A Winter's Wish, page 14
‘Oh, I don’t know. Part of me felt relieved. Part of me was grateful. And the other part of me wanted to punch your lights out.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘For interfering. For resolving a problem that was mine and no one else’s. It infuriated me.’ She smoothed down her dress, realising she’d been creasing it. ‘I know that sounds crazy.’
‘A bit.’
She shot him a glare.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he backtracked, reaching out to touch her arm and then recoiling, as if realising it was a bad idea. ‘But aren’t you always saying that running the shelter is a team effort? Everyone pitches in. This was my way of helping. We haven’t exactly got off to the best start. I needed to make amends. Especially after Tuesday.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she said, groaning. ‘And people wonder why I’m stressed?’
A beat passed. ‘What’s the deal with you and your parents?’
She didn’t immediately answer.
They turned onto Holland Park Avenue and drove passed the rows of grand Georgian houses. Each one an advert for what life was like for the fortunate few.
Eventually, she said, ‘We don’t see eye-to-eye.’
‘About what?’
‘About everything.’ Resting her hand on the door handle, she glanced down at her manicured blood-red nails. ‘I’ve always been the odd one out. They’ve disagreed with every decision I’ve ever made. My choice of friends. The university I went to. My career as a social worker. It was never what they wanted.’
‘What did they want?’
She sighed. ‘For me to be a plastic surgeon, like my sister. Or a fat-cat city banker, like my brother. A respectable career, with a lucrative salary and an impressive standing in the community. Something they could boast about to their friends.’ She’d scrunched up her dress again and had to prise her hands away from the fabric.
‘But you never wanted that?’
Sam shook her head. ‘I think they hoped with enough persuasion I’d eventually see the light and switch paths. But when I sold my apartment to start up The Crash Pad they finally realised it wasn’t going to happen.’
‘I sense your parents don’t support the project?’
‘God, no. For months they tried to talk me out of it. But I refused to cave-in. I was determined to do something useful with my life.’
For a long while he didn’t speak and concentrated on driving. He seemed conflicted; his expression was one of puzzlement, as though he was struggling to understand her complex life. Join the club, she wanted to say.
The tip of the Italianate Pump House in Battersea Park came into view along with the stadium lights of Stamford Bridge as they entered the borough of Kensington.
After another long pause, he said, ‘You have done something useful with your life. The Crash Pad is something you should be really proud of.’
‘Excuse me?’ Surprise nearly had her sliding off the seat. ‘You’ve changed your opinion.’
‘Not really. I always thought it was a great venture. I just…’ he trailed off.
‘Just what?’
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I assumed your parents had bankrolled you, and it was a pet project you’d drop the moment things got tough.’ He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘Ah, so that’s why you’ve been such a shit to me? It makes sense now.’
He cringed. ‘But I know better now. And I get why you’re so invested. You don’t want your parents to be proved right.’
‘That’s not why I’m doing this,’ she snapped, infuriated by the implication.
Jamie raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’
‘Well, not entirely.’ She folded her arms defensively, not wanting to admit he might be right.
He laughed. ‘Look, it’s fine. We all need motivation. And maybe having that extra drive to make the shelter a success is what’ll help you succeed.’
‘Maybe.’ She glanced out the window, realising where they were. ‘Turn right into Royal Crescent and then left into St. James’s Gardens.’
He followed her instructions, whistling when he saw the size of the properties ahead. ‘Jesus. What number?’
‘No number. Just head for the gates at the end.’
‘The ones with the security hut outside?’
‘Yup. Home sweet home.’
Jamie slowed the car. The security guards came out to meet them, no doubt suspicious of the less-than-impressive budget car approaching. Even the hired help were snobs.
‘Are they going to shoot me?’
‘I hope not. I need a ride home later.’ She wound down the window and stuck her head out. ‘It’s me, guys.’
On seeing who it was, the guards scurried to open the gates. It wouldn’t do to piss off the boss by denying her daughter access. They ushered them through the ornate gates.
Jamie peered through the windscreen. ‘Where do I park?’
‘You don’t. Just pull up by the front door and give your keys to one of the parking attendants.’
‘How stupid of me. Everyone has parking attendants, right?’ He shook his head. ‘And that is not a front door. Well, not like any door I’ve ever seen.’
‘You’re right. It’s the gateway to hell, but unless you want to climb over the railings it’s the only way into the house.’
He switched off the engine. ‘That entrance is bigger than my whole flat.’
‘Mine too,’ she said, getting out of the car. ‘We can feel inadequate together.’
He joined her on the gravel driveway. ‘Need my jacket?’
‘I’m fine.’ She rubbed her arms. ‘We’ll be inside soon.’
‘Sure about that?’ He looked up at the three flights of marble steps ahead. ‘That’s quite a climb.’
When she laughed, he offered her his arm, which she accepted. No point being stubborn, especially as she needed all the support she could get. Plus, he was warm. And he smelt nice.
They walked up to the opulent white building with its black iron porch and glass ceiling. The raised flowerbeds either side were filled with exotic plants and ornamental grasses. A far cry from her rooftop garden in Streatham. The marble steps were lined with potted topiary bushes decorated in twinkling white fairy lights.
She shivered, more from nerves than the cold. She didn’t enjoy attending events like these. She always felt like she was on show – another ornament to be admired. The expectation for her to ‘behave’ weighed heavily and she clutched Jamie’s arm a little tighter.
He turned to her. ‘Relax. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Oh, you have no idea. The last party I attended I tipped a bowl of fruit punch down Sadiq Khan’s suit.’
Jamie stilled. ‘The Mayor of London?’
‘Not on purpose. But my mother was glaring at me, willing me to make a good impression and offer him a drink. I was so nervous my hands turned to jelly and the next thing I knew he was covered in punch.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘Believe me, I don’t even have to try to make a bad impression. Nature did it for me.’
Jamie shook his head and chuckled. ‘I can’t believe the Mayor of London was at your house. Will he be here tonight?’
‘Probably. Unless he knows I’m coming.’
Jamie dipped his head. ‘If you’re going to make a scene, can you let me know in advance?’
‘Why? So you can hide?’
‘No, so I can film it.’ He dazzled her with that smile of his again, and she felt a little dizzy. ‘Do you have any idea how much money I could make from a clip like that?’
She smiled back; she couldn’t help it. She much preferred this Jamie to the prickly version she’d first encountered. ‘I’ll be sure and let you know.’
‘Good.’ He leant closer and she was hit by a wave of manly scent. ‘And if at any point you want to leave, just let me know and we’re out of here, okay?’
‘Okay.’ She nodded, touched by his kindness. ‘Assuming you’re not hooking up with my mother by then.’
‘Funny.’
The grand black ornate doors ahead were decorated with two giant holly wreaths. They slowly opened as they approached and two footmen greeted them and showed them into the lobby.
Jamie’s face was a picture when he saw the vast white space decorated with crystal chandeliers, vases of white flowers, and select ornaments and paintings, each one carefully chosen to enhance the space and evoke awe.
Centre-stage was a twenty-foot Christmas tree, shipped in from Norway no doubt, and trimmed with glass figurines and twinkling white lights. The star on top could rival anything the Milky Way had to offer. It glowed brightly, lighting up the whole lobby, like it had its own solar system.
Double doors ahead led them through to the drawing room, where the majority of guests mingled and chatted, clinking glasses and laughing.
An array of sparkling evening gowns glistened under the chandelier lighting, balanced by the sombre tuxedoes on display.
Sam recognised a few faces. Mainly other rich families they’d socialised with over the years. Lord and Lady Sabell were here with their daughter, Isabelle. Most likely Hylton Sabell would also be present, her brother’s oldest and booziest friend, but she couldn’t see him.
At the far end of the room, a six-piece jazz band were playing a swing version of ‘Silent Night’. Waiters dressed in pristine uniforms circled with trays of champagne cocktails.
At the other end of the room a platform had been erected, no doubt for the auction later. Or maybe there would be an entertainer. She wouldn’t be surprised if Frank Sinatra himself was on the bill. Her mother had connections in high places. Even Heaven.
Talking of her mother. A flash of silver appeared in her periphery.
‘Incoming missile,’ she whispered to Jamie. ‘The mothership is about to land.’
‘Samantha, darling!’ Her mother’s voice penetrated the collective chatter in the room and the jazz band. Quite a feat. She arrived, all smiles and kisses, enveloping her daughter in a hug that didn’t actually involve any touching – a talent of the rich. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’ Her sharp eyes scanned Sam’s appearance. ‘Why aren’t you wearing the dress I sent you?’
‘It didn’t fit,’ she lied, avoiding eye-contact.
‘I suppose you have lost weight,’ her mother said, with a suspicious look. ‘Is that dress couture?’
‘Of course.’ Although made for someone else – and several years ago. But she wasn’t about to mention that.
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘She looks stunning, doesn’t she?’ Jamie’s voice attracted her mother’s attention. ‘As do you, Christina.’
It was true, her mother was a vision in a floor-length silver gown, complete with chiffon train and bespoke Sabell & Sutton necklace – worn no doubt to impress the owners, who’d joined her father over by the cocktail bar. ‘Why, thank you.’ She held out her hand, which Jamie dutifully took.
‘Thank you again for inviting me, Christina.’
God, he could lay on the charm.
‘My pleasure.’ She gave him the once over, clearly impressed by what she saw. ‘Remind me to introduce you to my bridge ladies later. They’ll enjoy meeting you.’
‘Devouring you more like.’ Sam’s hushed comment induced a nudge from Jamie, who whispered, ‘Behave.’
Her mother’s astute gaze flitted between them. ‘Remind me again what you do, Jamie?’
He looked startled. ‘What I do?’
‘Yes, what line of business are you in?’
Sam recognised the look in her mother’s eye. Jamie was being assessed as suitable beau material.
God, she really hoped he said something like ‘bin collector’ or ‘shop cashier’. Not that she had anything against those professions. Far from it. But she knew it would freak out her mother. Come to think of it, what did Jamie do? He’d never really said.
He was prevented from answering by her brother and a woman approaching.
‘Hey, Sammy! Look at you, all dressed up.’ Max crushed her in a hug, evoking a tut from their mother.
‘And look at you,’ she said, pulling away and nodding to his blue velvet blazer. ‘Where’s your comets, Bill Hayley?’
‘Hey, this is Armani. It cost over two grand.’
‘So did my car, but I wouldn’t wear it to a party.’
He poked his tongue out at her.
Her mother tutted again and checked to make sure no one had seen her son’s inappropriate behaviour. ‘Really, Maxim. Show a little more decorum, please.’
‘I think he looks hot,’ the blond woman with him said, straightening his matching blue velvet bowtie. ‘A real stud.’
Stud? Sam supressed a laugh. ‘I’m just glad he didn’t opt for the matching shoes,’ she said, winking at her brother.
Her brother poked his tongue out again.
‘Children, please,’ her mother said through gritted teeth, still managing to smile at her guests.
Max nodded to the woman draped over him. ‘This is Xanthe. She’s a model.’
‘And girlfriend,’ Xanthe said loudly, making her brother and her mother simultaneously flinch. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Pleased to meet you too.’ Sam smiled. Mostly because of the horrified look on her mother’s face.
Xanthe was definitely not suitable girlfriend material, her appearance was far too risqué and provocative. Her white dress was slashed to the crotch revealing long tanned legs, and the top section of her dress had so many cut-outs Sam was surprised it stayed in place. The woman had enormous boobs and the material was barely covering them. One ill-timed sneeze and they’d overspill for sure.
Her mother was glowering. She was far from charmed.
Max on the other hand looked smitten.
Sam turned to Jamie, wondering what he made of Xanthe. She expected him to be as fixated on the stunning blonde as her brother was, but she discovered he was looking directly at her. ‘Drink?’ he said, nodding to a nearby waiter.
‘God, yes,’ she said, leaning into him. ‘A large one.’
He grinned. ‘Coming right up.’
Thank God for Jamie.
…Now there was a sentence she’d never imagined herself saying.
Chapter Thirteen
Jamie couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. He’d spent the last two hours wandering from room to room with his mouth hanging open. Part in awe, part horrified by the extravagance on show. A hot cocoa bar. Chocolate fountains with guests coating pink marshmallows under the cascade of melted Swiss confectionary. A photographer taking portraits against the backdrop of picturesque falling snow – indoors. And a cocktail bar offering all manner of tipples – including wines and champagnes that usually cost several hundred quid a bottle. All for free. And all at his disposal.
But the ultimate display of wealth had come during the auction. A signed Anthony Joshua boxing glove sold for eight hundred quid. A George Michael print by Daniel Mernagh fetched over six hundred pounds. And a luxury seven-night stay in an exclusive villa on Bali had gone for thousands. It was crazy. And fascinating. And very confusing.
Not least, because the information he’d been able to glean about Max Tipping was puzzling. Jamie had surreptitiously watched the guy interact with those around him all evening. His behaviour was loud and laddish with men of his own age, flirtatious and suave with women of any age, and focused and congenial with dignitaries, business moguls and members of parliament, regardless of age. Sadiq Khan might not be here, but several other MPs were. Along with TV celebrities and sports stars. Max Tipping charmed them all.
When Jamie had tried to explore the house under the guise of needing the loo, he’d been redirected to a suite of lavatories set up outside in a marquee for the guests to use. Nothing like the disgusting affairs he’d experienced at Glastonbury, but fancy units with sensor-flushing loos, warm-air hand dryers and a selection of festive-scented handwashes on offer.
So here he was, at gone eleven p.m, still no closer to discovering whether Max Tipping was a misunderstood philanthropist, or a money-laundering crook.
He sipped his zero-alcohol lager and looked around the packed room. The band had resumed playing and several guests were dancing to ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’. Others were standing in groups chatting, or had spilled onto the patio to escape the heat of the room.
Christina and Richard Tipping were entertaining a group of business types over by the baby grand, and Max Tipping was talking to a Southampton footballer, whose name Jamie couldn’t remember. Max’s date for the evening was hanging on his arm, although her seductive pout was aimed squarely at the footballer.
Jamie searched for Sam. He found her trapped in a circle of men, looking pained. She was nodding and smiling, but he could tell she wasn’t enjoying it. She glanced over and caught his eye. Her expression said, ‘help me.’
He made his way through the crowd, avoiding elbows and wayward drinks.
For someone who usually adopted the casual look, she certainly could pull off glamour. He’d nearly fainted when she’d opened the door to him earlier. He wasn’t sure which had floored him most, the sight of her exposed shoulders revealing the curve of her long neck or the way her dark red lipstick had emphasised her full lips. Throw in her smoky dark eyes and the fit of her dress enhancing her slender figure, and it’d taken him a good few seconds to formulate a coherent sentence.
Yet strangely, Jamie still preferred her casually dressed. She didn’t look right dressed up. There was no doubt she was a beautiful woman, but she didn’t look relaxed. Her smile was forced and her posture was stiff and rigid. When she was at the shelter she was animated and energised. Slightly clumsy, and never restrained. But tonight, she was liked a caged tigress, miserable from being imprisoned, and eager to escape her shackles.
When he reached her, he heard the man next to her say, ‘…so you see, Samantha darling. These homeless types do tend to bring it on themselves.’
Sensing she needed rescuing, he edged his way into the circle. ‘Apologies for interrupting. You promised me a tour of the house, Sam.’
Her smile radiated relief. ‘You’re right, I did. Excuse me, gentleman. Thank you for your time this evening. Enjoy the party.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘For interfering. For resolving a problem that was mine and no one else’s. It infuriated me.’ She smoothed down her dress, realising she’d been creasing it. ‘I know that sounds crazy.’
‘A bit.’
She shot him a glare.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he backtracked, reaching out to touch her arm and then recoiling, as if realising it was a bad idea. ‘But aren’t you always saying that running the shelter is a team effort? Everyone pitches in. This was my way of helping. We haven’t exactly got off to the best start. I needed to make amends. Especially after Tuesday.’
‘Thanks for reminding me,’ she said, groaning. ‘And people wonder why I’m stressed?’
A beat passed. ‘What’s the deal with you and your parents?’
She didn’t immediately answer.
They turned onto Holland Park Avenue and drove passed the rows of grand Georgian houses. Each one an advert for what life was like for the fortunate few.
Eventually, she said, ‘We don’t see eye-to-eye.’
‘About what?’
‘About everything.’ Resting her hand on the door handle, she glanced down at her manicured blood-red nails. ‘I’ve always been the odd one out. They’ve disagreed with every decision I’ve ever made. My choice of friends. The university I went to. My career as a social worker. It was never what they wanted.’
‘What did they want?’
She sighed. ‘For me to be a plastic surgeon, like my sister. Or a fat-cat city banker, like my brother. A respectable career, with a lucrative salary and an impressive standing in the community. Something they could boast about to their friends.’ She’d scrunched up her dress again and had to prise her hands away from the fabric.
‘But you never wanted that?’
Sam shook her head. ‘I think they hoped with enough persuasion I’d eventually see the light and switch paths. But when I sold my apartment to start up The Crash Pad they finally realised it wasn’t going to happen.’
‘I sense your parents don’t support the project?’
‘God, no. For months they tried to talk me out of it. But I refused to cave-in. I was determined to do something useful with my life.’
For a long while he didn’t speak and concentrated on driving. He seemed conflicted; his expression was one of puzzlement, as though he was struggling to understand her complex life. Join the club, she wanted to say.
The tip of the Italianate Pump House in Battersea Park came into view along with the stadium lights of Stamford Bridge as they entered the borough of Kensington.
After another long pause, he said, ‘You have done something useful with your life. The Crash Pad is something you should be really proud of.’
‘Excuse me?’ Surprise nearly had her sliding off the seat. ‘You’ve changed your opinion.’
‘Not really. I always thought it was a great venture. I just…’ he trailed off.
‘Just what?’
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I assumed your parents had bankrolled you, and it was a pet project you’d drop the moment things got tough.’ He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘Ah, so that’s why you’ve been such a shit to me? It makes sense now.’
He cringed. ‘But I know better now. And I get why you’re so invested. You don’t want your parents to be proved right.’
‘That’s not why I’m doing this,’ she snapped, infuriated by the implication.
Jamie raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’
‘Well, not entirely.’ She folded her arms defensively, not wanting to admit he might be right.
He laughed. ‘Look, it’s fine. We all need motivation. And maybe having that extra drive to make the shelter a success is what’ll help you succeed.’
‘Maybe.’ She glanced out the window, realising where they were. ‘Turn right into Royal Crescent and then left into St. James’s Gardens.’
He followed her instructions, whistling when he saw the size of the properties ahead. ‘Jesus. What number?’
‘No number. Just head for the gates at the end.’
‘The ones with the security hut outside?’
‘Yup. Home sweet home.’
Jamie slowed the car. The security guards came out to meet them, no doubt suspicious of the less-than-impressive budget car approaching. Even the hired help were snobs.
‘Are they going to shoot me?’
‘I hope not. I need a ride home later.’ She wound down the window and stuck her head out. ‘It’s me, guys.’
On seeing who it was, the guards scurried to open the gates. It wouldn’t do to piss off the boss by denying her daughter access. They ushered them through the ornate gates.
Jamie peered through the windscreen. ‘Where do I park?’
‘You don’t. Just pull up by the front door and give your keys to one of the parking attendants.’
‘How stupid of me. Everyone has parking attendants, right?’ He shook his head. ‘And that is not a front door. Well, not like any door I’ve ever seen.’
‘You’re right. It’s the gateway to hell, but unless you want to climb over the railings it’s the only way into the house.’
He switched off the engine. ‘That entrance is bigger than my whole flat.’
‘Mine too,’ she said, getting out of the car. ‘We can feel inadequate together.’
He joined her on the gravel driveway. ‘Need my jacket?’
‘I’m fine.’ She rubbed her arms. ‘We’ll be inside soon.’
‘Sure about that?’ He looked up at the three flights of marble steps ahead. ‘That’s quite a climb.’
When she laughed, he offered her his arm, which she accepted. No point being stubborn, especially as she needed all the support she could get. Plus, he was warm. And he smelt nice.
They walked up to the opulent white building with its black iron porch and glass ceiling. The raised flowerbeds either side were filled with exotic plants and ornamental grasses. A far cry from her rooftop garden in Streatham. The marble steps were lined with potted topiary bushes decorated in twinkling white fairy lights.
She shivered, more from nerves than the cold. She didn’t enjoy attending events like these. She always felt like she was on show – another ornament to be admired. The expectation for her to ‘behave’ weighed heavily and she clutched Jamie’s arm a little tighter.
He turned to her. ‘Relax. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Oh, you have no idea. The last party I attended I tipped a bowl of fruit punch down Sadiq Khan’s suit.’
Jamie stilled. ‘The Mayor of London?’
‘Not on purpose. But my mother was glaring at me, willing me to make a good impression and offer him a drink. I was so nervous my hands turned to jelly and the next thing I knew he was covered in punch.’ She shivered at the memory. ‘Believe me, I don’t even have to try to make a bad impression. Nature did it for me.’
Jamie shook his head and chuckled. ‘I can’t believe the Mayor of London was at your house. Will he be here tonight?’
‘Probably. Unless he knows I’m coming.’
Jamie dipped his head. ‘If you’re going to make a scene, can you let me know in advance?’
‘Why? So you can hide?’
‘No, so I can film it.’ He dazzled her with that smile of his again, and she felt a little dizzy. ‘Do you have any idea how much money I could make from a clip like that?’
She smiled back; she couldn’t help it. She much preferred this Jamie to the prickly version she’d first encountered. ‘I’ll be sure and let you know.’
‘Good.’ He leant closer and she was hit by a wave of manly scent. ‘And if at any point you want to leave, just let me know and we’re out of here, okay?’
‘Okay.’ She nodded, touched by his kindness. ‘Assuming you’re not hooking up with my mother by then.’
‘Funny.’
The grand black ornate doors ahead were decorated with two giant holly wreaths. They slowly opened as they approached and two footmen greeted them and showed them into the lobby.
Jamie’s face was a picture when he saw the vast white space decorated with crystal chandeliers, vases of white flowers, and select ornaments and paintings, each one carefully chosen to enhance the space and evoke awe.
Centre-stage was a twenty-foot Christmas tree, shipped in from Norway no doubt, and trimmed with glass figurines and twinkling white lights. The star on top could rival anything the Milky Way had to offer. It glowed brightly, lighting up the whole lobby, like it had its own solar system.
Double doors ahead led them through to the drawing room, where the majority of guests mingled and chatted, clinking glasses and laughing.
An array of sparkling evening gowns glistened under the chandelier lighting, balanced by the sombre tuxedoes on display.
Sam recognised a few faces. Mainly other rich families they’d socialised with over the years. Lord and Lady Sabell were here with their daughter, Isabelle. Most likely Hylton Sabell would also be present, her brother’s oldest and booziest friend, but she couldn’t see him.
At the far end of the room, a six-piece jazz band were playing a swing version of ‘Silent Night’. Waiters dressed in pristine uniforms circled with trays of champagne cocktails.
At the other end of the room a platform had been erected, no doubt for the auction later. Or maybe there would be an entertainer. She wouldn’t be surprised if Frank Sinatra himself was on the bill. Her mother had connections in high places. Even Heaven.
Talking of her mother. A flash of silver appeared in her periphery.
‘Incoming missile,’ she whispered to Jamie. ‘The mothership is about to land.’
‘Samantha, darling!’ Her mother’s voice penetrated the collective chatter in the room and the jazz band. Quite a feat. She arrived, all smiles and kisses, enveloping her daughter in a hug that didn’t actually involve any touching – a talent of the rich. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’ Her sharp eyes scanned Sam’s appearance. ‘Why aren’t you wearing the dress I sent you?’
‘It didn’t fit,’ she lied, avoiding eye-contact.
‘I suppose you have lost weight,’ her mother said, with a suspicious look. ‘Is that dress couture?’
‘Of course.’ Although made for someone else – and several years ago. But she wasn’t about to mention that.
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘She looks stunning, doesn’t she?’ Jamie’s voice attracted her mother’s attention. ‘As do you, Christina.’
It was true, her mother was a vision in a floor-length silver gown, complete with chiffon train and bespoke Sabell & Sutton necklace – worn no doubt to impress the owners, who’d joined her father over by the cocktail bar. ‘Why, thank you.’ She held out her hand, which Jamie dutifully took.
‘Thank you again for inviting me, Christina.’
God, he could lay on the charm.
‘My pleasure.’ She gave him the once over, clearly impressed by what she saw. ‘Remind me to introduce you to my bridge ladies later. They’ll enjoy meeting you.’
‘Devouring you more like.’ Sam’s hushed comment induced a nudge from Jamie, who whispered, ‘Behave.’
Her mother’s astute gaze flitted between them. ‘Remind me again what you do, Jamie?’
He looked startled. ‘What I do?’
‘Yes, what line of business are you in?’
Sam recognised the look in her mother’s eye. Jamie was being assessed as suitable beau material.
God, she really hoped he said something like ‘bin collector’ or ‘shop cashier’. Not that she had anything against those professions. Far from it. But she knew it would freak out her mother. Come to think of it, what did Jamie do? He’d never really said.
He was prevented from answering by her brother and a woman approaching.
‘Hey, Sammy! Look at you, all dressed up.’ Max crushed her in a hug, evoking a tut from their mother.
‘And look at you,’ she said, pulling away and nodding to his blue velvet blazer. ‘Where’s your comets, Bill Hayley?’
‘Hey, this is Armani. It cost over two grand.’
‘So did my car, but I wouldn’t wear it to a party.’
He poked his tongue out at her.
Her mother tutted again and checked to make sure no one had seen her son’s inappropriate behaviour. ‘Really, Maxim. Show a little more decorum, please.’
‘I think he looks hot,’ the blond woman with him said, straightening his matching blue velvet bowtie. ‘A real stud.’
Stud? Sam supressed a laugh. ‘I’m just glad he didn’t opt for the matching shoes,’ she said, winking at her brother.
Her brother poked his tongue out again.
‘Children, please,’ her mother said through gritted teeth, still managing to smile at her guests.
Max nodded to the woman draped over him. ‘This is Xanthe. She’s a model.’
‘And girlfriend,’ Xanthe said loudly, making her brother and her mother simultaneously flinch. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Pleased to meet you too.’ Sam smiled. Mostly because of the horrified look on her mother’s face.
Xanthe was definitely not suitable girlfriend material, her appearance was far too risqué and provocative. Her white dress was slashed to the crotch revealing long tanned legs, and the top section of her dress had so many cut-outs Sam was surprised it stayed in place. The woman had enormous boobs and the material was barely covering them. One ill-timed sneeze and they’d overspill for sure.
Her mother was glowering. She was far from charmed.
Max on the other hand looked smitten.
Sam turned to Jamie, wondering what he made of Xanthe. She expected him to be as fixated on the stunning blonde as her brother was, but she discovered he was looking directly at her. ‘Drink?’ he said, nodding to a nearby waiter.
‘God, yes,’ she said, leaning into him. ‘A large one.’
He grinned. ‘Coming right up.’
Thank God for Jamie.
…Now there was a sentence she’d never imagined herself saying.
Chapter Thirteen
Jamie couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. He’d spent the last two hours wandering from room to room with his mouth hanging open. Part in awe, part horrified by the extravagance on show. A hot cocoa bar. Chocolate fountains with guests coating pink marshmallows under the cascade of melted Swiss confectionary. A photographer taking portraits against the backdrop of picturesque falling snow – indoors. And a cocktail bar offering all manner of tipples – including wines and champagnes that usually cost several hundred quid a bottle. All for free. And all at his disposal.
But the ultimate display of wealth had come during the auction. A signed Anthony Joshua boxing glove sold for eight hundred quid. A George Michael print by Daniel Mernagh fetched over six hundred pounds. And a luxury seven-night stay in an exclusive villa on Bali had gone for thousands. It was crazy. And fascinating. And very confusing.
Not least, because the information he’d been able to glean about Max Tipping was puzzling. Jamie had surreptitiously watched the guy interact with those around him all evening. His behaviour was loud and laddish with men of his own age, flirtatious and suave with women of any age, and focused and congenial with dignitaries, business moguls and members of parliament, regardless of age. Sadiq Khan might not be here, but several other MPs were. Along with TV celebrities and sports stars. Max Tipping charmed them all.
When Jamie had tried to explore the house under the guise of needing the loo, he’d been redirected to a suite of lavatories set up outside in a marquee for the guests to use. Nothing like the disgusting affairs he’d experienced at Glastonbury, but fancy units with sensor-flushing loos, warm-air hand dryers and a selection of festive-scented handwashes on offer.
So here he was, at gone eleven p.m, still no closer to discovering whether Max Tipping was a misunderstood philanthropist, or a money-laundering crook.
He sipped his zero-alcohol lager and looked around the packed room. The band had resumed playing and several guests were dancing to ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’. Others were standing in groups chatting, or had spilled onto the patio to escape the heat of the room.
Christina and Richard Tipping were entertaining a group of business types over by the baby grand, and Max Tipping was talking to a Southampton footballer, whose name Jamie couldn’t remember. Max’s date for the evening was hanging on his arm, although her seductive pout was aimed squarely at the footballer.
Jamie searched for Sam. He found her trapped in a circle of men, looking pained. She was nodding and smiling, but he could tell she wasn’t enjoying it. She glanced over and caught his eye. Her expression said, ‘help me.’
He made his way through the crowd, avoiding elbows and wayward drinks.
For someone who usually adopted the casual look, she certainly could pull off glamour. He’d nearly fainted when she’d opened the door to him earlier. He wasn’t sure which had floored him most, the sight of her exposed shoulders revealing the curve of her long neck or the way her dark red lipstick had emphasised her full lips. Throw in her smoky dark eyes and the fit of her dress enhancing her slender figure, and it’d taken him a good few seconds to formulate a coherent sentence.
Yet strangely, Jamie still preferred her casually dressed. She didn’t look right dressed up. There was no doubt she was a beautiful woman, but she didn’t look relaxed. Her smile was forced and her posture was stiff and rigid. When she was at the shelter she was animated and energised. Slightly clumsy, and never restrained. But tonight, she was liked a caged tigress, miserable from being imprisoned, and eager to escape her shackles.
When he reached her, he heard the man next to her say, ‘…so you see, Samantha darling. These homeless types do tend to bring it on themselves.’
Sensing she needed rescuing, he edged his way into the circle. ‘Apologies for interrupting. You promised me a tour of the house, Sam.’
Her smile radiated relief. ‘You’re right, I did. Excuse me, gentleman. Thank you for your time this evening. Enjoy the party.’
