‘But, cherie, this is a private party for my birthday, not a political rally for Miles. You can wear what you like.’
‘I know, but you have to admit, Grandmère, that you have some pretty influential friends. I think I should stay in the background as much as possible.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘In fact it would probably be better all round if I didn’t come…’
She had been sweeping the torn leaves into a little pile, but now Genevieve stopped her, laying her hand over Bella’s quite firmly. ‘Stop this, Bella.’
‘Sorry… It’s not that I don’t want to be there for your party, it’s just that you have to admit I’m a bit of a liability,’ Bella said lightly. She gave an awkward smile. ‘Even Ashley, PR Genius and Totally Nice Person, would have her work cut out making an art school dropout, shop girl and psychiatrist’s dream ticket seem like a political asset.’
‘Oh, Bella,’ Genevieve sighed. Suddenly she seemed very sad. ‘You have such talent. If only you could see that.’
‘For art,’ said Bella soberly. ‘That’s all, and that avenue is fairly conclusively closed since—’
Genevieve cut her off. ‘Non. Not just for art. For empathy. For understanding people, and seeing through the façade to what lies beneath. For loving.’
Bella laughed, but there was a faint tinge of bitterness to it. ‘I think Miles would say that’s my problem, not my talent.’
‘Non! Don’t let him make you believe that!’
The sudden rawness in Genevieve’s voice made Bella’s heart miss a beat. Her words echoed for a moment round the grand room, seeming out of place amongst the gleaming marble and polished wood, the perfectly arranged Sèvres china and Georgian silver. The orchid she had been holding fell to the floor as Genevieve took Bella’s hands in hers.
‘I do not want to watch you throw away your happiness to appease your family. Please, cherie, tell me you won’t. Don’t make the same mistake that I made.’
As the car glided through the security cordon at the entrance to Wilton Square, the noise and activity of the city was left behind and Olivier felt as if he was entering a charmed world. Beyond the dark shapes of the trees in the central garden Genevieve Delacroix’s ivory mansion blazed with light, and music spilled from windows which had been thrown open against the sticky air. The party had been going for an hour or so, and Olivier had timed his arrival carefully to allow him to slip in relatively unnoticed.
The enormous black front door was opened by a stiff-backed butler in white tie and tails, and Olivier handed over the gold-edged invitation he had managed to procure from a contact in the Treasury who owed him a favour. The butler took it with an impassive nod, gesturing for him to leave the gift he carried on a mahogany sideboard groaning under the weight of exquisitely wrapped parcels. Placing the painting of Le Manoir St Laurien, carefully reinserted into its frame, amongst them, Olivier followed the direction of the noise.
The spacious first-floor sitting room was packed with cabinet ministers, high-powered media figures and ancient aristocrats, and their loud, almost unintelligibly well-bred voices drifted assuredly above the music of the band downstairs. So this was the world of Bella Lawrence, he thought as his eyes moved around the elegant panelled room. Luxurious, expensive, exclusive… things that she no doubt took for granted and barely noticed. It was what she’d been born to.
Without being particularly conscious of it, he found his gaze skimming over the distinguished, easily recognizable faces of politicians and TV celebrities, searching for one face in particular. But the vicious kick of desire in the pit of his stomach when he saw her caught him off guard.
She was wearing another slim-fitting, severe black dress, which disguised rather than emphasised her figure, and high heels that made her endless legs seem as gracefully unsteady as a colt’s. She carried a large plate of canapés, which she was offering to a noisy group of media types. Her face was hidden by the silken curtain of her hair, but there was a stiffness in the set of her shoulders and a downward tilt to her head that told him she wasn’t smiling.
This was her world. So why did she look so out of place?
‘Caviar blini?’ he heard her murmur to a prominent TV news journalist, who took one without glancing at her or breaking off his conversation.
Eyes narrowed, Olivier watched.
Warm waves…sandy beach…top TV newsreader lying on it while I smash a plate of caviar blinis over his head…
Bella’s smile was a painful rictus grin as she moved on, wondering how soon she could beat a hasty retreat to her room and curl up with a book. Any time now, she thought resignedly, for all the notice anyone’s taking of me.
As she moved further into the room she could hear Miles’s voice—confident, urbane, totally in command—and once again the randomness of the gene lottery was brought home to her. How could it be that he was so…assured, and she had never felt a moment’s assurance in her whole life? She kept her head bowed, her back towards him, hoping to pass by unnoticed and be spared the inevitable embarrassment of being introduced to whichever political worthy he was talking to.
‘Ah, Bella! There you are…I was just talking about you.’
If Bella had been wearing boots at that moment her heart would have sunk into the bottom of them. Fortunately, her shiny black high-heeled shoes were too tight to leave any room for anything else, so she summoned a smile and turned round.
‘This is my little sister, Bella,’ Miles said heartily to the vaguely familiar-looking man standing beside him. ‘Named after the suffragette Christabel Pankhurst.’
Taking a caviar blini, the man smiled politely. ‘Of course. And as one of the distinguished Lawrence family I imagine you’re just as much of a trailblazer as your namesake?’
Bella felt her smile falter. Oh, yes, absolutely, she wanted to say. I’m the first member of my family to fail at anything and become a dropout. Just as she was wondering how to frame this sentence slightly more positively, the slim brunette at Miles’s side stepped in.
‘Bella’s the artistic one in the family, Prime Minister. She’s incredibly talented, so although Miles needs help to match a pair of socks, I actually have hope that we might just end up having children with a glimmer of creativity…’
Prime Minister. Oh, knickers. That was why she recognised him…
Bella cast a grateful glance at the girl who had spoken. Ashley McGarry was Miles’s fiancée. She was also extremely gorgeous, owned her own incredibly successful PR firm and was just about the nicest person Bella knew. Which was good, because it would have been hard to forgive her for the gorgeousness and success otherwise.
‘So, what kind of art do you do?’ the Prime Minister asked her politely.
Bella squirmed. ‘I paint furniture.’
The PM looked surprised. He’d clearly expected something a little more cutting edge. Ashley came to the rescue again. ‘Bella has one of the most enviable jobs in London, working in a gorgeous shop in Notting Hill that sells French antiques and vintage stuff.’ She turned to Bella with an encouraging smile. ‘I went back the other day to see if that fabulous mirror was still there, but Celia had sold it. I was so disappointed.’
Don’t worry,’ said Bella. ‘Her daughter’s twins are due any minute, so she’s asked me to do the autumn buying trip to France. I’m going to take her car and tour the markets around Paris, so I can look out for another one for you then.’
Miles looked