there, Izzy?’
It took a couple of beats before Isabel realised this was directed at her. She blinked, realising she was being asked to lie. Amber had turned and was staring at her meaningfully, and beyond her were the burning eyes of Kate and the burning ears of the porter.
Isabel hesitated for an agonising minute before stammering, ‘Er . . . no,’ into the inquiring silence. She saw Kate toss her head in furious disbelief and Amber flash her a triumphant beam.
‘Ha!’ Amber exulted, once the footsteps of the interrogators had died away. She was sloshing the foaming liquid into a pair of glasses she had produced from somewhere. More wine was dripping on more clothes.
As Amber slithered into a tiny silver dress – ‘Zip me up, would you, darling?’ – Isabel stared at the tiny bubbles surging inside her glass. She had rarely drunk champagne, although Mum had splashed out on a special-offer bottle at the supermarket the day she got her university place. She didn’t feel much like celebrating, not with Kate’s angry face in her mind’s eye. There had been the promise of friendship there, before Amber had appeared on the scene.
That there was the same promise with Amber seemed doubtful. Already she seemed to have forgotten Isabel’s existence. She had shoved some of the clothes aside to reveal an enormous mirror propped sideways on the floor. She was staring at herself in it, twisting the hair at the back of her head up with one hand and, with the other, pinning it carelessly into place. It made all the difference. Amber had been lovely before with her hair flowing over her shoulders but now she looked stunning, her mane a pile of massy gold atop a flower-like face, balanced on the slenderest of necks.
‘Open that, could you, babe?’ Amber rummaged under some underwear and pushed a large, padded hot-pink leather box in Isabel’s direction. Lifting the lid, Isabel saw a flashing, glittering tangle of jewels.
‘My diamonds?’ Amber asked airily.
‘Are you going somewhere?’ Isabel asked, handing them over.
Amber was dabbing something behind her ears from a tiny bottle. An indescribably wonderful scent rose into the air. ‘With Jasper. Jasper De Borchy,’ she volunteered. She was shoving thin brown feet with blue-painted toenails into strappy jewelled sandals. ‘Know him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’d know if you did.’
‘Yes, it’s quite a name,’ Isabel said, slightly archly.
‘Norman French. They came over with the Conqueror,’ Amber stated. ‘They go way back.’
Isabel felt impatient. So what? she wanted to say. Whose family didn’t? She cared less about Jasper De Borchy’s pedigree than the fact that Coco was staring silently and sadly at her mistress from her corner. ‘Don’t you need to feed the dog first?’ she ventured.
Amber paused at the door. ‘ Would you? That’s so sweet of you!’
The next second she had whirled out of the room. Isabel was left standing in a cloud of perfume and a froth of champagne-soaked clothes, looking uneasily at a contraband poodle.
Diana glanced at her watch, which had smears of dirt over the silver Cartier casing, one of the few remaining reminders of her old life. She could see, nonetheless, that it was time to fetch Rosie from school. Or from the after-school club, rather. The fact that Campion Primary ran both a breakfast club and after-school facilities with, it seemed, the sole purpose of helping working parents, was a very strong point in its favour, whatever other doubts she might entertain.
But how had Rosie fared? Please, Diana prayed, don’t let me turn up to see her standing shunned and alone in the playground. She stared hard at the earth to stop the agonising picture forming.
The bald, tilled, weedless black earth she had worked on slightly soothed her agitation. It had been a long first day, and a tiring one, but a satisfying one ultimately. Apart from the extraordinary episode with the girl and the film
It took a couple of beats before Isabel realised this was directed at her. She blinked, realising she was being asked to lie. Amber had turned and was staring at her meaningfully, and beyond her were the burning eyes of Kate and the burning ears of the porter.
Isabel hesitated for an agonising minute before stammering, ‘Er . . . no,’ into the inquiring silence. She saw Kate toss her head in furious disbelief and Amber flash her a triumphant beam.
‘Ha!’ Amber exulted, once the footsteps of the interrogators had died away. She was sloshing the foaming liquid into a pair of glasses she had produced from somewhere. More wine was dripping on more clothes.
As Amber slithered into a tiny silver dress – ‘Zip me up, would you, darling?’ – Isabel stared at the tiny bubbles surging inside her glass. She had rarely drunk champagne, although Mum had splashed out on a special-offer bottle at the supermarket the day she got her university place. She didn’t feel much like celebrating, not with Kate’s angry face in her mind’s eye. There had been the promise of friendship there, before Amber had appeared on the scene.
That there was the same promise with Amber seemed doubtful. Already she seemed to have forgotten Isabel’s existence. She had shoved some of the clothes aside to reveal an enormous mirror propped sideways on the floor. She was staring at herself in it, twisting the hair at the back of her head up with one hand and, with the other, pinning it carelessly into place. It made all the difference. Amber had been lovely before with her hair flowing over her shoulders but now she looked stunning, her mane a pile of massy gold atop a flower-like face, balanced on the slenderest of necks.
‘Open that, could you, babe?’ Amber rummaged under some underwear and pushed a large, padded hot-pink leather box in Isabel’s direction. Lifting the lid, Isabel saw a flashing, glittering tangle of jewels.
‘My diamonds?’ Amber asked airily.
‘Are you going somewhere?’ Isabel asked, handing them over.
Amber was dabbing something behind her ears from a tiny bottle. An indescribably wonderful scent rose into the air. ‘With Jasper. Jasper De Borchy,’ she volunteered. She was shoving thin brown feet with blue-painted toenails into strappy jewelled sandals. ‘Know him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You’d know if you did.’
‘Yes, it’s quite a name,’ Isabel said, slightly archly.
‘Norman French. They came over with the Conqueror,’ Amber stated. ‘They go way back.’
Isabel felt impatient. So what? she wanted to say. Whose family didn’t? She cared less about Jasper De Borchy’s pedigree than the fact that Coco was staring silently and sadly at her mistress from her corner. ‘Don’t you need to feed the dog first?’ she ventured.
Amber paused at the door. ‘ Would you? That’s so sweet of you!’
The next second she had whirled out of the room. Isabel was left standing in a cloud of perfume and a froth of champagne-soaked clothes, looking uneasily at a contraband poodle.
Diana glanced at her watch, which had smears of dirt over the silver Cartier casing, one of the few remaining reminders of her old life. She could see, nonetheless, that it was time to fetch Rosie from school. Or from the after-school club, rather. The fact that Campion Primary ran both a breakfast club and after-school facilities with, it seemed, the sole purpose of helping working parents, was a very strong point in its favour, whatever other doubts she might entertain.
But how had Rosie fared? Please, Diana prayed, don’t let me turn up to see her standing shunned and alone in the playground. She stared hard at the earth to stop the agonising picture forming.
The bald, tilled, weedless black earth she had worked on slightly soothed her agitation. It had been a long first day, and a tiring one, but a satisfying one ultimately. Apart from the extraordinary episode with the girl and the film
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