Read Online Perfect Strangers by Tasmina Perry - Free Book Online Page B

she ran a bath, then when it was ready, climbed in, sighing with pleasure. There was only a shower at her little studio, and she could no longer afford the pharmacy of bath oils Lana had sitting next to the tub. I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, she thought, sipping her wine and giggling to herself. She stayed there, topping up the water, until her fingers started to crinkle, then towelled herself dry and pulled on her best underwear. It felt appropriate to the surroundings, after all. It was just then that the doorbell began to ring downstairs. It took Sophie a moment to remember she had invited Francesca over.
    Wrapping herself in a robe, she padded downstairs, opening the door to her wide-eyed friend.
    ‘How the bloody hell can you afford this?’ said Fran as she pushed her way inside.
    Sophie laughed.
    ‘Don’t get too excited, I’m only house-sitting.’
    Sophie filled her in on her new domestic arrangement as she took her on a guided tour of the house, loving every squeal of delight and envy that Francesca let out as she showed her the bedrooms, Lana’s huge dressing room, even the long garden at the back of the house. Finally, they sat down at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Sophie poured her friend a glass of the Sémillon.
    ‘So you’re going to live this Lana woman’s life for the summer?’ said Francesca, sipping her wine. ‘Who is she?’
    ‘She’s Spanish. Or Majorcan, I think. Beautiful, anyway, and very stylish, very nice. Her husband has some money markets job, works in Geneva apparently.’
    ‘What’s his name? Charlie might know him.’
    ‘Simon Goddard-Price.’
    Francesca pouted.
    ‘Never heard of him. Have you googled him?’
    ‘Tried that,’ said Sophie between sips. ‘Couldn’t find much beyond mentions in the business pages.’
    Francesca nodded sagely. ‘You know some people actually pay a publicist to keep them out of Google searches? Charlie told me. They must have serious money if that’s the case.’
    ‘That makes sense,’ nodded Sophie. ‘Lana doesn’t seem the sceney type. There’s a heap of invitations on the mantelpiece she didn’t seem that bothered about going to. Said I could go along if I fancied.’
    ‘Really?’ said Francesca, sliding out of her seat. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’
    She retrieved the invitations and spread them out on the kitchen counter.
    ‘Bloody hell, Soph,’ she said. ‘These are some of the hottest tickets in town. Oh my God, look at this!’ she gasped, snatching up one of the cards and holding it out to Sophie. ‘It’s for Victor Yip’s fortieth!’
    ‘Who’s Victor Yip?’
    Francesca gaped at her.
    ‘You don’t know who Victor Yip is? Chinese gazillionaire, Sophie. Like, only the richest man in London right now.’
    Sophie frowned, feeling totally out of the loop.
    There was a time when she knew all about the hottest clubs, bars and parties to be seen at. She’d pored over Tatler and Harpers and had enthusiastically thrown herself into London’s summer season – attending everything from Henley to the Cartier polo. But Lana’s invitations hadn’t registered at all.
    ‘I thought that steel magnate, wossisname, was the richest man in London.’
    Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘Get with the programme, Soph.’
    Sophie caught the look on her friend’s face.
    ‘Whatever. We can’t go,’ she said firmly.
    ‘Why not? There’s a plus one.’
    ‘We can’t go bowling up to someone’s birthday party just because we’ve got the invitation. It’s a personal party; he invited Lana, not us.’
    Francesca sighed.
    ‘Well, what about this one, then?’ she said, pointing to another card.
    ‘The Chariot Dinner,’ read Sophie, craning her neck. ‘What’s that?’
    ‘God, it’s like you’ve been living in Burkina Faso, not Battersea. It’s only one of the biggest fund-raisers in the calendar. Do you know how much it costs to go to this? It’s ten thousand a plate. We’re talking hedgies, oligarchs, the