the well-worn path of pretty It-girls before her and marry well.
She had managed to bag Robert Charles Baker, Old Etonian and successful merchant banker, whom she had met at The Cow gastro-pub in Westbourne Grove twelve months earlier. Robert Charles Baker had led a very grey life up until the point he had met Melissa, and was more than happy to acquiesce to her desire for Hello! to cover the wedding. The couple had been even more delighted when Elmore had told them he was bringing Serena Balcon as his guest, which would substantially increase the celebrity quota of the wedding, and hopefully the money Melissa could demand from the magazine. Serena, on the other hand, had failed to share their enthusiasm when Elmore had first invited her, initially refusing to go on the grounds that celebrity magazine weddings were just tacky.
She hadn’t taken that much persuading, however. All summer, with the exception of the catastrophe that had been the Huntsford Musical Evening, Serena had deliberately kept a low profile. Not only had she enjoyed retreating into her shell to lick her wounds, but her absence from the scene had had the welcome effect of making people more desperate for gossip, pictures and information about her life. But it was now October and, as the weeks had rolled on, media interest had waned. Even more alarmingly, a new batch of girls were being discussed in the press. She had instructed her publicist to turn down so many requests for cover interviews that the magazines had simply stopped calling.
In a strange, twisted way, Serena missed having her mobile phone clogged up with random callers from the tabloids and the long-lens snappers camping outside her home. Serena Balcon would never be forgotten, but there was just the slightest chill of worry blowing through her life right now. Yes, it had been her decision to take a little time out, but she was well aware how this game was played, and the last thing she wanted was her next appearance in the press to be a paparazzi shot of her all pregnant and big-breasted. She wanted to retreat and then emerge, butterfly-like, in January, once she had delivered the baby. But perhaps a little show-stopping publicity wouldn’t hurt in the meantime.
Almost as if reading her thoughts, Elmore gave her a sly sideways glance and grinned. ‘You know, Melissa is a beautiful girl, but I think she may be in danger of being upstaged by you this afternoon. You look utterly ravishing. Even if a tad naughty for wearing white.’
Serena looked down at her wonderful silk dress, so fine you could see a suggestion of her La Perla underwear underneath. Its neckline was deeply scooped, with tiny pearl buttons running all the way down the front, the bottom half of which Serena had left half undone to show a length of creamy leg. Her figure had filled out a little, the curve of her bump evident, so her form filled the dress like a delicious Greek urn, the fabric draping over it. Finishing the look with a pair of bronze high-heeled sandals with straps that wound all the way up her calves, and a thick gold bangle on her wrist, she looked like a ripe Grecian goddess.
‘Anyway, I’m not wearing white, I’m wearing blush.’
‘You’re terrible,’ smiled Elmore. And they both laughed.
The Chateau d’Or was one of the hottest destination restaurant/hotels in England, its marble mantelpiece straining under the weight of the many culinary awards it had scooped in the two years since its revamp. Once a grand old stately home modelled on one of the great Loire Valley chateaux, it had recently been transformed into a deluxe Michelin-starred restaurant. But the chateau’s popularity was as much to do with the sexy, sumptuous suites that peppered the grounds. It was the number one venue for romantic weekenders from all over Europe, and the Melissa and Robert nuptials had taken over the whole place for the day. Lime trees flanked the long gravel drive, while the dove-grey stone chateau had four dreamy turrets pointing into the strong blue autumn sky. The ceremony itself was due to take place in the vast conservatory at the back of the building, which had been decked out with tropical flowers and melting ice sculptures shaped into the initials of the bride and groom.
It was not difficult to work out which side was the bride’s and which was the groom’s, one half being awash with Roberto Cavalli, Dolce & Gabanna leopardskin, plumed Philip Treacy hats and the exotic smell of bespoke scent; the other half traditionally British and sombre, packed with a collection of morning suits in various shades of grey, kilts and old school ties. The Hello! photographers sprang into action when Serena walked through the door, their motors whirring frantically as she expertly posed for the shots. Despite not being a real acquaintance, let alone a close relative, Serena was ushered to the second row where all eyes were upon her, greedily inspecting what she was wearing.
Desperate to have a good look around the room to see who else was there, but knowing she shouldn’t appear too eager, Serena stared at her order of service until the music announced the entrance of the bride. From the corner of her eye, Serena examined Robert Charles Baker with a critical eye. A young, early thirties’ face made older by a serious expression and a country solicitor’s haircut, he had watery eyes and a weak chin. His rugby-player’s physique had run to seed, thanks to too many hours behind a desk. He must have thought his luck was in with Melissa, she smiled to herself. It was a classic case of the W11 compromise, where coltish models with a bog-standard background and no real talent would give good genes to the plain, whey-faced upper-middle classes – men whose public-school-bred arrogance made them believe they deserved gorgeous girls rather than the cosy, Alice-banded Sloanes they were far more suited to. Finally all heads turned as the strains of Paul Weller’s ‘You Do Something To Me’ filled the glass room and Melissa floated down the makeshift aisle.
‘What’s she wearing? What’s she wearing?’ hissed Elmore, straining to look. ‘She told me she was going “boho bride”.’ Melissa’s dress was loose and billowy; yards of snow-white organza falling from a high, Empire-line waistband, the sleeves voluminous and trumpet-shaped in the sheerest voile, like some medieval princess’s robe. Her dark chestnut hair hung loose, parted in the centre and falling in long, Pre-Raphaelite waves down either side of her face, cascading onto her shoulders. Instead of a tiara, she was wearing a fine gold headband. ‘All very Ali McGraw,’ whispered Elmore, his head turned almost 180 degrees.
‘Ali Baba more like,’ giggled Serena, turning to look towards the front again. ‘What on earth is that gold headband all about? Has she come as Flash Gordon?’
Satisfied that she was by far the most beautiful and well-dressed woman in the room, Serena settled back to enjoy the ceremony. Of course, it wasn’t her idea of a dream wedding: she found the notion of getting married in what was essentially a hotel more than a little common. Despite having no religious convictions whatsoever, she still thought that floating down a cathedral aisle with a train the length of an Olympic-sized swimming pool was the way to do it. But even Serena found it hard to remain cynical for very long. She’d tried to snort when the couple recited their homemade vows, but she had secretly felt quite touched when Robert and Melissa had kissed for the first time as man and wife and a warm roar of applause had rippled around the room.
As Robert and Melissa walked hand in hand up the aisle and the crowds filed out of the conservatory amid a swell of good-natured banter, Serena’s hands unconsciously began to stroke the curve of her pregnant belly. Just for a second she felt the hollow of loneliness. Shaking her head, she grabbed Elmore’s hand.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she whispered, aware that people were beginning to look at her. ‘I haven’t had a drink in about three months, but right now I could murder one.’
‘Hello, sister-in-law! Well. Prospective sister-in-law.’
Serena, sitting at her table in the banqueting hall, turned to see David Goldman standing in front of her, holding a glass of champagne, wearing the expression of someone for whom sobriety was soon to be a distant memory. Smiling, she stood, matching him in height in her four-inch Grecian sandals.
‘Sister in law?’
