before she passed out. All of it. The universe had no mercy for Lola today. Her memory
wasn’t giving her a gradual release of information: it was all flooding back in one fell swoop.
She had to have a painkiller. Climbing out of the bed someone had put her in, she headed for the en-suite bathroom. In Lola’s world, all bedrooms had en suites, and sure enough,
this one did too . . . but its gleaming mirrored cabinets were completely empty. Damn. Guest bathroom. Raisin-Face had a lot more space in her small mews house than it seemed, because these rooms
were huge.
Confused now, Lola pushed open the bedroom door, and got the kind of shock a first-time passenger on the Tardis must have. Instead of the narrow little hallway she’d been expecting, she
was faced with the generous curve of a wide staircase, bathed in light streaming gently through a domed skylight set into the high ceiling, two floors up. Walls papered in pale-yellow stripes, hung
with black-and-white 18th-century prints of birds and flowers . . . this house was definitely familiar, and equally definitely not Raisin-Face’s. It had to be about ten times the size.
Lola racked what was left of her brain cells – i.e. the ones she hadn’t burned out with cocktails and coke the night before – and came up with nothing. She started down the
stairs, which ran all the way around the well of the atrium in a very dramatic fashion, and halfway down, seeing the black-and-white chequered marble of the entrance hall, she had the memory flash
she needed to realise where she was.
This was Devon’s in-laws’ Belgravia town house. Devon and Piers had stood just where Lola was now for the wedding photos: she could still see Devon’s priceless Honiton lace
train, a family heirloom, carefully arranged by Madison to spill all the way down the rest of the stairs and puddle beautifully at the bottom. Devon’s diamond tiara and necklace had been
family heirlooms too, heavy enough to give Devon a sore neck of which she had boasted for months afterwards. Piers might not be the brightest lightbulb in the chandelier, but there were definite
advantages to marrying the heir to the Claverford dukedom.
Hearing the gabble of her friends’ voices now, Lola ran down the rest of the stairs and into the big drawing-room. Pausing in the doorway for an instant, mostly to let her poor aching eyes
accustom themselves to the bright sunlight pouring in through the bow windows that gave onto the garden, she took in the scene. This room, too, was done in pale yellows and golds, with hints of
baby blue. Devon had insisted on having the house completely redecorated when she and Piers moved in: she wanted it to be a perfect frame for her. The result was a life-size jewellery box in which
Devon sparkled, her big blue eyes bright as aquamarines, her wheat-blonde hair matching the gilded furniture. Piers, a big slab of British beef, fair-haired, blue-eyed and pink-cheeked, was too
large for the delicate furniture, but at least he suited the décor.
Even now, despite Lola’s current misery, she had a moment of complete appreciation for the picture Devon made in a camel cashmere-blend T-shirt and slim beige jeans, lounging on one of the
twin primrose silk sofas, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, fine gold bangles clinking on her wrist. Madison and Georgia, on the other sofa, were also clad in versions of the same chic leisure
wear: Georgia in a green silk sweater, to set off her flaming red hair and white skin, Madison in a white T-shirt, her famously endless legs clad in jeans specially treated to be as soft as suede
and just as expensive.
On the coffee table between the sofas were a couple of copies of the Evening Standard , but the main focus of attention was the screen of Devon’s white laptop, together with
half-drunk glasses of champagne, a plate of strawberries and another one of edamame beans. A big silver ice bucket was strategically placed next to the coffee table,
wasn’t giving her a gradual release of information: it was all flooding back in one fell swoop.
She had to have a painkiller. Climbing out of the bed someone had put her in, she headed for the en-suite bathroom. In Lola’s world, all bedrooms had en suites, and sure enough,
this one did too . . . but its gleaming mirrored cabinets were completely empty. Damn. Guest bathroom. Raisin-Face had a lot more space in her small mews house than it seemed, because these rooms
were huge.
Confused now, Lola pushed open the bedroom door, and got the kind of shock a first-time passenger on the Tardis must have. Instead of the narrow little hallway she’d been expecting, she
was faced with the generous curve of a wide staircase, bathed in light streaming gently through a domed skylight set into the high ceiling, two floors up. Walls papered in pale-yellow stripes, hung
with black-and-white 18th-century prints of birds and flowers . . . this house was definitely familiar, and equally definitely not Raisin-Face’s. It had to be about ten times the size.
Lola racked what was left of her brain cells – i.e. the ones she hadn’t burned out with cocktails and coke the night before – and came up with nothing. She started down the
stairs, which ran all the way around the well of the atrium in a very dramatic fashion, and halfway down, seeing the black-and-white chequered marble of the entrance hall, she had the memory flash
she needed to realise where she was.
This was Devon’s in-laws’ Belgravia town house. Devon and Piers had stood just where Lola was now for the wedding photos: she could still see Devon’s priceless Honiton lace
train, a family heirloom, carefully arranged by Madison to spill all the way down the rest of the stairs and puddle beautifully at the bottom. Devon’s diamond tiara and necklace had been
family heirlooms too, heavy enough to give Devon a sore neck of which she had boasted for months afterwards. Piers might not be the brightest lightbulb in the chandelier, but there were definite
advantages to marrying the heir to the Claverford dukedom.
Hearing the gabble of her friends’ voices now, Lola ran down the rest of the stairs and into the big drawing-room. Pausing in the doorway for an instant, mostly to let her poor aching eyes
accustom themselves to the bright sunlight pouring in through the bow windows that gave onto the garden, she took in the scene. This room, too, was done in pale yellows and golds, with hints of
baby blue. Devon had insisted on having the house completely redecorated when she and Piers moved in: she wanted it to be a perfect frame for her. The result was a life-size jewellery box in which
Devon sparkled, her big blue eyes bright as aquamarines, her wheat-blonde hair matching the gilded furniture. Piers, a big slab of British beef, fair-haired, blue-eyed and pink-cheeked, was too
large for the delicate furniture, but at least he suited the décor.
Even now, despite Lola’s current misery, she had a moment of complete appreciation for the picture Devon made in a camel cashmere-blend T-shirt and slim beige jeans, lounging on one of the
twin primrose silk sofas, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, fine gold bangles clinking on her wrist. Madison and Georgia, on the other sofa, were also clad in versions of the same chic leisure
wear: Georgia in a green silk sweater, to set off her flaming red hair and white skin, Madison in a white T-shirt, her famously endless legs clad in jeans specially treated to be as soft as suede
and just as expensive.
On the coffee table between the sofas were a couple of copies of the Evening Standard , but the main focus of attention was the screen of Devon’s white laptop, together with
half-drunk glasses of champagne, a plate of strawberries and another one of edamame beans. A big silver ice bucket was strategically placed next to the coffee table,
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