Kardash—?’
Apart from the pink glow to her cheeks, Sophie has been unruffled by her high-powered guests. But she’s dipped behind them now, and she’s making desperate throat-cutting signs.
I’m not the best at thinking on my feet, but Sophie’s agonised stare has me jumping in so fast I cut Ms Marie Claire off in mid name-drop. ‘We’re absolutely not at liberty to say.’ No idea where that came from. But I’m pretty damned impressed with my speed.
Ms Marie Claire’s eyes are popping. ‘You’ve signed her confidentiality clause?’ She claps her hands together triumphantly. ‘Don’t say anything more, that’s everything we need to know. We’ll be in touch next week about a feature.’
Sophie’s nodding frantically now, gesturing me to carry on.
I’m racking my brains trying to remember what’s upmarket London-speak for ‘great’. Or anything English would do. All I can think of is chouette, which is French for ‘owl’, but means ‘cool’. ‘Lovely … sick … fabulous … jolly brill …’ As the words flood out, I’m getting throat cutting signs from Sophie again.
By the time my rush has subsided, Ms Marie Claire has downed her drink, taken a sea life ‘selfie’, and as they hurry off to catch their train, I’m already up on Instagram.
I shake my head at Sophie. ‘Shit. They were decisive. What was all that about?’
Sophie gives a guilty squirm. ‘We don’t actually supply Kim. I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away the chance of so much national exposure.’ Her face breaks into a grin as Plum and Nell swish across to join us. ‘Fab team effort here, we’ve just nailed Vouge and Marie Claire. And as it’s so long since we’ve had all you mer-girls together in one place, I need a picture myself.’
When I say Sophie and I go way back, I’m not exaggerating. I mean all the way to our mums meeting up at the ‘Mums and Bumps’ group when they were pregnant. Plum and Nell were very late to the party because we only met them at Tumble Tots. Our whole childhood we danced, played, went to the beach, fought, had picnics and grew up together running wild over long lazy summers. Some of us have gone away and come back again. But somehow we’re all still here for each other, and still the firmest of friends.
Sophie slides out her phone. ‘At least you won’t be on Insta in a bikini top made from scallop shells, which was what Plum originally planned.’
Plum was born ‘Victoria’, but that was never going to work on a round, rosy-cheeked toddler, so to us she’s always been Plum. She pushes back her dark silky hair and squints down her slashed silk neckline to her non-existent cleavage and lets out a groan. ‘Shells were my only hope of making my mer-boobs look bigger.’
Sadly, as fast as she shed her chub I gained it. These days Plum is Topshop skinny but I’m Bravissimo all the way. While some of us struggle to zip up our large size 14s, her skimpy size 8s billow in the wind. But even if she looks every inch the hungry artist, in reality she’s anything but. The gallery we’re in now was a disused chandlery until Plum got her hands on it soon after leaving art college. She stripped it out to use as a studio, and over the years has turned it into a thriving business selling pieces for other artists as well as herself. Although, obviously, it doesn’t quite have the multi-million turnover of Sophie May.
After a swift glance round the lofty white room and the six-foot-high seascapes, Plum turns back to me. ‘A quick warning now the local crowd’s arriving. Word on the street is you’re back to move into a penthouse, Clemmie.’ There’s a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Most people’s money is on the snazzy new apartments at Rock Quay.’
If you want to keep your life private, don’t come to St Aidan. Although I’ve timed my trip to catch Sophie’s launch party, my main reason for returning is because the sitting tenant’s moved out of the flat I inherited by default years ago. But even if I’d got my hands on a mansion, I’d still have no intention of sticking around.
I can’t help my grin at how wrong the St Aidan grapevine is. ‘It’s more of an ancient attic from what I remember. And believe me, I won’t be here for long.’
Plum winds a strand of hair around her fingers. ‘Bangkok still buzzing? Or is it Stockholm? Or was that Prague?’
I can’t blame her for not keeping up. ‘It’s actually Paris and it’s great, thanks – for now.’ There’s no point saying any more. Plum, Sophie and Nell are so in love with St Aidan’s jumble of pastel coloured cottages clinging to the hillside, they couldn’t exist anywhere else. They’re all as settled as I am rootless. They can’t imagine living without the echo of the waves rushing up the beach, and the familiar clink of the rigging on the boats bobbing in the harbour. If I explained non-stop for a month, they’d never get that for me St Aidan isn’t enough. That after half a day away from Paris, I’m aching for the broad boulevards and big elegant buildings and the round-the-clock roar of the traffic. They don’t get that the world beyond here is huge. And they totally miss that when Paris dulls I’ll move on and feel the thrill all over again somewhere new. Even though my jobs are what they call ‘shit’ ones, and my career trajectory is non-existent, at least they allow me to move. To be free.
Nell comes in for the last macaroon. ‘So what are you doing this time?’ She’s a hot shot accountant, who admits the lure of her job is the salary not the excitement. So, she’s always up for hearing my more outlandish work stories.
I start to take a deep breath but stop halfway. In the five years since Sophie’s wedding, my dress must have shrunk in the wardrobe. A lot. ‘At the moment, I run errands for Maude, who teaches at the Sorbonne. I open her jars of fish soup. Buy her artichokes from the market. Top up her Post-it note supplies. Check she hasn’t got lettuce stuck in her teeth when she leaves the flat. Stuff like that. She’s addicted to tea and needs Liptons on the hour. And a Porn Star Martini on the dot of five.’ I worked my way round the world doing bar work, but lately I’ve progressed to personal assistant positions. And this one sounds a lot more awful than it is. There’s time to dash out between brews. I get Friday afternoons off when Maude goes to her masseuse. Best of all, the job comes with a room and a view. When I stand on tiptoe and wrench my neck I can see the Eiffel Tower from my window. You’ve no idea how magical it is to look out at that shadow of crisscross of pencil lines in the day, the trace of pin prick lights in the dark.
‘Even better, I’ve got a few weeks paid leave while she’s away on a research trip, which is why I’ve made my dash to Cornwall now.’ I’m beaming because this is the first holiday pay I’ve ever got my hands on. The circle of faces is much less impressed than I’d anticipated. I don’t quite get why, but I’m staring at a mix of puzzlement and despair.
When Nell breaks the silence, she’s sounding bright and the subject change is jarring. ‘Well, the good news here is our St Aidan’s Singles scene is buzzing, so it’s great you’ll be around for that. We’re doing Strictly Single Tea Dances at the Harbourside Hotel, Scare Yourself Shitless Ghost Walks, Under the Table Gin Tasting at the Hungry Shark, and our Whale Watching Weekend boat trips around the bay are always brilliant.’ That’s the other thing about Nell. Since her break-up a couple of years ago she’s thrown herself into the Singles’ Club.
How things change when you’re gone. ‘There are whales in the bay?’
Nell’s brow furrows. ‘Not exactly. But the trips are proving better than Loctite as far as couples go.’ The only problem is, she’s so immersed in organising everyone else, so far she’s failed to grab a man for herself. She lets out a low laugh. ‘Leave it to me,
