Lucy had called her mother straight after she had spoken to Max. She hadn’t picked up so Lucy left a message. She wanted to be strong but felt ashamed that she had dragged her mother into this mess; she could not get the words out without sounding strangled.
‘Mum, I’m guessing you know about the newspaper. I’m so very sorry… I love you.’
Lucy sat on a bench down a quiet lane near her Mayfair magazine office. She could not face going back to work, with the girls whispering and watching. There were a couple of sweet girls on the floor. There was Sophie, with her hair freshly dyed jet-black in honour of another new super-model.
She had actually cried for a full hour at work the other day because her prized Burberry blazer, which she’d blagged a few months ago and had refused to take off even when temperatures in the office had topped 30 degrees back in July, had been stolen from a nightclub cloakroom. Lucy had handed her a fresh tissue as she wailed that it wasn’t about the cost but it was virtually a one-off and irreplaceable.
Sophie had run after her on her way out of the office and Lucy assured her she was fine and thanked her for asking.
And there was Penny, the fashion desk PA with shoulder-length dark blonde hair, a long face and severe rectangular glasses, which she changed on a daily basis to match her outfit. Lucy was sure she would have run after her too, had she not been on holiday.
But most of the girls were too scared of Genevieve to break free from the pack and try to comfort her without having at least some juicy news to take back to the boss. God knew what she had said about Lucy before she’d come into the office that morning to instil this level of fear about being too friendly to her. The thought might once have bothered Lucy but, hell, after reading a malicious article in a national newspaper, seen by millions, not only about herself but about her family, well, Genevieve’s bitching was the least of her worries.
Lucy smiled wryly as she thought of the story in the paper. It made her sound like she was a fake – that she hadn’t gone to one of the most prestigious girls’ schools in the country, that she had put on a posh accent the moment she left her family council house. In truth she had lied about nothing – Lucy’s voice, her interests, her friends, were the product of her background. And it was one of which she was proud. Yes, she had mixed with the upper classes. But she had all kinds of friends from all walks of life. And it was her sister and mother who had shaped her, made her happy to be herself. How shallow it all seemed; the very fact a newspaper would give up two pages to dissect her social status was utterly unfathomable.
Lucy felt the wind through her vintage Westwood cream-satin blouse and tight black jeans but she felt numb to its assault. A photo album of images of her mother flashed through her mind. Swimming naked with them in Cornwall when Max and Lucy were children, putting on plays for the return of her stepfather from work. Lucy had a biological father she loved but Fergal had been just like a dad, always making her feel equal in his heart to Max.
While he had worked hard to establish his carpentry business, Marj had marketed the company and it became a household name in Dundee and nearby towns in Tayside. But she had seen her full-time job as investing every ounce of energy into making her daughters happy and strong enough to take on the world. And this was how she had been rewarded.
And all because of Hartley. Lovely Hartley. She could not think badly of him through any of this. He was probably as bewildered as her, perhaps more so. While Lucy knew the details that had been published painted her wrongly as a ruthless liar, gold-digger and opportunist, Hartley knew no such thing. He must think of her as such a fraud. And yet she could not help but hope he had glimpsed the real her – the honest woman who loved him dearly. But it was stupid to think he would hold on to his impression of Lucy after all of this. And anyway, what did it matter? She had heard rumours and spotted a diary piece hinting that Hartley had started seeing Bridget again. The thought of him with anyone else, let alone Bridget, was too much to bear. It hurt like hell to think Hartley had moved on so quickly when she still thought about him all the time.
Carlos would know what to say. Shit, now she remembered: he was trouble-shooting in the Bahamas after a model had assaulted an air hostess on the way to a job there. No doubt she was high as a kite and would blame the stresses of work/lost luggage/a recent relationship breakup – or rather, Carlos would invent a kick-ass story to save her from community service.
The sharp ringing of her mobile cut through her thoughts. It was Amy. They hadn’t spoken much since the evening they met Hartley at Annabel’s. They had texted and emailed, promising to meet up soon, but Amy had a new project on at work which had her working late. Lucy had been busy too, at the magazine and – she smiled sadly as she admitted it to herself – falling in love.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, thanks. Boy, am I glad to hear your voice. I take it you’ve seen the story?’
‘I have. Don’t worry. Today’s newspaper is tomorrow’s fish and chip wrapping, Luce.’
Amy was relieved to hear her friend at least try to laugh. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘There is. You can help me get very drunk tonight.’