Lucy Holliday - A Night In With Grace Kelly

‘I’m sure they’ll lose interest soon,’ I say.

‘God, I hope so,’ she says, unconvincingly. ‘I mean, sure, in the olden days, I’ve never minded press intrusion. But this is different. My priorities are different now. I’m a mother .’

‘Cass. You’re not a mother.’

‘I am! I mean, Zoltan has two children , you know! Daughters! And if I end up marrying him …’

‘You’ve only been with him three months!’

‘… I’ll be their brand-new stepmother. Which, obviously, is going to be amazing. I mean, I’ve wanted to be a mother for, like, soooo long …’

I stop trying to arrange the sinfully expensive flowers I bought from a posh shop up the road, and stare at her. ‘Really?’

‘… but this way, I get to do the fun part without having to go through all the really shit stuff, too. You know, getting fat, and all that.’

‘Pregnant, Cass. Not fat. Pregnant.’

‘Well, you say that, Libby, but when I saw those christening photos of Nora, she looked absolutely massive! And that was, like, at least two months after she’d had the baby, right?’

‘It was four months,’ I say, defensively, because the Nora of whom Cass is speaking is my best friend of almost twenty years. I was the chief bridesmaid at her wedding last summer. I’m godmother to her eight-month-old daughter, Clara, for Christ’s sake. ‘And she didn’t look fat, she looked amazing.’

‘Yeah, well, either way, I’m not going to take the risk. Anyway, it’s not just the getting-fat thing. Little children cry , and they make a mess of stuff , and you’re really tired at night so you only get to have sex, like, three times a week and stuff … But then they get to, like, six, or nine or … well, whatever age Zoltan’s kids are … well, they’re just super-easy by then! You just hang out, and do really cute mother-daughter stuff like … talk about whatever boy bands they fancy, and …’ Inspiration clearly runs dry for a moment. ‘I don’t know … go for spa days?’

‘I don’t think nine year olds are really into spa days, to be honest with you.’

‘Well, I was. I had a lovely spa weekend with Mum for my ninth birthday!’

‘When I was thirteen …? I don’t remember us going to a spa with Mum that young.’

‘Oh, it was probably a weekend when you were at your dad’s, or something … Hey, I remember now! I think we told you she was taking me to an audition for Doctor Who .’

‘I remember that!’ Especially as I was no longer a regular weekend guest at my dad’s by then, which still didn’t stop him leaving me home alone with a box-set of Humphrey Bogart videos so that he could go out with some new girlfriend all afternoon on Saturday and most of Sunday. I made cheese sandwiches (partly because that was all I knew how to make and partly because cheese and bread was all there was in the flat) and fell asleep on the floor in front of the TV because there was a creepy old walk-in closet in the spare room and I was too scared to sleep there in case someone was hiding in it and crept out of it in the middle of the night. ‘Anyway, look, Cass, can we talk about all this – your, er, new role as a stepmother – another time, please?’

‘Why? You’re not busy, are you?’

‘Yes!’ Has she completely missed everything I’ve been doing while she’s been wittering on? ‘I’ve told you! Ben and Elvira are getting here for a meeting any minute now!’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Though you do know, don’t you, that there’s nothing you can really do, right now, to make the place look decent enough to impress Elvira Thingy-Doodah?’ Cass casts a disparaging glance around the room, then wrinkles her nose as she peers down at the sofa. ‘God, Libby, are you still so hard up that you can’t afford something a bit better than this? You could get one for literally a hundred and fifty quid at IKEA!’

‘I know. I like this one.’

She pulls a face. ‘Then I can’t help you. Anyway, you’re the one who has to convince this Elvira woman that you’re not about to infest her entire apartment with bedbugs, or whatever the hell is lurking in here.’

‘Nothing’s lurking in there,’ I say. ‘Bedbugs or … anyone else.’

‘Any thing .’

‘Right. Yes. Of course. But seriously, Cass, I do need to get ready …’

‘Fine. I’ll go.’ She gets to her feet, tottering a bit on the five-inch heels that she considers mandatory for an average day out and about. ‘I’ve got to get to the hospital to see Mum.’

Early this morning, Mum had her gallstones out at a private hospital near Harley Street. No, scratch that: she had minor cosmetic surgery. Or rather, this is what she’s insisting on telling people, because gallstones are far too unglamorous a condition for my mother. She’d rather everyone thought she was having a face-lift or a nose job, evidently, than that they knew she had ugly old gallstones rattling around inside her.

As far as I knew, she’d banned me and Cass from visiting until tomorrow, when she’d be feeling sufficiently recovered to drape a bed jacket over her shoulders and hold court. But apparently Cass is exempt from this condition.

‘You’re seeing her today? ’ I ask.

‘Yeah, she asked me to pop along if I was free. Why? Are you not going to make it today at all?’

‘No! I thought she didn’t want us there.’

‘Oh. Well, maybe it was just you she didn’t want there. Or,’ Cass goes on, generously trying to find a way to make this sound less harsh, ‘maybe it was just that she does want me rather than not wanting you, if you see what I mean.’

‘Well, tell her I’ll come along to visit tomorrow, as summonsed,’ I say, pointedly. ‘If she can find the time in her packed schedule to fit me in, that is.’

But Cass isn’t paying that much attention. She’s peering into the mirror by the door and getting her makeup bag out of her handbag to perfect her appearance – a few trowel-loads of blusher, an ocean of lipgloss and a small tidal wave of mascara – just in case she’s papped en route to the hospital, I guess. Then she’s off, with the briefest of waves in my direction, giving me a grand total of ten minutes to put my own makeup on, get into my chosen outfit, and head downstairs to the studio/showroom to assemble the pieces I want to show Ben and Elvira at our meeting.

I mean, it really does have to go well today. It has to .

The thing is that when Ben helicoptered in, this time last year, and put forty grand of his venture-capital firm’s money into my jewellery business, Libby Goes To Hollywood, I couldn’t believe my luck. His money, not to mention his bulging contacts book and business expertise, has turned LGTH from a teeny-tiny, financially strapped entity, with a handful of customers, into a proper little business with a glossy website, all kinds of terrific press, and – sorry, but this still excites me probably most of all – gorgeous swanky packaging, with eau-de-nil and dove-grey boxes stamped with silver lettering and filled with silver tissue paper. These days I can’t keep up with demand for the cheaper pieces I sell on the website, so I’ve outsourced the manufacture of those to a fantastic little artisanal factory in Croatia instead, while I try to concentrate on the design side, and on the manufacture of some of my more intricate pieces. Six months ago I even ended up doing a brief collaboration with the jewellery department at Liberty (the glamorous department store after which, though she’ll claim otherwise, I’m still pretty sure Mum named me) as part of a New Designers’ showcase. Recently there was an entire feature about me in Brides magazine, focusing on the vintage-style bespoke tiaras I’ve made for a few clients. I mean, I’m still small, but I’m growing, and none of it would ever have happened without Ben.