Vanity. Lucy LordЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter 4

       Poppy Wallace’s bite of the Big Apple is somewhat larger than she’d initially anticipated.

      Bella looked at Poppy’s Facebook update with love and irritation. It wasn’t Poppy per se who bugged the shit out of her, but all her old London media friends who fell on her every word and tried to outdo themselves with how well they knew her and how cool they could prove themselves to everyone else online. Some of the fawning acolytes responded to Poppy’s Facebook update with such stomach-churning stuff as miss u loads, baby girl (from a female journalist – there was loads of faux-dykey bollocks) and hoxton’s not the same without you, sweet poppy lops. remember OBESE-gate?

      Bella was tempted to add, remember OVERDOSE-gate? She wasn’t able to be cool on Facebook, as some of her old friends and family members actually used exclamation marks and plenty of xxxxs at the end of their messages. It seemed rude not to respond in kind. Also, as Andy worked late so many evenings, she found herself drinking wine on her own and writing things she thought hilarious at the time, then waking in a cold sweaty panic, wondering what the fuck she had thought essential to share with absolutely everyone who knew her. The computer needed a Breathalyser.

      She clicked onto Poppy’s latest photos: rollerblading in Central Park, gorgeous in old-skool grey marl shorts and Yankees T-shirt; drinking at the round table at the Algonquin Hotel in a flapper dress (cue comment from fawning female journo: you are Dorothy Parker, but a million times prettier – nineteen other equally sycophantic comments followed); sunbathing by the pool on Soho House NY’s roof terrace in a green bikini that matched her eyes and showed off her exquisitely lithe body (wowser! looking hot babe, hubba hubba, etc., etc., ad nauseam); sitting on the stoop of some lovely old brownstone house in rolled-up jeans and sneakers, her hair in an insouciant ponytail, reading the Herald Tribune (her comment on her own photo was clever, cool and abstruse).

      Bella looked out of the window. At nearly half-past eight the sun hadn’t yet set, but it wouldn’t have made any difference if it had, she thought morosely. The English summer, which, by some freakish Act of God, had been so wonderful last year, had reverted to its usual depressing, drizzly self. She reminded herself to snap out of it. Her day had started with some great sex and she still loved Andy so much she barely even looked at other men any more. Well, she looked, but she wasn’t tempted. She didn’t have to go to vile offices, was paid pretty handsomely for her painting, and her life was, just about, perfect.

      Yet … It was just the bloody weather, she told herself, and a niggling loneliness. One of the reasons she loved Andy so much was his innate goodness, which manifested itself in his dedication to his work, but sometimes she wished more of that dedication could be sent her way. Like coming home in time for dinner.

      She clicked onto Poppy’s next photo, in which she was giggling with loads of people Bella didn’t know, in a club that was probably the Studio 54 du jour. Damian was conspicuous by his absence. Bella hoped that all was well with them. She opened another bottle of wine and started to think about all the fun she’d had in the past. She used to be that clubbing chick, the one with the cool photos and funny stories.

      Then her phone beeped.

       Bella my love, I’m outside. So sorry I’ve been neglecting you. Bloody job. I love you! Come down. Anything you want to eat and drink is on me, wherever you want to go. And everything you want me to do to you, I’ll do double. Triple. Xxxxxxx

      Bella looked out of the window and saw Andy, arms outstretched, smiling up at her. Her heart soared as she ran down the rickety steps of her flat and realized she wouldn’t trade any of her hedonistic, uncertain past for what she had with him, right now.

      ‘I mean, I love her, you know I do, but it’s just so fucking annoying!’ Bella looked over her glass of Pouilly-Fumé at Andy. They were in her favourite restaurant, The Wolseley. Enormous iron chandeliers glowed overhead, the excited hum of chatter buzzed around her, she was with her favourite person in the whole world. Yet her second favourite dish in the whole world (moules marinières; spaghetti vongole was her first, but they didn’t do it here) lay practically untouched in front of her.

      ‘Poppy’s life is just so bloody exciting, and EVERYONE loves her!’

      ‘I don’t love her.’ Andy leant across the white linen’d table and held both Bella’s hands in his. ‘In fact, I think she’s a self-centred pain in the arse, but I do love you.’

      Bella smiled and kissed both his hands.

      ‘Thanks and sorry. I love you too.’

      ‘Not bored with me already, are you?’ He said it lightly, but Bella could tell he meant it.

      ‘I’ll never be bored with you, my love. I just sometimes get a bit bored with life in grey old London, with its endless depressing news, when everybody else seems to be having so much fun, in such exotic places. Bloody Facebook.’

      ‘You spend far more time on that site than is healthy, my darling. And let’s look at it mathematically: you have – what? – 350-odd Facebook “friends”?’ Andy did the inverted commas fingers signal and Bella nodded, slightly shamefaced.

      ‘Most of us go on holiday at least once a year, so let’s divide that by twelve.’

      ‘Um – nearly thirty people on holiday every month?’

      ‘Exactly! It may look as if everyone is having the times of their lives on beaches or mountains, while we’re stuck in dreary old London, but it’s a snare and a delusion. We were in Ibiza only a couple of months ago, after all.’

      ‘Oh, I know, I know, I’m being horribly spoilt.’ Bella sighed and took another swig of her wine. ‘But Poppy IS getting her huge bite of the Big Apple, even during this horrid recession. I don’t know why I can’t be more pleased for her.’ In the old days she’d have been happy, unreservedly, for Poppy, but ever since the Ben thing, something sour had crept in. She had loved helping her plan the wedding, and the nuptials themselves had been wonderful, of course, but this new, extra level of success was a little galling.

      Six weeks earlier, three weeks after Poppy and Damian had returned from their honeymoon in Cuba, Stadium had folded, the latest victim of the recession. Simon Snell had immediately found another job on Esquire, but Poppy had put a spanner in Damian’s job-seeking by simultaneously being offered a promotion in New York. And it wasn’t just any old promotion. One of her company’s proper big shots had been visiting from New York, taken one look at Poppy and decided that she was wasted behind the camera. With her gamine beauty, quick-wittedness and sarcastic London cool, the Big Shot was hoping Poppy would be the new Alexa Chung, presenting a quirky magazine/documentary-type show – an English girl’s take on the Big Apple.

      Damian, not wanting to be apart from his new wife so early in their marriage (and, Bella thought, probably still not entirely trusting her, left to her own devices in an exciting new city), had bravely decided to take his chances at freelancing in New York. Stadium had left him with plenty of contacts, after all.

      ‘I hope Damian’s getting on OK,’ said Andy, and Bella grimaced.

      ‘Not much