‘How do I know you are not going to run off with it?’
She smiled. ‘You don’t.’ She met hi
s gaze. ‘How many gowns do you sell a month, Ben?’
He looked defensive. ‘It’s not about quantity . . .’
‘Of course, and you can see the quality in every stitch.’ She nodded sincerely. ‘But the tragedy is I bet you don’t do more than twenty dresses a year, do you? A few rich women know your number but that doesn’t make you Gianni Versace. Look, this is one of the biggest parties of the year and my client is a very connected woman. Very connected. You have an amazing talent, Ben, but you need to market yourself. You can be the best designer in the world, but if no one knows your name, you’re going to stay in this room in Battersea for a long time.’
Watching his face, she knew she’d hit home. Unless he was independently wealthy and was doing this for a hobby, there was no way he could afford to turn down selling the dress, and if she could sweeten the deal by offering him the lifeline of ready-made advertising to his key audience, all the better.
‘I couldn’t let it go for less than eight thousand pounds.’
‘Five thousand,’ she said quickly. ‘Think of the publicity.’
‘How will you get me the money?’
‘I will take you to her. Bring your pins and your sewing kit. I promise you, Ben, this will change your life.’
‘You’re late,’ said Annalise, opening the door with a stern expression. Her face was fully painted with evening make-up and her hair had been swept up into a dramatic chignon, but she was still wearing a white towelling robe. ‘And who is this?’
Sasha walked straight in, taking Annalise’s arm and leading her out of Ben’s earshot.
‘This is Ben Rivera. He’s the new Lagerfeld,’ she whispered. She didn’t want him getting ideas above his station, not before she had the chance to use him to the fullest.
Upstairs, Ben confidently swept the dress out of its linen bag and Annalise’s tense facial expression relaxed instantly. The gown floated through the air as if it was made of feathers.
‘Is it couture?’ whispered Annalise.
Sasha and Ben nodded. Strictly speaking it wasn’t couture. Strictly speaking only the handful of designers who showed their collection twice a year in Paris and were members of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture were considered ‘couture’. But the Chambre weren’t coming to the party.
‘Normally you don’t buy dresses like this, Annalise, you order them,’ said Sasha confidentially. ‘But today Ben Rivera himself has come to fit you with his latest creation because I told him about your incredible taste.’
Eagerly Annalise stripped off and allowed herself to be fitted in the gown, Ben weaving his magic with the corset using delicate stitches until it fitted like a second skin. Sasha went into Annalise’s dressing room and selected a pair of silver Manolo Blahniks and drop diamond earrings. She looked magnificent. When she moved, the long slits in the fabric, meant for the movement of a dancer, showed off her toned legs in an elegant, sensual way.
‘You look beautiful,’ cooed Sasha.
‘What do I owe you?’ asked Annalise, the expression on her face as she looked at herself in the mirror something like love.
‘Eight thousand for the gown,’ said Sasha, giving Ben just the slightest smile. Without hesitation, Annalise opened a drawer in her dresser and pulled out a chequebook, writing one to Ben, then another for Sasha, which she folded and slipped into her hand whispering, ‘You’re fabulous.’ She pulled a white mink shrug over her shoulders as they all headed down the stairs. ‘Wait till my girlfriends hear all about you,’ she said. ‘They’re going to be green with envy.’
Opportunity hung in the air and Sasha reached out for it with both hands.
‘How about lunch to discuss a new wardrobe?’ she asked.
‘Great idea,’ said Annalise. ‘How about San Lorenzo at one tomorrow?’
‘I look forward to it,’ said Sasha.
Straight afterwards, Sasha would hand in her notice to Venetia. She didn’t need a has-been weighing her down. No, Sasha Sinclair was on her own now, and she was taking Annalise Tuttle and all her high-spending friends with her.
19
The club was called the Youngblood Society and its intentions were clear from the start. Hipper, more meritocratic than the Carrington and Bullingdon, less fey than the Piers Gaveston, more debauched than the Assassins, Miles wanted to create a modern club for a modern Oxford. He did not consider himself a snob, simply superior, and he wanted his club to be full of men like him, brilliant men who would one day be Masters of the Universe and who wanted to play hard along the way.
Wandering around the Youngblood’s inaugural Christmas party, he smiled to himself. No wonder some of the Carrington boys were sniffing around, angling for membership. The party was being held at Graveseye House, a four-storey former rectory just outside Oxford. Ideally, Miles would have preferred a grander venue. Then again, as a second home belonging to the parents of Alan Johnson, an eccentric Scot angling for membership, it had cost nothing to hire, which had freed Miles up to spend more money on the actual party. When he’d been researching the history of the gentlemen’s club in preparation for creating the Youngbloods, Miles had stumbled across an account of the Great World, a legendary club in 1930s Shanghai, a place that fascinated him for its blend of opulence and debauchery. On the Great World’s first floor you could find fortune-tellers and gambling, but by the top floor you would discover opium and sing-song girls, the Chinese courtesans. That was exactly the ambience Miles had been aiming for, and as he glanced around, he could see that the theatrical set-builders he’d employed to transform the house for the night had got it exactly right. Scarlet silk drapes disguised the Johnsons’ flocked wallpaper, gold and velvet oriental furniture had been brought in and the entire space was lit by candles spilling ghoulish shadows around the rooms. It had taken much longer to co-ordinate than he had imagined, but by God, it was worth it.
‘Miles!’ shouted a dozen voices as he strolled through the ground floor, accepting handshakes and slaps on the back. There were only twenty-five Youngblood members, each dressed in the society uniform of French navy coats with gold frogging and brass buttons, but they were surrounded by models dressed as angels, oriental waitresses and a handful of magicians, contortionists and other performers.