Conscience-stricken, Bella put up a hand to her hair. A couple of pins fell out. So did a withered ivy leaf and rather a lot of dust. She turned to look in her predecessor’s mirror and recoiled. She had gone to bed in her underwear. She had a wide smear of dirt on her right cheek. Nothing at all survived of Carlos’s work of art. Where there had been an artless cascade of feathery blonde locks, there was now a lopsided mess of pins, garden detritus and, possibly, wildlife.
She prodded it, cautiously. ‘Do you think there could be a centipede in there?’
Lottie moaned.
‘I know. I know. I go to the ball dressed up like a million dollars and come home looking like Fungus the Bogeyman. I didn’t do it on purpose. These things just happen to me.’
Lottie closed her eyes. ‘It’s too early for this,’ she said. ‘I need coffee. And water. Lots of water. You can tell me what happened, but not until I’ve rehydrated.’
She padded out of the door.
‘Mud,’ Bella heard her complain as she stomped off towards the kitchen. ‘I take her to the smartest party ever and she finds mud.’
Bella showered and washed her hair. And when she saw the silt in the bottom of the shower tray, she got right back in and washed her hair again. Emerging pink and a bit soapy-eyed, she pulled on her new underwear, drainpipe jeans, crisp cotton shirt and a cashmere jumper which she had picked up from the Oxfam shop the day before. Then she went into the kitchen, still rubbing her hair with the towel.
Lottie was slumped over a carton of orange juice at the breakfast bar, flipping through texts on her telephone.
Bella thought: I used to do that too, every morning. And when I was shopping, and when I was waiting for Lottie to meet me at a club. Why does it feel so strange now?
Aloud she said, ‘Anything interesting?’
Lottie huffed. ‘No. Dammit.’
Bella poured herself some juice but pulled a face as soon as she tasted it.
‘Water,’ said Lottie, recognising the signs. ‘Your tastebuds will be all over the place until you’ve rebalanced your water table.’
‘You make me sound like farmland.’
‘And you’re surprised? After the stunt you pulled last night? Mud! I ask you!’
Bella flung up her hands. ‘OK. OK. I’m sorry. I’ll change the sheets.’
Lottie shrugged. ‘You’re sleeping in them. Up to you.’
Lottie was not usually grumpy, not even the morning after a heavy night. Bella reached a glass off the shelf above the counter top and filled it from the cold tap. Then she pulled out one of the high stools and sat down at the bar next to her.
‘What’s wrong, Lotts?’
Lottie pushed back her hair and gave a watery sniff. ‘I thought I’d nailed a contract last night. But not a peep out of the bastard this morning.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Make that this afternoon. And I really worked at that pitch.’
‘Maybe he’s saving it up for working hours,’ suggested Bella. ‘He’ll call you on Monday.’
Lottie gave her a pitying look. ‘Billionaires’ working hours are twenty-four seven. They don’t wait till Monday. If he was interested, he would have called. No, I’ve blown it.’
She got up and opened the fridge, staring at its contents moodily. ‘No milk. No fresh coffee. Oh, well, it will have to be fizz.’
She hauled out a bottle of Cava and clawed ineffectually at the black foil over the cork.
‘Let me.’
Bella took it away from her and removed the foil and restraining wire from the cork. Texting might feel strange but opening champagne came back to her as naturally as breathing. She tilted the bottle at forty-five degrees, held the cork firmly and turned the bottle until the cork gave a little. Bella applied pressure to ease the transition and eventually removed it with no more than a ladylike hiss from the wine.
Lottie silently held out two glasses. ‘You’ve always been good at that. No bangs, no spills. It’s super-cool. I suppose Georgia taught you how to do it?’
‘Nope. My grandmother doesn’t think a lady should open her own wine bottles. A lady ought to sit prettily while a Big Strong Man makes a prat of himself spraying champagne everywhere.’
‘There’s a very nasty side to your grandmother,’ said Lottie, with admiration. ‘Seems a waste though.’
Bella thought about it. ‘Actually, Georgia once told me when she was pissed that men were only good for two things: opening wine bottles and emptying mouse traps. And then she