‘And you wanted to stay in tonight,’ giggled Francesca. ‘This is the party of the bloody decade!’
She walked over to a board which had the seating plan laid out on it.
‘According to this, we’re on table 53,’ said Francesca.
‘No, Lana’s on table 53,’ corrected Sophie. ‘And she’s probably been seated right next to her best friend. We can’t just go and sit down in her spot, can we?’
Francesca sighed.
‘I suppose not. Anyway, dinner’s over. I think the live act is about to come on any minute. That Damien Hirst-customised Range Rover has got to be the star prize, hasn’t it?’
Sophie watched in amazement as a white 4×4 drove on to the stage and parked up next to George Clooney’s podium. What credit crunch? she thought.
‘Listen, I’ve got to pee,’ said Francesca. ‘Get me a drink, would you? Nothing with any calories, think of the wedding dress, okay?’
Sophie looked after her friend anxiously, feeling exposed and fraudulent.
‘May I offer madam a Silver Fir?’ said a handsome waiter carrying a tray of glasses containing something that looked cool and green.
‘Yes, certainly,’ said Sophie, reminding herself that she was playing a role. She needed to behave as if this sort of thing happened every day. In fact, shouldn’t I look a bit bored? It was a hard look to pull off, especially as this had to be the most exciting party she could remember going to. She had already seen two actors – three, if you counted the master of ceremonies – and one woman who she recognised as a fashion designer. Every other person looked as if they could be – probably were, for all Sophie knew – talented, famous or both. She was certainly glad that Fran had talked her into wearing this dress; at least she fitted in among the acres of couture. God, she thought suddenly, was her dress couture? Didn’t they cost like fifty grand each? She consciously held her drink further away from the fabric, which suddenly felt even more flimsy than before. Knowing her luck, there would probably be only one of them in existence and word would get back to Lana quicker than you could say ‘house-sitting charlatan’.
‘It’s quite a party, isn’t it?’
Sophie turned to see a man watching her with evident amusement. He was handsome, with dark blond hair pushed off his face, lightly tanned skin and bright blue eyes that seemed to assess everything. Francesca would have noticed his sharp navy suit, and the chunky watch, but Sophie reminded herself that she wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.
‘Yes, it’s fun,’ she said, sipping her drink nervously. She wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to be wildly enthusiastic or feign indifference.
‘They must have raised about twenty million tonight.’
‘Really?’ said Sophie, then remembered her cover story and tried to look as if twenty million was a trifling sum. ‘How much did the car go for?’
‘Well, I bid fifty grand, but I stopped listening when it reached two hundred.’
‘Lucky escape, then,’ said Sophie without thinking.
He gave a smooth, easy smile.
‘You’ve got me. I always bid first on the star item because I know someone will outbid me. Besides, it would have taken me three months to ship the thing home.’
‘To America?’ she said, flushing slightly. Of course he’s American, you idiot, she scolded herself.
‘Is it the accent?’ smiled the man, then held his hand out. ‘Nick Cooper, from Houston. Well, I’m from some no-account backwater actually, but Houston’s where I’m based right now.’
‘Sophie Ellis. I’m from a backwater too. Surrey.’
Nick frowned.
‘Isn’t Surrey like ten miles from London?’
‘When you’re in Chelsea, that’s like being a hillbilly,’ she laughed, widening her eyes.
‘I see,’ he drawled. ‘Moonshine and ’gators, that sort of thing?’
‘Very similar, although it’s more like Pimm’s and ponies.’
‘I clearly haven’t ventured far enough outside the Riverton,’ he said, name-checking one of the most deluxe hotels in town.
‘You should,’ she giggled. ‘Actually no, you’re probably better off staying at the Riverton.’