‘Told you,’ whispers Lauren, as she turns around and smiles at Tara.
‘Kate, you never mentioned you were mates with Lauren,’ Tara says. ‘Oh my god, come through and meet everyone. My pal Josie’s gonna have a fit when she sees you.’
And with that, Lauren is ushered away, and I can relax a little, though, from the looks of things I am completely underdressed. Tara is wearing a bloody evening gown and here I am in leather trousers and a nice top. Even Lauren’s wearing a plain black satin slip dress (albeit with cherry Doc Marten boots); but she is skinny with rose-gold hair. She could wear a prison jumpsuit and still look good.
I grab a glass of fizz from a tiny woman with a tray as I enter the living room. My god, this place is like the Tardis. The ceilings must be at least sixteen feet high. The décor’s a little different from the photos I’ve seen previously. The white sofas have been replaced by dark brown and the glass coffee table is gone, a chestnut apothecary-style table in its place. I assume this is all far more child friendly, but I actually prefer it. It has personality, rather than an obvious price tag. There is a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a white piano in the corner of the room, but it is Chelsea, after all.
There must be around thirty people here already and not many I recognise. I’m glad that Harriet isn’t here, as she’d have expected me to give herQuantico-level behaviour profiling on each and every one of them, like I know anything about their lives. To be honest, I imagined walking into a room full of people, all dressed in whatever designer is on trend right now and TikTokking their every move. I’m drawn towards a womanin her early fifties wearing a black evening dress and amazing red sparkly glasses. Once she stops talking on her phone, I’m totally going to make friends with her.
There’s an open glass door to the right of me, which leads to the kitchen and I casually wander in to see if the marble island is as beautiful as it is in the photos. I spend very little time in the kitchen, so I’m not sure where my obsession with these islands comes from. Perhaps if I had one, I’d be obsessing over something else, like peekaboo pantries or flagstone floor tiles and. . .
She has flagstone floor tiles. Of course she does.
The island is just as striking as I thought it would be, with three silver breakfast-bar stools on one side facing a glass electric hob on the other.
‘Can I help you with anything?’
My eyes dart towards the voice and I wince. There are at least six people in the kitchen, but they’re not guests. They’re catering staff and have been watching me skulk around the island for the past couple of minutes. God, I think I audiblyoohedat one point.
‘Oh, no. Thanks,’ I reply and smile politely as I back out of the room, trying not to get in their way. The last time Ed and I threw a party (guest list of twelve), there were always people hanging out in the kitchen, despite its size. People congregate in kitchens– it’s human nature; but I guess when you’ve hired waiting staff, there’s no need for guests to be in there.
Back in the living room, I see Lauren in a corner of the room, chatting to Tara and a few others. She’s obviously far more comfortable in this setting than I am but that doesn’t surprise me. Lauren just adapts to her surroundings, like a chameleon. Even as a teenager she would just show up and fit right in, regardless of where we were. She has never once questioned who she is and it shows, whereas my self-esteem is still a work in progress. I love that for her, and I hate it for me.
I walk over to a woman in gold, standing by the fireplace and introduce myself.
‘Ah, the lawyer!’ she says, air-kissing me. ‘Jade Hart. Tara’s been telling me all about you!’
For someone who doesn’t want their divorce made public, Tara’s certainly not keeping it quiet.
‘All good, I hope,’ I reply, like a big walking cliché. ‘So how do you know Tara?’
‘Our husbands play for the same team,’ she replies, looking at me like I’ve just stepped off an alien spacecraft. ‘Noel Hart. . . over there by the window. . . he’s my husband.’
As I look over, my brain suddenly sparks into action. Noel Hart. I know him. Bad hair plugs. Rumours of infidelity with the nanny. Is his face always that red?
‘Of course!’ I reply. ‘So sorry, Jade. You just look a little different from your photos. Have you changed your hair colour?’
‘I have,’ she replies. ‘Darkened my blonde for winter.’
Oh, thank god– I was just pulling ideas out of my arse.
‘That’ll be it,’ I say. ‘It makes you look younger. Brings out your eyes.’
‘Really? I wasn’t sure about it. Thought it was maybe a little too dark?’
The smile radiating from Jade’s face tells me that I’ve successfully managed to avoid looking like a moron, and also that I know more about celebrity culture than I thought. Go, me!
‘Have you met my friend, Lauren?’ I ask, gesturing towards the back of the room. Lauren’s currently knocking back what looks like vodka jelly.
She shakes her head. ‘We just arrived. I’m only standing here to heat up. I might as well be naked for all the warmth this dress provides.’
I’m not surprised. She’s wearing a gold leopard print mini dress and has zero body fat. I, on the other hand, am about to startsweating profusely if I don’t get away from this fire.
‘Well, Lauren does hair,’ I continue. ‘She’s amazing. Owns a salon in Kensington with that make-up artist from YouTube– blue hair. . . gosh, what’s his name?’
‘Jamie King? Wait– your friend is Lauren Alexander?’
‘Best friend actually,’ I flex. God, I hate myself.
