‘Jesus, pull yourself together, Serena!’ she scolded herself, pulling herself up, looking at herself in the mirror. It just wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth ruining her evening and it wasn’t worth upsetting Michael. After all, being with him was definitely getting her noticed in the place that counted – America. It moved her up another notch in society. And a dress wasn’t worth upsetting that applecart for.
Staring at her reflection, she stroked down the silk from the top of the strapless bodice all the way down to her legs, wondering for a moment how disappointed Roman would be if she did not wear the gown he had spent weeks creating. But only for a moment. Pulling the black orchid from her hair, she walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, ignoring Michael’s looks. She stepped out of the gown and pulled on the red slinky floor-length gown, adding a huge diamond choker that Michael had given her. Immediately she felt like a different woman. More obviously sexy, and still sophisticated, but she felt she had regained control. ‘Better,’ said Michael as she waited by the door for him. ‘Now I think we had better go. Dinner starts at eight.’
Fifth Avenue was pandemonium by the time the car pulled up at the huge façade of the Metropolitan Museum at Eighty-Second Street. A line of black limousines snaked back up the road, each taking their turn to unload their glamorous cargo onto the red carpet before driving off into the night. The entrance was a marquee-covered tunnel where photographers from picture agencies, television companies and glossy magazines lined up behind the crash barriers to get their shot of the A-list guests as they walked inside. Seeing that J-Lo, looking spectacular in a snow-white gown, had entered only seconds before her, Serena was anxious that she would get a subdued response from the snappers. She need not have worried. The lenses raised, the shutters whirred and the paparazzi all shouted her name as she glided past them up the enormous staircase and into the building where the Great Hall had been decorated with a thousand flickering votive candles.
She took a blood-orange cocktail from a waiter and surveyed the scene. Thank goodness she’d given the burlesque theme a miss, she decided. Amber Thompson, America’s hottest platinum-blonde supermodel, was wearing a lavender powder wig and a long corset dress that was laced from her shoulder blades down to her heels and exposed a cheeky flash of bronzed buttock as she walked. More Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe, thought Serena with a sneer. Thankfully no one else was wearing red.
‘You look stunning,’ smiled Michael into her ear, biting the bottom of her lobe, stroking the palm of his hand across her bottom. She smiled at him indulgently. Basking in New York’s social elite limelight, she had almost forgotten about their earlier spat. Industry and society figures drifted up to them, exchanging air-kisses, compliments and platitudes. She grabbed Michael’s hand as they worked the crowd, talking to producers, senior figures from the museum, and the wives of billionaire philanthropists. It was a heady exotic mix. Rumour was right; everybody came to this party – Hollywood society, editors in chief and the world of fashion all seamlessly mingling.
As they sat down, Serena took a minute to survey her table. It was impressive. To her left was Tyler Sang, the multimillion-selling hip-hop mogul and Sahara, his raven-haired twenty-five-year-old wife. Next to them was a space where Roman LeFey and Patric, who was flying in from Paris, would sit. Petula, the fashionably odd-looking model, was sitting next to her rock-star fiancé Zachary, while to Michael’s left sat Warren Johnson, the legendary Wall Street financier and his much-younger fourth wife Marissa. Roman and Patric arrived at the table just as Serena was reading the menu out loud to everybody. Roman’s face was stony, shaking his head so slowly it was almost unnoticeable. As he took his seat, the determined, unsmiling line of his mouth spoke volumes.
For half an hour, Serena entertained herself talking to Sahara, whom she found amusingly vulgar. The half-Tahitian beauty was regaling her with her plans for a jewellery and make-up line for babies. It wasn’t until they were halfway through the lamb shank with quail gravy that Serena realized to her horror that Sahara had been feeding her food to a tea-cup Pomeranian dog peeking out of the top of her bag. ‘Poor Rococo is thirsty, aren’t you baby?’ cooed Sahara as she lifted a flute of champagne to the dog’s mouth and let it lap up greedy gulps.
Turning away in disgust, Serena tried to catch Roman’s eye, but he appeared to be locked in conversation with Petula and Zac, the model and rock star. Realizing that she had definitely upset him, she excused herself from Sahara, stood up and walked around to the back of Roman’s chair, putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘Please don’t be cross,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘I had an accident with the bathroom door. The chiffon split, it was awful! I didn’t want to embarrass you by wearing a less than perfect dress.’
‘You ripped it?’ said Roman, raising an eyebrow as if he didn’t believe a word of it.
‘I know!’ sighed Serena dramatically. ‘Not really a rip. More of a slash, actually. I’m so, so sorry, I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise.’
Roman glanced over at Michael who was leaning in to Sahara, his hand on her bare arm, sharing a private joke. He simply nodded. ‘I understand, Serena,’ he said coolly.
Christ, some people are so sensitive, thought Serena, walking back to her chair to pick up her clutch. She was desperate for a cigarette. Where the hell was she supposed to have a sneaky ciggie in an art gallery? It was probably smoke-alarmed up to the rafters. Not entirely sure where she was going in the throng of people and tables, she found herself back in the Great Hall, where she stood for a moment, gazing up at the soft, blurry glow from a thousand candles.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ asked a sarcastic voice from behind her. She turned around and her stomach lurched.
The voice, a curious combination of venom and sadness, belonged to Marlena Verboski, Michael’s ex-girlfriend, from the Egyptian yacht. She was a beautiful woman, long, cocoa-brown hair falling either side of an oval face, but her buttermilk complexion was showing all the signs of sleepless nights and tears.
Serena took a confident sip of her Mandarin Martini. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Marlena Verboski. We met in Egypt?’
Serena swirled the liquid around in the base of her glass. ‘Yes, I vaguely recall you.’
The woman sneered. ‘We had breakfast together, Serena. Surely you remember? But that’s not all we have in common, is it?’
‘I don’t follow you,’ replied Serena coolly, wanting to avoid the confrontation.
‘Well, let me spell it out for you, shall I?’ said Marlena, her Eastern European accent making her words clipped and precise. ‘Same taste in dresses.’ She nodded at Serena’s red Valentino gown, then ran her hands over the crimson fabric of her own strapless dress. ‘The parties we like to go to,’ she continued, her hand trailing in the direction of the diners. ‘And of course the same taste in men. But then how could I have forgotten that?’
Serena had, of course, been aware that Marlena Verboski had moved out of Michael’s duplex shortly before she had arrived in New York. But she was in no mood to apologize for the breakdown of Michael’s relationship with this tramp.
‘Get over it, darling. Relationships end. Things move on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get back to the party.’
Marlena