Lucy rifled through her wardrobe like a woman possessed. She couldn’t wait to get out, to laugh, to drink and forget, she hoped, about Hartley and that damned newspaper story.
Everything is bloody knee-length and below, she thought as she dismissed each one of her pristine outfits. Pastel-pink Matthew Williamson knit dress – too girly; chocolate-brown Stella McCartney wrap dress – too sophisticated. That was her problem, Lucy told herself – she was too damn sensible. Never drunk, always ladylike, conscientious, dependable. And where had it got her? No boyfriend and half of London thinking she was some manipulative gold-digger. It was time for Lucy to have some fun and she would start with looking through Max’s wardrobe for an outfit.
She ran to Max’s room in her dressing gown – her sister was out at some premiere or other – and opened her wardrobe. Lucy laughed out loud: it was as messy as hers was neat. Skimpy tops that had slipped off hangers lay on the floor; hangers were smothered in three or four dresses each, no doubt hung in a drunken stupor. It was always Max who came to Lucy for clothes, normally with a frantic brief to make her look smart enough to gatecrash a posh party. More than once, Max had returned a vintage Westwood blouse or cashmere blazer with a red-wine stain or cigarette burn, but she had always had the good grace to have it repaired straight away.
But tonight the roles were reversed because Lucy wanted to be a party girl. That said, Max’s D&G bra masquerading as a top was taking it a little far. She could never wear a skirt that short, she thought as she browsed through her sister’s wardrobe.
‘Aha,’ Lucy said triumphantly as she spotted the dress she had often admired on Max. A Moschino metallic-silver number. Foxy. Yes, it was time for Lucy to dress the way she felt. And she felt she wanted to take a risk for once – to be young, free, wild. Hell, she would start by opening a bottle of wine. It was only 5.30 p.m. and she wasn’t meeting Amy for an hour, but after the day she’d had she deserved it. Lucy still hadn’t heard from her mum, despite leaving another message. She resolved to call her again in the morning. Perhaps she could take a couple of days off work and drive home to see her. She desperately hoped Marj was OK. She was made of strong stuff, but that day’s story wasn’t just a surprise, the majority of it was made up – or at least spun out of control to paint Marj, Lucy and Max as something they were not.
Back in her room, Lucy switched on her iPod and smiled as Nina Simone’s ‘Feeling Good’ blared out of the speakers. She might not be feeling so good, but mind over matter was a powerful thing, she told herself. No point wallowing in self-pity. Those who thought less of her after the day’s story were not true friends. Lucy, Max and Marj knew the truth and that was all that mattered. Lucy had toyed with the idea of ringing the newspaper and giving the editor a piece of her mind. But experience at the magazine had taught her that putting forward your side of the story made you look a little fame-hungry, and that’s one thing Lucy was not. She wanted nothing more than to fade back into anonymity. In any case, ignoring the attention placed upon her could only make the story go away all the sooner.
Poor Max had called her in a state of high excitement that afternoon. Like a child with too many things to say in one breath, she had told Lucy that she had proof Bridget was behind the whole photographer affair.
‘OK, so it’s not concrete, but it’s pretty damning and Hartley –’
‘Stop.’ Lucy cut Max off. She had thought about nothing else but proving herself to Hartley. She had thought about it so much that she had realized there was absolutely no point. ‘Max, if I have to prove my innocence like this, I’m better off without him.’
‘What? No, Luce, you don’t understand. It’s the only –’
‘No,’ Lucy interrupted her sister again. ‘It’s not the only way. If he loved me and if he knew me half as well as I thought he did, there would be no need for this. But, Max?’
‘Yes,’ came her deflated, faint response.
‘I can’t tell you how much it means, having you on my side. No matter how bad things are, having you batting for me always makes it better.’
Lucy could sense Max soften.
‘No worries, Luce. Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Max. Swear you won’t do anything with that text.’
‘OK.’
‘Max?’
‘Yes, hand on heart, I promise. I kind of see what you mean – he should have trusted you all along.’
It was a relief Max had seen her point of view, she thought as she lathered a layer of cocoa butter over her skin, followed by a dusting of Benefit body glimmer. Slipping the dress over her head, she closed her eyes until it settled on her body. She felt nervous. She had never had the raw confidence Max exuded, the wild streak of abandon. And here she was looking like… what? Standing in front of her oak-framed, full-length mirror, she took herself in. She looked like a young woman with a lust for life. Lucy laughed. That’s just how it should be. The dress was hardly indecent – it was conservative by Max’s standards, if not Lucy’s. The neckline was high, skimming her collarbones and cutting across them in a straight line. The sleeves were full-length and flared at her wrists with dramatic effect every time she swished her arms. The stretchy silver fabric was neither skin tight nor loose but traced Lucy’s toned body, showing off her flat tummy and full womanly breasts. It covered her bottom with a good few inches to spare. Quite respectable really. As she turned round and looked back into the mirror Lucy let out a yelp… there was no back whatsoever. One big plunging back-line, so low you could almost see the top of her bum. But, somehow, an exposed back was sexy; it wasn’t like putting your breasts out there for the world to see.
Lucy slipped on a pair of Wolford matt-black-satin tights and strappy silver Gina heels. Normally £400, she had bought them after they were reduced by 70 per cent. A missing ankle strap had deemed them faulty, but Lucy had matched the material at a nearby fabric shop and had them looking perfect within hours.
She took a sip of the cold Pinot Grigio she had poured. It tasted good. Deciding on a wilder look than normal, she backcombed her hair a little at the roots for volume, then applied a liquid black eyeliner and grey shadow over her eye sockets. She highlighted her cheekbones with a dusting of Versace pink shimmer and dabbed a thick layer of clear MAC gloss on her lips.
Very sixties glam, she told herself as she turned from the mirror and drained her glass. She would enjoy herself tonight if it killed her. Sure, if she stopped for a moment to think of Hartley, she would probably break down in tears. The hurt was almost unbearable. But she had to be strong. The more she thought about what had happened, the more she started to feel hurt by Hartley. He couldn’t really have known her if he was prepared to think she would betray him, even if all the signs pointed to her. Lucy wanted someone who unquestioningly believed in her. But then, did he have any choice but to doubt her? Stop it, she told herself. Amy has booked a fabulous restaurant. You are going to wine, dine, laugh, slur, dance and stumble home this evening. You are going to forget about Hartley and have fun, goddamn it.
Punching Amy’s number into her phone, Lucy chose a black shawl from her wardrobe to guard against the evening chill.
‘Aims, hi. I’m leaving now. I’ll pick you up in a cab in twenty?’
Lucy grabbed her black-leather Prada baguette and left the flat.