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‘Sorry madam,’ said Carlo, ‘I’ll bring you one straight away.’
The music was now reaching a crescendo and Karin Cavendish had risen from her chair to take a modest bow in the spotlight.
What happened next, Erin could see unfolding as if in slow motion. Carlo was making his way back through the sea of tables, his outstretched arm carrying a tray balanced with a flute of kir and a tall coffee, when a man pulled out his chair to stand just as Carlo was walking past. For a second Erin thought that Carlo might be able to sidestep the man, but he was concentrating so hard on keeping the hot coffee from falling that the glass of kir tipped over, falling in an arc onto the next table. Erin heard an enraged cry. An elegant blonde now had kir royale all the way down the front of her white dress, like some vast unsightly birthmark. She cursed and Erin immediately recognized the word – a Russian obscenity – and grimaced. It was Karin’s precious table of high-spending Russian wives. Karin hadn’t missed the commotion; she leapt from her chair and was racing over. Erin got there at the same time. The blonde was now speaking in a fast stream of angry Russian. Erin could understand every word, but it didn’t take a Russian degree to tell what was happening as she snatched up her jewel-encrusted clutch bag. She was about to leave and take all her friends with her. Karin put a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder, but she was clearly in no mood to be pacified by somebody she could not communicate with.
‘Let me speak to her,’ Erin whispered to Karin.
‘What?’ snapped Karin, glaring at her. ‘Speak to her? What do you mean …’
Karin tailed off in surprise as Erin started speaking in fluent Russian.
‘It would be such a shame if you have to leave now,’ she said quietly in the Russian’s ear. ‘You are the most important woman here; without you we really don’t have a party.’
The woman looked bemused, then pleased to hear one of the organizers speaking to her in her mother tongue.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’ coaxed Erin. ‘We have another outfit backstage and you will look fabulous. Look, nobody has seen what’s happened. Everybody is watching the show.’
She led the blonde, who had now introduced herself as Irina Engelov, backstage, leaving Karin looking completely dumbfounded.
Shit, shit shit, thought Erin, desperately looking round at the racks of bikinis. Of course there were no spare outfits – it was a bloody swimwear show! She could hardly send Irina back out in a hot pink swimsuit. She spotted Madeline talking to a group of models.
‘Quick, Maddie, you’ve got to take off your dress,’ said Erin urgently.
‘What?’ said Madeline. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment, Erin. The show’s still on.’
‘Do as I say and I’ll explain later,’ pleaded Erin, handing Madeline a towelling robe.
Madeline looked at Erin, and, seeing the desperation in her eyes, quickly nodded.
‘Okay, but I’d better bloody see it again,’ she grumbled, wriggling out of the blue dress. ‘It’s Lanvin, you know.’
‘Maddie, you’ve just saved the day,’ said Erin, grabbing the dress.
She squirted it with some perfume she found on a dressing table and slipped it onto a coat hanger, then sprinted around to where Irina was waiting.
‘Size eight, this season, you’ll look amazing!’ said Erin in Russian, breathing a sigh of relief as Irina pulled on the dress. Irina looked down at herself, simply nodded and walked back to her table as if nothing had happened.
Erin grabbed a glass of champagne and drank it in one.
Molly had gate-crashing down to a fine art. She instructed their taxi driver to drop her and Summer behind a long row of Bentleys and Aston Martins a hundred metres away from the entrance of Strawberry Hill House, then let the car vanish into the cold night before they began to walk down the drive. Their breath made white clouds in the dark air, and Molly’s exposed skin prickled in goosebumps, but she had learned years ago to dispense with a coat for a night on the tiles; acres of visible flesh for popping paparazzi were worth far more than keeping warm. She glanced at Summer who looked like some sexed-up Little Red Riding Hood in a white woollen cape floating over a long, deep burgundy dress, her creamy round breasts spilling over its corset. For so many years, Summer had seemed like baggage. Having a daughter aged her, so from a young age Molly had urged her daughter to call her by her name rather than ‘mother’ so that people wouldn’t suspect she was her child. But ever since Summer had blossomed into such a gorgeous young woman, she had become a definite asset. She could take her daughter to any party in town and men would be buzzing around them like wasps at a picnic. But Summer was more than bait to attract the big fish. Since Japan, she had a new confidence, a new glow that could potentially catch her a really big prize, maybe even a prince – and if she did, that would open doors for Molly. Because where there’s a prince, there’s gotta be a king, she thought with a sly smile.
‘We do have tickets, don’t we?’ asked Summer, feeling nervous as she saw the two burly bouncers at the door.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ smiled Molly, adjusting her dress to show a little more cleavage. Not having a ticket had never presented a problem to Molly in twenty-five years of partying. A confident swagger and a generous flash of skin counted far more than any bit of embossed card.
‘Time to come back inside,’ smiled Molly to the older guard, stroking his lapel as if it was made out of the softest silk. ‘I just needed to step outside for a moment.’
And they were in, gliding across the threshold without so much as a grunt. Molly still frowned, however. She had been expecting to be met by a swell of people milling around the communal areas, but there was quiet all around the entrance hall, just a few black-tied waiters clearing glasses in the flickering candlelight.
‘Mum, I think people are still eating,’ hissed Summer. ‘What do we do now?’
A little annoyed at having misjudged the time that dinner was to finish, Molly grabbed her daughter’s hand and pulled her towards the large French double doors that led to the main hall.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘we’ll slip in at the back and find a seat.’ Summer stood hovering at the door, cursing her mother for getting her into yet another embarrassing situation. She knew everyone at the dinner tables would be with their friends and that interlopers would be spotted immediately.
‘Come on, I think the auction is about to begin,’ hissed Molly, scanning the tables for empty spaces. They crept to the back of the room until they found two seats. Table eighty-three. The eight other faces at the table turned to look at them with quizzical expressions. Molly turned to the gentleman on her right. He was portly, around sixty with a ruddy complexion and a sweep of white hair pulled over like a 1940s comedian.
‘I hope you don’t m
