chilled bottle of champagne as they went. It was now half past six. Guests were arriving at half past seven, and Serena had insisted on arriving an hour after that. Despite her experience as a hostess, Venetia was always nervous before one of her social events, and was glad of Camilla’s company – particularly as her sister had just dropped the bombshell that she had finished with Nat.
‘Champagne?’ she said, popping the cork.
Camilla shook her head. She wasn’t quite in the mood to party. Two hours earlier, she had been standing in the rain at Canary Wharf, looking into Nat’s confused eyes.
‘Why do you want to meet here, Cam?’ Nat had asked when she had intercepted him dashing out of his Docklands office, his jacket held over his head against the rain. ‘Weren’t we meeting at Venetia’s?’
Camilla took a deep breath and told him there wasn’t going to be a party – not for him, anyway. More importantly, there wasn’t going to be a wedding. Camilla had chosen this neutral ground because it was cold, anonymous and clinical. Shivering by the Thames, surrounded by huge glass buildings sweeping into the sky, splats of rain falling on their cheeks. Telling him was hard, but the decision had been easy. When she’d returned home from Megève and seen the Tory party Selection Weekend application papers on her desk she’d known immediately what she’d wanted. She didn’t just want to be an MP, she wanted to be a cabinet minister. Or, when she dared to dream, achieve an even higher position. And for that she needed the right partner: a political partner. Not someone whose glamour-model and drug-dabbling past might tarnish her own reputation. After all, Camilla had enough tarnish of her own.
‘Cheer up,’ said Venetia, pressing the flute of champagne into her sister’s hand. ‘You did the right thing.’
‘Did I?’ asked Camilla, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘It’s nice to share nights like tonight with someone.’
Camilla walked across to the long French windows looking down onto the park.
Suddenly she turned back to face Venetia. ‘Jesus, though! Can you believe that Nat told Daddy about our so-called September wedding, too? Before he’d even proposed?’
‘Ouch,’ replied Venetia. ‘I’m sure he was looking forward to having a banking scion in the Balcon family. This news is going to put him in a bad mood.’
‘Bad mood. There’s a change,’ sneered Camilla.
‘No, a really bad mood,’ continued Venetia, her soft features suddenly looking drawn. ‘He was already threatening not to come tonight.’
‘Oh, he’ll come,’ said Camilla, absent-mindedly squirting some jasmine-scented perfume from the dressing table onto her wrists. ‘Why on earth would he miss an opportunity to be the centre of attention?’
The taxi pulled up against the kerb of Kensington Park Gardens and, as Cate stepped onto the pavement she heard a string quartet strike up, ‘Come Fly with Me’ from inside Venetia’s house. She thrust a twenty-pound note in the cabbie’s hand and breathed in the early evening air. She was already in a good mood, and the addition of a Sinatra soundtrack made her feel like she was in a Doris Day movie. Of course she was sad that Serena was leaving for New York, and she was dreading seeing her father at the party, but none of that could dim the happiness she felt now that her own life was finally full of excitement and promise. Cate caught her breath and almost hugged herself as she thought about it: she was editorial director of her own publishing company! How many journalists could say that? Only that morning they’d signed a twelve-month lease on an office, a tiny space squidged between London Bridge station and Borough Market, but it was a cool address with a decent rent and a boardroom-cum-broom-cupboard that doubled as Nick’s office. She’d arrived – not exactly in style yet – but she was definitely on her way there.
‘Where’s your date? I thought you were bringing someone?’ asked Venetia, hugging Cate as she waltzed through the door in a fitted inky-blue Lanvin dress.
‘Ooh, a new man,’ teased Camilla, shaking off her bad mood and giving her sister a warm squeeze.
‘Two men actually,’ smiled Cate, taking a Martini.
‘Your date is coming with another man? How modern!’ said Venetia with a wry smirk.
‘Oh, stop it,’ said Cate, tapping Venetia on the arm in mock reproach. ‘One is my business partner; the other is our investment guy. No gossip I’m afraid.’
‘Famous last words,’ winked Camilla.
‘Farewell Our English Rose!’ scoffed David Goldman to Nick as he pulled his invitation out of its fuchsia tissue-paper wrapping. ‘What the fuck’s all that about?’ he hissed, handing it to a doorman.
‘Don’t get us thrown out before we even get in,’ muttered Nick out of the side of his mouth, making a big show of smiling at the burly security guards standing in front of Venetia’s house. The front door had been roped off from eager paparazzi looking for famous guests. ‘Cate must have been pissed when she invited us to this.’
‘She knows what two handsome young men like ourselves can add to a gathering like tonight. We’re in demand,’ said David, entirely seriously, slowing down as they passed the photographers. The photographers merely scowled. Funnelled into the queue by the door, David started checking out the well-heeled, underdressed party-goers in front.
‘God, everyone sounds so posh,’ he whispered.
‘Irritable vowel syndrome,’ smiled Nick, pushing his friend through the door. ‘Now just get inside.’
At that moment, the street lit up with flashbulbs as a black Mercedes pulled up to the kerb.
‘S’rena. Over ’ere, darlin’’ shouted the paparazzi, elbowing each other to get a shot of the bronzed beauty climbing from the car and walking elegantly across the Kensington pavement. By any standards Serena looked fantastic, her hair swept up into an elegant chignon with sexy tendrils curling onto her high cheekbones.
Momentarily annoyed that the photographers had got wind of the party, Serena nevertheless stood at the foot of the steps and slipped off her vintage Chanel mink to reveal a blush-pink gown in such fine silk jersey it seemed to slither off her body. The total effect was magnificent – the colour of the dress was so pale, the fabric so fluid, that to the casual glance she looked almost naked. She turned slightly sideways and pushed one leg forward so that the long slit in her dress revealed a hint of tanned thigh, bowing her head seductively. She knew that this would be the shot on the front of the tabloids tomorrow morning.
Reluctantly allowing herself to be ushered inside by Conrad Davies, her agent and escort for the evening, she glanced at her Piguet watch. It was eight forty-five: good. Everyone should be here, she thought. Clinging to Conrad’s arm, she moved through the huge hallway, accepting a rose Martini from a waiter and stopping to kiss an assortment of London society players. It was a glittering turnout, she thought smugly, noticing Sting and Trudie Styler in one corner, Elton John and Elle Macpherson chatting on the stairs and Jade Jagger laughing with Matthew Williamson by the cocktail bar – it seemed the whole of London’s fashionable elite had swung by to say their goodbyes.
‘This is just darling of you,’ gushed Serena, embracing Venetia and planting a half kiss on each cheek. ‘Everybody’s here. And all for me.’
Venetia smiled weakly. Thank goodness for Janey and her Rolodex – Venetia had had no idea who Serena’s friends were. Much like Serena, she smiled.
Cate and Camilla appeared through the double doors and all four women squealed together, embracing in one huge, glamorous scrum. Ignoring the stars around them, the Balcon girls huddled together and swapped gossip like schoolgirls at a slumber party.
‘Where’s Michael?’ asked Cate, disappointed not to see him. ‘I haven’t even met him yet and you’re leaving us for him!’
‘I am not leaving you for Michael,’ Serena smiled sweetly, stroking her sister on the arm. ‘I am leaving London for New York. Anyway,’ she