Marrying Up (25 page)

Barney was sitting in his Brideshead dressing gown, his Montblanc pen poised over a copy of
Tatler
, which he was cross-referencing with his well-thumbed copy of
Burke’s Peerage
. He looked the picture of calm contentment as he perused a piece Alexa had read yesterday; a glowing account of an aristocratic
birthday party held on Cap Ferrat. The photographs of the ornate belle époque villa with its jasmine-scented and palm-shaded
gardens and enormous underlit swimming pool, and the elegant guests who had converged on it for the celebrations, had sent
bitterness convulsing through her.

Ed Whyske was, after all, poised to inherit just such a place; had everything gone according to plan, she herself would have
been standing, as the hostess in the pictures was standing, in an expensively simple white column dress at the top of a graceful
sweep of stairs.

‘You’re frowning,’ Barney chided, looking up suddenly.
‘Remember that your face is your fortune.’

Alexa did her best to smooth out her agitated features with her fingertips. ‘I’m just a bit worried about what happens next,’
she grumbled.

Barney put down his magazine, put his fingertips together and smiled. ‘Obvious, I would have thought,’ he said.

It wasn’t obvious to Alexa.

Barney raised the magazine and waved it at her. ‘The South of France. The Riviera.’

‘The
Riviera
?’

‘Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before!’ Barney rose to his slipper-clad feet. ‘We might be finished – for the moment
– in London—’

‘More than London,’ Alexa put in resentfully. ‘We’re finished all over the bloody country. Not to mention the whole of cyberspace
since you-know-who texted the whole of
Burke’s Peerage
about us.’

Barney smiled serenely. ‘All the more reason to temporarily remove ourselves. There are no end of avenues to explore in the
South.’ He raised his plump pink fingers and began counting them off. ‘The yacht crowd in Saint-Tropez and Cap Ferrat, for
a start. The Hotel du Cap crowd in Antibes, the Palace crowd in Monaco. So cheer up, my dear!’ He caught Alexa by the hands
and pulled her up. ‘We just get ourselves down there, and something’s absolutely
bound
to come up.’

‘But how
do
we get ourselves down there?’ Alexa demanded. ‘We don’t have any money. We can’t possibly afford to go.’

Barney rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose there is that,’ he admitted. ‘But something will turn up.’

He was, Alexa thought, like a gold-digging Mr Micawber.

They slumped into doleful contemplation for some minutes, during which the deep bass boom of Richmond’s reggae continued to
shake the house. Alexa, staring glumly at her muddy boots, willed herself not to hear it. But it was difficult when your very
fillings were rattling.

The letterbox in the hall crashed, heralding the arrival of the post.

Quick as a flash, Barney was on his velvet-slippered feet. It was amazing, Alexa thought as the purple silk blur shot past
her, how quickly he could move when he wanted to.

He came back a man transformed. His round pink face was suffused with triumph. He commenced dancing round the room with delight;
gambolling over the grubby grey carpet, silk dressing gown billowing out behind him. A terrible fear clutched at Alexa – had
he been invited to something she hadn’t? An event of resounding brilliance and exclusivity, at which he would be socially
rehabilitated, while she remained at home in the dingy flat?

Her mind raced with hideous possibilities. Was it an invitation to dine and sleep at Highgrove? August at Balmoral? She couldn’t
see any large white envelope in his hand – his haul seemed to be mostly supermarket flyers. But perhaps the precious card
was in his pocket.

‘Has someone asked you somewhere?’ she demanded, eyes blazing.

Barney stopped gambolling like a young gazelle. ‘Asked me somewhere? Not as such. Actually, that’s not quite true.’ He waved
the papers he was clutching. ‘The Cooperative Society has very generously invited me to come and avail myself of their two-for-one
Lambrusco promotion and large discounts on tinned lager and frozen chips.’

‘So why are you looking so pleased?’ Alexa felt her rigid spine relaxing against the hard back of the chair.

He pulled a white envelope from the fistful of flyers. ‘I’ve received a cheque this morning.’

‘Cheque!’

‘Not a huge one, admittedly, but certainly enough to take us to Cannes and, if we’re careful, keep us down there for a couple
of months.’

‘Who was the cheque from?’ Alexa was curious. They had
discussed their parlous finances only yesterday; he had not mentioned any imminent payment.

‘Oh, a newspaper.’ Barney gave a dismissive toss of the head. ‘A little story I was helping them with.’

Something flashed in Alexa’s brain. There had been, all over the front of one of yesterday’s papers, a story about an MP caught
in a gay fetish bar. Had Barney, who she knew occasionally went to such places, sold the secret to the highest bidder? That
would certainly explain his sudden enthusiasm for getting out of London.

He was looking at her, his small blue eyes gleaming. ‘Come on!’ he urged. ‘The playground of the rich awaits!’

On Barney’s instructions, Alexa went to Jermyn Street for their travel essentials. Cigars from Davidoff were, he stated, a
crucial piece of kit; an air of wealth being naturally associated with the pungent air around a hand-rolled Cuban. Of Alexa’s
kit he made no mention; paper Davidoff bag in hand, she stood morosely in front of Floris, debating whether or not to splash
out on a travel set. Turning away, she almost collided with a beautiful willowy blonde in skinny jeans, talking loudly into
a mobile.

The voice was unmistakable. As was the long, lustrous hair, lit up like a white flame in the sun streaming down the narrow
street. Her face was almost entirely hidden by vast black sunglasses; she was instantly recognisable nonetheless. ‘Florrie!’
gasped Alexa.

More beautiful than ever. And yet, it seemed, still single. According to the diary pages Alexa followed so avidly, Florrie
drifted from glamorous party to eligible bachelor apparently insensible to the possibilities. The only comfort the marginalised
Alexa could draw from these accounts of hectic popularity and manifold social opportunities was the certainty that Lady Annabel
would be as frustrated as she was. Albeit for different reasons.

Florrie, still exclaiming into her mobile, did not appear to see her.

‘
Florrie!
’ Alexa repeated, grasping her by the arm.

Florrie looked at her in horror. ‘Omigod, Camilla, some fucking beggar’s bloody trying to assault me . . . Oh, it’s
you
, Lexie.’

She shoved the mobile into a large pink leather bag studded with diamanté hearts. ‘Hey! Last I heard you were trying your
luck with Fatty Wharte-Hogge.’

Embarrassment flooded Alexa. ‘We’re just good friends,’ she muttered.

‘That’s not what he’s saying.’ Florrie giggled. ‘According to him, you—’

‘How’ve you been?’ Alexa interrupted forcefully. ‘How’s the job with the MP going?’

‘Did you know they’re calling you Heirfix?’ Florrie had pushed up her sunglasses. Her blue-violet eyes were wide and amused.

‘You must know all about Westminster now.’ Alexa stuck doggedly to her subject. ‘Corridors of power and all that,’ she added,
almost wistfully.

‘
So
boring.’ Florrie pulled a face. ‘All those dreary constituents ringing up, moaning about their fuel bills. I told one of
them that if he was so hard up he should sell some property or shares. He went
ballistic
!’ Her eyes were wide with indignation. ‘Told me that he didn’t have property or shares, which is rubbish, obviously. Everyone
does.’

Alexa felt heartened by the fact that Florrie, even after all that had happened, still seemed relaxed in her company. Might
it be possible to claw back some of her old ground?

‘Glass of champagne?’ she suggested.

‘Omigod, yes! I could do with some hair of the dog. There’s the Ritz just up there.’

Alexa had been thinking more of a small downstairs wine bar. But Florrie, in her silver sequinned flip-flops, was already
striding ahead along the sunny pavement. She hurried to keep up.

‘So no weekends at Chequers with the Prime Minister, then?’

‘God, yes. All so dreary,’ Florrie groaned. ‘Politics is hopeless socially. You never meet anybody interesting.’

They were at the doors of the Ritz now, Florrie striding into the gilded, glittering interior with the familiarity of an owner.
Alexa, struggling through the revolving door, saw her pass the
gilded cherubs and cream-painted pillars and make straight for the corridor that led to the restaurant. ‘Don’t we want the
bar?’ she gasped, hurrying after her. She forced herself not to panic; Florrie might only be looking for the loo.

‘I’m starving,’ Florrie declared, not slackening her pace until she reached the restaurant door. ‘Table for two, please,’
she barked at the attendant waitress.

Helplessly, Alexa followed Florrie and the uniformed flunkey across the thick pink carpet to a central table beneath the richly
decorated ceiling. ‘Boring old place,’ Florrie hissed in a stage whisper over her shoulder to Alexa. ‘Daddy brings me here
whenever he really wants to tell me off about something. Still, it’s close, so it will have to do.’

Two waiters simultaneously pulled out the oval-backed chairs; another, meanwhile, shimmered over with two large menus. Who
would be paying for this lunch? Alexa wondered worriedly. She tried to push the thought from her mind and use the situation
to her advantage. She was with Florrie, after all. And there could be other influential people here.

The room was hushed and, as it was early, largely empty. A pile of old dowagers in one corner, Alexa saw; some businessmen
in another, glancing appreciatively at Florrie, who was, as always, oblivious to admiration.

‘À la carte for me, I think,’ Florrie declared happily, closing the menu. Alexa’s was still open in her hands. She had taken
one frightened look at the prices and was now staring hard at the ceiling, which, ironically given her circumstances, depicted
a fantastical sylvan paradise.

She forced herself to look on the bright side; Florrie might be intending to pay. There was, after all, a first time for everything.
And there were more important things to think about, such as regaining her old position with Florrie.

Even so, as the wine waiter shimmered up, proffering a vast padded menu, Alexa’s insides twisted with terror.

‘Oh, we don’t need to look at that,’ Florrie assured him gaily.
Alexa’s heart soared upwards. Was she detoxing? Had her preferences switched to tap water?

‘Just bring us a bottle of champagne, there’s a darling.’ Florrie gave the waiter a winning smile.

Alexa swallowed. Another waiter came up. ‘You are ready to order, mademoiselle?’ His attention was all on Florrie.

She flashed him a smile of devastating charm. ‘I’ll start with the foie gras and then perhaps the lobster?’

Alexa was starting to feel sweaty with panic. She had seen the price of the lobster and it had left her shellshocked. Shellfish-shocked.

‘A very good choice, mademoiselle,’ the waiter assured Florrie smoothly. A pair of warm brown eyes now met Alexa’s terrified
ones. ‘And for you, mademoiselle?’

Part of her was surprised he used the term; she had, Alexa imagined, aged several decades in the last few minutes. ‘Soup,
please,’ she muttered.

‘Just the one course, mademoiselle?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

The champagne arrived and was opened. Alexa’s glass sat full and untouched on the tablecloth while Florrie, sipping away merrily,
described her other recent adventures in the world of paid employment. Relentlessly, into her companion’s hot and rushing
ears, she happily listed squandered opportunities Alexa would have killed for.

The job at the upmarket concierge service, for one. This, Alexa learnt between Florrie’s mouthfuls of foie gras, bit the dust
after Florrie arranged discreet dinners for a wealthy executive and his mistress and the executive’s wife and her toyboy in
the same sought-after London restaurant on the same night and at adjacent tables. As Florrie began on the lobster, Alexa was
appraised of the sojourn in a smart London estate agent that had ended after Florrie had confused the prices while updating
the website. The result had been a mini-meltdown in the international property market.

‘I just don’t think work’s my sort of thing, really.’ Florrie
giggled as she polished off the last of the lobster. Her pretty long fingers, heavy with rings from Tiffany and Chanel, flew
to her rosebud mouth. ‘Omigod, but I haven’t told you about my new thing! I’ve branched out into art!’

‘Art?’

‘Yes, I’m a leading contemporary artist! I’m painting pictures with my tits!’

The sentence, delivered in an excited shriek, caused mayhem in the restaurant. Forks were dropped, glasses clattered on to
plates, people choked and spluttered. All eyes swivelled to Florrie, who as ever couldn’t have cared less.

‘Met this amazing girl at a party who showed me how. I just did it for fun at first, but now people are actually paying for
them! Well, Igor’s bought one.’

Alexa could only stare, as Florrie wittered on happily about her creative epiphany. ‘The paint’s freezing and there are certain
bits where you don’t want to get it.’ She applied it with surgical gloves, she added, and rolled around on a canvas before
removing the paint with Fairy Liquid.

‘Daddy’s not keen on it, though,’ Florrie added soberly, or as soberly as one who had drained more than half a bottle of champagne
could manage.

‘What about Mummy?’

Lady Annabel had not been mentioned so far. Perhaps she had spontaneously combusted with her own fury.

Florrie’s beautiful face fell further. She tugged moodily on a strand of silver-fair hair. ‘Actually, she’s being a complete
mare.’

‘Surely not.’ Alexa’s tone was heavily ironic.