The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp. Sarra Manning
looking at her as if maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t an irredeemable little chav.
‘Now you really must meet George,’ Amelia said urgently as if engineering an introduction between Becky and George was the only excuse she had for going to talk to him.
It was hot in the bar. The tealights had all but melted, the foliage had wilted and Amelia was ruddy-faced as she edged herself and Becky through the open doors that led out on to the roof terrace.
‘I’m pretty sure that I saw him slip out here when we were talking to the girls,’ she murmured as her eyes darted around the terrace, lit by paper lanterns and yet hundreds more tealights. Mrs Sedley had obviously sent a lackey to the nearest IKEA to buy out their entire stock. ‘Maybe he’s gone downstairs.’
‘Maybe George should chase you and not the other way round,’ Becky suggested because desperation was never a good look, but Amelia had her wrist in a surprisingly firm grip as she pulled Becky along.
There was a champagne bar in one corner and an oyster station in the other though Becky couldn’t think of anything more vile than sliding slimy, snotty oyster guts down her throat. Waiters circulated with canapés – an amusing affectation of tiny hamburgers, miniature newspaper cones of fish and chips, and hot dogs that could be eaten in one bite.
‘You haven’t eaten a thing all evening,’ Becky reminded Amelia, who was still gazing over people’s heads to catch a glimpse of the lesser-spotted George Wylie. ‘And you’ve already had two glasses of champagne.’
‘I’m really not hungry and I put so much weight on in the house,’ Amelia protested. She had let Becky, against her better judgement, persuade her into the black bodycon dress she’d worn for her Big Brother exit, its seams straining against all the flesh which didn’t want to be contained.
‘What rubbish! You look stunning,’ Becky insisted as she beckoned a canapé-bearing server over with an imperious finger. ‘I wish I had some curves. It doesn’t matter how much I eat, I can’t seem to put any weight on. Can you even imagine what that’s like?’
Amelia shook her head sadly. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘Apart from these beasts.’ Becky looked down at her breasts with some satisfaction, their upper curves just visible against the black silk of her borrowed frock. ‘Anyway, your parents will be cross if you get drunk on an empty stomach, so, here, have a burger!’
In one deft move, she plucked a mini burger off the tray that appeared in front of them and popped it into Amelia’s mouth, which had opened to say that she really, really didn’t want a burger. It was a little too big to be eaten in one bite and Amelia could feel her cheeks puff out as she frantically chewed and, of course, it was at that moment that George arrived at her side.
Almost as if Becky had planned the whole thing.
‘Emmy,’ he said coolly. Amelia felt a slight brush of his lips against her cheek, could feel the heat of his lean, tall body against hers, smell the faint hint of limes from his aftershave, but, still masticating furiously, she could take no pleasure from George’s attention.
It was left to Jos, bringing up the rear, to make the introductions.
‘George, this is Emmy’s friend – lovely girl, staying with us – lucky us!’ he stuttered, his face turning as red as his sister’s.
‘Does this lovely girl have a name?’ George said, his coolness turning chilly, because he knew exactly who Becky was from all the times when he absolutely did not watch Big Brother while he was waiting for News at Ten to start.
Amelia swallowed the last morsel of dead cow and bread, almost choking in her haste to be done with it and then, in an act of great daring, placed her hand on George’s arm. Her hand was as hot as her face, and as it rested there uncertainly on the white cotton of his Huntsman of Savile Row bespoke shirt, his left eyebrow quirked almost imperceptibly. Unless you were watching him as intently as Becky was.
‘George, this is Becky. I do hope you two are going to be friends. And Becky, this is George.’
Their eyes met, green clashing with black. ‘Darling Emmy has told me so much about you,’ Becky said sweetly, pulling her hand back as soon as she could: there was something quite reptilian about George’s touch, the cool disregard on his face, as if he didn’t like being in such close proximity to the lower orders.
‘I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you,’ George said flatly.
There was something about her that he didn’t trust; a knowing look in her eyes before she cast them down, a pretty smile that was a millimetre away from a smirk. It was as if the fox had disguised himself as a chicken to trick his way into the henhouse. She was clearly going to be a bad influence on his Emmy if she wasn’t quickly despatched back to whatever council estate she’d come from.
‘Oh, there isn’t much to tell,’ Becky said and then in one graceful movement, George was presented with the sleek line of her spine, her skin milk-bottle white against the black of her dress, as she curved herself into the considerable bulk of Jos Sedley. ‘Is there, Jos?’
Jos’s face lit up as though all his Christmases and birthdays, and even Easter and the day every month when his trust fund was paid into his Drummonds bank account, had come at once.
‘No, there isn’t,’ he agreed. ‘No, I mean, there is! I’m sure you could tell me lots of things.’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t,’ Becky said as she snuggled closer to Jos as if the temperature on the terrace on a balmy August night wasn’t positively roasting. ‘I haven’t done anything, been anywhere. Not like you!’
‘It’s so lovely to see you, George,’ Amelia said a little desperately, because he had eyes only for Becky, as she quizzed Jos about bench pressing, though surely Becky had already asked him all about that when they’d sat side by side on the loveseat back in the Sedleys’ drawing room. ‘It feels like ages since we were in the same room.’
George turned to her. ‘Though we’re not actually in the same room now. We’re on a terrace, looking up at the stars.’
Becky was forgotten. When George smiled at her like that, so that even his coal-dark eyes warmed, it was hard for Amelia to remember her own name.
‘Mummy had planned to do a marquee in the back garden.’ She giggled. ‘But then she realised that all the marquees were too big and would play havoc with her herbaceous borders. She was very cross about it.’
‘And I’m very cross with you,’ George said, though he still had that lovely smile, which completely transformed his face. He was still handsome, but now he looked kind and caring too, even as he pretended to cuff Amelia’s chin. ‘That awful show, Emmy. And that even more awful personal trainer who you let paw you.’
‘He hardly pawed me!’ Amelia protested. The turn the conversation had taken was thrilling: George was jealous! ‘Gav …’
‘Gav!’ George all but moaned the name as if it caused him great pain. ‘Emmy, you cried over some cretin called Gav.’
‘So, you watched the show, then?’ Amelia asked, her every nerve alight at this paltry show of attention. If it were possible to die from being thrilled, then they’d have to carry her home in a coffin.
‘Never!’ George smiled loftily. ‘Though I might have caught a few seconds every now and again. Enough to know that some horrible oik called Gav made you cry. I don’t believe he was in the Marines either. Dobbin said he’s going to check and see if he can be court-martialled.’
‘Oh, is Dobbin here?’ Amelia looked around for George’s best friend, who’d gone straight from Oxford into Her Majesty’s Royal Regiment and had already been promoted to captain. He was an absolute darling. Not a patch on her absolute absolute darling George, but still.
‘No, he’s at some dreary regimental dinner. You’ll see him soon enough,’ George