Vanity. Lucy Lord
law firm, came on to her one night they were both working late, she’d felt properly alive again for the first time in years. They’d actually fucked on his desk. The age gap suited them both – it made Philip feel virile and Alison desired – something Andy hadn’t managed at all in the last few years of their relationship, though he’d done his best to pretend. And the Eaton Square house was the pinnacle of her grandiose domestic aspirations.
She hadn’t reckoned with the bloody teenagers though.
‘LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER!’ Now they were stamping, banging on the floor above, to the extent she was worried the ceiling might fall in. Something sounded like gunshot. Little sods. She took a deep breath and ventured upstairs, to the room directly above her study – their playroom. For God’s sake, at their age.
Toby was shooting an air rifle out of the window, trying to kill pigeons, while Imogen and one of her horrible little friends bounced around the room on state-of-the-art pogo sticks. They were all so bloody spoilt that neither of her parents had the nerve to tell Imogen that cropped leggings weren’t the best option for her chunky little legs.
‘Children.’ Alison tried to smile.
Toby turned around, pointing the air rifle right at her.
‘Children,’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘Yes, what is it, wicked step-mummy?’
Both girls cracked up. Alison flinched away from the gun and tried to keep her temper.
‘Could you just keep the noise down a bit, please? I’m trying to work …’
‘Trying?’ brayed Imogen, tossing her dyed-yellow hair. ‘Well, you probably need to try a bit harder then, don’t you?’
‘Hahahaha! Oh, Imo, you’re so funny!’ spluttered her equally obnoxious (though not so blubbery) friend.
Never the most patient of women at the best of times, Alison snapped, ‘Just shut up, you little bastards …’
‘Really, Alison,’ came a mild voice from behind her. ‘I’m sure it’s not necessary to speak to my children like that.’
‘Dadddddeeeee!’ shouted Imogen, running as fast as her fat little legs would carry her. She launched herself into her father’s arms, as though she were 4, not 14.
‘Darling!’ Philip swung her up and round in the air. Alison was amazed he didn’t rupture himself. He put Imogen down and saluted his son, who had hidden the air rifle behind his bespoke pool table.
‘All shipshape, captain?’
‘All shipshape, sir.’ Toby saluted back, grinning.
‘Righty-ho. Well, as it’s half-term, who’s up for Pizza Express?’
‘Oh, Daddy, you’re the best!’ Imogen snuggled up to him.
‘I was going to cook coq au vin,’ started Alison, even though she hated cooking.
‘Darling, I thought I’d give you a break from the kitchen. It’s not exactly your forte, is it?’ Philip winked at Imogen, who giggled.
As Alison walked wearily downstairs after them all, Toby turned round and gave her the finger, glee written all over his smug, spotty little face.
Chapter 5
‘Owwww!’ screamed Poppy as Fabrice pulled the first strip of wax from her nose. She scowled at him in the mirror. ‘Surely this isn’t necessary? Of all the things I’ve ever been accused of, having a hairy nose isn’t one of them.’
‘Welcome to Manhattan grooming, Blondie.’
As the pain ebbed away, Poppy tried to smile, aware that it was important to keep the people behind the scenes on your side in this business. And it wasn’t actually Fabrice’s fault – he was only doing his job, after all.
‘Sorry – just haven’t got used to it yet. And these ridiculously early starts. How on earth do you do it?’ This week they were shooting the coolest places for power breakfasts and weekend brunches, a deliciously New York concept. That said, it was six a.m., Poppy had already been up for an hour and she still had Hair and Make-up to go. She was looking forward to the week they did cocktail bars.
Poppy’s bosses had taken a huge punt in giving her, a complete unknown, such an enormous slice of airtime. Half an hour, Monday to Thursday nights at ten p.m., for twelve weeks. The later time meant that Poppy could be a little more risqué and attract younger, cooler viewers. Every week there was a different theme on Poppy Takes Manhattan. This week, breakfasts and brunches; last week, vintage clothes stores; the week before, hotels with roof terraces. To stay bang on trend, the programmes were broadcast the week after they’d been shot (so this week they were showing the vintage clothes store episodes, Poppy’s favourites so far).
Already the show was gathering a loyal following. Poppy was proving to be a natural in front of the camera, chatty and conspiratorial without ever patronizing the viewer. She’d wondered how Americans would take to an English girl telling them what was cool on their territory, so she played up the fact that she was an outsider, acting delighted and awestruck with every new gem she discovered (most of the time she didn’t have to act much). It worked. The natives lapped it up. The show was due to be broadcast in the UK later in the year, and Poppy hoped she’d go down equally well with British audiences.
‘Haven’t been to bed yet.’ Fabrice tapped the side of his own ink-black, perfectly waxed nose. He probably should have paid a little more attention to his nostrils though, both of which were ever so slightly crusty.
‘Ooooh – where’ve you been?’ Poppy was always eager to hear about others’ debauchery, but now she could actually indulge in her passion for gossip in the name of research. This job really, really couldn’t be better. She knew how lucky she was and was working like a trouper to show her gratitude.
‘Where haven’t I been?’ Fabrice winked, and Poppy giggled at him in the mirror. She did like the way she looked, even with a smarting red nose.
‘Oh, my screaming Andy Warhols, you are just sooooo cute. If I had even an atomo of hetero hormones, I would be up your tiny tight pussy faster than HIV in a seventies ’Frisco sauna!’
‘Wow, thanks … I think. So, Fab, take me through your night. I want to hear it all – bars, restaurants, clubs, the lot!’
By the time Fabrice had hilariously and indiscreetly told all, Poppy felt they might be friends for life. The final wax strip barely stung.
Make-up passed without a hitch – New Yorkers didn’t want to look like footballers’ wives, after all – and she emerged looking like an even better version of herself (if that were possible). But ensconced in Hair, Poppy had a battle on her hands.
‘Um … I’m sure you know your job far better than I do …’ She smiled winningly at the latest addition to her hairdressing team.
‘I do.’ Jojo, a terrifyingly well-groomed middle-aged redhead, didn’t smile back.
‘It’s just that, if I’m meant to be the cool Anglo chick around town, I wouldn’t be all blow-dried to within an inch of my life like this. I mean, my hair’s always been a bit messy …’
‘U-huh.’ Only New Yorkers could imbue so few syllables with such disdain. Jojo pulled a golden lock even harder around the round brush. Poppy tried to stay friendly.
‘… and I think that’s kind of what they wanted – you know, for me to keep my – erm – unkempt London essence?’
‘If you think I am letting you out in front of those cameras looking how you looked before, then you are mistaken, Brit chick,’ said Jojo grimly. ‘It’s my reputation on the line here.’
Poppy smiled back sweetly, knowing she’d mess up the Stepford blow-dry as soon as she was out of the Nazi bitch’s hands.