Summer at Tiffany's Page 12

  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.

  Even before she saw him, she knew who it was and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled as she remembered the glimpse she’d caught of the face in the taxi in New York, composites of a knowing smile, sure hands, designer stubble and a gently mocking mouth flashing before her eyes.

  She looked at Henry quickly, reflexively, but his eyes were already narrowed in concentration, and she felt her own pulse throb in her neck as she watched Henry try to place this man whom he had only ever seen on
ce, via a Skype screen, when he’d been undressing her, the woman who was now his fiancée.

  ‘Luke,’ Cassie managed, getting in first and determined to set a civilized tone. She was more than a little worried about what Henry might do when the penny dropped. The last time she’d spoken with Luke, things had descended into a fracas and he’d been laid out by her beloved friend Claude. ‘It’s nice to see you.’

  If he was amused or offended by her use of the word ‘nice’, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed nothing but happily surprised to see her, as though he recalled a different ending to their relationship than her. ‘What a coincidence seeing you here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How have you been?’

  She nodded, almost wincing at the farce – small talk and platitudes glossing over his betrayal – her face impassive though the humiliation would remain forever fresh from finding the private snapshots he’d taken of her, black-and-white nudes, blown up and exhibited in the name of art at his latest photography exhibition during Paris Fashion Week.

  ‘So you know each other?’ Beau asked, with studied interest.

  ‘Yeah. Cassie and I, uh . . .’ Luke’s eyes kept well away from Henry’s, as did Cassie’s. ‘We knew each other in New York. She lived there for a while, a couple of years back.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Beau smiled, clearly smelling a rat.

  ‘Where are you living now?’ Luke asked her.

  ‘Here. Well, London.’ Couldn’t he tell by looking at her? She’d been butter-blonde and black-clad in New York, a bobbed brunette in Paris. Surely her dark roots, almost nude face and Cath Kidston plimmies screamed, ‘London’? Then again . . . Her hands fiddled with the cotton of her ruffled apron, itself worn over the flimsy vintage dress. He must be wondering what on earth she was doing dressed as a 1940s waitress.

  ‘Right.’

  There was a short pause as they searched for safe ground in front of the small crowd. It wasn’t conversation that had been their forte.

  ‘And have you . . . seen Kelly or Bas recently?’ he managed.

  ‘Bas was here this week, actually; he popped over after prepping for the couture shows in Paris.’

  ‘Right, right, yes, of course. It’s nearly that time of year again.’

  ‘And you? Are you busy?’ she asked back politely. As US Vogue’s former star photographer, he was on a plane more often than in his apartment.

  ‘You know how it is. Same old. Five different countries in a week.’

  ‘And five different women in a week too, right, Luke?’ Beau joked. Something in the way he kept his eyes on Cassie as he said it told her he was testing the waters. Luke shot him a withering look, but didn’t reply. Henry, beside Cassie, was ominously still.

  ‘So, how do you two know each other?’ Henry asked Beau.

  Beau looked across at Luke. ‘Us? Oh, we’ve been kicking around in the same circles for years now, haven’t we? Partners in crime. I scarcely remember how we met in the first instance.’ He threw his arm round Luke’s shoulder. ‘This guy’s an incredible photographer. I mean really amazing. Have you seen any of his stuff?’

  Henry paused. He had, of course, seen the ad campaign of Cassie that Luke had shot. ‘Not really.’

  ‘You should try to. I’ve got several of his pieces – one in my bedroom at home, in fact. I just can’t take my eyes off it . . .’ His eyes were on Cassie again, a dark shadow falling over the words, and she had to suppress a shiver.

  ‘But hey, if you and Cassie are old mates, you must have known these guys are engaged, right?’ Beau asked, turning more towards Luke.

  Luke’s gaze darted straight back to Cassie. ‘No. I didn’t.’ Another pause, and then he thrust out his hand to Henry. ‘Well, congratulations. That’s great news. You make a great couple. That’s really great.’ So great, apparently.

  ‘A reason to celebrate, methinks!’ Beau shouted, raising an arm and hailing an order for more glasses.

  ‘Thanks, but we need to get back to work,’ Henry said, a new stiffness in his voice.

  Beau, who was clearly automatically going to cajole Henry to stay on, hesitated. Something in his old friend’s voice seemed to warn him otherwise. ‘Sure, sure. Well, listen, it’s been so great running into you like this. Stay in touch, yeah? I’ll look you up when we get back. Let’s get the girls together and go out for dinner. A foursome should be fun.’

  Henry laughed, but the sound was hollow. Beau looked back at Cassie. ‘You’re a great girl, Cass. I can see why my mates are so crazy about you.’

  Mates? But before Cassie could correct him, he had stepped towards her and enveloped her in a bear hug, his lips against her ear as he kissed her cheek. ‘I knew I recognized you,’ he whispered. ‘Like I said, Luke’s damned good with a camera.’

  Cassie froze as she realized what he was saying, but he just winked and turned away, leading the group towards a roped-off area that had white leather bench seating and black-suited security guards.

  She looked up at Henry, not even sure where to start, but she took one look at his face and knew better than to even try. Together, they walked back to the Eat ’n’ Mess bell tent in stony silence.

  Chapter Ten

  Kelly’s long hair, which Gem so admired, swung out of range of the computer screen, falling back perfectly into place as Cassie drained her vodka and tonic.

  ‘It’s just a rocky patch,’ Kelly said soothingly, sipping her own vodka calmly as Cassie still reeled from her latest revelations. What a month it had been since their last virtual catch-up – Archie’s heart attack, Luke’s surprise appearance at the polo. Neither she nor Henry had mentioned him once since that day last week, but she sensed the invisible cord that tethered them to each other was vibrating slightly, like a telephone wire as a bird took flight, and it seemed to her that a new mannered tension had slipped into their behaviour as once-lingering kisses on mouths became hurried pecks on the cheek instead. They’d barely seen each other either, which hadn’t helped. Henry was spending almost every day by Archie’s bedside, and Cassie was in the throes of coming up with a new summer dessert menu for C et C, which entailed hours upon hours in the kitchen, black smoke wafting from the windows, as though a new pope still hadn’t been agreed upon. And all the while, in the background, the thorny issue of making this month’s rent was becoming harder to ignore.

  ‘What if it’s not just a rocky patch, though? We seem to be bickering all the time at the moment – fine one minute, at each other’s throats the next,’ Cassie hiccuped, already quite drunk. She and Kelly always got drunk together on this, their designated monthly Skype lock-in – that was the rule; it was how they stayed connected, the boys making themselves scarce so that the girls could talk freely and with abandon. Usually Henry played fives with Arch before they went to the pub, but tonight he was ‘doing the late shift’ and visiting him on the ward so that Suzy could put Velvet to bed on time. ‘What if—’

  ‘Stop right there, lady. A rocky patch is a good thing. You’re not a real couple until you’ve actually survived something together. Hell, it’s easy to be lovey-dovey in the good times. It’s when the shit hits the fan that you know whether you’re meant to be together or not.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Has it crossed your mind at any point to walk away?’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Cassie laughed. The very idea was nonsensical.

  ‘Exactly. My point is proved. You’re keepers. Everything’s good. This is just a bump in the road.’

  ‘But there’s been a lot of those recently – that’s my point.’

  ‘Hey, who ever said the road had to be smooth?’ A redlipsticked smile grew across Kelly’s mouth. ‘God, Luke must have looked like he wanted to dive under the horses, though, didn’t he?’

  ‘He didn’t look very comfortable. He was exceedingly . . . polite.’

  ‘No doubt he was worried Henry was going to lamp him,’ Kelly chuckled. ‘Good. It serves him right after what he did to you.’

  Cassie sighed and l
ooked down into her empty glass. She reached out of shot for the bottle and poured herself another drink, the tonic splashing on top messily. ‘Cheers,’ she said, her voice ever so slightly slurred as she held up the glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ Kelly said, matching the movement by holding up her glass and taking a deep swig. Too deep.

  Cassie frowned as she drank hers. ‘Crikey, you’ve got a thirst on.’

  ‘Oh. Do I?’

  ‘Is that really vodka in there?’

  ‘Of course. What else would it be?’ she laughed.

  Cassie stared back at her suspiciously. Was it her imagination or had Kelly’s laugh just then sounded forced? And she did seem unusually . . . blank tonight, her voice flat. ‘Prove it. Down it in one.’

  Kelly arched one eyebrow but did as she was instructed, smacking her lips together triumphantly at the end.

  ‘I knew it!’ Cassie exclaimed, peering closer at the screen. ‘It’s water.’

  ‘It isn’t!’ Kelly protested with a laugh. ‘It’s vodka tonic. I always drink this. You know I do.’

  ‘Yeah, and I also know there is no way you would have downed that if it had been vodka. You always pull a little face even after the smallest sip.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘You so do. Look.’ Cassie pulled an awkward, slightly strangled look that made Kelly gasp in horror.

  ‘I do not!’

  Cassie nodded, laughing. ‘That’s your vodka face.’ She paused. ‘So I don’t even want to know about your sex face,’ she spluttered, making herself laugh, before pulling another comical expression that was a cross-eyed, jaw-stretched gurn.

  Kelly gave a small shriek. ‘Oh yeah? Well, I bet yours is like this,’ she cried, distorting her own face to Quasimodoesque proportions.

  Cassie threw herself back on the sofa, her hands over her stomach as she laughed. She had definitely drunk too much, too fast tonight, but frankly, enough had happened in the last fortnight to drive a nun to drink. She hated that Arch was still in hospital, that Henry was unemployed and restless, that Beau Cooper had a picture of her, naked, in his bedroom, that Luke had looked good when she’d looked so ridiculous in her pinny . . . She deserved this night off.