The Yacht Party (Lara Stone)

What does it mean?’ asked Stella.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lara. ‘But we’re sure as hell going to find out.’

Chapter 9

The trouble with newspaper people was that they never switched off. Alex stood in the garden of Nicholas Avery’s Holland Park home clutching a glass of warm champagne and listened as Darius held forth about global media, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were supposed to be at a party. Nicholas certainly seemed to have glazed over, while his son Charlie was knocking back the Krug to dull the pain.

‘Of course the Gulf War was the best thing to happen to American media,’ said Darius. ‘It really put them back on the map.’

‘Back on the map?’ asked Nicholas, tilting his head in a way that Alex recognised. It was Nicholas’s way of saying ‘I disagree, but do keep digging yourself into a hole.’ Darius missed the cue and ploughed on regardless. ‘The way I see it is, America was this grey superpower then BAM! There’s CNN with the rockets and the hi-tech drone strikes. Suddenly America looks sexy again.’

‘The glamorization of war, you mean?’ said Charlie.

Alex knew Charlie was just baiting Darius, but all the same he had to step in.

‘I think what Darius means, is that the US media coverage set the tone for the way war looks on screen. They used Hollywood techniques to engage the folks at home so they could understand foreign policy and see the brutality of conflict.’

Darius nodded enthusiastically, as if that had been his point all along. Darius could be pompous, but Alex knew that his editor would be in a foul mood tomorrow if Charlie humiliated him in front of the big boss.

‘Yes, things have changed, haven’t they?’ said Nicholas, diplomatically steering the subject around to the recent revamp of the Chronicle’s news app. The irony of course was that this party was to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Avery Trust and yet, here in the London media bubble, nothing much had changed. A century of headlines had kept the Avery family at the heart of politics and power. Back through the open French windows, Alex could see that Nicholas’s beautiful house, well-known as one of the finest private homes in Central London, was packed with the wealthy, the connected and the influential. Ministers rubbed shoulders with models, columnists chatted with bankers, just as they had back when the Averys had launched the Chronicle. In spite of the seemingly revolutionary changes in digital media, the Averys were still here, still at the controls.

Excusing himself, Alex walked down a curving stone staircase from the terrace and into the depths of the garden. The house had almost an acre of grounds, and right now it looked like a luxury circus had come to town. In the centre of the lawn was a huge illuminated, circular bar, model-grade waiters flitting about with champagne and canapes. There were fire-dancers and even a sleight-of-hand magician. Alex gave a quiet chuckle. It was all a long way from his Cumbrian upbringing, where a party meant a lock-in in the local pub and maybe a plate of grated cheese sandwiches. But that was the point, wasn’t it? It was a long way. And tonight Alex felt part of it.

‘Marks out of ten?’ said a husky voice behind him.

He turned around to see Nicholas’s wife Olivia smiling at him.

‘Ten and a half. I think it’s absolutely sensational. The party, the house, all of it.’

Olivia Avery was wearing a beautiful blue silk gown and a smile of genuine pleasure. Perhaps Olivia wasn’t used to people complimenting her Holland Park bolthole. In which case, she was inviting the wrong people to her parties.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said modestly. ‘I’ve spent six months organising the damn thing and it’s not easy when you’re dealing with such a limited space. Nicholas wanted to have the party at the Foxhills estate, but I managed to convince him there was no way we’d get this lot further than five miles from the Garrick Club.’

Not for the first time, he tried to suppress a smile. He had known Olivia Avery for years and she was everything you’d imagine the grande dame of a media dynasty to be. Her icy beauty could be intimidating, but if Olivia thought you might be useful or fun, she would draw you in with a joke or an indiscreet nugget of gossip. ‘The rich are different from you and me,’ that was what Scott Fitzgerald had once said to Hemingway, but on nights like this he knew it wasn’t just the money. It was about confidence.

‘Well it definitely makes it more special having the party here rather than at some hotel in London.’

‘That’s what Nicky thought, although we did have to put all the art work into storage.’

‘We wouldn’t want a hand going through that Bridget Riley in the kitchen.’

Olivia nodded in agreement, missing Alex’s ironic tone.

‘So where is the lovely Alicia?’ asked Olivia.

Alex had arrived with his girlfriend a couple of hours earlier and he had barely seen her since. She had been thrilled to find herself surrounded with so many influential people and had immediately disappeared to take full advantage of it.

‘She’s almost certainly inside, talking to the Home Secretary, of course.’

Olivia raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Of course?’

‘Alicia has an amazing ability to seek out the most important person in any room.’

‘A valuable skill,’ said Olivia, touching his arm meaningfully. ‘You should hold onto that one.’

Hold onto her, don’t let her go. That’s what everyone had started saying lately, and of course it made sense. Alicia was sexy, elegant and ambitious, a political lobbyist going places, and with Alex well on his way to media glory, they’d make a fine power couple. Alex took a gulp of his wine; so what was stopping him? He wasn’t sure that power was up there on his wish-list when it came to finding a soul-mate.

‘Have you seen Lara?’ he asked after a moment. ‘She is coming?’