LUCY LORD
Vanity
To my wonderful parents, Elizabeth and Christopher, with all my love.
Table of Contents
Read on for an extract from Lucy Lord’s next book TREACHERY
Chapter 1
‘Bollocks,’ said the blushing bride, scrutinizing her crotch through her wedding dress in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. ‘It’s too see-through in daylight, isn’t it? I’m going to have to wear those bloody remedial granny pants.’
The pants in question were an exorbitantly expensive pair of sheer nude silk Myla boy shorts, hardly the passion-killing girdle the comment implied. But Poppy Wallace had set her heart on going commando on her Big Day.
‘Never mind,’ said her best friend Bella, topping up their glasses with Veuve Clicquot. ‘Damian can rip them off with his teeth later.’
They both looked at Poppy’s reflection. Transparency problem aside, she looked more beautiful than Bella had ever seen her, and that was saying something. The sheer white cotton voile dress, suspended from spaghetti straps and embroidered with daisies at the hem and strategically across what there was of her chest, skimmed her tiny body and floated to her delicate ankles. Her streaky white/gold hair flowed loose, halfway down her bare brown back, crowned with a sweet-smelling garland of white and yellow spring flowers. Her only jewellery was her vintage diamond-and-emerald engagement ring and an anklet fashioned out of silver daisies. She was barefoot, and her lovely little face, all wide green eyes, small nose and perfect teeth, was glowing.
Bella’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, Pops, you look gorgeous. Can I hug you without ruining anything?’
‘Course you can, you silly arse. Come here.’ She flung her little arms around Bella. When she released her, Bella could see that her eyes were suspiciously shiny too. Poppy only cried on the rarest of occasions (unlike Bella, who found herself gently weeping like George Harrison’s guitar with embarrassing frequency now she was in her thirties. Sad news stories, soppy song lyrics, old episodes of Friends she’d seen a million times before – it didn’t take a lot these days).
‘If it wasn’t for you, Belles, I wouldn’t be standing here today. So thanks, lovely. For everything.’
They downed their champagne and Poppy added, ‘Looking pretty gorgeous yourself, if I may congratulate myself on my exquisite taste. In friends and clothes.’
‘Such a pretty dress.’ Bella dabbed at her eyes with her fingers, then licked them, trying not to get any watery black residue on her cotton voile halterneck bridesmaid’s frock (she’d predictably forgotten to pack waterproof mascara). She and Poppy had spent ages choosing the exact shade of coral pink that most flattered Bella’s dark hair and eyes.
‘Thanks for not putting me in lilac frills.’
‘It was touch and go, especially when you kept going on about having my hen do at School Disco.’
They both laughed.
‘Shit, look at the time!’ said Bella. It wasn’t hard to miss, a fluorescent LCD display projected against one of the whitewashed walls of the ultra-glamorous, ultra-modern villa. ‘Take one last look at yourself as a single woman, babe. No last-minute regrets?’
Poppy shook her golden head. ‘No last-minute regrets.’ They both looked at her reflection again, different memories racing through each of their minds.
‘Let’s go then. But you’d better put your knickers on first.’
Mark looked around the crowded beach and smiled broadly. What a way to get hitched, man. Playa des’Estanyol, a little sandy cove halfway up the east coast of Ibiza, was a bugger to get to, located at the bottom of a long and bumpy pine-tree-shaded track, but that hadn’t fazed Mark. He’d relished bombing down in his hired jeep, sending up clouds of white dust,