Dinner at Clarissa Appleton-Smythe’s was a success all round. Lucy had forgotten how well-connected Clarissa was, what with her ferocious ambition to meet Hartley. But then, Lucy had also forgotten just what a catch Hartley was – as a boyfriend or a friend. Counting him as a friend was on a par with knowing the younger royals. In some ways even better, because the people he socialized with were small in number and therefore exclusive. To Lucy, he had just become her lovely new boyfriend.
Clarissa treated maintaining her contacts book like a career. She regarded meeting the Earl of Balmyle as an accountant would regard winning the business of a new client.
Yet beneath her ambitious exterior Lucy had glimpsed a softer side to Clarissa, one that stuck up for her when Lady Bridget Beames had been so ghastly. Her heart was in the right place. Lucy sensed that, deep down, Clarissa saw the humour in her way of life too.
Clarissa had greeted Lucy and Hartley like long-lost friends when they arrived at her Putney town house. Brimming with pride she shook Hartley’s hand, introducing herself as ‘Clarissa Coldridge Appleton-Smythe’ for full effect and making sure her fellow guests heard her introduce herself to Hartley.
Clarissa’s house was exactly as Lucy had imagined. The decor and furnishings were fussier than the more minimalist look no doubt favoured by most in her stylish set. An overstuffed pink sofa with equally overstuffed floral cushions was surrounded by mismatched armchairs, a grand piano and solid dark-wood tables which looked very expensive. None of it would have looked out of place in a country home belonging to a fifty-year-old couple who kept the spare room for their daughter when she visited during university holidays. It was tastefully done in a chintzy way and so delightfully comfortable, filled with the delicious scent of a burning log fire. Mind you, it was a little balmy for a fire but Lucy guessed Clarissa wanted to perfect the feel of a homely manor. She noticed almost all the windows were open to counter the heat.
Lucy recognized Clarissa’s dress from a photo shoot she had put together at the magazine, but the canary-yellow smock looked a little different on the pudgy Clarissa than it had on the skinny model with whom Lucy had worked.
‘This season’s Matthew Williamson, Clarissa? Now you’re the trend-setter.’
If Clarissa had had feathers they would have puffed out with pride as she twirled in front of Hartley and Lucy. ‘Oh Hartley,’ she said, composing herself, ‘you haven’t met my fiancé, Clive.’
Lucy had briefly met Clive at Ascot. She kissed him on both cheeks – after he had welcomed Hartley.
Clive was a small red-faced man with twitchy eyes. Perfectly pleasant but one of those people with whom conversation was always a little stilted. He was well put together, in a no doubt expensive lounge suit like his fellow guests, but he had an unremarkable air and would dissolve into any crowd.
Clarissa seemed as proud as punch of her other half. Having a fiancé, she told herself, made her more attractive as a guest. Females were always wary of single girls, viewing them as competition. And Clarissa was more in love with Clive than she had ever dreamed she would be with any man.
The seating arrangements had been planned meticulously. Hartley was next to Clarissa on one side and Lucy on the other. Philippa Bonner, heiress to the Bonner Publishing empire, sat opposite Lucy. Clarissa had known Lucy and Philippa would talk fashion immediately, leaving Hartley all to herself. Lucy was, after all, gaining a reputation for the terrific way she dressed, appearing in the mid-market and broadsheet newspapers and magazines when she stepped out with the Earl of Balmyle. And as Philippa loved to look good – and always did – she devoured Lucy’s fashion and beauty tips like Clarissa relished society gossip. Lucy remembered Clarissa mentioning that Philippa knew Bridget, but there wasn’t a hint of coldness, just delight in talking about clothes.
‘Lucy, can you tell what I’m wearing now?’
Philippa, like all the guests round the table – four couples had been invited – was terribly well spoken.
Lucy was also well spoken but she had Max to thank for keeping her grounded, not carried away by thoughts of riches, of how many holiday homes/titles/horses she might acquire, like so many of the trust-fund kids.
Like Max, Lucy was able to talk to a prince or a plumber, while remaining true to herself.
The sisters had their mother to thank for that skill. She had always encouraged the girls to be outgoing and welcoming when they were growing up. ‘Be interested and interesting,’ she told them.
So many of the society set could only – and indeed wanted only to – talk to each other.
‘Yes, I can tell exactly what you’re wearing. Some people know computers, others rugby trivia. Me? I’m a slave to fashion.’
‘Do tell, then.’
Philippa, a slender girl in her early thirties, was immaculately dressed. With a chin-length bouncy blonde bob and perfect complexion with a sweet smattering of freckles over her cheeks, she balanced looking perfectly groomed with looking very natural.
‘OK.’ Lucy breathed in, looking Philippa in the eye as if about to start her round of questions on The Weakest Link. ‘Your cream blazer is classic Prada, perfectly tailored and timeless. Your summer skirt looks like it was bought to match the blazer but it is in fact Chloé – the multiple layers are a give-away, gorgeously feminine.’
Philippa, delicately sipping her Chablis, looked delighted and wide-eyed as she took in Lucy’s observations.
‘Your pink pearls I’d guess are Tiffany, your tights are DKNY satin finish and your beige pumps are Prada.’
Philippa, whose broad-shouldered boyfriend, Sebastian, was chatting about cricket to another male guest, shrieked with delight at her new friend’s talent and asked if she would mind helping her pick an outfit for a wedding she was attending next month.
‘I’d be delighted.’ Lucy smiled, spearing a piece of asparagus wrapped in Parma ham.
To her left, Hartley chatted to Clarissa, as a waiter served chateaubriand and some delicious red wine.
Miss Appleton-Smythe would later tell friends how the Earl of Balmyle found her hilariously funny – laughing heartily at all her stories. Hartley was, in fact, still chuckling over the image of Lucy’s sister with her damp patch and exposed breast.
Lucy had warned him that Clarissa might seem a little scary, but she was sure she meant well. Hartley warmed to her. She seemed to relish having the right set of people at her Friday supper, but she was the perfect hostess – genuinely interested in Hartley and her other guests and attentive to their needs all evening. He was rather baffled, however, when she asked after his Aunt Brodie.
‘Well, I, um, I’m not entirely sure I have an Aunt Brodie.’
‘Aha! You’re right. She has always been called Bee – since she was a child.’
‘Aunt Bee?’
‘Yes, her real name is Brodie but she never much liked it – thought it was a boy’s name and insisted on a shortened version.’
‘Really? Well, you learn something new every day.’ Hartley had no idea how Ms Appleton-Smythe could have known such an obscure fact; she must have researched his family thoroughly in preparation for supper. He didn’t know whether to feel flattered or scared of her considerable knowledge and couldn’t help but chuckle as he caught the look of utter pride on his hostess’s face. She seemed delighted to have been able to enlighten him. He found Clarissa’s devotion to those around her quite charming. Granted, she perhaps paid him more attention than the others but she made time for everyone around her – complimenting a hairstyle here, asking after family members there.
Using the moments in which Clarissa tended to her other guests, Hartley looked at Lucy. She was talking to Philippa Bonner – Hartley’s family had known hers since before he was born and he knew her well – and he marvelled at how Lucy made everyone feel so relaxed.
God, he couldn’t wait until next weekend, for their trip to Scotland. Was it too soon, he wondered, to ask her to marry him? It was no time at all but already he felt he knew her, trusted her more than he could ever have imagined. He was in love, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps they could stop in Edinburgh on their way back from Scotland and pop in to see his mother; he was sure she would take to Lucy straight away. She had admitted, after he had split up with Bridget, that she had never quite trusted her.
Compared to Bridget, Lucy was Cinderella next to the wicked ugly sister. It had been less than three months since they met but he never wanted to let her go. God, she was beside him and he missed her.