Lucy had risen at 9 a.m., two hours after she normally got up, but she allowed herself a lie-in because it was Sunday.
She showered leisurely, lathering on Jo Malone Nectarine Blossom and Honey shower gel and Thalgo skin exfoliator.
She rubbed a generous amount of Crème de la Mer over her face and blasted dry her long blonde hair before smoothing on just a touch of gloss serum. Perk of the job: an endless supply of cosmetic samples. Some of the girls in her office displayed an unattractive greed when it came to freebies, constantly dropping unsubtle hints to designer houses that they’d love their new-season bag… and there was such a good chance they’d include it in their ‘must have’ section.
Lucy cringed at their phone conversations: ‘Yah, yah, darling, the new Westwood tweeds are to die for. If you have any spares, don’t be shy – send them over. That way I can, like, show them to my boss and she might go for an entire feature on them.’
Lucy found some of her colleagues’ blagging embarrassing, and she was given plenty of freebies anyway, as well as generous discounts and bits and pieces from sample sales. For a genuine fashion lover, it was a dream come true.
Lucy often wondered how the girls at the magazine could afford an entire wardrobe of the season’s designer must-have clothes and different accessories every day. She wondered if there was a secret closet and they all had a key, although that was doubtful given that no one in the office could keep a secret if their Prada baguettes depended on it. Perhaps they were all trust-fund kids with a rich daddy on speed-dial. A few of the nicer girls had told Lucy her outfits were the cause of envy at work – where did she find the little vintage Westwood and Dior numbers and how did she match everything so perfectly with new-season stock?
The truth was that Lucy knew every vintage and secondhand shop in a five-mile radius. She could never afford to drape herself in full-price designer gear. She had a talent for spotting worn pieces and restoring them lovingly with fabric she picked up, or paying her favourite seamstress at a tiny shop near her flat to work her magic. Lucy refused to be a labels snob and proudly told the girls her shirt was from Marks & Spencer or Topshop rather than a named piece which cost ten times as much.
Lucy picked out her favourite Marc Jacobs summer dress. The silk fabric felt wonderful as she pulled it over her head and let it slide over her body. The muted green floral pattern was feminine and fresh, perfect for her date with Hartley. They were going for cream tea at Claridge’s that afternoon.
She brewed some fresh Columbian coffee. Lucy normally stuck to green tea, but treated herself to a little caffeine on weekends. She squeezed several oranges and grapefruit into a jug and poured a glass before remembering to pick up the Sunday papers which would have been dropped outside the flat door.
News of the World for gossip, the Sunday Times for every supplement known to man and the Mail on Sunday for something in between.
Lucy’s heart stopped as she took in the front page of the Mail staring up at her.
BATTLE OF THE SOCIALITES AT ASCOT
Below the headline was a flattering head shot of Lucy – taken two weeks earlier at a charity ball – and one of Lady Bridget. A most unattractive shot with her eyes half closed and lips pursed.
‘Oh my God,’ Lucy whispered.
Her heart raced as she turned to page thirteen for the main story – a commentary by the social editor, Gerard Bosworth, renowned for his outspoken opinions and lack of interest in making famous friends.
We knew competition was stiff to win the heart of Britain’s most eligible bachelor, Hartley Balmyle, but we didn’t realize society beauties were prepared to fight over him.
Yesterday’s events at Ascot took a nasty turn when the Earl’s former girlfriend, Lady Bridget Beames, was introduced to his new love interest.
The green-eyed monster became guest of honour in the Royal Enclosure as Bridget tried to ridicule her fairer (and dare we say it, more beautiful) rival.
Despite her title, it was fashion writer Lucy Summers who behaved like a lady on the day, smiling pleasantly throughout Bridget’s verbal assault.
But the blonde butterfly proved she is more than a pretty face, delivering a deadly put-down that outclassed bitchy Bridget.
One to Lucy Summers… nil to Lady Bridget Beames.
As Lucy took in the words on the page, her alarm washed away and a smile of relief spread across her face. She had come out well. How funny. Lady Bridget, for all her connections, money, title and standing, appeared bitter and rude. Who said the newspapers always got it wrong, she chuckled to herself.
What about Hartley? Would he think this was all her doing? Oh God, he hated publicity. What if he was furious? What if he blamed her?
Bloody hell, I’m on the front page of the Mail on Sunday. Lucy hated being at the centre of attention, but had to admit it felt rather pleasant to read an accurate description of Lady Bridget.
‘Max, Max, wake up. You have to see this.’
Armed with fruit juice in one hand and the newspaper in the other, Lucy used her right hip to push open her sister’s bedroom door.
‘Jesus,’ Lucy said as the stench of alcohol overpowered her. ‘Max, I can smell you before I see you. Good night, then?’
Max wasn’t quite ready, or able, to respond as her sister’s voice cut through her semi-comatose drink-induced sleep. As she raised her head slowly from her pillow and opened her eyes, Max registered with depression two sure signs she was in for a terrible hangover.
First, she had dry-eye syndrome. So severely was her body dehydrated the moisture had drained from her eyes.
Secondly, her tongue felt like a mouldy slice of bread which had put out a thousand cigarettes. Must stop bloody smoking when pissed.
‘Oh Max, you look dreadful.’
‘Thanks, Luce,’ Max croaked with as much sarcasm as she could muster.
‘No really, Max, you look bloody awful. One of your eyes is closed.’
‘Oh fuck. Right. Don’t worry; it normally opens after I’ve had a shower.’
As Max focused on her sister, she noted with a mix of admiration and envy just how radiant she looked.
Like a vision out of a Herbal Essences shampoo ad, her fresh-smelling, white-blonde hair was clipped effortlessly at the nape of her long elegant neck.
Her figure-hugging, knee-length floral dress was both refined yet sexy, an understated Marc Jacobs. How come she always smelled so good?
Envy aside, most of all Max felt love for her big sister, who was always there in her time of need. Even if 90 per cent of the time that meant offering her fluids to alleviate her hangover. Who would ever think they were sisters, Max thought as she forced a lopsided smile to reassure Lucy.
Well, half-sisters, as they had different dads. But with no other siblings, Max had never entertained the thought they were anything other than sisters and best friends.
Max was full of life and always in trouble, as wild as Lucy was sensible. Max was beautiful, like a petite doll, while Lucy was graceful and refined. Each sister longed a little to be like the other. Each sister adored the other.
Lucy stood at five foot eight, a good four inches taller than Max. She was elegant, poised and always immaculate. At thirty-one she was two years older than Max. Her natural blonde hair turned almost white in summer and at its darkest was a light honey in the cold winter months. Her eyes were a mesmerizing piercing blue.
Something was different, Max thought. Lucy was normally so calm, so relaxed, but today she looked excited. The younger sister propped herself up on her elbows, avoiding eye contact with the mirror opposite her bed.
‘So, how was Ascot?’
Lucy bit her lip. ‘Oh you know… Ascot. I met Hartley’s ex, Lady Beames. Max, wait until you see the newspaper. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.’