Christmas at Claridge's

Chapter One

The red leather-clad phone on the table buzzed waspishly jolting Clem out of her meditation on the rain. She read it with a sigh.

The sender hadn’t signed off, but then, she didn’t need to. Stella and she practically maintained an open line to each other. Her hand fell back onto the silk pouch resting on her lap and she looked out into the slippery, gleaming night. It was just gone nine thirty and she’d made a solemn pinky-promise to get there soon after eight, but for all her hard-partying reputation, she loathed New Year’s Eve. It was the second worst night of the year in her book.

‘Wardrobe crisis,’ she texted back.

The reply was instantaneous. ‘Bollocks! We decided on the sequin skirt and mohair jumper. Move it!’

Clem’s eyes fell down to her copper sequinned mini skirt – which flashed her extra-long still-brown legs – and the winter-white sweater that slipped off one still-brown shoulder. Stella always knew when she was lying.

‘Shoe crisis,’ she half-heartedly tried again whilst sliding her feet into the metallic bronze python stilettoes lying abandoned beside the sofa and pushing herself to standing. At 5 foot 9 inches in socks, the shoes took her above 6 foot and her gaze drifted out the windows onto the reflections in the puddles on the pavements outside. It really was raining very hard she noticed for the first time. Stella’s flat was only a couple of streets away, but she’d be soaked if she walked there, and what were the chances of catching a cab on the Portobello Road on New Year’s Eve?

The phone buzzed again. ‘Pythons. And FYFI Josh just arrived and been ambushed by bosomy blonde in red.’

‘What?’ Clem screeched to the empty room. With sudden focus and impressive speed, she raced into her bedroom, digging beneath the piles of dirty clothes for her bag and a coat. Her hands found the rabbit-fur jacket (or ‘lapin’ as Stella insisted on saying, making it sound like an exotic tea) and she held it up questioningly She’d bought it on a whim in the market last week and worn it home in the rain so that now the fur looked like it came from a rabbit that had died of myxomatosis. Hmm.

It was still chucking it down, so she ran back into the sitting room and grabbed the tobacco unlined leather jacket off the hook on the back of the door. It had cost a bomb and she couldn’t quite remember whether she’d actually got round to waterproofing it yet, but there wasn’t time to worry about that now. Josh was at the party. He was there and she was not, and a woman with a bosom was making a move – Clem was damned if she was going to let that wench undo her two months and nineteen days of hard graft getting him to believe that there really was more to her than just a good-time girl.

Grabbing her keys and phone, she dashed out of the door, slamming it behind her. A minute later, she was letting herself back in again and running – she was surprisingly fast in 4-inch heels – to the fridge. The Billecart-Salmon was nicely chilled. At least the bitter night air temperatures were going to work with her on that. Shame the rain would make her mascara run, her jumper pill and her hair flat.

Ooh. Hair flat. Hat! She bolted into Tom’s room and grabbed the Akubra hat he kept on top of his wardrobe, her eyes falling on the bike in the far corner as she checked herself in the mirror. She stopped and stared at it, her mind racing with the sudden possibility. No. She couldn’t. It was a spectacularly bad idea, even by her standards. And Tom would kill her. Completely hang her up by her earrings and . . .

‘. . . Hair flick followed by bosom thrust.’

Clem gave another small scream that made Shambles, their pet parrot, fall off her perch, and crossed the room in record time. To hell with Tom. This was an emergency.

The streets were quiet, the shops and cafés long since shut and all the residents safely ensconced in raucous house parties or the pubs, out of the rain. The roads gleamed in their wet skins beneath the street lights and Clem allowed herself a laugh of delight as she sliced through a deep puddle, her feet off the pedals as the spray dived cleanly to her left and right.

The bike – even though it was a man’s model – fitted her well, her famously long legs stretched fully on the downward rotations, and it felt responsive and light to manoeuvre, even riding one-handed. She’d have to see whether she could get herself one of these. It’d be a dream for getting through the market, and she could be in Hyde Park in minutes. Maybe she should give up running and take up cycling instead?

Turning right onto Ladbroke Grove and third left into Oxford Gardens, she mounted the pavement, almost taking out a man striding towards her. He began swearing at her in French, but Clem didn’t have time to stop and even less inclination to apologize. ‘And you nearly made me drop my bottle!’ she hollered indignantly over her shoulder. ‘What you doing out here anyway? Got no mates?’

She pulled up at Stella’s flat minutes later, swinging her leg off the bike as if she was dismounting a horse, and grabbed the mirror from her bag to check herself over. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold night air and her eyeliner had smudged a little in the damp, but she decided she rather liked that. She always preferred to look a little ‘undone’, and anyway, it picked out the aquamarine tints in her blue-green eyes, which usually only appeared when she cried. And she wasn’t going to be crying tonight. Oh no.

The door was on the latch, but she had to push it with some force to get past the revellers drinking, dancing and talking in the hall. There wasn’t enough room to lean the bike against the wall, but she noticed the looped metal demi-chandelier wall-lights . . .

‘Hey!’ she shouted over the music to a guy in a gunmetal-grey shirt, allowing her signature husky voice to become even more gravelled. ‘Would you mind . . .?’ She indicated from the bike to the wall light. From the look on his face, just the sight of her with her jumper slowly slipping off her shoulder, would have made him lift a tractor up there had she asked.

Clem flashed him a teasingly grateful smile and pushed her way past the bodies to the party’s hub in the long, tall living room. It was so crowded that there wasn’t enough room to swing her hair, much less a cat, but people moved aside for her anyway, their stares slow and interested at the sight of her looking soggy and dripping raindrops from the brim of her hat, while still somehow managing to be the most arresting woman in the room. Stella was standing near the fireplace, drunkenly pouring vodka into a row of shot glasses.

‘Where is he?’ Clem asked, grabbing one of the vodka shots and downing it.

Stella, unperturbed, did the same and they each picked up a fresh glass, ready to go again. ‘Kitchen. You took your time.’ Concern posing as suspicion danced in her glass-green eyes.

Clem ignored her. ‘Any idea who the dolly is?’

‘Nope, but she dances like she’s been tranquillized and she’s got all the subtlety of a claw hammer.’ They clinked glasses and dispatched them without missing a beat.

‘Hmm. How do I look?’

Stella gave her the quick once-over – she was, after all, the designer of Clem’s outfit that evening. As the two of them always said, she was the one with the eye, Clem was the one with the legs.

‘Hatefully gorgeous, and keep the hat. Bonus points for styling,’ she replied, arranging Clem’s nut-brown hair so it curled softly like sleeping kittens around her shoulders. Clem let her gaze drift around the room. She knew most of the faces there. Fifteen feet away she could see Tom and Clover chatting to his rugby mates, Tom leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer on the go and his ever-ready grin plastered all over his handsome face, as Clover winsomely stroked the back of his neck with her hand. Clem slunk down a little. It was usually Clover she avoided, but she really didn’t want to deal with her big brother right now.

Stella handed her another shot of Grey Goose. ‘You’ve got to play catch-up,’ she ordered bossily, as Clem wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and watched a silky brunette move in for the kill on Freddie Haywood, her ex, three times removed.

‘Regrets?’ Stella asked, watching as Freddie’s eyes flickered towards Clem.

‘Who? Freddie? Don’t be daft,’ Clem murmured, looking away.

‘I still don’t get why you two broke up. You made a great couple.’

Clem threw her an annoyed look. ‘Uh, because we’d been together for three weeks past my official relationship expiry date, he texts with his middle finger and he wears the same pants three days running.’

‘So do you most of the time,’ Stella said.

‘Tch, do not,’ Clem replied, even though she was famous for either going commando or wearing the first pair of knickers she could find in the mess on the floor that passed for her laundry basket. Tom kept muttering that he’d never be able to move out until she worked out how to work the washing machine.

‘Well I think it’s a shame, that’s all.’ Stella shrugged, reaching down into a bowl of Pringles. ‘You seemed happy with him and he’s obviously still mad about you.’

‘Moving on,’ Clem snapped, closing the conversation down once and for all. ‘Josh is much more my thing now: mature, considerate, enlightened. He could teach me things. Make me a better person.’

Stella choked on her crisp. ‘Bollocks. You’re only going after him because he’s the first man you’ve ever met who hasn’t fallen at your feet.’

‘Not true.’

‘Bang on, more like. Yes, he’s good-looking, but quite frankly I don’t trust any man who jacks in a good career in Private Equity to man the phones for The Samaritans. And as for giving up booze to compete in triathlons every weekend, well . . . you should be very, very wary, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘But I could grow with him.’

A pulse of disbelief followed this statement and Clem was forced to give a tiny shrug in acknowledgement of the ridiculous words coming from her mouth.

‘Grow bored more like. You might be able to convince him that you volunteered at the cat sanctuary in your gap year, and that you only listen to chamber music on your iPod, but you and I both know that “danger” is your middle name. You’re pretending to be someone you’re not when you’re with him. It won’t last.’

‘It doesn’t have to,’ Clem replied, flashing her friend a sarcastic smile. ‘I’m not looking for a husband.’

‘Well then, you’re the only single twenty-nine-year-old female in London who isn’t,’ Stella said, pouring herself another drink, her eyes tracking someone over Clem’s bare shoulder. ‘Anyway I don’t have time to stand here chatting about your self-imposed problems. I still haven’t got myself a date for midnight, so if you’re so convinced Josh is your Mr Right Now, then go get him, Tiger,’ Stella said, slapping her hard on the bottom and wandering off in pursuit of a guy in skinny jeans and a trilby.

Clem watched her go. If she had the legs and eyes combo to take out most men, her diminutive firecracker friend had the E-cup cleavage and handspan waist. Clem smiled as she watched Stella almost immediately hypnotize the guy into stunned submission, his mouth falling open like a guppy – she knew one of them was sorted for the night. It was time to get her groove on: the first buzz of vodka was mixing with her bloodstream and there was a code red in the kitchen.

The party was ascending to a riotous peak, the floorboards vibrating to the pounding dance-floor beat, as she turned into the crowd, began to sway and let herself go. If there was one thing she could do – really do – it was party. No W11 party was complete without her. She moved deeper into the melee of smiling mouths and loud laughs, the glassy eyes and lecherous stares, the flushed cheeks and glossy hair tosses that she called ‘home’, everyone dancing and swaying around her, singing drunkenly and punching the air. Except for one.

His stillness jarred against the throb of the crowd and she lifted her chin fractionally to get a better look at him from under her hat while flashing him a glimpse of her stunning eyes. He was leaning against the wall, watching her with notably glacial-blue eyes of his own. He was a predator, like her. Her gaze didn’t move from his but she peripherally registered the pale blue shirt worn over Swimmer’s shoulders, the offbeat grey marled jacket with black revers that was classic, yet subversive too – and clearly expensive. She noted heavy straight brows, a square chin, dark blond hair that would look brown when wet, planed cheekbones that would stretch the skin thin when – if – he smiled.

And then everything went black.

‘Hey! Who said you could wear that? It’s an heirloom remember?’ a distinctive male voice boomed next to her.

Clem pushed the hat back up off her eyes hurriedly. Talk about ruining the mystique! ‘Just because it was Dad’s doesn’t make it valuable, Tom,’ she said irritably looking past her brother to find the stranger still staring, but with less heat and more laughter in his expression now. Something about him was familiar . . .

‘The concept of emotional significance really is lost on you, isn’t it?’ Her brother tutted as Clover drifted over – obvs – looking clean and meadowy amidst the gritty urban party animals seeing out another year in Notting Hill. She gave Clem a tight smile.

‘Sentimental tosh more like. A hat is a hat is a hat. And it’s raining out there, you know.’

‘And God forbid Josh should see you looking anything other than perfect, right?’ Tom teased.

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, he should be doubly pleased tonight then,’ Tom said meaningfully, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice.

Clem shifted her weight uneasily. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Only that your intended tucked into the punch with some gusto when he got here.’

‘The punch?’ Clem echoed. Stella’s Bacardi-vodka-tequila punch was the stuff of legend.

‘Yep. Someone might have told him it was a non-alcoholic option.’

Clem felt a kernel of dread harden in the pit of her stomach. ‘But there’s no such thing at Stella’s place. She’s never drunk juice in her life. Not without vodka in it.’

‘Well, we know that . . .’ Tom grinned, his twinkly eyes glassy with booze. ‘Oh, talk of the devil! Josh, how’s it going, mate?’

Clem watched in horror as Josh bowled towards her, holding onto walls, sofas and nearby shoulders for support. He stopped in front of Clem, standing on her toes and swaying with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music.

‘Ah shit, Clem . . .’ he slurred, his eyes running up and down her like scales. ‘I’ve had enough of this. You’ve been messing with my head too bloody long,’ he said, swooping down to kiss her, unfortunately forgetting to account for the rigid brim of her hat, so that his lips were kept, pursed, away from hers for several, agonizing moments before the hat suddenly bowed under the pressure and his mouth quite literally fell upon hers in a clash of teeth.

Clem staggered back under his weight, aware of Tom and Clover’s laughter as Josh stumbled to remain joined to her. Talk about bad to worse. First her brother humiliates her in front of the stranger and now—

But a sudden intake of breath, horrified and aghast, stopped her short. She pushed Josh off and looked up at Tom in panic. He had gone sheet-white and his generous smile completely vanished. He was holding his breath, his knuckles white around the beer bottle in his hand, so that Clem worried it would shatter from the force of his fist.

‘What have you done?’ he managed, his voice choked.

Clem didn’t need to follow his line of sight to know that he was looking at the bike hanging on the wall.

‘It was raining,’ she whispered. She’d known he’d be cross, but the devastation in his face was more cutting than the fiercest anger. Her eyes followed the track of his like a cursor as they ran over the bicycle’s rosy, twinkling, caramel leather-clad frame, now soaked dark with rain, stained with beer, graffiti’d with biro and speckled grey with cigarette ash that was smouldering slowly through to the glossy golden skeleton beneath.

A turgid silence ballooned between them and when he finally spoke, his voice was more of a rumble, like a bomb going off several miles away. ‘I suppose it completely passed over your head that that prototype cost a hundred and thirty-five grand to make.’

Clem’s jaw dropped open.

‘One hundred – and thirty – five – thousand,’ Tom repeated. ‘It’s plated in rose gold and has real fucking diamonds studded in it! It was never designed to be used! I left it in the flat in order to protect it over the holidays because our insurers won’t cover it in the studio without . . . without a bloody security guard. And you’re telling me you brought it to a mosh-pit party because it was raining!’

‘I panicked. Josh was chatting up another girl.’

Tom’s usually benevolent gaze drifted from her to the husk of a man leaning on her, so far gone he couldn’t even focus, much less keep up with the conversation.

‘And was it worth it?’ His contempt was withering, though whether it was reserved for her or Josh wasn’t clear.

Clem shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, Tom. I didn’t know it was that mu . . . I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’

‘How, exactly?’

She shrank back from the disdain in his voice. They both knew there was no rescue remedy to this, her latest, disaster.

‘We’re supposed to unveil it at the Expo in Berlin next week. It’s the lead exhibit. There are companies coming from China just to see it. ‘

‘I’ll work without pay,’ she offered desperately.

‘That’ll simply mean I have to pay your rent and food for you, too.’ His hand reached out for Clover’s and she grasped it keenly, her thumb rubbing reassuringly – proprietorially – over the back of his hand. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what it is with you, Clem. You’ve got it all going for you, and yet for some reason, everything you touch turns to shit. I’m up to here with you acting like a spoilt child and never thinking about anyone but yourself. When are you going to get your act together and just grow up?’

‘Tom, I . . .’ she faltered, but he thrust his half-drunk beer roughly into her hand and stormed off, pulling Clover behind him like a kite.

Clem bit her lip, tears stinging her eyes as she watched him stride over to the hall, pushing people out of the way and unhooking the priceless bike from the wall sconces. Beside her, Josh fell over his own feet and landed face first on a Moroccan pouffe. Clem looked down at him in despair before remembering the enigmatic stranger, the Swimmer. But, like her brother and the prospect of ringing in a happy new year, he was long gone.