‘Even so . . .’
‘You used to be so much fun,’ said Francesca wearily.
At school, Francesca had always been the most rebellious of their group of friends, and she had a way of making anyone who didn’t want to go along with her schemes feel stuffy and boring. She had certainly always been able to talk Sophie around; the truth was, Sophie had been painfully introverted and strait-laced when she had first arrived at Marlborough, and Francesca had brought her out of her shell, with the result that she found it almost impossible to say no to her friend.
‘Come on, Sophie. You deserve a good night out.’
Sophie couldn’t disagree with her there. She reached out to touch a rack of evening gowns. The closest thing she had to a party dress in her little wardrobe upstairs was a black jersey wrap – not exactly ‘dress to impress’ by any stretch of the imagination – and her ballet flats were comfy, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that turned movie stars’ heads.
Francesca pulled out a beautiful midnight-blue gown with sequins sewn in swirling patterns down the length of the delicate material.
‘This would be perfect for you, why don’t you just try it on?’ she urged.
Sophie felt a flutter of anxiety, but then she pictured herself wearing it, sipping a cocktail and laughing at some film star’s joke.
‘Well, it couldn’t hurt just to see how it looks,’ she said.
‘That’s my girl,’ smiled Francesca.
Sophie shrugged off her robe and quickly slipped into the dress, looking at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She almost gasped; it was beautiful. Flowing, very flattering and the sequins twinkled like stars when she moved.
She felt a flutter of excitement, of mischievousness. Grinning, she turned to Francesca.
‘So which shoes do you think I should wear with this, then?’ she asked.
8
Sophie was having second thoughts. As she tottered across Waterloo station’s busy concourse on five-inch heels, she felt overdressed and unbalanced. She clutched the hem of her dress – Lana’s dress, actually – desperate to keep it off the smeared floor. Three of the sequins had already come off in the taxi, and she was pretty sure that the fabric was too delicate to dry-clean.
‘Why did you let me wear these bloody shoes?’ she hissed at Francesca. ‘I can barely walk.’
‘You’re wearing them because they’re beautiful, and they make your legs look thinner.’
‘But no one can see my legs – they can’t even see the shoes.’
Francesca stepped daintily on to the escalator and tossed her long hair back.
‘Stop complaining,’ she smiled. ‘This party is going to be fabulous, we’re going to be fabulous. And remember, you’re Lana Wosserface, otherwise we’ll never get in.’
‘Oh God,’ Sophie whispered to herself as she looked towards the entrance. The party was being held in the old Eurostar terminal – according to the invitation, actually on the platform – and the archway that had previously been the security screening area was the only way in. It looked incredible: the whole structure had been covered with shimmery blue material, and a bright blue carpet had been rolled out to meet the bottom of the escalator.
‘Be cool,’ said Francesca as they walked up to the clipboard girls standing behind the velvet rope – who were dressed in azure sequinned minidresses, like sexy mermaids. Fighting the urge to run away – not that she could have run in those shoes – Sophie simply smiled at them and handed over the invitation. She had spent enough time on the other side of the rope to know that people on the door can smell fear.
‘Lana?’ said the girl, looking her up and down. Her expression was serious. Sophie’s heart was pounding, fearing they were about to get caught out. ‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed dinner. But I’m sure we can get someone to sort you out some food,’ she said sympathetically.
‘Don’t worry about food,’ smiled Sophie, realising they were in.
‘Have a good time,’ grinned the clipboard girl.
Sophie beamed. ‘We will.’
Her jaw almost dropped as they walked insi
de. The whole of the Eurostar terminal had been transformed into a fantastic dining-room-cum nightclub. The track had been covered over and turned into an ad hoc dining area, with huge flower arrangements in the centre of each circular table, the blue and white flowers mixed with peacock feathers. At the far end of the platform was a flashing dance floor and a stage, and suspended from the hangar-height roof were thousands of glowing blue lanterns. It was so magical it almost took Sophie’s breath away.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ she whispered, staring at the stage.
George Clooney was standing at a podium offering a weekend on a yacht in the Caribbean as an auction prize, which brought on a flurry of frantic bidding.