Page 168 of Private Lives

Helen Pierce simply sat where she was, closed her eyes and smiled.

‘Gotcha,’ she whispered.

53

It was easy to spot who was going to a party. Cath was waiting for Anna outside Sloane Square tube station dressed in a sparkly silver dress, like a space-age flapper girl lost in the sea of drab commuters piling into the station to go home. Anna smoothed down her own emerald-green shift dress, wondering if it was dressy enough. She wasn’t entirely sure how this evening was going to go, but she was glad Cath was there to hold her hand.

‘This is so exciting,’ said Cath, giving Anna a hug. ‘Where are we going again?’

‘You’re excited about something you don’t even know about?’ laughed Anna, flagging down a taxi.

‘Hey, you’re the one who sent me this cryptic message saying “drop everything, I’m taking you to the most glamorous party you’ve ever been to”.’

‘It’s the launch of a big hotel. Very high end,’ said Anna as the cab rumbled down Lower Sloane Street towards Chelsea Embankment. ‘Think the Plaza in New York, only more modern.’

‘Will there be any celebrities there?’

‘Wall to wall.’

Cath gripped her arm. ‘Why don’t you invite me to things like this more often? I’ve got a dozen Karen Millen party dresses in my closet collecting dust and my best mate has a hotline to the stars.’

That wasn’t strictly true. They had Sam Charles to thank for this invitation; using his name had been the only way Anna could think to get inside. And she needed to get inside, because there was someone there she desperately needed to meet.

The traffic was in gridlock as they approached the Chelsea Heights, a stand-alone suite-only hotel catering specifically for high-rollers, people who came to the capital for Bond Street and Canary Wharf, people who thought nothing of spending over two thousand pounds per night, breakfast extra. It also incorporated the Duel, London’s first high-concept restaurant, where two Michelin-starred chefs, placed in separate kitchens, would compete nightly to create the best menu possible, no expense spared.

‘This place is amazing,’ gasped Cath as Anna gave their names at the door and they walked into the cavernous lobby. That was an understatement. It was as if someone had taken a giant apple corer and pulled out the centre of the hotel, replacing it with a golden waterfall that cascaded from the roof, disappearing into a hole in the floor of the lobby. It was a marvel of science or civil engineering or magic, thought Anna, not really sure which. It was certainly impressive, though. As was the gathering for the party. TV stars rubbed shoulders with novelists, artists and sports stars.

‘Wow,’ said Cath, clasping at Anna’s arm. ‘Is that David Beckham over there? And Elton John? Oh please, please tell me that you come to things like this every week.’

Anna giggled.

‘I’m afraid not. Most nights I’m still in the office at this time.’

Live jazz floated through the marble lobby, whilst the canapés were like miniature works of art. A handsome waiter handed them each a deep red cocktail and the two girls clinked their glasses together.

‘Well I’d say all that hard work was worthwhile,’ said Cath. ‘I work stupid hours too, and no bugger has ever invited me to anything more glamorous than All Bar One.’

Anna was happy Cath was so excited, but at the same time she felt bad about having dragged her friend into her deception. She scanned the crowd, but there had to be five hundred people packed into the hotel’s lobby, and besides, she only had images from magazines to go on.

‘Listen, Cath . . .’ she began, pulling an awkward face.

‘What is it?’ said Cath warily. ‘I know that look; you’re about to tell me we have to serve the nibbles or something.’

‘No, but I do have a confession to make. I’m here to find a man.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Cath grinned.

‘A specific man, by the name of Johnny Maxwell. He’s a society fixer and I need to charm him into . . . well, it’s something to do with work.’

Cath sighed, putting a hand on her chest. ‘Is that all? Honey, you can chat up Jabba the Hutt for all I care, as long as I get to ogle Beckham’s bum while drinking free booze.’

Anna pulled her BlackBerry from her clutch bag: one message. Sam. She clicked on it: ‘Missing You. S xx’

She looked up to see Cath examining her face suspiciously.

‘What are you smiling at, young lady?’ she said.

‘Just some work thing,’ stammered Anna.