Lucy smiled as she rubbed L’Occitane cocoa butter into her long legs.
She laughed out loud as she realized she was in fact grinning like a Cheshire cat.
Kneading the gooey lotion into her smooth skin she reflected on the last six weeks – that was how long she had been dating Hartley. She felt as excited as a schoolgirl with her first crush whenever she thought of him. She found herself daydreaming more and more of a future with Hartley. She couldn’t believe how much she had fallen for him in such a short time. Most of the time it made her dizzy with happiness but sometimes she was terrified. She thought he had the same feelings, but could she be sure?
He was due to pick her up in an hour to take her to Clarissa’s for dinner.
And soon they would have a long weekend away with his friends in Scotland.
She felt the fine hairs on her body prickle in excitement at the thought of spending the weekend with him in the remote castle. She longed for him to make love to her. Such a setting would be perfect.
Carlos had cornered her at work and demanded to take her for a coffee straight away so they could be out of earshot of Genevieve.
Safely in a booth at the local Starbucks he waved his hands in the air. ‘My God, girl, I’ve had to read about your new boyfriend and you in the bloody magazines. He’s so eligible I’d go straight to date him.’
Lucy laughed. ‘So I hear, Carlos.’
‘But he’s not as beautiful as you, baby.’
Lucy blushed.
‘But tell me –’ Carlos looked serious suddenly as he tightened his lemon-coloured tie then clasped together his perfectly manicured hands as if in prayer – ‘do you like him?’
‘I do, Carlos, I really do,’ Lucy told him, catching his eye.
‘And is he good to you?’
‘So nice. I’m almost waiting for something to go wrong. It’s all so… perfect.’
‘Honey, enjoy it while it lasts. And Lucy?’
‘Yes?’
‘For God’s sake, get a friggin’ diamond-encrusted Cartier before you break up.’
Carlos erupted into laughter at his own joke before reaching for Lucy’s hand and squeezing it.
‘I’m messing with you, of course, baby.’
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps Lucy should just enjoy how good it felt being with Hartley and stop hoping it wasn’t too good to be true.
For the first time she felt like she was in a real relationship that was going somewhere, with someone she respected and who respected her.
She was inspired by Hartley’s passion and offered to help in any way she could. His eyes had lit up and he suggested she take over planning his Hogmanay Ball for the Foundation.
‘I’ve got a frightfully busy few months ahead, Lucy Lu. Mother needs some help running the estate. Since Father died I try to spend as much time with her as I can,’ he had explained. ‘You’d be doing me such a favour, darling.’
Lucy hadn’t hesitated and started at once to plan for the occasion. What with auction prizes, music, themes, speeches and so much more, her mind was jam-packed with lists of things to do… and she was loving every minute.
How wonderful, she thought, picking out her favourite baby-pink-satin camisole and matching panties from her bedside drawer, to feel wanted, appreciated, loved, respected.
An improvement on her last boyfriend, John.
She’d only realized her loyalty to John might be going unrewarded when she found a cheap red-silk nightgown under their bed. It definitely did not belong to her.
He had tried to laugh it off, telling her he was an athlete full of testosterone and had succumbed to temptation. He promised to be faithful in future. He told her she was the one he wanted on his arm. The most beautiful, sexy girl he had ever met, the most caring and loyal.
That night, Lucy had opened a bottle of Chardonnay then drank the whole lot before starting on a second. When Max came home from work she found her sister, for the first time in her life, wasted.
After explaining through a cacophony of slurs what had happened with the nightgown and John’s reaction, Max was resolute.
‘Lucy, that man’s idea of foreplay is beating his chest and yelling, “Are you ready for the big boy, little lady?” He’s a pig. How fucking dare he do this!’
With that, Max had stormed through to the bedroom her sister shared with John – who rarely contributed to any outgoings in the flat – and, armed with scissors, cut up his new rowing gear. Then she cut all three of his Armani suits into small pieces.
‘There,’ Max had announced, throwing all the bits of material into one of John’s large Mulberry cases. She placed it outside the door with a note she dictated to Lucy so that it was in her handwriting.
Dear John,
Sleeping with you is like having a front door fall on top of me, with the key still in the door.
You’re not worth it.
Find a new flat and get a life.
Lucy
Afterwards, Lucy had dissolved into a fit of giggles.
‘I love you, Max.’
‘I know, Luce. Come on, let’s get you to bed. Tomorrow you get to experience the joy of your first major hangover.’
John had bombarded Lucy with flowers, offers of dinner, holidays, the opera, everything. But she had remained resolute, with Max’s help. As her little sister said, everyone needs a bad relationship to make them appreciate when a good one comes along.
She smiled as she thought of lovely Hartley, with his mouth full of marbles, floppy hair and rosy cheeks. She wouldn’t have him any other way.
Lucy had laid out her outfit for the evening at Clarissa’s on her pristine white Egyptian-cotton duvet. Summer was almost over but it was a gorgeously warm September evening, perfect for her lilac-chiffon Chloé shift dress. Letting it fall over her head she felt the soft fabric settle on her skin. Beneath her breasts the tightly gathered fabric flowed freely and loosely to just below her knees. Dusting some Benefit body shimmer over her legs she completed the look with matching lilac Miu Miu court shoes – a perfect combination to make her look young, fresh and sophisticated.
After blasting her hair dry she smoothed it with a little serum to highlight the wispy ends, which had turned almost white in the sun.
She patted a thin layer of Laura Mercier primer then tinted moisturizer over her face. A little cream blusher and a lick of Dior mascara – a freebie sample at the magazine – and finally a dab of Crème de la Mer mint lip balm and she was ready.
Lucy felt the familiar fluttering in her stomach as she heard the buzzer from the street-level entry to her flat.
Her heart jumped as she heard Hartley’s trademark ‘Hello, Lucy Lu’ over the intercom.
Hartley was a little early – Clarissa had invited them for seven-thirty and it was only just after six.
Excellent, thought Lucy. I’ll open some champagne first and we can cuddle up on the sofa. When Lucy opened the door Hartley stood with his mouth slightly ajar. He couldn’t help it. She looked incredible. Her white-gold hair floated over her shoulders. He wanted to grab her and take in its sweet scent. Her lilac dress set off her bright blue eyes.
Yet again he wondered how such a perfectly respectable outfit with a modest neckline and hemline could look so sexy.
‘Lucy Lu, you look fabulous,’ he said over the long-stemmed white lilies he was holding out.
Taking them from him, Lucy leaned forward and lightly brushed her lips against his. Taking his hand, she led him to the sitting room.
‘Thank you, they’re lovely. I’ll put them in water and open some champagne?’
‘Perfect.’
Since meeting Hartley, Lucy had found herself gradually drinking more – a thimbleful compared to Max’s trough – and often had a few glasses over dinner on school nights, which she had never allowed before. But she was enjoying being less rigid. She laughed as she remembered Max’s description: ‘You’re less anal these days, sis.’ Lucy was sure it had everything to do with being happy.
Hartley found Lucy irresistible. Whenever he said goodbye to her he counted the hours until he saw her again.
So sexy, yet somehow so pure. He didn’t want to cheapen what he felt by overstepping the mark. He wanted to do things properly.
Hartley smiled as he sat back and took in Lucy’s smell. It was everywhere, just like her style, scattered around the flat. On a canvas of creamy walls and carpets, throws and large pillows in rich reds and purples were dotted around the room, with a giant plum rug as a centrepiece under an ancient-looking, rectangular, low wooden table.
A giant oil painting hung on the wall facing him – a purple Buddha on sands of pink and red – adding to the exotic feel of the room.
Hartley guessed some of the decoration must be down to Max.
Lucy had admitted she’d been nervous about telling Hartley her sister worked for a tabloid. Max, she told him with pride, was one of the most talented young journalists in the country. She described how Max had won a prestigious award and been headhunted. And one day she wanted to be a foreign correspondent, exposing corruption in third-world countries or covering wars. Max, Lucy told Hartley, might make a living out of exposing stars. But she was the most loyal person she could hope to have as a sister. Yes, the fact her sister was dating the Earl of Balmyle could land her dozens of scoops for the Daily News. But Max would rather die than exploit her for stories. Lucy could not be more proud of her sister’s achievements to date, she told him a little defensively.
Hartley had laughed, kissed Lucy on the forehead and told her to stop being silly. Max sounded like an amazing journalist with a glittering future. What twenty-something would turn down a showbiz reporter’s role, mixing with the celebrities her readers were so obsessed by? And anyway, it wouldn’t matter if Lucy’s sister was a stripper (though his mother might object): it couldn’t change how he felt about her. All Hartley asked for was honesty and that’s what Lucy had given him. In truth, Hartley couldn’t wait to meet Max. She seemed always to be out at some premiere or launch party when he called by the flat.
He had seen pictures of Max, who was pretty but not at all like Lucy. Her huge brown eyes and flowing chestnut hair made her look almost Italian, so unlike her fair, English-rose sister. A few days ago Lucy had started to say something about why they looked so different, but they were interrupted by a call from the Foundation.
Hartley still could not quite believe how Lucy had thrown herself into organizing the Hogmanay Ball. With strong Scottish ancestry, Hartley had been keen to celebrate Hogmanay Scots-style in London, and raise as much money as possible at the same time. Lucy seemed to revel in all the tiny details – champagne flutes tied with tartan ribbon round the stem, a ceilidh with an instructor to show everyone how to do the Gay Gordons, a piper to welcome guests. Was it foolish, less than two months into their relationship, to hope Lucy would one day relish planning their own wedding?
The thud of the flat door closing cut through Hartley’s thoughts. Followed by a torrent of profanities.
‘Fuck fuck fuck! I’m wet fucking through.’
The door was flung open to reveal the girl in the pictures. It was Max. Although she was a little more bedraggled than in the posed family photos. Hartley couldn’t help his eyes straying down to her jeans. Was that…? No, surely not.
‘Hartley? Oh Christ. I’m sorry.’
‘Max?’
‘Oh Jesus, meet the bloody Earl for the first time and I’ve peed my pants.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Hartley wasn’t at all sure he understood. Uncertain where to look, he tried to focus on Max’s face, but couldn’t help noticing her top: tight and black and torn right down the front to reveal a – God, her nipple. He was looking at his girlfriend’s sister’s nipple. He hadn’t even seen Lucy’s yet.
‘Max?’ Lucy appeared from the kitchen at the other side of the sitting room carrying two flutes of champagne.
‘Oh Luce, I’m such a fuck-up.’ Max grabbed a red throw from a chair and hastily tied it round the huge dark wet patch which started above her crotch and spread almost to her knees. ‘Hartley, a pleasure to meet you. Let’s shake on it once I’ve washed my hands.’
‘Um, yes, of course.’
‘Max, what on earth’s happened? Have you been drinking?’ Lucy asked with concern.
‘I wish.’ Max groaned. ‘Oh God, I have to explain.’
Max reached for a purple-velvet cushion and held it across her chest.
‘Here’s the thing. God, Hartley, sorry. The thing is my boss told me to stand outside the cinema in Leicester Square and wait for Tom Cruise. His latest film is premiering there tonight.’
Max was distressed. This was not how she had hoped she would meet her sister’s boyfriend for the first time. Lucy really liked him and Max wanted to make a good impression. Sure, he might learn after a few meetings that she was a liability, but fiddling with the throw to make sure her damp patch was covered? Classy.
She wanted to make Lucy proud, not embarrassed.
‘Right, the thing is,’ she heard herself say, ‘Tom Cruise is famous for doing his walkabouts with the fans. And as there was no chance of an interview with the paper, Claire, she’s my boss, figured it was the only way we could get quotes from him. So, to get a good spot – standing in front of his thousands of cross-eyed fans – she told me to get there at midday. These fuckers – shit, sorry, swearing too much – the fans… they travel from fucking Aberdeen and wait all night.’
Max felt Lucy’s and Hartley’s incredulous stares upon her. She continued.
‘I was in such a rush to get there I didn’t have time to go to the toilet. I’d drunk a litre of water over lunch trying to be fucking – sorry – healthy. He was due at five-thirty. By four o’clock – four bloody hours – I knew if I didn’t pee I’d be hospitalized with a burst bladder. I tell you, I was in agony, doubled up with cramps. I also knew that if I left I’d lose my place and have all hell to pay with the boss. The security guards had closed off the area. So, erm, I had no choice but to pee.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Yes, Luce, I did. I’m ashamed to say I did. Another highlight in my career as a hard-hitting journalist. By the way, I got the chat with Tom so Claire was happy. I’m sure she won’t care that a mad fan was so angry when Tom spoke to me she ripped my top and Tom got a full view of my left nipple.’
‘Oh Max.’
‘My new Sevens jeans are soaked in urine and, if that wasn’t bad enough, the first time I meet Hartley he sees me having pissed my pants.’
Oh God, Hartley was looking away. Maybe he’d dump Lucy over her disgusting, urinating sister. Bet Lady Bridget never peed herself.
Lucy and Max caught each other’s eye as they became aware that Hartley was shaking.
‘Oh… my… God,’ he gasped in between fits of bellowing laughter. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard anything so funny in my life.’