Midnight Girls (22 page)

Allegra glanced over at her and said, more gently, ‘I mean, I don’t want to go to Paris. Why doesn’t Rom come here? Or else Scotland? Or we could meet her in London. But I don’t want to go to Paris.’

‘Allegra …’ Imogen spoke slowly. ‘Are you really OK? You haven’t been the same since you came back from Paris. I know it was ages ago, but it just feels like you’ve never been yourself since then … you seem so unhappy.’

Allegra turned away to make the tea, and when she spoke again, her voice was gruff and thick. ‘I’m fine, OK? I just don’t much fancy Paris.’

‘All right.’ Imogen wanted to believe her, but Allegra seemed to be crumbling in front of her. The state of her room seemed to reflect her state of mind: chaotic and bleak and miserable.
Is it the drugs
? wondered Imogen.
Is she drinking too much?
She looked over at the desk. ‘Have you been revising?’

‘Kind of.’ Allegra brought the mugs of tea over. ‘I’ve had a warning from my tutor after I missed a few essays. But it’s nothing I can’t handle. I know it looks bad in here, but I’m doing all right at the moment.’

‘That’s good,’ Imogen said, relieved. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Allegra had probably just had another crazy night. ‘Now, tell me exactly what you’ve been up to. I’ve missed all the gossip for ages.’

Chapter 18

Paris 2003

LIFE IS SO
boring
, Romily thought. She stared at her reflection and turned slowly in front of the mirror in the
chambre d’essayage
, while her mother and the seamstress looked on.
When did it get so boring?

She was missing her marquis more than she’d expected. He’d gone away on a long trip and their delicious afternoons had come to an end. Without them, she had become rather depressed. Plenty of sex was obviously vital to one’s physical health and sense of well-being.

I’ll just have to look out for a new lover, that’s all
.

‘Oh, yes,’ said her mother to the seamstress. ‘That’s much better. A much better fit. Well done, madame.’

‘Are you now satisfied, Madame de Lisle?’ asked the atelier manager.

‘What do you think, Romily?’

‘A much better fit,’ she said obediently. It was true: the dress now fitted her perfectly around her tiny waist, flowing out over her hips and coming to a narrow hem exactly on the knee.

‘Just right for the races,’ her mother said, satisfied. ‘Now … the jacket.’

Oh, shit, don’t tell me we have to do the jacket too?
thought Romily, despairing.
I just want to go home
.

Although what she would do when she got there, she had no idea. She was feeling the lack of something to do with an intensity that shocked her. She’d even begun to lose interest in clothes, which was so out of character that it was simply not normal.

She had been out of school now for almost two years, and while at first the limitless leisure had seemed wonderful, it had quickly begun to pall. She had never before understood why her parents were always on the move, from Paris, to Italy, to Switzerland, to New York and on to Chrypkos, then back to Paris again, but now she was beginning to understand: they had to stay busy in order to keep that monster, boredom, at bay, and moving around was an effective way to fill in time. And then there was their social life, a slow-grinding eternal machine that never stopped, and it was always the same people who gathered together: she would see the same faces in St Moritz as she did in Venice. All of them kept moving in a flock, like birds flying in the same direction, swooping up and down in formation.

It was supposed to be entertaining: the travelling, the endless succession of gatherings and parties, always in the lap of luxury. And yet, for now, it wasn’t. There was something enervating about it, as though the very fact that her heart’s desire could be hers, as long as money could buy it, made life less interesting rather than more.

What I want is to have
real
fun
, she thought longingly.
I want to be young and carefree. My social life is too full of grown ups, that’s the problem
.

When she tried to say this to her mother, Athina de Lisle looked both hurt and puzzled. She looked up from the elegant bureau where she was writing letters in her firm clear hand.

‘My dear child, you can have as much fun as you want. What would you like to do? Shall I telephone the Comtesse
and
see if Jeanne would like to go to the opera with you tonight? Or how about a trip to New York? The ballet is putting on
Coppélia
, I’ve heard it’s fantastic, and dear Amy Randwick is one of their biggest donors and can certainly get us tickets.’

‘No, no …’ Romily drifted about the drawing room, fiddling with one diamond earring. ‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘Then what do you want to do?’ Athina de Lisle put down her Montblanc and looked worried.

‘I want to do something with my life! Learn something, do something … I don’t know.’ Romily sighed. ‘I’m only twenty. I can’t go shopping for the next sixty years.’

‘Of course not. That would be very wrong. You must certainly find some worthy ways to occupy your time. What about charity work?’

‘Yes,’ Romily said eagerly. She sat down in one of the little gilt chairs, leaning over the armrest towards her mother. ‘I was wondering about volunteering for an overseas organisation. There are so many places I could go to learn something and be useful: Africa, Sri Lanka …’

Her mother looked shocked. ‘Oh, no,
ma chérie
. I think committee work is much more appropriate. Fundraising. Promoting awareness. Lovely Françoise has made millions for the Red Cross by holding the most delightful parties. But you can’t actually go to those places. They’re dangerous!’

Romily sat back in her chair. It was exactly as she’d expected: her mother was happy for her to do something as long as it was within the prescribed limits of what a young lady of her status should do. ‘I’m bored with parties. I want to do something interesting.’

‘I arranged you those classes with the Professor. Aren’t they stimulating your mind?’

‘Not really. He’s a bore. He likes the sound of his own voice, and whenever I try to start a discussion with him, he
blinks
at me and acts as if I said nothing at all, and simply drones on and on.’

‘How strange,’ murmured Athina de Lisle. ‘He’s so well regarded! His book won so many prizes. I haven’t read it, of course, but others have said it’s a masterpiece …’

‘I do want to learn,’ Romily said. ‘But I’d also like to travel and see the world.’

‘See the world?’ Her mother laughed, a trilling, musical sound. ‘My darling, you see the world all the time! You travel everywhere, all year round. Why, we’re off to London next week for darling Jenny’s little soirée, and we’re going to Delhi later in the year for the Laksi wedding. That’s going to be splendid.’

‘Yes, yes, but …’ Romily sighed. ‘I won’t really see anything in Delhi.’

‘Well, I think a Maharaja’s palace will be quite a sight myself …’

‘Yes, I know.’ She tried not to sound impatient. ‘Of course it will, and I’m looking forward to it, but I won’t get to see the place as others will. I won’t get to see the poverty and colour and people and beggars …’

‘Exactly – and you should be very thankful for it!’

‘I am thankful, but I also want to know what else is out there, what life is like for people who haven’t been born with everything I’ve got. Do you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to pack a rucksack, take a few hundred dollars and travel the world like any other student on a budget. I’d like to sleep in hostels, and eat from tins, and drink cheap wine from plastic bottles, hang out on beaches … just bum around for a year or so.’

‘That sounds awful!’ declared her mother, looking horrified. ‘I can’t imagine why on earth you would want that. Besides, the security implications are unthinkable. You would have to take a guard with you wherever you went. If
you
want a holiday, darling, just say and we’ll arrange something. The Matthews have that estate in Zambia. I’ve heard it’s magical. I’m sure you’d be able to get in touch with nature, or whatever it is you want to do, out there. And it’s all very safe and fenced in.’

Romily shook her head impatiently. ‘No, that’s not it at all.’

Her mother looked cross and picked up her pen again. ‘For goodness’ sake, Romily, I never knew a girl who was so dissatisfied with her lot! What more could you possibly want? You are simply determined to be contrary. If you really want something to occupy your time, you should get married and have children.
That
will keep you busy!’

Romily was jealous of Allegra and Imogen, and the freedom they must be enjoying at Oxford. She was sure they would be having adventures, meeting hundreds of people and learning amazing things. That must be why she had lost touch with her friends recently, despite the postcards she often sent. Her emails to Allegra went unanswered – in fact, she’d heard almost nothing since her stay in Paris before going up to Oxford; Imogen was better, but even so, the occasional email and scribbled letter did nothing to tell her what life there was really like. Imogen was always so apologetic, explaining how busy it was at Oxford, and how her time was taken up with studying for exams. She’d written that she had a boyfriend now, but hardly anything else about him. Romily had been hoping for an invitation to visit, but it had yet to come.

Why didn’t I force my parents to let me apply to university? I can’t believe I let them take me away from Westfield
. She regretted it now, but there seemed no way to reverse her decision. She had left school before her A-levels. There was no way she could go to university now, unless she took the
Baccalaureate
. But the idea of going back to school was too depressing.
I want to get on! I’ve been left behind. I must get a job or something – that’s the only answer
.

‘Well, you know what you simply must do,’ her friend Muffy Houghton Geller said while they were lunching together at the Ritz in the place Vendôme. ‘You must come to Manhattan!’

‘Really?’ Romily was doubtful. Would anything change for her there?

‘Yes!’ Muffy was a sweet-natured American heiress who had moved in Romily’s circle for years. They’d struck up a friendship in Venice one summer and now they were firm friends. Muffy’s only ambition in life was to get married to as rich a man as possible, although she had certain conditions: it had to be old money, and he had to be Ivy League and a banker or financier. Apart from that, she wasn’t fussy. ‘Everyone would simply adore to see you. We’d
totally
spoil you. All the girls are dying to meet you since I told them about your amazing style.’

‘Did you? I’m very flattered. I don’t think my style is anything special, is it?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Muffy rolled her eyes and tossed her carefully low-lighted chestnut hair. ‘You’ve got that amazing Parisian chic we all long for. It’s not just your clothes, it’s everything! I love your entire …
ambiance
. Is that the right word?’

‘Well – not exactly, but I know what you mean. Thank you, Muffy.’
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to go to New York and be spoiled and fêted for a while
. She perked up a little.
Perhaps I could try an American lover. That might bring a bit of spice back into my life
.

Muffy suddenly gasped and dropped her fork into her salad. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got it! I know what you can do. You know how Lily Handford is designing her own handbags
for
a Japanese luxury goods company, and has even created her own colour of lipstick for their make-up brand – called Lily Splash or something equally dumb – well, if people want to buy
her
style, imagine how much more they’ll want to buy
yours
! Think about it: you’re related to one of the most famous artists of all time, no one can doubt your artistic inheritance, and you’re rich and gorgeous. Everyone would want to buy your life if they could.’ Muffy looked solemn. ‘I know I would.’

Romily was intrigued and flattered by this notion. ‘You think I could sell my style? How?’

Muffy looked around for inspiration. ‘I don’t know. In a shop?’

Romily sat back in her chair, overcome by this new idea. ‘Do you mean … clothes?’

‘I mean everything!’ Muffy waved her hands about. ‘There’s no limit! Clothes, furniture, jewellery, objets d’art … The whole damn’ lot. Under the Romily de Lisle name.’

She felt a spark of excitement. ‘Do you really think I could?’

‘Of course. And you’ve got a place in the city, haven’t you?’

Romily nodded. The palatial de Lisle apartment on Fifth Avenue was only used for a couple of weeks a year.

‘Well then.’ Muffy looked satisfied. ‘I think you should come over as soon as you can, and see what you think. I’d just love you to meet all my girlfriends back home.’

Why not? What’s keeping me here? I’m tired of Paris, Allegra and Imogen are about to do their exams so I can’t visit them. I may as well see what New York has to offer
.

Romily smiled at Muffy over the crisp white linen. ‘You know, Muffy, I think you’ve just had a brainwave.’

Chapter 19

New York
2003

MITCH WAS IN
the office after service, looking at the orders for the rest of the week and adding a little extra here and there.

He’d been promoted to deputy head chef of the Greywell, which was nice, but it didn’t exactly pay him much more and he was expected to do a hell of a lot more work for the paltry increase. But Patrice had got used to landing him with nearly all the paperwork which meant he had the chance to make a little extra on the side by ordering surplus ingredients – another crate of veal or a case of wine on top of his usual order – and selling it on. He’d seen it done in other places he’d worked and it was easy enough when he was in charge of the order sheet and the budgeting. All he had to do was sign off the supplies and whatever he wanted appeared at dawn the next morning in the tradesmen’s vans.

The extra money he made selling it on went on his rent, his whisky, and, of course, his supply of heroin. He and Herbie had moved to a slightly bigger apartment, where the walls were a little thicker, but it was still bare and basic, furnished with odds and ends they found in skips and thrift stores. He didn’t care much how the place looked: he was only alive when he was cooking or smoking his shit.