‘You don’t know who Victor Yip is? Chinese gazillionaire, Sophie. Like, only the richest man in London right now.’
Sophie frowned, feeling totally out of the loop.
There was a time when she knew all about the hottest clubs, bars and parties to be seen at. She’d pored over Tatler and Harpers and had enthusiastically thrown herself into London’s summer season – attending everything from Henley to the Cartier polo. But Lana’s invitations hadn’t registered at all.
‘I thought that steel magnate, wossisname, was the richest man in London.’
Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘Get with the programme, Soph.’
Sophie caught the look on her friend’s face.
‘Whatever. We can’t go,’ she said firmly.
‘Why not? There’s a plus one.’
‘We can’t go bowling up to someone’s birthday party just because we’ve got the invitation. It’s a personal party; he invited Lana, not us.’
Francesca sighed.
‘Well, what about this one, then?’ she said, pointing to another card.
‘The Chariot Dinner,’ read Sophie, craning her neck. ‘What’s that?’
‘God, it’s like you’ve been living in Burkina Faso, not Battersea. It’s only one of the biggest fund-raisers in the calendar. Do you know how much it costs to go to this? It’s ten thousand a plate. We’re talking hedgies, oligarchs, the mega-connected. Not even I’ve been to this, Soph.’
Francesca’s expression changed as she picked up the invitation. ‘Oh look, Soph! It’s tonight!’
Sophie took the invitation out of her friend’s hand.
‘Well, we’ve missed it. It started at seven.’
‘The meal was at seven for seven thirty,’ corrected Francesca, snatching the card back. ‘We don’t want to go to that anyway, I’ve got ten pounds to lose before the wedding, remember? But the party will go on all night.’
She looked at Sophie with puppy-dog eyes, clutching the invitation to her bosom.
‘Please, Sophie, can’t we go? It will be amazing. Last year Beyoncé did a set and Daniel Craig was the master of ceremonies for the auction. Who knows how they’ll top that this year. We can’t miss it.’
Sophie hesitated. She could do with a really fun night out. And seeing Daniel Craig or some other celebrity hottie would be the icing on the cake of a pretty extraordinary day so far. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the excitement of feeling back in her old life, but suddenly she felt uncharacteristically bold.
‘All right, let’s do it,’ she said, putting her wine glass down decisively.
‘Yay!’ squealed Francesca, clapping her hands together.
‘Well we can’t go like this. It’s black tie. But if we go via your place, I could borrow something there.’
‘Sod trekking all the way back to my place,’ said her friend. She took a long slurp of wine. ‘The solution is right here.’
She stood and pulled Sophie up by the hand.
‘Oh no, no, no,’ said Sophie, as Francesca led her up to Lana’s enormous dressing room off the master bedroom. ‘We can’t.’
‘Why not?’ said Francesca bluntly. ‘Lana’s in France and we’re here with a party to go to and nothing to wear.’ She pulled a faux weepy face and then swept into the room, running her fingers across the racks of silks and chiffons.
‘This is heaven,’ she squealed, picking up a lizard-skin Blahnik heel and pushing her foot into it.
‘Come on, Fran, don’t,’ said Sophie. ‘This is not my stuff.’
‘Chill out,’ said Francesca. ‘It’s not as if I’m planning on selling them on eBay; we’re only borrowing them for a few hours. We’ll get everything dry-cleaned afterwards; Lana will never know.’