Lucy Lord - Vanity

‘Not getting cold feet are you, darling?’ asked Simon, his best man and fellow journalist on the men’s style magazine Stadium . ‘Here, have some of this.’ He passed him his drink, an ice-cold White Russian.

‘Thanks, mate.’ Damian took a swig. ‘And no, I’m not. Well – maybe a bit.’ He laughed. ‘But only stage fright, not the till-death-us-do-part bit, I’m absolutely convinced about that.’ He looked at Simon through his wraparound rock-star shades, fully aware of what most of his friends had made of Poppy’s behaviour the previous year. ‘And I’m bloody hot in this suit.’

‘ Il faut souffrir être beau .’ Simon’s affected campery could be misleading sometimes. ‘Anyway, you’re lookin’ mighty fine, dude.’ And Damian was. The cream linen set off his half-Indian, half-Welsh complexion beautifully, and the sharp cut emphasized his lean build. The shades, which he planned to take off during the ceremony, concealed soulful dark eyes that slanted down at the corners.

‘But maybe you should have taken a leaf out of that couple’s book.’ Simon was now laughing in the direction of an ageing pair of ravers in matching purple sarongs. The man was bare-chested, the woman improbably pert-breasted in a gold-and-lilac paisley bandeau bikini top. They were boogying barefoot in the sand to Moby, half pissed already by the look of it.

‘That’s Bella’s dad and his latest,’ said Damian, laughing too now and waving over at them. ‘Hey, Justin, hey, Jilly.’ They waved back, blowing kisses.

‘You don’t mind them not making more of an effort?’ Simon was very conscious of his own and others’ sartorial standards. Today he was impeccably dressed in a white open-necked shirt under a similar suit to Damian’s (only in a muted café au lait shade, so as not to upstage the groom).

‘Why do you think we’re getting married on a beach, you twat?’

He just wished Poppy would hurry up so they could get this over with.

Natalia Evanovitch sipped her Cristal and surveyed the scene coolly from her hillside vantage spot. She would descend in her own time. She had only known Poppy and Damian since they’d been engaged, and in that time she had grown very fond of them; they were a good-looking, intelligent, fun-loving couple who were a great addition to her little black book. Hence the generous offer of her extraordinarily glamorous clifftop villa as both the reception after-party venue and somewhere for the wedding party to stay for the week.

Natalia was seriously loaded. As she looked down at the hipsters milling around the beach in their Alice Temperley frocks and designer shades, she reflected on the contrast between her new sunny, carefree world and her cold, dark past in Kiev. And they say that money cannot buy you happiness, she thought scornfully. Ерунда !

But if it wasn’t for her past, the money almost certainly wouldn’t exist. For a moment she gazed out over the sea, lost in thought. With an effort she snapped herself out of it. Across the pass, the wedding jeep was making its juddering way down the hill. Natalia adjusted her multicoloured silk minidress, checked her smooth platinum-blonde ponytail in the rear-view window of her state-of-the-art silver Ferrari and made a leisurely descent to the beach.

Justin and Jilly were having a whale of a time. They’d been nearly the oldest swingers in town at Pacha last night and snorted much of Colombia’s finest. The Viagra-assisted screwing had lasted till dawn, so they’d only had around three hours’ sleep.

She’s not bad for an old bird, thought Justin, checking out Jilly’s childless flat stomach and lifted tits. Even though he was at least ten years older than her, he was used to much younger totty, and his forty-five-odd years of experience as a fashion photographer generally guaranteed him access to it. But he was still smarting from the hideous events of the previous year. A young model he’d screwed had accused him of rape after he’d failed to get her picture on the cover of Italian Vogue . Justin’s moral boundaries were pretty vague, but rape? No way, José. He’d assumed she fancied him; he was still pretty buff, if he did say so himself. He thought he’d taken her to heaven and back.

So, for the time being, Jilly was as good a compromise as any. She wasn’t what you’d call a babe (too old), or a beauty, like his ex-wife Olivia (also too old, but her eyes made up for it), but she was fun, with a body that could pass for a much younger one if he closed his eyes. Which he found himself doing with increasing frequency.

‘Another tequila, you naughty old wretch?’ Jilly brandished the bottle she’d hidden in her purple, suede-tasselled handbag.

‘Thanks, angel tits.’ Justin took a hearty swig then belched slightly. Heartburn. How the fuck did Ronnie Wood do it?

‘Justin! Jilly!’

They both looked around guiltily.

Olivia regarded them with affectionate amusement. Some things never changed, and by God was she glad she wasn’t married to the silly old ‘See You Next Tuesday’ any more. She and Jilly were good friends, and knowing Jilly’s disastrous track record she thought the stupid buggers probably deserved one another. Olivia was looking beautiful in one of her Ossie Clark original maxidresses. Her chocolate-brown hair was piled into a messy up-do, her expressive dark eyes lined with kohl. The resemblance to her daughter Bella was startling.

‘Isn’t this absolutely beautiful?’ she said to Jilly, ignoring Justin, who was trying to hide the tequila bottle down the front of his sarong. ‘I must say I think we’re honoured to be invited. As far as I can make out, the only other aged Ps belong to the bride and groom.’

‘We are parents of the bridesmaid, Liv,’ said Justin pompously, giving up with the tequila bottle and chucking it on the sand. He started rolling a spliff. ‘And we’ve known Poppy since she was a little girl. She must have been about … seven?’ After the excesses of the years, details could get a little hazy.

‘Ah, yes, I remember it well,’ said Olivia drily. ‘Bella first brought her home from school when they were both ten. God, they were sweet.’ Always maternal, she smiled fondly at the memory of the two little girls in bunches and ankle socks, holding hands.

‘Here’s your vino, Princess.’ A gargantuan man in a lurid tropical-print shirt appeared at the edge of the group and thrust a glass of white wine into Olivia’s slender hand. His own fingers were fat and bedecked with signet rings.

‘Thanks, Bernie, darling.’ Olivia smiled at him.

‘Bernie, mate!’ Justin was effusive in his greeting, even though the four of them had lunched together at Las Salinas beach only the previous day. He had a lot of time for his ex-wife’s partner (horrible word, but what else could he call him? Boyfriend was ridiculous, at their age, and he drew the line at lover when talking about his ex-wife).

‘Fancy a toke on this?’

‘Not my bag, me old china, but cheers anyway.’ Bernie’s beady little eyes were as amused as Olivia’s large brown ones. ‘So did you two find anywhere to carry on partying last night?’

‘On this island? With this body?’ Jilly thrust her hips in a manner that even Justin found faintly embarrassing and hard to respond to.

‘Pacha,’ he said quickly. And because he was a nice man, despite everything, added, ‘You were the most gorgeous babe in there. Just check out those abs!’

‘Oh, do shut up, you ridiculous old man. They’re coming! Don’t you want to see our daughter in her moment of glory?’ Olivia put a finger to her lips with one hand and smacked her ex-husband’s wrist with the other.

They watched in silence as Poppy floated down the beach on her mother’s arm, Bella a few paces behind. An aisle leading down to the water’s edge had been fashioned out of terracotta tubs of miniature orange trees, in full bridal blossom. Damian, now without his shades, was waiting where the sea lapped the shore. Even from where they were standing near the bar, Olivia could see how nervous he was.