Bridget was seething. She knew she looked fabulous. That was a given after preparing for the ball for weeks. She was down to her target weight, which was no small feat considering the party season had been in full swing for weeks. She’d stuck to champagne all December, surviving only on a little protein – prawns, fish or chicken – with salad. She had booked in for weekly facials with rich Crème de la Mer treatments and her skin was glowing. Her hair was glossier than ever in a perfect black bob that framed her face.
All that effort and every head had turned to see that little tramp Lucy Summers. What the hell was she doing here anyway? She’d heard a rumour she would be sitting at a table with Clarissa Appleton-Smythe – a name that had cropped up a few times recently. Philippa Bonner had mentioned Clarissa was getting married soon and the wedding was expected to be a rather grand affair. It might do to try to become friends with her at the ball. If Clarissa had any brains she’d invite Bridget to the wedding. She was, after all, Lady Bridget Beames, the highlight of any guest list and a huge attraction for the society magazines, which might carry a piece on the marriage as a result.
When Lucy had made her grand entrance, Bridget had been speaking to a group of friends she’d known for years – brothers Barnaby and Barclay Morrison and their cousin, Courtenay. She had been the centre of attention, accepting graciously their compliments on her black Vera Wang satin gown. She felt divine in the dress that had cost Daddy a small fortune. The neckline was high at the front, skimming her collarbones in a straight line, and low at the back, showing off the muscles she’d worked on with her trainer. It swept the ground with the trace of a train. An emerald choker she’d borrowed from her mother completed a truly regal and breathtaking look, of that she was sure.
Yet the boys had cooed like idiots when Max and Lucy Summers had been announced.
‘Wow, are they sisters?’
‘They’re gorgeous.’ ‘Is the blonde one the one Hartley dated? She’s stunning.’
Morons.
Barnaby looked a little sheepish as he realized what he’d said. Bridget had just been telling them that she and Hartley were an item once more and things were going well.
They had no reason to know the truth, that Hartley had been so angry on the phone. He would come round, of course he would.
Bridget had smiled back at them.
‘Oh dear. Poor Hartley,’ she said, and they looked at her quizzically. ‘I shouldn’t say anything but it’s so unfair,’ she said, with her best pained expression. ‘He was so hoping she wouldn’t turn up. He’s told her over and over again to stop pestering him but she won’t give up.’
Bridget was buoyed by their silence as they seemed to turn over in their heads what she was saying.
‘It’s just so callous,’ she continued, lowering her voice to let them know they were in her inner circle of trust. ‘She tricked him with the photographer that time in Scotland so she could make money and now she’s still after what she can get from him. Someone in his position is so vulnerable to that sort of woman. She’s been in the papers since they split, you know, for sleeping with other famous and rich men.’
Ha! Bridget surveyed her friends’ faces. Not so smitten with her now, were they?
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ she announced, preparing to spread this little gem of a story she had made up quite spontaneously. ‘I’ve just spotted a friend I’ve not seen for an age. Save me a dance, darlings, won’t you?’