Handbags and Gladrags Page 7

  I did. She put her head in her hands and shook it from side to side.

  ‘We all drank a lot last night,’ I said, feeling like a monstrous hypocrite, because I knew I had no intention of sharing my own extra-marital misdemeanour with her. For a split second I considered making her feel better by admitting that I had ‘kissed’ Miles as well, but some kind of big-picture inner cunning made me stop.

  ‘That party was amazing,’ I said. ‘We were all really overexcited. It didn’t mean anything. It was just high spirits.’

  ‘It wasn’t, though, Em,’ she said. ‘I wanted to shag him.’

  ‘You wanted to, but you didn’t,’ I said. ‘Resisting temptation like that just shows how very much you love Andy.’

  Unlike me, I thought.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said, looking a little bit happier.

  ‘I’ll tell you what. Have a shower, get dressed and meet me in the bar in thirty minutes and before we have to go off to Alberta Ferretti I’ll tell you a story about what Nelly got up to last night, which will take your mind right off your own misery.’

  She brightened visibly, which was such a relief. I hated to see her unhappy. I left her room, but before I quite closed the door I popped my head back in again.

  ‘Hey, Franster,’ I said. ‘Was he a good kisser?’

  She threw a pillow at me.

  I went back to my room for the first time since that morning. When I’d left there had been plenty of evidence of what had gone on the night before. Sheets, pillows and my clothes had been strewn all over the floor, all the towels in the bathroom had been used, that kind of thing. But the Principe’s immaculate housekeeping team had done their stuff and there was now no sign of the torrid time we’d spent in there. It was like the tide had swept in and washed away our footprints.

  I could leave it that way, I thought. Put it behind me as a silly mistake on a wild and crazy night, like Frannie was going to. That morning I had been sure I wanted to see him again, I’d thought I couldn’t live without having sex with him one more time. Now I wasn’t so sure. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, I still didn’t feel guilty, but I did think perhaps I should leave things as they were.

  I was lying on the bed pondering it all – and having palpitations every time a clear memory of the night before washed over me – when my mobile rang. It was Paul.

  ‘How are you, darling?’ he said, disgustingly brightly, considering what a late one we’d all had.

  ‘Tired, but happy,’ I said. ‘What a great night that was. Did you have a good time?’

  ‘I sure did. I had a great time dancing with you and I had a great time… well, you don’t like hearing those details, do you?’ He chuckled his filthiest chuckle.

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘But I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’

  ‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself too, my dear.’

  ‘I was,’ I said brightly. ‘I had a great time.’

  ‘Especially with that hunky Australian.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said in a voice that was very slightly squeaky. ‘I was dancing with everyone.’

  ‘Yes, but you were practically humping him on the dance floor.’

  ‘Oh, don’t exaggerate, I was just getting on down. I was practically humping you as well in that case.’

  ‘Ah, if only, sweetheart.’

  ‘Fuck off, Jacko. What are you up to anyway?’

  ‘I’m just hanging out here at The Grey and I don’t have anything to do later – well not until much later – and I thought we could have dinner after your last show.’

  I made one of those instant decisions. The sort that some deep dark part of your brain makes without involving you in the process.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to see some stupid advertising clients after Alberta Ferretti.’ It was a total lie. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s just drinks or the full dinner, so I’d better say no. Perhaps we can do something tomorrow?’

  ‘Perhaps we can,’ said Paul. ‘Speak soon.’

  He hung up. Did I imagine a slight coolness in his voice? Or was it paranoia brought on by guilt about lying to my dearest friend who I hadn’t seen properly for ages? Because the strange thing was, I felt a lot worse about lying to Paul than I did about lying to Ollie. And the next thing I did was get on the phone and have a long cosy chat to him, telling him Nelly’s amazing news, before going down to meet Frannie.

  I was beginning to feel like the woman with two brains.

  5

  It wasn’t a long drive out to the Alberta Ferretti venue and with Frannie feeling much happier – especially after I’d poured a couple of Bloody Marys down her and told her Nelly’s extraordinary tale – and with Bee and Alice still both in amazingly good spirits, we were quite the jolly little gang. It was at times like this that I realized how much I really liked Bee. She was unbelievably pushy and tough when it came to work, but she was also a great person, brilliant at her job, searingly bright and really funny.

  On top of that she really appreciated anyone with talent, who was prepared to work as hard as her. She showed her appreciation in all kinds of ways from regular job promotions and pay rises, to little presents and bottles of champagne, which would appear on your desk with a handwritten note. She certainly wasn’t a cold-hearted cow like Beaver. It was just tough being cooped up with your boss at such close quarters for so long.

  This turned out to be one of those occasions when she made it a little easier for us all. She turned round in her seat and gave the three of us a beaming smile – I was in the middle again, as a concession to Frannie’s fragile state.

  ‘Now girls,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a little something for each of you.’

  She handed each of us a small Prada carrier bag. We’d all bought at least four things in Prada already that week, but those little blue bags still had the same effect on us that a bulging Christmas stocking has on a five-year-old. It’s like an illness. Prada-osis.

  ‘Wow, Bee,’ I said, with all sincerity, as I opened the slim blue box within to find a sleek leather wallet-y thing. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I liked it. Alice and Frannie had the same thing.

  ‘They’re Prada Palm Pilot covers,’ said Bee. ‘Just a little thank you to say how much I appreciate the work you girls do for the magazine. I found them in the men’s store on Montenapoleone. I’ve never seen them anywhere else.’

  She turned back to the front and took the cigarette Luigi had lit for her, sighing with contentment at her shopping coup.

  ‘I haven’t got a Palm Pilot,’ Frannie whispered to me.

  ‘Keep sweeties in it,’ I whispered back. ‘And your tram tickets.’

  After that we just sat there in the limo in happy silence. Even Alice had her good points, I reflected, in my general state of golden glow. Nelly and I were always taking the piss out of her work, but she was actually incredibly creative and prepared to take risks with her styling, in a way that I wasn’t. Alice’s stuff didn’t always work, but when it did, it was amazing.

  I also reminded myself that she was fundamentally and deeply insecure, and had been single for an awfully long time. In fact she hadn’t had a proper boyfriend as long as anyone could remember. She just lurched from one disastrous short-lived affair to another and that really took its toll on a girl. I offered her a piece of my sugar-free gum. Fair’s fair.

  ‘Where shall we eat tonight, gang?’ said Bee, also accepting a stick of Orbit. ‘We’ve got a night off and I thought we should go somewhere nice. I’ve got the concierge to book Le Langhe and Bice and I thought you lot could decide.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Alice, with her usual commitment.

  ‘Can’t we go to Alla Collina Pistoiese?’ said Frannie. A totally unpretentious trattoria serving amazing Tuscan food, it was her favourite restaurant in the world.

  ‘Is that really what you want? Don’t you want to go somewhere more glamorous? What about you, Em?’ said Bee. ‘You’re the foodie.’


  Frannie snorted.

  ‘The foodie who never eats food,’ she muttered.

  I jabbed her with my elbow.

  ‘I felt nothing, darling,’ she said. ‘I’m nicely padded. If I did that to you my arm would come out the other side.’

  ‘Actually, Bee,’ I said, my mouth working on autopilot, chewing gum and talking all on its own, quite independent of my conscious thought. ‘I think I might go back to the hotel after this,’ I said smoothly. ‘Would that be all right? We haven’t got another free night this week and I’m knackered after the party last night. I’d like an early one.’

  ‘Do what you like,’ said Bee. ‘We’ll go to Le Langhe. Tom Ford eats there. I’d like to run into him.’

  As we sat in the Alberta Ferretti venue – an old garage – on the usual hard, backless benches, waiting as ever in the semi-dark, with people treading all over your handbag to get to their seats, I was keenly aware of two things. Nelly’s absence and Miles’s camera, trained on me as I sat there. I could just sense it out of the corner of my eye, but I had no intention of acknowledging it. Paul’s comments about our dancing had made me more wary, but not enough to stop a warm glow spreading through my trouser area.

  After the show, as I was shuffling along with the crush of people filing slowly through the courtyard to get out on to the street, I felt a hand gently cup my buttock. I looked round to see Miles smiling at me.

  ‘Going somewhere nice for dinner?’ he said, with one eyebrow raised. I knew exactly what he was really saying.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I thought I’d stay in tonight and have room service.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, pecking me innocently on the cheek, as if saying goodbye to a vague acquaintance. ‘Get a nice early night.’

  He squeezed my buttock again and then melted into the crowd. I couldn’t believe how easy it was.

  I’d been back at the hotel for about an hour and, after a long soak in my favourite Jo Malone tuberose bath oil, I was lying on the bed watching MTV. I was wearing a sheer chiffon Thirties tea dress I had taken to sporting over jeans and a jumper as a winsome winter look. Just at that moment, however, I was wearing it over nothing.

  There was a knock on the door and a voice called out: ‘Room service.’

  Unless the Principe had recently taken on some Australian waiting staff it was Miles. I ran to answer it – and I mean that literally, I ran. As I opened the door I felt my cheeks burning up; the very idea of him seemed to have some kind of visceral effect on me. And there was the reality, even better than I remembered. He pushed the door open with his foot – he was wearing great old biker boots – while pulling me into his arms. He lifted me up, like a bride, and carried me over to the bed.

  ‘Stay there and don’t move,’ he said as he put me down. Then he stood at the end of the bed looking down at me, as he unzipped his jacket – a really beaten-up old leather motocross effort, if you want to know – and threw it on the floor. He undid his shirt – classic blue Oxford cloth – button by button, and then he pulled his T-shirt – an ancient washed-out old thing – over his head. He was magnificent. Such broad brown shoulders, such a deep chest, such a great big hunk of a man. I swallowed hard.

  He paused for a moment, with his head on one side, looking me over from top to bottom, then he very slowly unbuckled the belt I remembered him doing up that morning. He was driving me crazy. I started to sit up, with every intention of grabbing him.

  ‘I said, don’t move,’ he whispered, smiling at me.

  My heart was pounding so hard I thought I was going to hyperventilate. Thoughts were rushing through my head. What was I doing allowing a virtual stranger into my hotel room? A half-naked virtual stranger. Was I nuts? What if Ollie rang? And how long was it going to take him to get the rest of his kit off? Just when I thought I would die if he didn’t jump on me in the next two seconds, he suddenly turned, sat down on the chair by the window and took his boots off.

  ‘Don’t want to get caught with my pants round my ankles and my boots still on,’ he said, grinning at me.

  I laughed, slightly hysterically, relieved to have the tension broken.

  ‘You know what?’ he said, a moment later. ‘I’ve been wearing these boots all day. Reckon they might need a rabies test. I think I’d better take a shower.’

  He threw his boots over into the far corner of the room and then he got up, pulling his jeans and boxer shorts down in one go. When he stood up again his hard-on was straining right up against his flat brown stomach. I almost gasped. He came over and grabbed my hand, pulling me off the bed.

  ‘And you can come in with me,’ he said.

  I’ve never been more glad of the Principe’s luxurious bathroom facilities. We spent a long time in that shower and while hot running water is not the ideal treatment for a fragile chiffon frock, I did not, to quote Miles, give a shit. When we finally went back into the bedroom, wrapped up in the thick white hotel bathrobes, I noticed the red message light on the phone was flashing. So was the one on my mobile. Miles saw them too. The noise of the shower must have drowned out the ringing.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said, as he took the phone off the hook. I shook my head and at the same time, I reached over and turned off my mobile.

  ‘Do you often ravage married women in their hotel rooms?’ I asked him. ‘You seem to know the score.’

  ‘Never done it before in my life,’ he said. ‘Can we get that room service you promised me now? I’m starving.’

  *

  We turned MTV on again while he ate an enormous burger and I had the salad garnish, carefully avoiding the raw onion. It was weirdly normal, which made it totally weird. I didn’t know this guy and here we were being all domestic. For the first time since I’d met Miles I felt a tiny pang of guilt.

  For reasons I couldn’t quite work out, it seemed OK to shag another man senseless, but cosying up with him in front of the telly seemed like a terrible betrayal of Ollie. Up until that point I had felt completely relaxed with Miles and I’d really enjoyed talking to him the night before – almost as much as I had enjoyed boffing him, in fact – but now I felt really awkward. I felt even worse when there was a knock on the door. It was Frannie.

  ‘Em,’ she shouted. ‘Are you there? Let me in – I can hear your telly. I’ve got something really funny to tell you. Em? Em?’

  Miles and I froze, gawping at each other, until we were sure she’d gone. Then he put his plate down, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and lay back on the pillows. He pulled me towards him and kissed my forehead.

  ‘That was a bit close,’ he said, smoothing my hair with his hand. ‘Are you OK?’

  I nodded, although I wasn’t.

  ‘I don’t want to make you feel bad,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to leave?’

  I did, but then I didn’t. I looked down at him. So handsome, in a wonderfully brutish way. And apparently sincere too.

  ‘Yes and no,’ I said. It was the truth.

  ‘You want me to leave, so you don’t feel like a sordid adulterer, but you want me to stay so we can carry on doing the filthy sordid things we’ve been doing, right?’

  I smiled at him. Bingo.

  ‘You’ve totally got it,’ I said.

  ‘No worries. I feel exactly the same. So I’m going to root you one more time – and root you good, so you won’t forget it – and then I’m going to leave you to get your beauty sleep.’

  He rolled over and gently lay on top of me, opening my legs with one knee, nuzzling my neck and ear gently, and then entering me suddenly in one smooth movement. All awkwardness instantly vanished as I felt myself start to rock slowly beneath him and my brain slipped into a blissful state of neutral.

  I have no idea how much time passed in this manner – and several other manners – but finally it reached a natural conclusion so that it seemed absolutely right that I should be, once more, lying on the bed, naked, watching Miles get dressed. After he put on his jacket he came and knelt next to me at t
he side of the bed. He took my hand and brought it up to his lips.

  ‘Emily,’ he said. ‘You’re amazing and gorgeous and I’d love to see you again, but you’re a married woman and I’m a free agent, so it’s up to you. As I said, I don’t want to make you feel bad, but if you want me to I’m always available to make you feel good, if you know what I mean?’

  I did. I nodded. He ran his lips over my fingers a few times, then he stood up and fished a business card out of the back pocket of his jeans and put it on the bedside table. He walked over to the door and, as he opened it, he looked back at me.

  ‘You’ve got my mobile number and my email there,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to give me yours. I won’t ever try to contact you, but if you want to see me, just get in touch. Are you doing Paris?’

  I nodded. He just raised his eyebrows and opened his hands, as if to say, ‘It’s up to you.’ And then he left.

  I lay there, gazing up at the ceiling, still feeling a distinct throb between my legs. It was up to me.

  The rest of that Milan season passed in a state of unreality. I carried on doing my job as usual, doing my yoga, doing my hair, doing my stomach crunches and getting dressed up every morning like some kind of show pony, just to spend days riding around in the car and sitting waiting in darkened spaces. The only times I got to parade the outfits I spent so much time, money and effort assembling was during the brief walks in and out of the show venues, the occasional visits to the shops and at the interminable appointments, lunches and dinners with fashion PRs. It was nuts really, but that was the shows.

  What wasn’t normal, even in that unreal world, was that I was spending just about every waking moment – and a lot of my sleeping ones – obsessing about Miles. His body, to be exact. His naked body. His hard buttocks. His hard penis. His hard and soft tongue. Even his tantalizing nibbling teeth and the coarse feel of his hair in my hands when his head was, well, use your imagination. Just thinking about him could make me start to hum inside like a little motor.