The Reunion, page 5
“Give me your strongest single malt,” she demanded of the acne-riddled teen playing bartender. Moments later, she had a tot of Laphroaig and the peaty smell was a welcome transportation from the discomfort she felt within. As she inhaled, the string quartet switched from Vivaldi to Bizet. Posy winced. It wasn’t that she hated classical music, it was just that it reminded her so strongly of her mother, particularly Bizet. Celia had loved entertaining and had especially liked curating playlists of classical music for dinner parties. Posy had barely turned four when cancer suddenly took her mother’s life, but she remembered the gorgeous ceremony of Celia’s soirees: the cooking smells, the flower arrangements and the music, but most of all her mother’s laughter tinkling through the house as Posy lay in bed not sleeping, feeling very aggrieved that she wasn’t invited to have fun with the person she loved most in the world. As a little girl, Posy had been determined that as soon as she was old enough, she’d sit by her mother’s side and co-host every single party. But the cancer had put paid to that. Across the room she caught a glimpse of Mrs Paddington, a vision in ice-blue Prada. She moved amongst the guests with regal poise, her polite smile unable to unseat that calculating curiosity in her eyes that was evident even from a distance. She was a different breed from the likes of Mr Day, that was for sure.
“Oh, my word! POSE!” Dee’s unmistakable squeal rent the air and suddenly Posy was engulfed in a Chanel-scented embrace from behind, snapping her right back to reality.
“Dee?” Posy whirled around to return the hug.
“How the devil are you? What’s it been, two, three years since we last got together?” Although Dee sounded the same, everything else had changed. The Dee of the past had been a little bird, all sharp elbows and frizzy hair. The latest version was still small, still forcing her hair back into a French braid, but marriage and motherhood had rounded her body into a softer shape, one that was now expensively ensconced in satin and cashmere. Long nails were painted a tasteful pink and diamonds dripped from her ears and fingers. Dee looked Posy up and down with a practised eye, nude lips curving in a knowing smile. “Ravishing as always!” she declared. “No kids, I take it?”
Posy forced a polite smile. Why was it so common for this question to be asked so bluntly of a woman? It was almost as if making it to thirty without spawning offspring was a transgression against everything that was right and good. Posy longed to tell Dee to get stuffed but given that they hadn’t seen each other for several years that seemed a little harsh.
“Perhaps one day,” she replied diplomatically, hoping that would herald a topic change.
“You should get on with it. I’m afraid your best eggs are far behind you.” Seemingly ignorant of her breath-taking rudeness, Dee flicked a wrist to someone behind her. “You remember Lionel, my husband?” A tall, angular man with a receding hairline and non-existent upper lip edged to Dee’s side. A glass of water in one hand, he gave Posy a joyless nod.
“Of course, we met briefly at your wedding,” Posy said. Which had been almost immediately after university graduation. Dee hadn’t wanted to wait for her fairy tale. “How are you, Lionel?”
“He’s fabulous! The business is a dream!” Dee shot a glance at her husband. “Li, could you get me a drinky?” Obediently, Lionel ambled to the bar and Dee turned back to Posy. “Was the last time we saw each other at that gallery opening?” Without waiting for Posy to confirm, Dee ploughed on. “And then you went on to Belize on a photography jaunt, didn’t you? Gosh, you’re always on the move. I mean, I understand, I get it. My life is so WONDERFULLY busy too!” She fished out her phone and pushed it under Posy’s nose. “My tinies! Gabriel and Alec. They’re five and three now.”
Posy squinted. The phone was whisked away almost as quickly as it had been proffered. She caught a glimpse of two small, pale faces posing stiffly by a gleaming Bentley. “Lovely,” she remarked, unsure what else she could say, given she’d barely met the boys.
“Have you seen any of the gang?” Dee went on. “Honor is— Oh, I say, there she is!” She waved and all of a sudden Honor was amongst them, glamorous in a slinky emerald sheath, her white-blonde hair sculpted into a chic, retro wave.
“Darling, awesome to see you!” Honor cooed, greeting Posy with a flurry of air kisses, her voice betraying a definite Atlantic twang.
“Honz!” Posy reciprocated the contactless kisses. Honor had emigrated to Seattle with her family not long after turning eighteen. However, Honor’s work as a fashion journalist frequently brought her back to London, where she and Posy had managed quite a few debauched and expensively wild weekends. But then Honor had married Edgar Farquharson, the cream of New York society. Between that and popping out three children one after the other, wild nights with Posy had become a thing of the past. “I’ve missed you.”
“You too!” Honor patted Posy’s cheek.
“I can’t believe you made it,” Dee trilled. “Your schedule is impossible!”
“Oh well, thanks to a fleet of nannies and a lot of air miles, anything’s possible,” Honor purred, showing gleaming teeth. She narrowed her eyes at the bartender who’d served Posy. “Do you have De Brignac?” She plonked her champagne flute on the bar. “Because whatever this is, it’s barely quaffable.”
“The, uh, champagne is Bollinger and it’s the only one we’re serving,” the young man gulped in reply.
“Leave him alone Honz, you’re not in Manhattan now,” Posy laughed at her old friend. “Besides, Bolly was more than enough for you back in the day.”
“I know but since we started summering with the Carters – that is, Bey and Shawn…” Honor paused for effect and Dee didn’t disappoint.
“You’re friends with BEYONCE?” she shrieked.
Posy let out a snort of laughter. “Oh my God, Honor, you still haven’t mastered the casual name drop, have you? You’re friends with everyone who’s anyone.”
Honor giggled. “That is true. What can I say?”
Dee virtually swooned against Lionel as he returned bearing a martini. “Li, you must hear this. Honz is only besties with Beyonce and Jay-Z!” Dee said. Lionel’s face stayed immobile.
“Very good,” he remarked, with all the verve of a wet flannel.
“At any rate,” Honor went on, “I’ve been drinking Shawn’s champagne brand pretty much exclusively.” She rolled her eyes in an attempt at self-deprecation. “But you’re right Posy, I’ll make do. Bottoms up!” She snatched up her glass and knocked it back, making sure to wince overtly to convey the depth of her compromise. “Oh, Posy! It’s been simply ages since we hung out. I say, do you remember that time we almost got arrested in Harrods?”
“Well, you were making Princess Beatrice feel rather uncomfortable with all the yoo-hooing!” Posy laughed.
“Of course. God, the Royals are so over, I swear it. You should hear the way Megz talks about them. Anyway,” Honor shook her head in humoured disbelief, “what’s new with you?”
“Um.” Posy took her time taking another sip of whisky, the liquid suddenly sour on her tongue. What was new with her? As she pondered the least lame response, her father’s words about Posy’s lack of a meaningful life came floating back. To her horror, tears threatened and she had to fake a cough to explain them away. “Not much,” she spluttered eventually.
“Still snapping those little photos of yours, are you?” Dee asked.
“Well, yeah.” Little photos made it sound as if Posy was farting about doing selfies and nothing else. Her latest project had been a landscape shot of the night sky over the Moors and it had taken ages to work out the shutter speed and filters required. She’d even slept in a tent for that one. “It’s a passion of mine.”
“Oh, you’ve made a go of it professionally?” Honor squealed. “Why, that’s marvellous darling.”
“I’m trying to.” Posy’s throat tightened. Maybe she never would, if she couldn’t get the ticket to Hawaii. Plastering a wide smile on her face she decided to change tack. “Edgar not with you, Honz?”
“Sadly no,” Honor said. “He’s doing this sailing challenge at the moment, and you know I have no sea legs. Solo trip for me this time. But seriously,” she fixed her eyes on Dee and Posy, “it’s been far too long; we should have a solid catch-up. A proper, boozy girl’s lunch, whaddya say?”
“Absolutely!” Dee lifted her glass.
“Would love that.” Posy swallowed what was left of her whisky, failing to match Dee and Honor’s enthusiasm. A whole lunch of trying to defend her non-existent achievements sounded like torture more than anything else. But she couldn’t let on to such a thing and so the conversation flowed pleasantly. However, after a few minutes of Dee and Honor humble bragging about their marriages and lives of fortune, Posy started to feel a little sick. Excusing herself, she slipped away, weaving through the Great Hall. The mass of bodies and honking laughter was almost too much to bear and it was with relief that she slipped through the French doors and out into the school grounds.
Chapter Four
Lucas’s cheeks ached from so much forced smiling. Entering the school grounds once more had been an oddly visceral experience; he could virtually taste the semolina Froggy St Clair had flicked into his mouth as an April Fools prank and smell the scorched carbon of the traditional Guy Fawkes bonfire night celebrations. As he visited the gents’ toilets that adjoined the Great Hall, Lucas even managed to find the burn marks from the time he’d busted two juniors smoking on their last day before summer break. Christ, didn’t Arundel ever re-paint?
But Lucas was determined to make good on his £250 ticket. He had on his favourite suit and his dress shoes were polished brighter than mirrors. Now was the time to put aside the past and look to the future. As he walked into the Great Hall, he saw the somewhat familiar face of Julian Willoughby, his one-time opposition for the head boy role.
“Evening Julian,” Lucas said brightly.
Julian blinked at him. “Do I know you?” Considering the guy had been the captain of the rugby team, the years had been especially harsh. Gone was the taut chest and superhero jaw, in their place a burgeoning gut that threatened to pop the buttons on a rumpled YSL shirt and premature jowls that trembled with every move of his head. That once luxuriant mane of blond hair had been replaced by a combover of greying strands working overtime to cover a hot-pink scalp.
“Yeah, Lucas O’Rourke. We both ran for head boy?” Lucas tried not to let his embarrassment show. Surely there had been something memorable about their encounters?
“Oh right, right, right, right.” Julian squinted. “You look different. Did you grow?”
Now it was Lucas’s turn to blink. “Grow?” He suddenly caught a whiff of the beery tinge of Julian’s breath and sighed. “Yes, I did grow in the ten plus years since we saw each other.”
“Here.” Julian nudged a statuesque creature next to him. “Sooky, meet this chap.”
Sooky lifted her bored face from her phone. One look at Lucas saw the device stowed in a Bulgari clutch and her diamond-ringed hand reaching for Lucas’s. “Charmed,” she purred.
“Lucas O’Rourke. A pleasure,” Lucas said. Sooky was immaculate in a tasteful, fitted gown, typically gorgeous in the way that only someone who spent one hundred per cent of their time on their image could be. High cheekbones framed a heart-shaped face with narrow, long-lashed blue eyes. A smile that had no doubt benefitted from chemical assistance was plumply welcoming. “I take it you didn’t attend Arundel?”
“No. Marlborough.” Sooky was clearly expecting an impressed response and when Lucas gave her the requisite awed expression she beamed. “Yah, good old Katy. Always knew she’d nail the top prize.” Her eyes pointedly slid to Julian who was quietly belching into his pint and hoping no one would notice.
“Quite.” Lucas wasn’t sure whether England’s future king would appreciate knowing he’d been nailed but he was more interested in what Julian had to say about his business. His father had left quite an empire. But years of observing Fred work a room had taught Lucas you couldn’t just dive in cold. “So how are things?” he asked Julian. “The family well?”
“Well, Daddy kicked the bucket, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Julian said.
“I wasn’t aware. Terribly sorry.” It was a lie. Of course Lucas knew Sir Spencer Willoughby had died – from cirrhosis, if rumours were to be believed. But he felt that feigning ignorance about Julian being in charge of Sir Spencer’s money was a good foil for pitching.
“Don’t mention it.” Julian gulped back his drink. “It was years ago.”
“He left Jules in charge of the estate,” Sooky said.
“Oh?” Lucas gave them his best wide-eyed stare. “How are you finding being lady of the manor?”
“Ha!” Sooky almost spat out her champagne. A sharp glance from Julian saw her daintily dab at her lips and compose herself. “That is to say, it’s not what you would expect.”
“I wouldn’t know what to expect to be honest,” Lucas said truthfully. “But I do know one often needs support managing sudden inheritances or windfalls. Mistakes can be made.”
“Yah, they totally can,” Sooky agreed breathlessly.
Lucas was buoyed by her words. “Many of my clients have really benefitted from the help—”
“Now I remember you!” Julian’s thick finger was suddenly in Lucas’s face. “Your parents worked for the school, didn’t they?” Julian bobbed his head excitedly. “Yes, your mum was the cook. And didn’t your dad mow the lawn or something?”
Sooky’s reaction was immediate. Nose wrinkling, she actually took a minute step backwards. It was a discreet reaction to be sure, but to Lucas it was as bold as a slap in the face.
“That’s right,” he said resignedly. “My parents worked here. But my dad was head of security, not a gardener.” He instantly hated himself for making that distinction. It shouldn’t matter what his gloriously hard-working parents did. Yet to these people, who had been handed everything they had, those who grafted to achieve modest returns were the kind of people you step back from. As revolted as he was, Lucas needed new business and so he forced himself to stay in their presence.
“Yah and that’s how you got your place. Scholarship.” Julian was tapping his sloping forehead with glee. “Still got it. The old noggin still works.”
“Clearly.” Lucas swallowed the urge to snarl back. “But anyway, parents aside, I now own a wealth management business and if you’d ever—” He was reaching for his business card when Sooky laid a hand on Julian’s forearm.
“Darling,” she said, “the Carruthers are here. We really should say hello.”
“What?” Julian had been staring morosely into his empty glass. “Do we have to? Timothy is such a miserable bastard sometimes— Oh!” Sooky’s nails were digging into his arm. Julian lifted his eyes to meet Sooky’s and whatever marital telepathy she was conducting worked because Julian nodded and looked back at Lucas. “Sorry, Luke old chap, have to do the rounds, you know how it is.”
Lucas slid his card back into his pocket and smiled genially. “Absolutely, crack on.” As he watched them leave, he wished he had the balls to yell his correct name at their retreating backs, but he didn’t need to be Fred to know that would be a poor show at an event like this.
Taking a deep breath, Lucas headed to the bar and ordered a whisky. He fancied something sweet and steadying and to his delight they had a very fine single malt that would do the trick. Drink in hand, Lucas turned and surveyed the room. It reeked of privilege. And he was standing in it, very much a product of that privilege yet also outside it. He should know how to navigate these troublesome waters, but they were as alien now as they had been when he joined the school as a nervous eleven-year-old. Again, he wished Fred could be here. Then immediately felt guilty for not doing his friend justice.
With another hit of Scotch warming his belly, Lucas decided not to give up. He turned to his left and spotted a pale-faced drip of a man clutching a glass of tap water.
“Very sensible,” Lucas said by way of preamble.
The gentleman glanced down at his drink then back at Lucas. “I beg your pardon?”
Lucas gulped. Was it a major faux pas to make such a comment? He hoped the man wasn’t a recovering alcoholic. “I mean, it’s sensible to stay hydrated,” he gabbled. “Warm in here.”
“I suppose.” The man stretched out a hand. “Lionel Goodman.”
“Lucas O’Rourke.” Relieved that his introduction hadn’t completely scared Lionel away, Lucas relaxed a little. “Were you a pupil here?”
“Oh no,” Lionel said. “Gordonstoun. But my wife attended here.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Desdemona Carrington,” Lionel answered. “Well, Desdemona Carrington-Goodman now.”
“Dee?” Lucas’s heart sank. Dee Carrington had been a total witch, if memory served. Always cosying up to Posy Edwins. Christ, did that mean Posy was here?
“Yes. Were you pals?”
“We moved in different circles.” Although if Dee had had her way she and Lucas would have been moving on different planets. “She was best friends with Posy who I, ah, worked with quite closely.”
