NINE
IT WAS like looking at a stranger.
A glamorous, sexy stranger.
Zara blinked in disbelief at the image which gleamed back at her from the long mirror—all curves and shadows and expanses of unaccustomed bare flesh. How long since she had looked like this—like a real woman instead of a drudge? Though come to think of it, she could never remember looking quite like this before.
The acid-green satin dress clung to her body like syrup, delicate fabric pooling to the floor in a silken stream. It was light years away from her usual jeans and sloppy T-shirts—but the differences didn’t stop there. Her eyes looked huge and sooty above carefully highlighted cheekbones and her usual ponytail had been replaced with a slick and grown-up chignon, leaving her bare neck feeling curiously vulnerable. Fake diamonds sparkled at her throat and hung in glittering waterfalls from her ears. She narrowed her eyes. Didn’t she look just a little…ostentatious?
Resisting the urge to chew on her carefully manicured nails, she looked down at her friend, who was kneeling on the floor at her feet. ‘Emma, I can’t,’ she croaked.
‘Can’t what?’ Emma gave the silken hem of the dress a final tug.
‘I can’t gatecrash this party—I’m a waitress, not a socialite! I can’t target some mystery Russian billionaire because you think he’d be good for your business. And I can’t carry off wearing the kind of outfit which makes me feel as if I’m not wearing anything at all. Shall I go on?’
Emma took the pin out of her mouth. ‘Rubbish! Of course you can. You’ll be doing us both a favour. I get to showcase one of my dresses to one of the world’s richest men—and you get your first night out since heaven only knows when. Believe me, Zara, chances like this don’t come along very often. Nikolai Komarov owns department stores in every major city in the world and he’s a connoisseur of beautiful women. He’s itching to have me design a collection for him or to clothe his latest mistress—he just doesn’t know it yet!’
Zara glanced down at the gossip magazine which was open to reveal a black and white photo of the Russian oligarch and more doubts pricked over her skin as his pale and strangely intense eyes seemed to bore straight into her like twin laser beams. ‘And I’m supposed to give him your business card?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because…because it’s like I’m going to be touting for trade at a social occasion.’
‘Nonsense. They’ll all be doing it. It’s what’s known in the business world as networking. It isn’t as if you’re hurting anybody, is it? And anyway, you could do with something like this. How long is it since you had any real enjoyment?’
Enjoyment? Zara’s fingers tightened around the little feathered concoction of a handbag she was holding because her friend’s question had touched a nerve. And maybe the nerve was rawer than she’d thought. It did seem an eternity since she had been out anywhere—unless it was to the grocery store or pharmacy at the end of the road. Her beloved godmother’s final illness had dragged on and on until death had seemed like a release from all the little indignities and sadnesses she had borne along the way.
For months, Zara’s life had been dominated by the sickroom while she had nursed the woman who hadn’t even been a blood relative. But her loyalty to the lady who’d taken her in after the death of her parents meant that she’d dropped her studies to care for her without a second thought. Day and night she had juggled meals, care, bills and medicines—and waitressing for Emma’s mother’s catering company whenever she could squeeze it in.
And when it had all been over, and the last of the all-too-few sympathy cards had been read, Zara had felt lonely and bereft. As if too much had happened for her to ever contemplate returning to the carefree student life she’d known before. There were still debts to be settled, too—and her grim determination not to lose the little house she’d been bequeathed seemed to dominate her thoughts. An unknown future lay ahead of her, and it was scary.
‘So why not have a little fun, Zara? Why not be a Cinderella for the night and dance all your cares away? You know you’ll be doing me a huge favour.’
Zara gave a wry smile as Emma’s voice butted into her thoughts. Could she? If only cares could simply be danced away—how much simpler the world would be. Yet maybe her friend was right. What was stopping her from having a little light-hearted diversion? Unless she was secretly yearning for the alternative scenario of yet another night spent worrying about the stack of unpaid bills, which wouldn’t seem to go away …
‘Okay,’ she said, drawing her shoulders back and taking one last look at her reflection. ‘I’ll go. I’ll enjoy wearing this exquisite gown you’ve created and try to enjoy being on the other side of a tray for once—drinking the champagne instead of handing it out! And I’ll walk up to this Russian oligarch of yours and give him your card. How’s that? ‘
‘Perfect! I’ve primed the other waitresses about it and they think it’s a wonderful idea. I guess they can’t really object, since my mum is the one who’s employing them and she’s not even in the country! Now go! Go on—go!’
Clutching the crumpled money her friend had thrust at her, Zara walked out of the small studio in too-high heels and hailed the welcoming light of a black cab before she had time to change her mind about a scheme which seemed to be growing crazier by the second.
The summer evening was still light and every flower in the capital seemed to be in bloom, but as the taxi drew up outside the Embassy her heart began to race. What if she was discovered—a humble waitress masquerading as a bonafide guest? An imposter who had no right to be there. Wouldn’t they throw her out and kick up the most tremendous fuss in the process? Yet the man who collected her ticket at the door did nothing other than flick her a quick, admiring glance and Zara drew a deep breath as she walked into the gleaming ballroom.
The vast room looked spectacular. Glittering chandeliers threw diamond lights over tall vases of scarlet roses and a string quartet was playing on a raised dais in front of a shiny, bare dance-floor. She glanced at the other guests and thought how amazing they looked.
Especially the female guests. Their diamonds were the real thing and surely that stood out by a mile. Was the rich Russian really going to be impressed by what she was wearing—a hand-crafted gown made by an ambitious young fashion student—when there was so much screamingly expensive couture in this room?
