held up a hand. ‘Cute. Drop by my place later; the housekeeper will give you a signed photo.’
‘We thought you were in trouble,’ said Luke, a long blade of grass now in between his teeth. ‘Obviously we needn’t have bothered dropping everything to run to your side.’
She fished in her handbag and pulled out a crisp twenty pound note. ‘That’s for your time.’ Luke shook his head and, whistling, strode back up the drive. ‘Is he gay?’ she whispered. ‘He’s certainly got the body for it. And with some top products he could have great hair. Although his whistling would give me a headache… Why can’t he just wear an iPod like any normal person?’ She passed me the twenty, instead. ‘You take it.’
‘Um, thanks!’ I just couldn’t turn down the chance to hold a banknote that had once belonged to someone famous.
Melissa still wore her glasses. Maybe her eyes were red and swollen. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked softly. ‘That phone call… I couldn’t help hearing…’
She removed her glasses. Were those false eyelashes? And tattooed eyebrows were so cool.
‘Have you ever been let down badly, Kimmy?’
‘Yes, there was that time–’
‘Hurts, doesn’t it,’ she continued. ‘It was going to be one of the most important days of my life.’
‘What was? I hid my hands behind my back, wishing I’d redone the nail varnish before breakfast.
‘I’m having a little get-together this week, for some of the golf wives from the local club. Nothing flash – not like the parties I have with the national birdies. But still – I want to make an effort. Jonny and I have lived here for over a year now, and… I don’t feel like I know them much at all.’ Her smile nearly blinded me as the winter sun caught her Osmond white teeth. ‘Not that I’m bothered, you understand, I’m a busy woman.But the golf on a local level, the social life, it’s still important to Jonny…’
Really? If the tabloids were right, her husband spent most of his time abroad, or in Woburn or London. Perhaps she got lonely out here in the sticks, where the theatre was hardly West End and the common was no Hyde Park. Although Harpenden was only half an hour away on the train from the capital, not that I expect she ever took public transport.
‘I’ve pretended it’s a fundraiser,’ she continued, ‘told them to bring their cheque books. But the real reason, the real surprise…’ She clapped her hands. ‘I’ve arranged for them to all have Botox! A few injections and I’ll be their new best friend.’
‘But I thought you hadn’t had anything done… In all your interviews you say…’
She gave a bright laugh. ‘Some of these ladies are older than me – it’s a favour to them. It goes without saying, I don’t need it yet.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Okay, maybe I’ve had it done once,’ she said and gave another small laugh, ‘as an experiment, nothing more.’
But she’d only just turned thirty! I gazed at her rosebud lips. Maybe she also had fillers and collagen; perhaps dermabrasion or a chemical peel. I studied her face with interest. Reading the gossip magazines practically qualified me to carry out most procedures.
According to Infamous, the top players’ wives didn’t approve of her glamour. She’d only met Jonny a couple of years ago, and they still thought her under their league. Clearly they didn’t know class when they saw it. You only had to flick through the magazine spreads of the Winsfords’ wedding to see that Melissa had good taste. It had taken place right at the beginning of December and was Christmas themed. Melissa wore mini-bauble earrings and a dress trimmed with fur. The vicar let them spray the length of the aisle with fake snow. At the reception there was a whole turkey on each table, with crackers. As for the cake, it was an almost life-sized chocolate Christmas log, decorated with fake robins. Perfect.
‘Has the doctor let you down, then?’ I asked. Perhaps she’d booked some dodgy East European medic you see on those documentaries called things like “Plastic Surgery Holidays from Hell: How My Nipples Fell Off”.
‘Doctor? No, my lovely nail lady, Sandra, is doing it.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without that women, she’s more like a counsellor, the problems she’s helped me talk through whilst she’s filed and buffed. Anyway, no, it’s far worse than that. The top-notch catering I’d ordered – a small exclusive company run by a chef who used to work at Claridge’s… He’s pulled out.’
‘Oh.’ Naughty of me, wasn’t it, to feel disappointed that her upset wasn’t caused by a more sensational story? But I was used to her living her life in the headlines. I wanted the excitement of affairs, drug problems, surgery gone wrong or – every girl’s nightmare – cellulite, weight gain and spots. ‘That’s bad luck,’ I said and tried to sound sympathetic. Adam would have told her to get a life and do the cooking herself.
Melissa shook her head. ‘People nowadays, it’s all me, me, me. Just because his mother died suddenly last night. I mean, I’m only asking for one afternoon out of the week.’
Footsteps approached and Luke walked past with his toolbox whilst I digested her news. Er, she did sound just a bit insensitive. I squirmed, trying to ignore the possibility that one of my favourite celebrities wasn’t perfect after all.
Melissa scrolled through the contacts on her phone. ‘There’s no way I’m cancelling. It took me long enough to get some of those wrinklies to agree to come.’ She caught my eye and gave a nervous giggle. ‘I mean, those lovely ladies are so busy with their charity work and families, they don’t have time to look after themselves properly,’ cooed her velvet tones. ‘I was thrilled to finally find a date they could all make. I’m trying to move them into the twenty-first century and make them more on trend.
On trend. I loved that expression. Yet if I used it I’d sound like Eliza Doolittle trying her luck at being the Speaking Clock.
‘God knows it took long enough to get the national birdies to wear matching jackets, like the Americans,’ continued Melissa. She sighed. ‘The Ryder Cup will be here before I know it. I’ll have to start my pre-tournament diet. You know, the last fancy lunch I went to was at the house of the team’s brightest new player, Jason Lafont. His wife…’
‘Alexandra?’ I’d seen her in one of those more traditional magazines full of recipes, short stories and adverts for clothes with elasticated waists. Mrs Lafont was a more natural version of Melissa, with strawberry blonde waves and natural curves. Much as I admired Melissa’s dedication to her appearance, I’d never have implants, not since reading they could burst on an aeroplane or if you sneezed really loud.
‘Yes. Alexandra,’ she said, as Luke appeared at the front door. ‘She put on miniature fish ‘n’chips in specially made newspaper cones. It was salmon, of course, with sweet potato wedges, balsamic vinegar and pesto ketchup on the side. It was all anyone talked about for weeks afterwards.’
‘Try Kimmy’s cupcakes,’ said Luke, as he strode past, heading towards his van. ‘They’re up there with Mr Kipling’s; exceedingly good.’
Huh? So now he was being nice?
‘I don’t think so.’
