’s hand. ‘Darling, I know I’m an utter pain in the whatsit, but it’s how I get my own way. I promise I’ll be utterly lovable when you get to know me.’
Lucy found herself laughing and nodding her assurances to her new friend, not knowing what else to do. Somehow Lucy wanted to please Clarissa, to allow her the thrill of telling her set Hartley was the guest of honour at her Friday supper. It was like giving a small child the key to the gingerbread house where everything inside was delicious and edible.
She hoped Hartley wouldn’t mind.
Clarissa was visibly excited and started a mental list of her best-connected friends. Oh and what to eat? Chateaubriand, perhaps. The seating plan – Hartley would have to sit next to her.
As her hostess thought dreamily of becoming the Earl of Balmyle’s new confidante, Lucy excused herself to the restroom.
She could never understand the ruthless determination of so many girls in London. None of her close friends were like them but working at the magazine had opened up a new world of women. Being in the company of the ‘right’ people at the most sought-after social events seemed to be somewhat of an obsession.
Most of these girls were cold and snooty. Clarissa, at least, was refreshing in her honesty and more than a little comical. She seemed less self-deprecating with others in her set of friends than she was with Lucy. Somehow, inexplicably, Lucy and Clarissa clicked.
Lucy had landed on her feet at Trend, a glossy fashion and celebrity magazine which counted Vogue as its main rival, and established a name for herself on the editorial team as a leading fashion writer, taking charge of styling fashion shoots as well as putting words to them. Despite what the outside world thought writers at the top-end glossies earned, she spent most of her salary on a mortgage for the two-bedroom flat she had bought a year ago with her sister. Victorian terraced flats did not come cheap in Kensington and when her half of the mortgage was paid she spent what was left on clothes, for which she had always had a passion, and her contribution to the monthly lease payments of the sports car she shared with Max, a nifty black Z4. It never failed to astound her how judgemental the girls in her office were when it came to wearing the right labels, living at the right postcode. No doubt her boss and other girls in the office thought she was dating Hartley because of his wealth and connections. That’s why they would date him.
But no, she could never be with someone she didn’t love. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Hartley yet, but she had been pleasantly surprised, impressed even, so far. He seemed so kind, funny and generous – all the things she really admired in a man. Hell, maybe she was sure but was too scared to admit it to herself; after all, it was such early days. She could remember how perfect John had been at the start and how broken she felt when she realized what the real man was like.
‘Oh my God.’
A high-pitched voice interrupted Lucy’s thoughts. A breathless Clarissa, so excited she could barely get the words out.
‘Lucy… darling… hurry. Lady Bridget Beames is here. Hartley’s ex.’
Lucy’s head was swimming.
‘Oh Lucy, come and look. She’s making a terrible scene outside. Let’s find her, darling. She’ll be hopping mad when she sees you.’