Vanity. Lucy Lord

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      ‘José, mate, I’m dealin’ with people who want old shit.’

      He rolled his eyes again and Poppy whispered to Bella,

      ‘Once he’s played the music for Natalia, we can all chuck him in, fucking CrackBerry and all.’

      Bella giggled and jumped back into the pool, feeling as wonderfully mad as good mad can feel. Poppy joined her and they swam over to the island for another line. The entire party was rocking now, the best (or worst) of London’s media twats splashing about in the water, smoking dope in hammocks or just ecstatic at the sounds of their own voices as they pontificated. Poppy worked in TV production, Damian in the men’s magazine world; it was hardly surprising that a large proportion of the guest list was very pleased with itself indeed. Most of them had started believing their own publicity years ago.

      ‘Oh, Pops, I love you.’ The girls exchanged soggy and effusive hugs on the island. ‘HAPPY WEDDING!’

      ‘Yay! Happy my wedding too!’ Poppy lay back on the deck in her virginal white bikini and said, with all the seriousness that a drunk and coked-up bride could muster, ‘But also, babes, I’m so happy you’re so happy with Andy. He’s a wonderful man.’

      ‘Yes, he is,’ said Bella dreamily. Then she laughed. ‘Just listen to us. It’s your wedding. Damian’s a wonderful man too, and I’ve never seen you look so beautiful.’

      Poppy shrugged it off, as only somebody who’s been told she’s beautiful every day of her life can.

      ‘No, Andy’s better.’

      ‘No, Damian’s better.’

      ‘Andy’s better.’

      ‘Damian’s better.’

      ‘Andy!’

      ‘Damian!’

      And on and on they went until Poppy pushed Bella into the water. Bella pulled Poppy in after her by a slender ankle and they laughed and laughed, looking up at the Balearic stars as they floated on extraordinary buoyant fake water lilies that glittered in the myriad lights of the pool.

      After a bit, Poppy said, ‘Let’s go and find our wonderful men and see if Pig Sean has managed to find the Beatles track for Natalia yet.’

      ‘Pig Sean!’ Bella spluttered, nearly falling off her fake lily. ‘That’s brilliant, Pops!’

      ‘I know. Just call me Oscar Wilde,’ retorted Poppy solemnly. And arm-in-arm, they walked up the pool’s wide, mosaic-tiled steps, happy as pigs in shit.

      Natalia wasn’t used to letting her defences drop. In fact she couldn’t remember the last time she had danced with such abandon, but Poppy and Bella had told Pig Sean to play ‘Back in the USSR’ for her, and insisted that everybody – even the guests enjoying themselves on other terraces – danced around her main pool to it. She loved the song, of course she did, especially the bit about the Ukraine girls knocking the Beatles out. She could remember her mamushka playing black-market Beatles LPs when she was a little girl back in Kiev. But for all her apparently insouciant glamour, she would never have insisted on it herself; she wanted everything cool by DJ standards. They were so lucky, these English kids, with their automatic assumption that people wouldn’t call them tacky. They could be ‘retro’ or ‘ironic’ and still considered cool. For Natalia (aged 39 forever) the line was too narrow.

      Bella’s ridiculous father was shouting along to the chorus, thrusting his skinny hips at her.

      Ha! You would be so lucky, Natalia thought. Men like you used to pay me five grand a night.

      Something snapped inside her, and for the first time in years she allowed herself to let her hair down in public. Literally. She unleashed the painfully tight ponytail and shook her platinum-blonde hair around her face as she gyrated round the fabulous property that she had worked so long and hard for.

      The crowd whooped and cheered. Quite staggeringly, not a single person was talking about him- or herself, all mesmerized by the ice queen apparently melting. Poppy and Bella, both still in their bikinis, were dancing around her, swishing their wet hair madly.

      Once it had finished, Poppy took the mike from Pig Sean.

      ‘Can we all now raise our glasses to our fabulous hostess, Natalia Evanovitch! Hostess with the mostest!’

      ‘Hostess with the mostest!’ people hollered drunkenly, though some of them were now starting to lose interest and wanted to talk about themselves again.

      ‘Natalia, we love you. Thank you so much for everything,’ said Poppy, as Damian approached with an enormous bouquet of lilies. He kissed Natalia, and the less self-absorbed people still watching cheered some more.

      ‘Natalia, we can never thank you enough for your generosity, so … I’ll spare your blushes. Enough’s enough, but one more toast, please, ladies and gentlemen … NATALIA!’

      ‘NATALIA!’

      Pig Sean put his shades on.

      ‘Can I go now?’ he said petulantly. ‘I’m starting my set at Space in two hours.’

      ‘Feel free,’ said Poppy, winking at Bella. ‘And I’d like to thank you for being so gracious and accommodating. It’s really made my wedding special.’

      As Pig Sean walked along the edge of the pool to collect his DJ stuff, Poppy gave him a little shove. Caught off guard, he went flying into the water. The look of indignation on his arrogant face was priceless, and although (or perhaps because) Poppy’s gesture was so childish, all the people who generally considered themselves sophisticated pissed themselves laughing.

      Natalia’s white-blonde hair was wavy about her face, her slanty, wide-apart eyes almost invisible with laughter.

      ‘Oh, you guys,’ she eventually spluttered. ‘I cannot recall more fun ever. Thank you!’

      She reclined on one of her incredibly expensive sun loungers and looked up at the stars, laughing happily.

      She was still smiling to herself as she sat on her terrace, at the top of her tower – the one above the semicircular chill-out room. She had just risen and the party was still going strong somewhere in her massive villa, but she, Natalia, had had enough by about six a.m. and had taken herself up to her own private sanctum.

      She had a baby hangover, but that was OK. It had been worth it. Natalia only took two, maybe three lines of cocaine on special occasions, and she paced herself with the champagne. She had always had to keep her wits about her. For a moment, she felt envious of Poppy and Bella, so stupidly wasted in the pool, and having so much fun – the worst they could ever have from a hangover was embarrassment. Natalia knew differently.

      She could hear some music. Aha – that’s where they all were – around the back, singing along to some ridiculous song about being in the mood for dancing. Then multiple splashes. The deep thud thud thud of a very different kind of dance music had been reverberating, almost lulling her to sleep, yet now they put on this? Again, she envied their total confidence that whatever rubbish (and this music was rubbish) they played, nobody would sneer. She loved the fact that people were enjoying her hospitality, but СКАЧАТЬ