They had no idea, the Emmas and the Sachas and the Benedicts, of what the world was like for most of the population, despite the desire to entertain and document them.
But her avoidance of the limelight had blown up in her face in more than one way. Firstly, Mark claimed that her unwillingness to enjoy his success helped push him into the arms of Sam. Mark said that the affair was over, really, before it started.
‘It meant nothing. It was a terrible mistake. I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.’
As though it wasn’t far too late to say this.
As a rule, Melissa worked hard to keep her younger self hidden; the small, hard Matryoshka doll that lurked beneath lacquered layers. Mark’s grovelling words, which seemed to drip so easily from his lying lips, finally forced her out of hiding.
Melissa was as shocked as he was when she hit him, and the yellowish patina of his bruised cheek was noticed by Make-Up when he next turned up for filming.
But Melissa was being carried on a tide now, one that washed her to Sam’s flat in a mansion block in Swiss Cottage. The younger woman’s eyes rounded almost comically and she gave a small gasp, like a hiss of gas from a balloon, as Melissa stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of her.
Melissa spoke to her in a measured, calm voice. Afterwards, Sam scurried away on her long, coltish legs, scarlet-cheeked and breathing heavily. She’d left the programme soon after.
They never spoke of it again but the gears of their marriage seemed to turn with more friction now; small irritations Melissa had previously overlooked grated more than ever.
Mark suggested a meal out one evening – ‘to talk’. They went to the new restaurant that had opened down the road, which had just appeared in the Observer magazine. It was as they stepped towards the white canopy of The Bay, between miniature bay trees in square metal pots, that a photograph was snapped – or stolen – as Melissa thought of it. She hadn’t even noticed a flash.
But a week later, a friend of Saskia’s had spotted the Society pages piece in Hello! magazine. Melissa, smiling, in her black sheath dress and heels, making an effort, and ‘Handsome Baby Doc Mark’, solicitously touching the small of his wife’s back as they entered, ‘the exciting new eatery that has opened close to the glamorous couple’s Dartmouth Park home.’
Saskia had been surprised by Melissa’s muted reaction to the piece, and then sympathetic about the sudden onset of food poisoning that sent Melissa rushing to the downstairs toilet, where she vomited and shook so hard that she could feel her teeth rattling in her skull.
It was just one picture. It meant nothing.
That’s what she told herself in the coming weeks, and she almost began to believe it.
But lately Melissa can’t seem to shake the feeling that her whole world is simply a snow globe that could tip over and shatter into a million lethal pieces with the slightest push of a fingertip.
Glancing out of the window on the landing now, Melissa sees that the sky seems to be slung low, like a heavy white blanket. The light has a sickly, oppressive edge to it and the house feels full of shadows. Maybe this headache is a warning that a thunderstorm is coming. It feels as though even the weather is out to sabotage the day.
Giving herself a mental shake, Melissa walks into the kitchen and feels marginally better at the industry there. The caterers have been busy all morning and the fridge is heaving with platters and dishes of colourful, tastefully arranged food, but every surface is clean and shining, ready for the guests to arrive a little later.
Ocado have been and gone; the flowers have been delivered – a tall arrangement of lilies that perfectly offsets the newly hung green and gold wallpaper. Really, everything is looking perfect.
Melissa sweeps her hair back from her shoulders, taking care not to ruin its smooth line. Now she only has to slip into the dress and sandals she bought for today and then it won’t be long until the first guests arrive.
Finally, she allows herself to feel a ripple of pleasurable anticipation. The house looks great, she looks great, and it will be the kind of day that makes all her hard work worthwhile.
Today is about her, Melissa.
And Tilly. Of course.
The doorbell chimes and Melissa walks down the hallway to open the door, wondering if there are any deliveries she has forgotten about.
‘Ah,’ she sighs. ‘Hello.’
Hester – stiff helmet hair, horrible pink blouse, and brown slacks – smiles shyly up at her. She’s a small, scurrying sort of a woman who reminds Melissa of a squirrel.
Melissa hates squirrels.
The sight of Hester now causes a claustrophobic sensation of disappointment to crowd in, as if she is literally stealing her air. It takes her brain a second or two to see that the other woman appears to be holding a tray of scones, of all things.
‘What can I do for you?’ she says, eyeing them suspiciously, her smile tight but bright.
Something shifts in Hester’s expression and she lowers the tray a little before her prim lips twitch.
‘It’s good to see you, Melissa,’ she says. ‘Well, I can see you’re having a function of some kind and I know you must be very busy. I was at a loose end today and I’ve been doing some baking. I made rather too many scones. I wondered if you might find a use for them?’
Irritation spikes in Melissa’s chest.
Function?
It’s such a blatant lie that she had accidentally ‘made too many scones’. There seem to be a thousand of the bloody things on that tray.
Scones are definitely not going to sit alongside polenta with figs, red onion and goat’s cheese, or the balsamic-glazed pecans with rosemary and sea salt.
‘It’s okay, thank you, Hester,’ says Melissa, smiling warmly to stifle the strange urge to scream. ‘I’m quite covered for food. I have caterers, you see.’
The polite refusal seems to pierce the other woman. Her face slackens around the jaw and her shoulders sag. She’s always been passive-aggressive, Melissa thinks. It’s why she has tried to keep her distance in recent times.
Melissa takes a deep, steadying breath. Did people have to be so oversensitive? She knows what she’s going to have to say. Mark thinks it’s funny to call her the Ice Queen, but she doesn’t actually want to go around actively upsetting people. She comforts herself with the thought that Hester will probably be too intimidated to accept the invitation. It isn’t really her sort of party, after all; her with her scones and her 1970s ‘do’.
‘But I’m very grateful for the offer, Hester,’ she continues. ‘And, um …’ The words gather, oversized and chewy, in her mouth. ‘Would you like to drop by at some point later? It’s nothing fancy,’ she adds in a hurry, ‘just a small gathering. I’m sure you’ve got better things to …’
‘I’d love to!’ Hester’s response rings out, a little too shrill, before Melissa has even finished her sentence. Her face and neck flush and blotch with pleasure.
