‘All right,’ she said after a long pause. ‘Where? Don’t think I’m coming all the way to Battersea, because I’m exhausted as it is without trekking south of the river.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Sophie, trying to suppress her smile. ‘I’ve moved. To Egerton Row.’
‘Really?’ replied Francesca, her interest clearly lifting a notch.
Smiling, Sophie gave her friend the address and said she’d expect her later.
By the time Sophie made it back down to the kitchen, she felt quite light-headed. She crossed to the fridge, an enormous American-style brushed-steel refrigerator with two doors. One side was filled with fresh fruit and vegetables, much of it in the distinctive brown and green Whole Foods packaging; the other was given over to exotic-looking fruit juice, bottles and bottles of sparkling water and at least a dozen bottles of white wine. Sophie pulled one down and looked at the label.
Château Olivier 2005.
‘Gosh,’ she said.
At her mother’s insistence, Sophie had taken a wine-tasting course a few years back – ‘You don’t want to look stupid at a dinner party, do you, darling?’ Julia had said – and to her surprise, she had really enjoyed it, partly because it was run by a handsome older man named Charles whose enthusiasm for grapes was infectious, and partly because Sophie discovered she had a natural flair for tasting. Encouraged by Charles, she began reading up on grape varieties and the history of vineyards. She was only a keen amateur, but she enjoyed her little hobby: the imagination she’d always wanted to channel into writing or art had found an outlet in wine appreciation. And if she remembered correctly, Château Olivier was one of the finest Sémillons in France.
She looked around the fridge for something cheaper, as she did not want to abuse Lana’s hospitality, but every bottle reeked of quality. And Lana had said to help herself, hadn’t she? I’ll only have a glass, anyway, she thought as she rummaged in the drawers looking for a corkscrew. She quickly opened the bottle and splashed the wine into a big glass. It was delicious; clean and flinty. She held on to the glass as she lugged her suitcase upstairs. Lana hadn’t specified where she should sleep, but there was something magical about having a bath under the stars, so she chose the room in the eaves.
She unpacked, hanging her few outfits in the empty wardrobe as she ran a bath, then when it was ready, climbed in, sighing with pleasure. There was only a shower at her little studio, and she could no longer afford the pharmacy of bath oils Lana had sitting next to the tub. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, she thought, sipping her wine and giggling to herself. She stayed there, topping up the water, until her fingers started to crinkle, then towelled herself dry and pulled on her best underwear. It felt appropriate to the surroundings, after all. It was just then that the doorbell began to ring downstairs. It took Sophie a moment to remember she had invited Francesca over.
Wrapping herself in a robe, she padded downstairs, opening the door to her wide-eyed friend.
‘How the bloody hell can you afford this?’ said Fran as she pushed her way inside.
Sophie laughed.
‘Don’t get too excited, I’m only house-sitting.’
Sophie filled her in on her new domestic arrangement as she took her on a guided tour of the house, loving every squeal of delight and envy that Francesca let out as she showed her the bedrooms, Lana’s huge dressing room, even the long garden at the back of the house. Finally, they sat down at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Sophie poured her friend a glass of the Sémillon.
‘So you’re going to live this Lana woman’s life for the summer?’ said Francesca, sipping her wine. ‘Who is she?’
‘She’s Spanish. Or Majorcan, I think. Beautiful, anyway, and very stylish, very nice. Her husband has some money markets job, works in Geneva apparently.’
‘What’s his name? Charlie might know him.’
‘Simon Goddard-Price.’
Francesca pouted.
‘Never heard of him. Have you googled him?’
‘Tried that,’ said Sophie between sips. ‘Couldn’t find much beyond mentions in the business pages.’
Francesca nodded sagely. ‘You know some people actually pay a publicist to keep them out of Google searches? Charlie told me. They must have serious money if that’s the case.’
‘That makes sense,’ nodded Sophie. ‘Lana doesn’t seem the sceney type. There’s a heap of invitations on the mantelpiece she didn’t seem that bothered about going to. Said I could go along if I fancied.’
‘Really?’ said Francesca, sliding out of her seat. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’
She retrieved the invitations and spread them out on the kitchen counter.
‘Bloody hell, Soph,’ she said. ‘These are some of the hottest tickets in town. Oh my God, look at this!’ she gasped, snatching up one
of the cards and holding it out to Sophie. ‘It’s for Victor Yip’s fortieth!’
‘Who’s Victor Yip?’
Francesca gaped at her.