A Spectrum Story for Christmas

By

Caroline Smith

Note: Dianne Simms is the real name of Rhapsody Angel, and this is a back-story set in late 2062/early 2063.

Lady Dianne Helena Louise Simms negotiated the drizzling, traffic-clogged streets of central London in her electric-blue Mini-Jazz and sighed with exasperation. She hated driving slowly, anywhere. The fault lay with a familial speed-gene, which she inherited, in all likelihood, from her great-uncle George, who placed himself firmly in the history books when he won his eighth Formula One championship title in a row at the Monaco Grand Prix in 2017.

The lights changed ahead and the queue of traffic crawled forward. A cyclist weaved suicidally between the Mini and a huge lorry and Dianne gave another impatient sigh, drumming her manicured fingernails on the leather-covered steering wheel. At this rate she might get home for Christmas, which, in reality, was only around the corner. Although it was still November the pavements were packed with early festive shoppers and it reminded her that she probably needed to get started on her present list at some point.

After what seemed like an eternity she finally turned into the small cul-de-sac street and the Chelsea mews-house that she shared with her long-time girlfriend, the Honourable Alexandra Fanshaw. The house actually belonged to Dianne’s parents, but it made eminently better sense for Dianne to stay there during her studies at London University, without having to fork out an exorbitant rent for some hovel in one of the less salubrious parts of London.

Dianne fumbled for her key-card in order to open the lock at the entry-port, and finally let out a long sigh of relief when she entered the blissfully warm hallway.

“Sandra, I’m back!” she called out, and dropped the two overflowing bags of tins of soup, duck and venison pate and assorted crackers onto the floor of the tiny kitchen,

“In here,” a voice returned her greeting, and Dianne wandered into the living room to find Sandra sprawled on the sofa clutching an ice bag to her dark-haired head with one hand and flicking through a copy of Harpers and Queen with the other.

“Sorry, Di, I should help helped you in with the shopping but I'm shattered, had to leave work early with a pounding head.”

“Oh dear, not one of your migraines again?” Dianne said, as she flopped onto a bright chintzy armchair opposite the cream-leather sofa.

“No, thank heaven, just a boring everyday headache. I think I can head it off at the pass, I’ve practically consumed the contents of the medicine cabinet.”

“Bad day?”

“You can say that again. Lady Thelwell came in for her Mother-of-the- Bride fitting today. I must have displayed the entire store selection, and can you believe there wasn’t one single thing that took her fancy?”

“Poor you,” Dianne consoled. “That’s enough to do anyone in. What you need is a nice cup of tea. I replenished our supply of Earl Grey during my little trip to Fortnum and Mason’s.”

“Go on then, but no biscuits, I’m on a diet starting from today.”

“Not another one.”

Sandra sniffed. “It’s all right for you – one of those annoying people with a fast metabolism. Me, I just need to look at a crumpet or biscuit to go up a dress size.” She sighed and shifted the bag against her head. “I do hope I’m able to go to Imogene’s party tomorrow night.”

“Goodness, I practically forgot all about it.”

“How could you forget one of Imogene’s do’s? Honestly, Dianne, I give up with you sometimes. She always invites some well-known names. I wonder who’ll be there this time.”

Dianne laughed. “You are a celebrity groupie.”

“Celebrities tend to have rather more ready cash than your average Earl these days, present company excepted. It’s all right for you to turn your nose up at the ludicrously rich and famous.” She waggled a free finger at her friend. “You happen to have an honest-to-goodness rich boyfriend. Filthy rich, as in ‘I-could-buy-half-of-Yorkshire-before-afternoon-tea.”

“Oh, come on Sandra, money isn’t everything.”

“Huh, easy for you to say. Just you try living on my allowance and see where that takes you.”

Dianne bit her lip. She supposed Sandra had a point, after all. The Honourable Fanshaws were a bit down on their luck since her father had lost a rather considerable part of his fortune on a dodgy investment deal in Asia. Sandra's mother had left him in disgust, taking up with an American oil tycoon that she met during Cowes Week. She left Sandra, her two elder brothers and the family schnauzer to console their desolate father. Henry Fanshaw was now making a hearty effort to reduce the remainder of their inheritance on a disastrous mixture of horse racing and pretty women younger than Sandra herself.

Sandra shifted her weight on the sofa, putting the ice-bag to one side on the Bauhaus coffee table. “At this rate I’ll never be able to afford a decent holiday next year with the meagre pittance I get paid.”

She had just graduated from London University with honours in Fashion Design, surprising even herself, but no plum jobs had come her way as yet, and her dwindling trust fund meant she had to resort to taking a job as a personal fashion advisor at a posh Oxford Street department store to supplement her clothesaholic lifestyle.

“Listen, you should demand a pay rise,” Dianne said. “You’re a marvellous personal advisor.”

“Lady Thelwell doesn’t think so.”

“She’s a dragon, and I’m sure she does it to scare you.”

“Well, she succeeded. You know, she didn’t even like any of André Verdain’s Bridal collection, I mean, his stuff looks good on anyone!” A dreamy look instantly replaced the gloomy one on Sandra’s face. The French designer was her idol.

“Maybe you should apply for a place at Verdain’s fashion house in Paris,” Dianne said with a mischievous grin. “I bet he would jump at a chance to hire you.”

Sandra’s delicate eyebrows drew together for a moment. “Very funny, Dianne, as if that tasty man would look at a mere mortal like me. Anyway, I studied for a laugh, for the booze and the boys and the parties.” She let out a great gust of a sigh, which made her wince. “I didn’t actually plan to make a career out of it. Unfortunately, Daddy seems to have put a rather large dent in my plans for a life of leisure. I mean, honestly, working for a living is so - common. You’re not actually planning to go into law, are you?”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Having to stand around all day in those shapeless black robes and with your hair buried under one of those awful wigs. Ewww…doesn’t bear thinking about. And I’ll bet being a fashion designer is no glamour job either. No, on second thoughts, I think I’d just be better off marrying André. Mind you, he’s probably gay, all those fashion types are.”

Dianne shook her head fondly. “You’re hopeless.”

The following day, Sandra had recovered from her headache, and Dianne announced that she would treat the two of them to a few hours pampering at their favourite salon in Kensington to get ready for the evening’s festivities.

“Oh Dianne, you can’t possibly. It’s quite bad enough you let me stay here half-rent, without making me feel like a complete charity case.”

“Nonsense, you’re my best friend, that’s what friends do, help one another out when the going gets tough.”

“I don’t know when I can pay you back”

Dianne dragged her out into the hall and held out her coat, in effect stopping all further protests. “I don’t care if you ever do; it’s only money, after all.”

Sandra grudgingly allowed Dianne to put on her coat. “So you keep saying.”

One hour later, they were both submerged within a sunken tub filled with frothy fragrance, and saluting each other with a glass of Tattinger apiece.

“Ah, this is more like it,” Sandra said with a happy sigh. “My brain has floated off and is now totally unconcerned with Lady Thelwell and her infuriating dithering.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dianne murmured, her eyes closing with the delicious warmth surrounding her.

There followed a few silent pleasurable minutes as they sipped their champers, and then Sandra piped up.

“Is Hugh coming to Imogene’s tonight?”

“Yes, he rang me yesterday, and he said he’d pick us up in his father’s limo to take us to the party.”

“Oh good, I don’t fancy trying to catch the Tube, not in my four-inch heels, and especially if it’s still raining.”

Dianne had been seeing Hugh Wellesley-Stuart on-and-off, since they had met at Glorious Goodwood a year ago; a meeting that – Dianne had suspected at the time - if she knew her mother, hadn’t happened entirely by chance. Hugh’s father, Lord James, and her father, Lord Robert, had retired to the marquee to get quietly plastered on the Bollinger, while their respective wives plotted dynastic manoeuvres.

Dianne wasn’t terribly interested in pursuing a serious romantic relationship, far less in getting married, but she was far too well-brought up to tell Hugh to buzz off. In any case, she kept telling herself, he was handy to have around as a chaperone in order to discourage any hangers-on, who might be interested in her merely to get their hands on the family estate.

“So, when are you going to stop playing hard to get, then?” Sandra piped up, quite spoiling Dianne’s pleasant daydream, in which she was being kissed passionately by a man who looked remarkably like a young Virgil Tracy.

“Sorry?” she replied, confused.

“You and Hugh; he’s crazy about you. But he might not stay that way forever, if you don’t give him a little encouragement.”

“I’m happy just the way we are, thank-you,” Dianne said primly, not really wishing to discuss it. Sandra could be as bad as her mother sometimes when it came to matters of the heart.

Sandra proceeded to ignore the tone of warning in her flatmate’s voice, and carried on regardless. “Well, Mummy used to say that after a certain age women become invisible, You’ve only got a few good years left, and then he might go looking for something a bit younger.”

“Good grief, Sandra, I’m beginning to think I ought to throw all your Jane Austen’s in the bin. I’m nineteen for heaven’s sake, hardly an old maid. And anyway, I might want to sample what’s out there before I settle down, that is – if I ever want to settle down in the first place.”

Sandra gave a melodramatic sigh, which made all the bubbles froth up in her tub. “Well, if you decide to give that sweet man the big heave ho, can I have first dibs?”

For a second Dianne looked at her friend, and then let out a very unladylike peal of laughter. Both girls dissolved into uncontrollable giggles, cut short only with the appearance of the po-faced masseur, who soon pummelled all frivolity out of them on the wooden blocks. Another hour later, massaged, exfoliated and coiffed, they departed the salon, feeling quite ready to face the rigours of the party to come.

That same evening, Dianne rummaged through the racks of dresses and outfits in her large dressing room, to find something for Imogene’s pre-Christmas bash. She wrinkled her nose at each outfit she pulled out. The little back dress may be too funereal looking and the gold taffeta was too much. She delved deeper. Aha, she thought, and pulled out a knee-length, shimmering, turquoise dress that she had worn last Boxing Day. Despite coming from a wealthy background, Dianne’s parents had brought her up to believe in the idea that waste was a ‘bad thing.’ She was twirling in front of her bedroom mirror, when Sandra came into the room.

“Oh, you look fabulous, Dianne. But then, you’d look great in a sack.”

Dianne rolled her eyes. “Oh for goodness sake, you really are in a mood these last couple of days.”

“Sorry.” Sandra flopped onto a chair. “It’s just I don’t seem to have anything half-decent to wear in my wardrobe.”

“Well, be my guest, have a look and see if there’s anything you fancy in here.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it!”

Sandra sprang up and explored the rack of clothes. In seconds she had pulled out a red silk, halter-neck dress, “I haven’t seen you wearing this before, it’s divine.”

“With my hair? Aunt Eleanor is colour-blind and will insist on buying me clothes. You can have it with pleasure.”

Sandra slipped the dress over her shoulders and preened in front of the mirror. The dress contrasted with her dark hair and she gave Dianne a happy grin. “Lucky for me. Good old Aunt Eleanor, she’s my fairy godmother.”

They had just put the finishing touches to their make-up, when the front bell jangled. Dianne opened the door to see her boyfriend in the narrow porch, wrestling with a huge black umbrella in the drizzle. He gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek and then stood back a moment to look her up and down with evident approval in his eyes.

“You look ravishing, old girl. I’d better keep an eye on you this evening, wouldn’t want anyone to run off with you.”

Hugh Wellesley-Stuart was conventionally handsome – with his luxurious mane of dark hair, and aquiline face, which had a tendency to turn into a petulant pout when he didn’t get his own way. Hugh was used to getting his own way, being, like Dianne herself, a doted on only child, and the sole heir to his considerable family fortune. He also had an impeccable family pedigree, which might have impressed most of her circle, and especially her mother, but Dianne considered she had moved beyond those antiquated ideals. After all, she’d been to University, and mingled with all sorts of people on the social ladder, and some of them were actually quite interesting.

“Are you girls nearly ready?” Hugh said. “I’ve got Perkins parked on a double yellow outside.”

“I think so.” She called upstairs. “Sandra, it’s time to go!” Two minutes later her flatmate tottered down the steps in the red halter dress and four-inch Blanolos.

Perkins, the chauffer, dropped the three of them off in front of a four-storey Belgravia mansion. They climbed the three wide steps and from within the house they could hear the muted sounds of revelry and music. A moment after pressing the ancient, lion-shaped doorbell, the door was flung open and a glamorous woman of indeterminate age appeared in the entrance hallway.

“Darlings! I'm so glad you could make it…do come on in." Imogene Wainscott-Harkness waved her half-full champagne flute in welcome, while her other elegantly manicured hand brandished a long cigarette. Imogene was half-Parisian on her mother’s side, while the other-half was descended from a member of the Bloomsbury set, which certainly went a long way to accounting for the almost louche, bohemian air that that pervaded the mansion day or night.

Dianne and the others entered the long hall, pulled off their outerwear and hung them on the already overflowing wooden stand, which was doing a sterling impression of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. In the huge drawing room, to the left of the hallway, the party was in full swing, and Dianne immediately recognised quite a few of the revellers – the usual faces, in fact, the offspring of other upper-class families and wealthy entrepreneurs.

The sounds of ‘Firewire’ pumped out loudly and she caught the unmistakable odour of burning cannabis drift into the hall from the room.

Imogene led them straight to the sprawling kitchen, which was equally full of bodies, propping up the counters and the appliances, glasses in hand and munching on canapés, their animated chatter adding to the decibel levels.

“Help yourselves to champers and nibbles,” she said loudly, waving a hand at the massive oak table standing in the middle of the kitchen. Several Jeroboams of Dom Perignon sat snugly within their dew-covered ice-buckets and the ‘nibbles’ could have fed a medium-sized African nation.

Hugh recognised several of his old Etonian chums in a huddle over by the Aga, and they waved across when they spotted him.

“Bother,” he said in a low voice to Dianne, “I wanted to get you in a clinch on the dance floor.”

“That’s all right, you can do that later.”

He grinned. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Good gracious, no, I don’t really want to listen to rugger and cricket all evening.”

He gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek. “You’re a brick. Why don’t you two go and chat to some of those actor fellows, I saw Ralph what’s-his-name as we came in – you know - the one playing the ‘Phantom of the Opera’?”

Dianne made shooing gestures. “Go on, we can fend for ourselves.”

She rolled her eyes at Sandra, as Hugh grabbed a glass of champagne and headed for the noisy group. They’d evidently been there for some time taking advantage of the bubbly.

Dianne filled two glasses for her and Sandra, while the latter wolfed down several chicken and asparagus vol-u-vents. She wiped flaky crumbs away with a guilty look, as she took the proffered glass. “Sorry, I’m ravenous.”

“Don’t be. Cheers.” Dianne took several long sips of the fizzy liquid, suspecting she might have to get a little squiffy, if she was to survive the evening without dying of boredom. Even Imogene’s bashes were beginning to pall a little. At the beginning, it had all been frightfully exciting for her as a young, wealthy debutante entering the swinging party life of her social set, but recently, insidiously, she had begun to get the restless feeling that somehow it was all a bit, well, pointless. She’d mentioned her feelings to Sandra, but her flatmate had simply looked at her as if she’d just announced she was setting off on an expedition to Everest, and she replied that her intention was to live life as one big continuous party, if only she could find someone willing to pay for it.

They mingled with the others in the kitchen for a while, chatting to acquaintances and strangers alike. Ralph Whitman – the aforementioned actor – joined them both at one point, and it didn’t take very long for Sandra to become smitten, and he seemed rather taken with her too. Suddenly feeling like a gooseberry, Dianne excused herself for the bathroom, and on her return the two of them seemed to have vanished. The sound of raucous laughter from one corner of the kitchen suggested Hugh was still firmly entrenched with the old Etonians, so Dianne decided to leave them to get on with it, and see what was happening elsewhere.

She filled her glass to the brim and wandered into the drawing room. The music was still pumping out, and a small group of people had launched into some impressive impromptu dancing in front of the marble fireplace, trying their best to avoid knocking over the enormous, bespangled, Douglas fir in one corner, Imogene’s only concession to the festive season.

“Dianne, my darling, how marvellous to see you.” Camilla Wright, the editor of Fabulous Style magazine, hove into her view trailing a cloud of Chanel No 5 in her wake. It was too late to turn tail, and Dianne suppressed a wince as the older woman bore down on her.

“Hello, Camilla, fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh, I never miss one of Imogene’s soirees, so many stylish people, such juicy gossip, especially at this time of year,” the older woman replied airily.

Dianne found herself hoping that Sandra and Ralph had chosen a decent hiding place for a smooch, otherwise they were going to be splashed all over the pages of the next edition of Fabulous Style in glorious colour. The merest hint of gossip was pounced upon and blown up to labyrinthine proportions for the delectation of Camilla’s avid readership

“And how is your dear mother?” Camilla was asking.

“She’s fine, thanks.”

“I really must get her to arrange another charity do. The last one was a wonderful success. All those poor children, makes you wonder what the world is coming to.” Camilla looked tearful for a moment, and then brushed back her sweeping, bouffant hair, recovering from her momentary slide into compassion for the war-orphans of the third world. “And how about you, darling? You know, you really ought to take up modelling. It’s a waste, darling, truly a waste, with your figure, your looks, why, you would be the toast of the catwalk, a real fashionista.”

“It’s not really my thing…”

“That dress you’re wearing, why, it’s so unique, and only you could carry it off with such style. Oh, you’ve given me an idea: what the best dressed graduates are wearing this year. I could call Juanita Longoria, you’d look frightfully photogenic in some of her stuff…”

“Camilla…”

“Just a teensy, little photo shoot? Wouldn’t take up much of your time –”

Dianne saw Camilla’s eyes dart left, as she spied a minor celebrity entering the drawing room. In an instant Dianne was forgotten, and she let out a sigh of relief as Camilla sailed off in a sea of perfume towards her next victim. Dianne downed her glass and wondered about going back into the kitchen to drag Hugh away from his chums and help her work off some of the champagne with a spot of dancing.

Some of the couples moved away from the fireplace, and then Dianne noticed a tall, slender man propping up one end of the stately Adam surround, watching the proceedings with a look of bored amusement. Like Hugh, he was dark, almost raven-haired, with a deep tan, and he looked vaguely familiar, although the opaque sunglasses obscured a large part of his face. She stood exactly where she was, pretending to watch the gyrating couples on the carpet, and sneaking the odd look at the man leaning against the fireplace. She turned for a moment, wondering if she should go and find Sandra. Her flatmate would never forgive her if she knew the great designer himself was gracing Imogene’s party, and Dianne hadn’t let her know about it. She flicked her head around, and to her surprise, she found him hovering right at her elbow. He could certainly move fast, she thought.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” he said in perfect English, laced with an unmistakable French accent.

“Oh, you didn’t, at all,” she said, recovering her composure immediately, feeling annoyed at herself that he had snuck up on her unawares.

“I do not believe I have had the pleasure, mademoiselle, I am André Verdain.”

“I thought it was you, even with the glasses. It’s very nice to meet you, I’m Dianne Simms.” She put out her hand to shake his, but he lifted it swiftly to his lips and kissed it extravagantly.

“Enchanté. Such a beautiful name, like the huntress, and if I may be so bold, like the bearer.”

Dianne had to suppress a giggle. The great designer seemed too stereotypically French to be for real. “You’re a friend of Imogene’s? I had no idea.”

“Mais oui, she is an old friend. We used to run the streets of Paris together when her mother came back to the city after her divorce. When I have the time, I try to visit, but this year, it is crazy, everyone wants a little something from Verdain.”

“Yes, I saw some of your gowns at the Oscars.” Dianne didn’t add that Sandra made her stay up all night to watch it, and knew exactly who was wearing what dress and who designed it.

He removed his sunglasses and beamed at her, and she found herself thinking that he was rather a dish, just like Sandra had said.

“You liked them? I am so pleased. I hope that you too have a little something Verdain in your closet?”

Dianne blushed. “I’m afraid I don’t, actually. I’m more of a Carnaby Street girl.” She thought of Sandra again, and the champagne made her bold. “My flatmate, well, she’s one of my best friends actually, she’s crazy about your clothes. She’s just graduated in fashion design, and I know she’d make a wonderful addition to anyone’s company. She has a real eye for spotting trends, unlike me.”

One of the Frenchman’s eyebrows raised and she hoped she hadn’t overdone her sales pitch.

“Indeed? She has a portfolio?”

Dianne nodded enthusiastically. “She certainly has, I’m sure you would be impressed.”

He smiled again. “Then, for you, I shall take a look.”

Dianne returned his smile with equal delight, thrilled that she might have been able to help her friend. André Verdain however, took a step back and cocked his head from right to left, scrutinising her from head to toe.

“I must find a way to change your mind. I have something from my collection that I will send to you.”

“Goodness, I couldn’t possibly.”

“It would be my pleasure, although I fear the dress will have much competition from the wearer.” He glanced at her empty glass. “Please, allow me to get you another.” He strode purposefully across to a large sideboard along one wall, where several ice-buckets stood and filled two glasses with champagne.

He returned to her, and they clinked their flutes together.

“So,” he continued their conversation, “I know all about your friend, but nothing about you. What is it that you do, Mademoiselle Dianne?”

“Absolutely nothing at the moment, I just graduated, and I haven’t thought much beyond that, really.”

“Of course. And what did you study, if I may ask?”

“Law and sociology.”

“Such serious subjects.”

Dianne took another swig of champagne. “Compared to fashion design I suppose so,” she said, and then blushingly added, “I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so…”

Verdain waved his hand theatrically. “It is forgotten. You are a very clever young woman, to have completed such difficult degrees in such a short time, non?”

“Yes, but I’ll have to study a lot more if I want to take law as a career.”

“Well, you are still young; there is plenty of time to make a choice.”

She sighed suddenly. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now I’m not so sure. She took another sip of champagne. “Did you always know you were going to be a fashion designer?”

“Mai oui, ever since my mother found me cutting up her tablecloths so I could make clothes for my sister,” he replied with a twinkle in his gaze.

Dianne laughed, and realised she was feeling quite light-headed. The music had somehow suddenly changed to a quieter tempo, and several more party-goers sprang up from the sofas for the excuse to have a slow dance in the middle of the floor. Dianne regarded the nearest of the entwined couples dragging one another across the Axminster, and idly wondered if André Verdain was a good dancer. She didn’t get a chance to find out however, for Hugh chose that moment to finally show his face. With a proprietary self-assurance that she suddenly found irritating, he slid a hand around her waist and kissed her soundly on the cheek.

“Sorry, old thing; I got stuck with Bob Rutherford. Honestly, that man’s a crashing bore. I don’t know why Imogene keeps inviting him to her do’s – he keeps telling the same old jokes every time, and droning on about how he’s a name in Lloyds. I mean, isn’t everyone?”

“Hugh, this is André Verdain,” Dianne interrupted him. “He’s a famous fashion designer.”

“Hello there.” Hugh pumped his hand. “I thought you were a bit of recluse – you do realise the editor of Fabulous Style magazine is lurking around here somewhere? That might blow your cover.”

Verdain gave a slow smile, and Dianne suddenly had the absurd notion that there was more to the Frenchman than met the eye; an underlying intelligence that jostled with the first impression of gay frivolity.

“Madame Wright is good for my business,” Verdain replied. “She always ensures to have my – as you say – good side, in her photographs.”

Don’t be ridiculous, she thought, immediately dismissing her flights of fancy. I’m just drunk and imagining things.

“I wanted to find Sandra so she could meet Monsieur Verdain. Have you seen her anywhere on your travels?”

“I nearly fell over her and Ralph what’s-his-name, smooching in the hall, when I was making for the cloakroom,” Hugh replied with a knowing smirk. “She might not appreciate being interrupted.”

Verdain slipped a card from the inside of his jacket and handed it to Dianne. “My number is here, and please tell your friend she may call me at my office on Monday.” He kissed her hand again with a flowery gesture. “And now, I have a long day tomorrow, and I think I will say my goodbyes to Imogene. It was a pleasure, Mademoiselle, I hope we meet again.”

“That would be nice,” Dianne replied.

Hugh watched Verdain’s departing back and snorted. “He might be as gay as a maypole, but those froggies can’t help trying it on with any female in sight.”

“That’s an awful thing to say!” Dianne was genuinely shocked. “He was not trying it on. He was, in fact, very nice.”

“Well, forget him and come and dance with me.”

It was well past three a.m. when Dianne finally begged Hugh to take her home, but a large number of party-goers were still knocking back the bubbly and wearing holes in the carpet, and it looked like the shindig wasn’t quite in its dying throes. Sandra, rather shamefacedly, surfaced at last, lipstick smeared but her eyes sparkling, although that might have just been due to the champagne.

The limo dropped them off at the mews house. Sandra struggled with the key and was the first in. They listened to her shoeless feet pattering down the hallway and then Hugh whispered in Dianne’s ear.

“I didn’t tell you that you were the most gorgeous thing at the party, did I?”

“No, the music was too loud.”

He shut the front door so that Perkins, still waiting in the car, didn’t get an eyeful from the Rolls. And then he kissed her, quite passionately, until she tapped hard on his shoulder for some air.

“You’ve never kissed me like that before,” she said.

“More fool me.” He gripped her hand tightly and pressed his lips to it, then waggled his dark eyebrows. “Any chance of a nightcap?”

“At this hour, after all we’ve drunk?” Anyway, poor Perkins will catch a cold out there,” she added as an afterthought.

“I can always send him home…”

She raised an eyebrow. Hugh always gave the impression, like a few other men of her acquaintance, of being more interested in money and sport than sex. As a typical nineteen year old female, she flipped between indignation and relief that he hadn’t seemed smitten with her obvious charms. Relief usually won out, since sex meant ‘Commitment’ in her book, and she wasn’t quite ready for that just yet.

“I’d really rather hit the sack,” she said finally. “I’m pooped. I’ll see you later in the week maybe?”

He pouted and kissed her cheek again. “Spoilsport.”

She waited till he got in the car and waved, and then she unsteadily climbed the stairs to crash in her comfortable bed.

The following morning Dianne awoke with the light from the low, winter sun warming her face. She squinted at her bedside chronometer, and dragged herself from beneath the coverlets, knowing that any further sleep was impossible. She pulled on a dark-blue, silk kimono, a present from her father, courtesy of a governmental trip to Japan six months ago, and wandered through to the kitchen to see if some breakfast would help the dry after-taste in her mouth.

She sat at the table in the kitchen, stirring her cup of Assam and musing about the week ahead. She had a fencing lesson on Tuesday afternoon, Robert Linden’s birthday bash at the polo club on Wednesday, and a charity dinner at the Connaught on Thursday. Goodness, it made her feel exhausted just thinking about it, and it wasn’t even Christmas yet. At this rate her liver wouldn’t survive her twentieth birthday.

She heard Sandra’s startled “Ouch!” and a tinkling sound as she walked into the wind-chimes hanging from the ceiling in the hall. She had obviously forgotten to put in her contact lenses again. Dianne smiled as she wandered blearily into the kitchen.

“You look disgustingly chirpy this morning,” Sandra muttered.

“And you looked like you were enjoying yourself last night,” Dianne riposted with a smile. “I hope you managed to avoid Camilla and her gossip-detector.”

Sandra’s face turned smug. “He’s a very good kisser, eleven out of ten. And he’s actually very clever.”

“I’m surprised you had time for conversation.”

“Oh, very droll, Dianne. He was studying mathematics and planning to be the next Einstein when he got hooked by the singing bug at his Polytechnic’s annual musical. He jacked it in and went to acting school instead.”

“Goodness, from partial differential equations to arias, what a jump.”

“Don’t swear at me, not when I have a hangover. Anyway, he’s taking me out to dinner after the show tonight.”

“That’s nice, just the two of you?”

“Are you kidding? Most of the cast of Phantom will be there. Still, he’s in theatre for the next two months, so there’s plenty of time to work on him.”

Dianne suddenly remembered something. She dashed off to her room, much to Sandra’s bemusement, rummaged in her handbag, then returned to the kitchen, handing over the card in triumph.

“What’s this?” Sandra squinted at it.

“André Verdain’s business card.”

“How did you come by that?”

“He was at the party, silly. I tried to find you, but you were – um – otherwise engaged.”

Sandra looked at though she was about to burst into tears. “I don’t believe my luck. He was actually at the party and I missed him?””

“I told him all about you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and he said you must call him tomorrow morning, at his office.”

“He did? Oh, my gosh. Crumbs, Di, that’s really decent of you. First you lend me a dress, and now you try and get me a job.”

“Well, that’s if you want one of course. I mean, after all, you want to spend life as one long party if someone pays for it, remember?”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes, just after my comment about there being more to life than going to endless lunches and soirees.”

Sandra twiddled the card in her fingers. “Fancy that. Well, I don’t think there’s any harm in calling him, is there? After all, nothing might come if it.”

Dianne kept a straight face. “Absolutely.”

Sandra got cold feet on the Monday morning and Dianne had to insist that she made the phone call to Paris. A Frenchwoman, his secretary, answered, and was about to dismiss a faltering Sandra when Dianne grabbed the phone and insisted, in firm and perfect French, that Monsieur Verdain was a good friend of hers and would be extremely cross if he found out she had been treated with such contempt. Immediately, Sandra was directed to the man himself and in no time at all he made arrangements for her to come to Paris for an interview in two weeks time.

“Goodness, Dianne,” Sandra said, with flushed face, when it was all done. “I’m awfully impressed. Maybe you ought to go into law after all. I can just see you berating some hapless witness in the box and winning the case.”

They celebrated Sandra’s first step onto the working ladder at Robert Linden’s party, where the ‘Roman Orgy’ theme seemed to go down well with the bulimic faction of the guest list. At the height of the proceedings, a pneumatic, blonde D-list celebrity, jumped out of five-foot cake, dressed as a slave girl, and there was a bit of a scrum amongst the toga-wearing, male members of the party, as they tried to catch a personal item of her skimpy garb that she tossed onto the dance floor. Dianne gamely tried to enjoy herself, but found the entire spectacle just a little over the top. She downed another glass of champers and then spotted a particularly nasty strain of paparazzi, working his way into the room.

“Quick, into the ladies, before we’re spotted!” she whispered to Sandra, and dragged her bemused friend away, to avoid being splashed all over the pages of the tabloid rag.

“I don’t know how you do it, Di,” Sandra said, when she returned, after said photographer had been non-too-politely ejected from the premises of the Polo Club.

“Oh, I must have a built-in radar for danger, I suppose,” she said with a grin.