Summer at Tiffany's (15 page)

‘Oh my God. Does he still have his own teeth?'

‘Well, I think they're his,' Henry laughed. ‘He looks really well, actually. Fit, been working out. He's lost that . . .' He strained for the right word.

‘Junkie look?'

‘Exactly. He's got a tan.'

‘Don't tell me – he's just back from Necker,' Zara sighed enviously.

‘Oz. He's preparing to sail across the Pacific, all the way to San Fran on a boat made out of recycled bottles.'

‘Sounds suitably mad,' Zara said.

‘Sounds stupid,' Cassie echoed.

‘Actually, he's raising environmental awareness about the amount of plastic floating in the oceans. Did you know there's a confluence of plastic in the middle of the Atlantic that's more than twice the size of France? And most of it is just plastic bags and water bottles. One-use stuff.' He shook his head irritably, his eyes bright, and Cassie watched him with faint sadness. There was a vigour to his movements now that hadn't been there forty minutes earlier. ‘Anyway, he's got his own consultancy in San Francisco, mainly doing eco-consciousness camps with the Silicon Valley names, but he thought this would be a great way to really bring attention to such an important and overlooked issue.'

‘Cool,' Cassie said, thinking she should probably say something.

‘I told him you were here. He's really keen to see you again,' Henry said to Zara.

‘Yeah, I bet,' Zara barked drily. ‘I hope you told him he's not the so-called cure. He wasn't then and he isn't now.'

Henry rolled his eyes. ‘He didn't mean it like that.'

‘Yeah, right,' Zara muttered darkly. ‘Oh dammit. I need to get those croissants in the oven,' she muttered, crawling on her hands and knees towards the ladder at the back of the car.

Henry waited for her to go before pulling himself over to where Cassie was sitting.

‘I said we'd go over. I really want him to meet you.'

‘Oh, Henry,
why
?' Cassie scowled. ‘I don't like the sound of him. I don't particularly want to meet the guy.'

‘Don't let Zara sway you. They had a . . . tempestuous thing going on back then for a while. He's all right.'

‘Well, I trust Zara's judgement. He sounds like a complete loser.'

‘You trust her judgement over mine?' Henry asked in surprise.

‘Of course not, but—'

‘Look, he's not the guy he was at university. I don't know what Za's told you, but he's changed. He's an entirely different person now. God forbid we should all remain the people we were ten years ago.'

The words were pointed, directed at her and the version of herself that had said, ‘I do,' to another man. Cassie looked away. Her own recent past felt as disconnected from her life now as an amputated limb.

Henry reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. ‘Come on, Cass, where's the harm? We're allowed our pasts, aren't we? After all, they're what brought us to here and now.'

She couldn't argue with that. She, of all people, couldn't argue with that.

She was saved by the bell – their clients arriving early curtailed any chance of meeting Beau, and the three of them were immediately rushed off their feet. Henry played barman, mixing elderflower-champagne cocktails as an alternative to the Buck's Fizzes, juicing clementines and apples, and brewing up pots of tea. Zara organized the flow of croissants and pastries into and out of the mini oven that had been custom-fitted into the boot of the old Land Rover when it had, apparently, been driven across the Khyber Pass in Afghanistan by the previous owner, back in the 1980s. Cassie played hostess, carrying, pouring, removing and smiling.

She didn't look up for two hours, but when she did, she was astonished by the scene. The quiet industry of the early morning had been replaced by a heaving, buzzing crowd as the occupants of the glossy cars that now cascaded in rows behind them milled past with curious gazes at the Landy, the bunting-festooned safari tent and retro brunch being dished out therein, their mouths turning up into smiles as they clocked the pile of heels strewn at the bottom of the car's ladder and the decorated women who had kicked them off, sitting on the roof with bare pedicured feet, sunbathing and laughing with delight.

A deep male voice was booming incoherently out of the speakers that were set up around the park as ponies cantered over the immaculate grass on the practice pitch, their riders standing in the stirrups and swinging their sticks in warm-up. On the other side of the white posts, spectators sauntered in and out of the shade of the giant sunflower-yellow parasols that had opened like daisies in the sun, as they sipped drinks and delved into their picnics. A few children were running around, playing with miniature polo sticks, which became weapons in their hands, as dogs on leads nosed the ground for dropped bits of burgers.

Henry's back was turned to her as he worked on crushing the fresh ice block with a pick – from experience, Zara and Cassie had found they couldn't keep the crushed ice from melting on day-long events; only solid blocks would last – and Cassie watched as a woman in a pistachio silk minidress came over to take one of their business cards from the table beside him. Cassie noticed more than half the cards had gone.

Henry chatted easily to her, resting the pick in the ice like it was Arthur's sword as the woman tarried, asking questions that Cassie, with growing indignation, was quite sure were just an excuse to flirt with her fiancé.

Henry jerked his head back, indicating towards her and Zara, and both he and the woman turned. Cassie instantly ducked out of sight behind the Land Rover again, not wanting to be caught staring, but of course she had been a vital second too slow and Henry was still chuckling when he ambled over a few moments later.

‘She said she was interested,' he grinned, laughter in his eyes.

‘Oh, I
know
she was,' Cassie said tartly as she scuffed at the grass with her foot, her cheeks stinging with embarrassment that she'd been caught spying and wishing that she could fight back in something more alluring than her winsome pansy-printed tea dress.

‘It's for her mother's sixtieth in September. They're having a garden party for forty people in Dorset.'

She looked up in surprise as he handed over a piece of paper with a name and number scrawled on it. ‘Oh.'

He advanced, his hands on her cheeks and his mouth on hers before she could say another word, his point clear through his actions alone. ‘Come on. Zara's said she'll do this clear-up if we do the one after tea and she can get away early. Jude's got theatre tickets for tonight. We've got an hour before we need to do the lunches, right? Let's get an ice-cold beer and go watch the nags.'

He pulled her through the crowd, his hand big over hers, not even giving her time to take off her apron. She felt gauche as they wove through the crowds; at least she ‘made sense' standing beside the vintage cars and the 1940s ‘set' they recreated with their hampers, but this wasn't an arena where old-world charms carried any weight beyond the catering tents; this was the world of the international rich, where anything could be bought – new bodies, new teeth, new wives, new companies, new horses – and the brighter, tighter, shinier, flashier, the better.

Cassie was struck by the uniformity of the event. The men seemed, by silent, osmotic consensus, to have decided on a uniform of navy blazers and chinos, the only variation on the theme being whether their chinos were red, sand or cream. The women were more colourful, of course, but the broad strokes remained similar – a flimsy silk dress, bare arms and legs, strappy heels and wedges, and oversized Tom Ford sunglasses.

The next round of matches had begun and a roar of hooves thundered down the pitch, making the ground tremble beneath their feet as the crowd cheered and the commentator became more excitable at the mic. The onset of action meant the hospitality tents were emptied temporarily – all of them the taut, open-sided Arabian-style marquees – and Henry grabbed them some drinks as Cassie hopped on a bar stool beside one of the standing-up tables and looked out at the action in the sunshine.

Even from here the horses looked expensive, with a salon-rich sheen to their coats, their skinny legs tightly bandaged and bespoke Spanish leather saddles on their backs. Zara had told her earlier ‘the Princes' were playing, but Cassie couldn't work out which team was England, much less identify the players themselves.

‘We're in the red shirts,' Henry said, kissing her on the cheek as he sat down beside her.

‘I knew that,' she protested as he set down her drink. ‘Totally.'

He just winked.

She took a sip of her beer, careful not to get a foam moustache, while they sat and watched the match from their cool, quiet vantage point. Henry seemed better able to decipher the match than her, nodding appreciatively at some of the play. Cassie admired the sheer number of Birkins on display today. Just from this spot alone she could see eleven, and there was no doubt in her mind they were all genuine.

‘Hey, my man,' she heard Henry say, in a blokey sort of voice.

She turned, just in time to find him standing up and fist-bumping a man who had obviously got the memo (navy linen blazer and narrow red jeans). He was wearing a cream straw panama and silver-tinted aviators too, but even with so much of his face obscured, she could still detect in the Honduras-tanned, lean skin and the black-gold filings of his stubble a rich man ravaged by his indulgences.

Beau slapped Henry on the shoulder, but his attention was entirely on Cassie.

‘Mate, this is Cassie, my fiancée,' Henry said proudly.

A moment passed in which no one said anything; Cassie realized she was holding her breath. Then Beau's smile grew even wider and he turned to Henry with a shake of his head.

‘You sly dog. How the hell did
you
get a woman like this to even agree to take your number, much less your name?'

Henry laughed, Cassie looking between them both nervously as Beau immediately turned his spotlight back on her. ‘It is an absolute pleasure to meet you,' he said, taking her hand and holding it firmly – not in a shake, but as though poised to kiss it instead, though he didn't.

Cassie wished she couldn't see herself reflected in his shades: it was distracting seeing her own frozen expression looking back at her. As if sensing her discomfort, he took off the Ray-Bans, and she found herself, instead, looking into Bahamian-blue eyes that made no attempt to disguise their scrutiny. She realized she still hadn't said a word, but a quick nod of her head was all she could manage.

He let go of her hand with seeming reluctance.

Beau slapped Henry hard on the shoulder again as he barked a sudden laugh. ‘You can't imagine how made up I was when I ran into your old man earlier! It's been years. I half thought he was dead.'

‘That's funny. He said the same about you,' she said in a quiet voice.

There was a pause. ‘Well, we're cut from the same cloth, me and Henry. We both like living on the edge.' Beau looked at her for a moment. ‘You know, you look really familiar to me. We haven't met, have we?'

‘No.'

‘You're sure? Because I'm pretty good with faces. Not much good at anything else, as I'm sure Henry will tell you, but faces . . . I know you from somewhere.'

‘It could be from an ad campaign Cass did a couple of years back in New York.' Henry's hand found hers and squeezed gently.

‘So you're a
model
?' The light in Beau's eyes told her he was well acquainted with models.

‘No.'

‘No? Well, what is it you do, then, Cassie?'

She hesitated. ‘I run a catering business with a friend.'

Beau's eyes ran slowly up and down her, a wolfish smile on his lips. ‘That explains the pinny. I thought maybe it was just a . . . you know,
look
.'

‘They do bespoke picnics,' Henry said, elaborating for her. ‘Actually, you'd love it, mate. No plastic-wrapped sandwiches and grapes. It's proper old-fashioned, paper-wrapped food, the way picnics used to be, you know?'

‘Wicker hampers and Scotch eggs, you mean?' Beau asked, his eyes still on Cassie.

‘Bingo. In fact, thinking about it, Cassie's eco message is bang in line with yours.'

‘Well, then maybe we should bring Cassie's company in as sponsors to the trip, huh? You wouldn't feel partial to sparing a hundred thou for our good cause, would you?'

‘You jest, but she's also a partner in C et C in Paris,' Henry added proudly, boasting on her behalf.

Beau's eyes narrowed with real interest at that. ‘Are you, now? And how the devil did you wangle that? It's my favourite restaurant in Paris and even I can't get past the waiting list.' He patted her hand. ‘Although maybe I can now, right? It's all about who you know.'

‘I'm a sleeping partner,' Cassie muttered.

‘And what a sleeping partner I bet she is, mate,' Beau said with a laugh.

Henry instantly pointed at him warningly, but he was grinning, and Beau put his hands in the air. ‘Just joking. No offence intended.'

Cassie didn't reply. She was quite sure offence had been intended, but a small, noisy group of men were walking towards them.

‘What's that, Cooper?' one of them called over loudly, even though they were clearly within earshot. ‘You? Not intending offence? I don't bloody believe it!'

‘Good of you to get the drinks in, mate,' another one said, slapping him heartily on the shoulder, his eyes, along with the others', coming to rest on Cassie and Henry.

One of them recognized Henry. ‘All right, mate? Long time.' He held a hand aloft.

‘It has been,' Henry grinned, gripping his hand back like they were going to arm-wrestle. ‘Fin, this is—'

‘Cassie,' one of them said. The voice was American. Male. And stunned.