necessarily addressed to Jane. Did she have a man in there?
Jane picked her way between the piles of clothes, shoes and shopping bags that formed islands in the sea of cream carpet on the sitting room floor. The room was so enormous that even the huge, black Steinway grand filled little more than a corner. From the piles of dresses slung over the piano stool, Jane deduced its ivories had seen little tinkling of late and that its main function was to support the collection of silver-framed photographs which, in the best Belgravia tradition, crowded its gleaming surface.
Champagne had still not appeared. Jane crossed the room towards the photographs, waves of pale carpet ebbing about her feet as she moved. Although most of the pictures featured Champagne holding gum-baring contests with a string of celebrities, there were a few more personal ones as well. Jane peered closely at a large picture of two children: a blonde girl and a boy in front of a well-kept country house. There was no doubt that the girl was Champagne - the knowing smirk and the self-conscious pose were all there even then. As was the rest of it, Jane saw jealously. At the time she herself had been a pudgy-kneed child with a pot belly, Champagne already had a neady-cropped mane of white-blonde hair (it must be
47
natural after all) and the long, slender limbs of a thoroughbred. But, Jane comforted herself, if Champagne had the legs of a racehorse, she had the brain of one too. And her boyfriend, Rollo Harbottle, had the teeth of one.
Jane felt rather sorry for the pleasant-looking boy she imagined must be Champagne's brother. It was bad enough having to talk to Champagne for a few hours a week. Growing up with her was something she couldn't begin to imagine.
She picked up another photograph of a white-haired baby being pushed in a pram by a fierce-looking woman in a dark blue uniform. There was no time to put it back as the mistress of the house suddenly bounced into the room and strode quickly up behind her.
'Oh, that's me and Nanny Flange,' Champagne declared in her ear-splitting rattle. 'Sweet old thing really. Left after I bit her leg.'
'Did what?' asked Jane.
'I bit her leg,' said Champagne matter-of-factly. 'Mummy was furious.'
'Well, I suppose it was a bit naughty.'
'Yah, Mummy went ballistic. "Oh, darling," she said. "How could you have bitten Nanny's filthy leg?"' Champagne put back her head and roared with laughter.
Her bare, brown flesh was scarcely covered by the tiniest pair of knickers Jane had ever seen. A tight, cropped, pink T-shirt evidently made for a two-year-old struggled to cover her exuberant bust. Her hair was a bird's nest, a cigarette dangled from the corner of her lipstick-smudged mouth and her mascara had run, but this, Jane was irritated to observe, only made her look more beautiful than ever.
As Gucci exploded into more high-pitched yapping,
48
Jane realised they were not alone in the room. Slinking his way along the back wall was the snub-nosed photographer's assistant whose trousers had been so excitable at the Dave Baker shoot. Matters had evidently developed since then. He stood, twisting his hands, by the door into the hall.
'Weel I see you again?' he mumbled to Champagne in a heavy French accent.
'Yah, course you will,' said Champagne, drawing on her cigarette as she bundled him out of the door. 'Buy Gorgeous, there's a good boy,' she added, closing the door firmly and padding back into the sitting room. 'Phew,' she said. 'Just in time. Rollo'll be here in a minute. He'd go ballistic if he bumped into FabergeV
Quite, thought Jane. Rollo probably had a vitreous temper. Nonetheless, disappointment flooded through her at the news that he and Champagne were still together. On the evidence of what she had just witnessed, she was beginning to wonder if she might bag Rollo for Tally. Whatever his shortcomings, he was at least rich.
The poodle's yapping continued unabated. Jane's head started to spin with the
Jane picked her way between the piles of clothes, shoes and shopping bags that formed islands in the sea of cream carpet on the sitting room floor. The room was so enormous that even the huge, black Steinway grand filled little more than a corner. From the piles of dresses slung over the piano stool, Jane deduced its ivories had seen little tinkling of late and that its main function was to support the collection of silver-framed photographs which, in the best Belgravia tradition, crowded its gleaming surface.
Champagne had still not appeared. Jane crossed the room towards the photographs, waves of pale carpet ebbing about her feet as she moved. Although most of the pictures featured Champagne holding gum-baring contests with a string of celebrities, there were a few more personal ones as well. Jane peered closely at a large picture of two children: a blonde girl and a boy in front of a well-kept country house. There was no doubt that the girl was Champagne - the knowing smirk and the self-conscious pose were all there even then. As was the rest of it, Jane saw jealously. At the time she herself had been a pudgy-kneed child with a pot belly, Champagne already had a neady-cropped mane of white-blonde hair (it must be
47
natural after all) and the long, slender limbs of a thoroughbred. But, Jane comforted herself, if Champagne had the legs of a racehorse, she had the brain of one too. And her boyfriend, Rollo Harbottle, had the teeth of one.
Jane felt rather sorry for the pleasant-looking boy she imagined must be Champagne's brother. It was bad enough having to talk to Champagne for a few hours a week. Growing up with her was something she couldn't begin to imagine.
She picked up another photograph of a white-haired baby being pushed in a pram by a fierce-looking woman in a dark blue uniform. There was no time to put it back as the mistress of the house suddenly bounced into the room and strode quickly up behind her.
'Oh, that's me and Nanny Flange,' Champagne declared in her ear-splitting rattle. 'Sweet old thing really. Left after I bit her leg.'
'Did what?' asked Jane.
'I bit her leg,' said Champagne matter-of-factly. 'Mummy was furious.'
'Well, I suppose it was a bit naughty.'
'Yah, Mummy went ballistic. "Oh, darling," she said. "How could you have bitten Nanny's filthy leg?"' Champagne put back her head and roared with laughter.
Her bare, brown flesh was scarcely covered by the tiniest pair of knickers Jane had ever seen. A tight, cropped, pink T-shirt evidently made for a two-year-old struggled to cover her exuberant bust. Her hair was a bird's nest, a cigarette dangled from the corner of her lipstick-smudged mouth and her mascara had run, but this, Jane was irritated to observe, only made her look more beautiful than ever.
As Gucci exploded into more high-pitched yapping,
48
Jane realised they were not alone in the room. Slinking his way along the back wall was the snub-nosed photographer's assistant whose trousers had been so excitable at the Dave Baker shoot. Matters had evidently developed since then. He stood, twisting his hands, by the door into the hall.
'Weel I see you again?' he mumbled to Champagne in a heavy French accent.
'Yah, course you will,' said Champagne, drawing on her cigarette as she bundled him out of the door. 'Buy Gorgeous, there's a good boy,' she added, closing the door firmly and padding back into the sitting room. 'Phew,' she said. 'Just in time. Rollo'll be here in a minute. He'd go ballistic if he bumped into FabergeV
Quite, thought Jane. Rollo probably had a vitreous temper. Nonetheless, disappointment flooded through her at the news that he and Champagne were still together. On the evidence of what she had just witnessed, she was beginning to wonder if she might bag Rollo for Tally. Whatever his shortcomings, he was at least rich.
The poodle's yapping continued unabated. Jane's head started to spin with the
Similar Books
