wasn’t exactly Kate Moss, was she?
Come on, Summer, get real and stop grumbling, she chided herself. A fashion shoot for Your Wedding wasn’t the edgy, ground-breaking high-fashion editorial she had dreamt of doing when she had first started modelling; but at least it was work, something she hadn’t had a great deal of since Christmas. At twenty-four, Summer knew that her modelling shelf-life was running out.
Charlie McDonald was waiting for her in the marbled hall, swatting at the balloons as the bridesmaids were bundled into thick duffle coats by their beaming parents.
‘Are you coming for that drink?’ asked Charlie, throwing his bag over his shoulder.
‘Only if you’re buying,’ said Summer playfully.
‘So, how come I haven’t seen you in castings before?’ asked Charlie as they walked towards the door.
‘I’ve been out of the country for the last few years.’
‘Oh yeah? New York?’
‘Japan,’ said Summer, a little embarrassed. She knew Tokyo was considered rather down-market as far as modelling was concerned. The very top girls went to New York where they could make millions of dollars, while the tall, skinny girls went to Paris where they would make couture dresses look even more exclusive and luxurious. Toyko barely even made it onto the fashion map, but the commercial Japanese market had loved Summer’s glorious girl-next-door perfection, with her flawless, peachy complexion, rosy lips and watery, lavender-blue eyes that shined with such innocence that no one noticed that they were there to sell you overpriced cosmetics. She had been one of the top girls at her Tokyo agency, a big star in her tiny neon universe. It was four years of hard work, but it had boosted her confidence, given her plenty and, most importantly, it meant her mother’s seal of approval.
‘Wow, Tokyo? That’s fantastic!’ said Charlie, without any hint of snobbery. ‘I thought about going out there myself to make a bit of money. Apparently they don’t mind short-arses over there.’
Summer laughed. Charlie probably just scraped six foot, but she could sympathize. The lack of work in London for girls her height – five feet seven – was one of the reasons why she went to Japan in the first place.
‘You should go,’ said Summer, ‘it’s an amazing place. A little strange and fantastically polite, but amazing all the same.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘I have a band. The only reason I model is to pay for guitar strings.
‘Ah-ha!’ said Summer triumphantly, ‘I knew it! So you’re the next Noel Gallagher.’ She had always been jealous of male models. While they rarely got the big bucks that the top female models could command, most men she met on the circuit were using modelling as a stopgap or a passport to other things: students working off a bank loan, wannabe TV presenters getting visibility or actors making a quick buck.
‘Yeah, just like Noel Gallagher,’ smiled Charlie, ‘but with better teeth.’
They walked out onto the streets of Belgravia. With the tall white Georgian houses stretching up around them, her hair still in a bouffant, carriage streetlamps glowing like dandelion clocks, she felt like a heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Sally, Stefan and some of the crew were still huddled in the doorway of the house, sheltering from the spitting rain and debating where to go to drink.
‘What about the Blue Bar for a cocktail?’
‘I’m not paying a tenner for a drink,’ grumbled Charlie. ‘Aren’t there any pubs around here?’
‘Well, what about the Grenadier?’ said Sally looking directly at Charlie. ‘I saw Madonna in there once.’
‘No one famous is going to be out tonight,’ said Jenny the make-up artist, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. ‘It’s that big party in South London tonight, isn’t it?’
Summer felt a sudden sense of panic. ‘Oh shit!’ she said, and started looking up and down the street for a taxi.
‘What’s up?’ asked Charlie.
‘I promised my mum I’d go out with her,’ groaned Summer.
‘Hot date at the bingo?’
Summer laughed at the image. ‘My mum is probably more rock ’n’ roll than anyone you’ve ever met in the music industry.’
‘Excellent! Get her down to the Grenadier!’ said Charlie.
Summer doubted her mum had been to anywhere as down-market as a pub since the 1970s.
‘What are we waiting for over there?’ said Sally Stevenson irritably, unhappy that Summer was monopolizing Charlie.
A black cab pulled up to the kerb, and Summer quickly spoke to the driver. ‘I’d better go,’ said Summer apologetically, clunking the door open.
Charlie rifled around in his bag and pulled out a CD. ‘My band,’ he said, handing it to her with an endearingly nervous expression, like a twelve-year old schoolboy who’d just plucked up the courage to ask a girl out for the first time. ‘Give it a listen. If you like it, we’re playing at the Monarch a week on Thursday. You should come down and hear us.’
She felt a little spike of affection as he pulled a copy of NME out of his bag and held it over his hair as the rain got harder.
‘And if I hate it?’ she asked.
‘Come down anyway.’
As the cab began to turn back up the street, Summer pulled down the window to tell Charlie she would try to make it. As she passed the group, she could see Sally Stevenson sidle up to Charlie and say, ‘Funny fish, that one, isn’t she?’
She couldn’t hear Charlie’s reply.
Karin strode into the Great Hall of Strawberry Hill House to give it one final check before heading back to London to get a blow-dry. It was certainly a magnificent room and Karin had very, very high standards. The marble pillars had been wrapped in gold-tipped ivy matching the mansion’s incredible gilded ceilings. The ballroom was studded with bay trees sprayed white, and a long catwalk extended through the sea of tables – Karin had insisted that the vital ingredient of the night’s entertainment would be a showcase of the Karin Cavendish cruise collection. There were ice sculptures, huge vases of Calla lilies and a small stage festooned with waves of ivory voile on which Havana’s finest jazz band were due to play. She stood back and smiled. She knew she had got it just right.
Karin had spent three months deciding on this venue for the global warming benefit dinner because it had to be perfect. Central London was out; the venues which could accommodate big numbers for dinner and dancing were so over used and frankly, a little déclassé. No, Karin knew that if the Stop Global Warming benefit was going to make a splash, it would have to be somewhere elegant and original, and in Strawberry Hill House, a stunning Gothic mansion fifteen miles outside London, she knew she had found the place. Even being so bloody far from Chelsea had its benefits; at least thirty guests were arriving by helicopter, adding a further dash of exclusivity to the evening. The irony of using helicopters
