Last of the Summer Moët Read online

  ‘Because.’ He bent and kissed her, sending a great new bolt of desire through her. She imagined it passing through the floor and blowing the single, unshaded lightbulb on the ceiling of the entrance hall.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘If I told you I’d have to kill you.’ Harry grinned.

  Laura eyed him from beneath her dark fringe. A double bluff? ‘Ha ha.’

  She watched as he shrugged on the ancient black biker jacket that, had she not known better, she might assume he even wore in bed. But Harry wore nothing in bed, Laura remembered longingly.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He smiled, but a preoccupied smile, as if his thoughts were elsewhere already. Then he left the bedroom. The front door latch snapped shut behind him. He was gone. With a sigh, Laura reached for her laptop, and started preparing for the big Savannah Bouche interview on Monday. She might as well put the night to good use.

  Chapter Five

  At the end of the wide red Mall, the iconic façade of Buckingham Palace shone white against a clear blue sky. Atop the flagpole, the red and gold Royal Standard rippled. The sovereign was home. Home to receive another sovereign. Savannah Bouche, Queen of Hollywood.

  Walking slowly through a St James’s Park frothing with white spring blossom, Laura rehearsed her questions. She had imagined that, thanks to Harry’s precipitate departure, she would have all day to read yet more research material. But in Saturday’s small hours Edgar had crashed back with a Russian transvestite trio called Sink the Pink and woken her up. It had taken ages to get back to sleep, only to be woken again a few hours later by Edgar banging on the door begging for Xanax.

  ‘I don’t have any,’ Laura told him blearily.

  ‘Oh God oh God oh God!’ Edgar had responded hysterically.

  ‘Can’t you just have an aspirin?’

  Edgar had eventually calmed down after a cup of tea with two sugars. ‘I could get into this stuff,’ he told her, brandishing the mug, which was from a fleamarket and commemorated the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. ‘My dad knows her,’ Edgar added.

  ‘What, the Queen?’ Laura asked satirically, as her neighbour seemed to be glancing at the monarch.

  ‘Mm. She gave him a K.’

  ‘A K?’

  ‘Knighthood.’

  Laura stared. She knew little about Edgar’s background apart from the fact that it was wealthy. ‘What does your dad do, exactly?’

  ‘He’s head of MI6,’ Edgar yawned.

  Laura sat bolt upright. ‘What? But that’s... amazing.’ Her thoughts flew back to the just-seen film. M suave in his three-piece suit, turning wearily from the Whitehall view to address the maverick 007. Was Edgar’s father like that?

  Supine on the battered leather sofa, purple-socked feet up on one of the arms, Edgar rolled his eyes. ‘He so isn’t. Dad just sits at a desk all day.’

  ‘What’s he called?’ Laura was now thinking about Harry. Would he know him?

  ‘Sir Philip Peaseblossom.’ Edgar yawned again. ‘Anyway, about last night...’ He launched into a description of a Brixton club called Audioslag. ‘You couldn’t tell the gender of seventy per cent of the people there!’ Edgar wiggled his purple feet excitedly. There was a large hole in the bottom of one of the socks.

  Unlike Lulu’s sex-change butler Vlad, who was very discreet, Edgar shoved his bicurious status in everyone’s face, often literally. You didn’t have to be Freud to guess what lay behind all this. Having failed at his expensive public school and dropped out of RADA, a life of transgender hedonism in Shoreditch was Edgar’s obvious direction of travel.

  What his father made of it was anyone’s guess. And it was his father Laura wanted to talk about. ‘What’s his job like?’ she asked, eagerly. ‘Your dad’s,’ she prompted, as the eyes through the smeared lenses looked confused.

  ‘Oh God, beyond boring. Then we went to this after-party at this thrash dungeon in a really rough pub in the Barbican. Then I fell asleep on the Circle Line...’

  Laura would not be put off, however. She wondered if Edgar was visiting the family seat in Holland Park later. If so, she might try and tag along. Penetrating the inner sanctum of the head of the security services would certainly be something to tell Harry. Perhaps even impress him.

  ‘Are you going to see your parents for lunch?’

  ‘They’re away this weekend, thank God.’

  Laura battled disappointment. Perhaps Sir Philip was doing something very M-ish somewhere. ‘Where?’ she asked, nosily, she knew. But she was a journalist.

  ‘At the country pile.’ Edgar rolled his eyes again in what seemed an attempt at distancing irony.

  Laura was interested. M had a country pile! ‘Where is it?’

  Through the smeared lenses of his geek glasses, Edgar flashed her a glance. ‘God, it’s so boring. Place called Great Hording.’

  Great Hording. Wasn’t that the place she had overheard being discussed in Umbra? The richest village in the UK? Laura’s interested sharpened. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘A shitbox,’ declared Edgar, but the subject was clearly making him uncomfortable. Soon after, he got up and went. As he left behind him a certain unwashed mustiness, Laura opened all the windows. Then, finally, she got down to her research.

  Now, as she crossed the road by the white and gold Victoria Memorial, Laura felt she knew more than any human being needed to about Savannah Bouche. She even knew what the famous ‘wet newspaper’ tattoos meant. The one on Savannah’s back was the genetic code of her favourite dog and down her right shoulder blade was a portrait of one of the others.

  Savannah had famously rescued her pets from refugee camps whilst pursuing her humanitarian causes. The dogs travelled with her all round the world; images of the actress traversing the shining entrance halls of international airports with the pack of hounds at her heels appeared almost weekly. Each dog was named after a celebrated feminist or freedom fighter.

  The new film, of course, was the reason for the interview. But Laura’s real target was the star’s current relationship. She was rumoured to be involved with a music star, although no one had yet uncovered his identity. Or hers. Savannah, who liked to keep the world guessing, had previously hinted at bicuriosity and her occasional attempts to appear highbrow further muddied the waters. Her latest lover could therefore be anyone from Cara Delevingne to Daniel Barenboim.

  Brad Plant had told Laura to be on time, at ten exactly, to meet a Dr Edward Summer, expert in nineteenth-century architecture. He was to be their private guide around the palace.

  As Laura got out her now-ringing smartphone, she saw that it was 9.50.

  Brad Plant was on the other end. ‘Savannah could be a little delayed.’

  Laura was not especially surprised. Her experience of celebrities, especially Hollywood ones, was that their lateness was in direct proportion to how important they were, or thought they were. With someone of Savannah Bouche’s wattage, the wait could be a long one. She bit back her frustration. There was nothing that she could do and any interview was better than no interview.

  Dr Edward Summer was waiting in the Buckingham Palace ticket hall. He had little round glasses, a pink face which matched his bow tie, and a three-piece herringbone suit. All this, and his smiling benevolence, reminded Laura of Ratty from The Wind in the Willows. It was impossible not to feel cheered up.

  ‘It’s simply marvellous that Miss Bouche wishes to view the palace,’ beamed Dr Summer. ‘It’s a wonderfully interesting building. Are you a fan of nineteenth-century architecture, Miss, er, Waters?’

  ‘Lake. I don’t know much about it, I’m afraid,’ Laura confessed. Dr Summer, still beaming, rubbed his hands.

  ‘Marvellous! It will be my pleasure to introduce you, in that case. Will Miss Bouche be much later, do you think?’

  Yes, was the short answer.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Dr Summer. ‘Well, perhaps we could look through this while we are waiting.’ He handed her the official palace brochure and Laura began lea
fing through pages of ornate rooms with red carpets and golden doors.

  ‘As you’re writing an article, perhaps I can give you some background,’ the academic suggested helpfully. ‘It was George IV who commissioned the architect John Nash to transform what had been previously known as Buckingham House into a grand palace.’

  ‘Right,’ said Laura, dutifully getting out her phone and typing this in.

  ‘The sculptures include a superb likeness of Prince Arthur, son of Queen Victoria, by Carlo Marochetti...’ the academic went on.

  Laura did her best to type assiduously whilst simultaneously looking out for Savannah. It was difficult in such a crowded place. All around, hordes of excited tourists queued in roped-off sections for tickets. The area was ablaze with red carpet and gold cardboard swags and crowns. Even the people behind the tills had red, gold-buttoned jackets on, and two soldiers in bearskins added to the ceremonial effect.

  ‘...today the State Rooms contain many of the greatest treasures from the Royal Collection. Paintings by van Dyck and some absolutely marvellous Sèvres porcelain...’

  Laura typed dutifully on. Her heart, however, was sinking. It was now nearly eleven; how much later would Savannah be? Perhaps she had changed her mind. Perhaps she had realised she had picked a spot where she would be unable to bring her four dogs.

  ‘...magnificent pair of chairs whose design was based on ancient Roman models...’ Dr Summer continued. He clearly lived for this sort of thing. But the gasps of excitement Laura now heard from all around seemed occasioned by something other than antique furniture.

  ‘Savannah Bouche!’

  ‘OMG. It’s really her!’

  Laura looked around to see a tiny woman in vast black sunglasses approaching rapidly across the red carpet. Her frail build was emphasised by a trailing black poncho, a huge black status bag and bulky Ugg boots. But most of all by her companions, two fat, bald men with goatee beards in black combat gear.

  ‘Savannah Bouche,’ the people in the queues whispered. ‘Savannah Bouche!’

  Skinny on screen, Savannah looked even thinner in real life. Behind the colossal sunglasses, her head seemed too big for her tiny body. Savannah had always denied having plastic surgery of any kind – ‘in solidarity with the women of the world who have no access to cosmetic enhancement.’ But up close and in the flesh, or what there was of it, Laura wasn’t so sure.

  The famous pout seemed to take up half her entire face. The famous cheekbones jutted out like plane wings. The famous dark hair was pulled into a ponytail of such artful carelessness only a top hairdresser could have done it. Admittedly, Savannah was only twenty-nine. But, Laura calculated, she had been twenty-nine for the past five years at least.

  She stepped forward, hand extended. ‘Miss Bouche. Laura Lake from Society.’

  There was a blinding flash. As she blinked away the pain Laura saw, in negative on the inside of her eyelids, a huge Hollywood smile. The flash had been Savannah’s teeth.

  The guide was hovering expectantly. Laura gathered herself. ‘May I introduce Dr Edward Summer, expert in nineteenth-century architecture?’

  ‘My dear lady!’ With courtly flourish, Dr Summer took Savannah’s tiny hand and kissed it.

  The actress gave an almost imperceptible shudder as she withdrew her child-sized fingers. Laura could just about hear her whisper agitatedly to her bodyguards, ‘Where’s my Purell?’

  One of the enormous men produced a discreet bottle of disinfecting gel which Savannah spritzed quickly over her palms. Behind his little round glasses, Dr Summer looked hurt.

  All around, hysteria was building. The gawpers in the ticket hall were shoving the rope barriers aside to take selfies.

  ‘Let’s get out of here?’ Savannah said decisively from behind her shades. ‘It’s full of civilians.’

  ‘On the contrary, the Household Regiment are present.’ Dr Summer gestured at the bearskin-hatted soldiers. ‘May I take your bag to the cloakroom?’ he added helpfully. ‘It looks rather heavy.’

  The large black crocodile tote on Savannah’s narrow shoulder did indeed look enormous. But she shook her head and tripped off on her doll-sized legs towards the ‘Way In’ sign. ‘Come on, boys,’ she sang over her shoulder to her outsize male companions.

  Dr Summer hurried after her. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Miss Bouche, but I have security clearance only for the three of us. Your, er, friends will have to remain here, I’m afraid.’

  One of the friends now extended a tattooed arm as thick as a tree and grabbed the mild academic by his bow-tied throat. ‘Nowyoulissanameesucker...’

  The slotting, metallic sound of machine guns being primed heralded the approach of the bearskin-hatted soldiers. They weren’t just for decoration after all. The selfie-takers fell back and there were gasps of shock as the British Army detached the Bouche security detail from the throat of the Buckingham Palace guide.

  Dr Summer rubbed his neck and managed a nervous smile. ‘My goodness me.’

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ said Savannah smoothly, turning her blinding dental beam on the soldiers. Evidently trained for extreme conditions, they stared back impassively. ‘You’d better stay here, like the nice gentleman says,’ she simpered at her bodyguards, who shuffled hurriedly back towards the entrance.

  Laura rejoiced inwardly. She felt sorry for Dr Summer, but this all made great copy.

  A rope was being lifted and barriers pushed aside. Dr Summer was leading them out of the ticket hall into the Palace proper.

  Stretching before them was a wide, red-carpeted corridor. Carved gold sofas upholstered with red damask stood at regular intervals against white and gold walls. A line of enormous crystal chandeliers hung above. For a moment Laura forgot her famous companion and thought about the far more famous people who had lived and still lived here. Princess Diana had walked these very halls. The Queen still did. She was in the building. The flag had been flying outside.

  ‘Do tell me about your latest film, Miss Bouche,’ Dr Summer was asking pleasantly.

  Savannah ignored him. She was taking a selfie with a portrait of Prince Andrew on the wall. This done, she studied the results thoughtfully.

  ‘Or should I say movie?’ Dr Summer beamed. ‘We are, after all, famously two nations divided by a common language.’

  ‘What?’ Savannah sounded irritated at being interrupted.

  ‘Your new film,’ Laura prompted. Savannah was doing another Prince Andrew selfie now, from a different angle. Her phone case, Laura noticed, was the Union Jack in coloured crystals.

  ‘O-kay.’ The actress tossed her ponytail. ‘So I did this film because of the importance of its message? My character’s a strong female, it’s a beautiful part and one I really empathised with.’

  Laura scribbled all this down. It was obviously sales patter, but delivered with conviction. There was no doubt that Savannah could act.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Dr Summer, impressed. ‘I must make sure I go and see it. What’s the new film called?’

  ‘TaeKwondo Hippo.’ Savannah spoke with the same expectancy of recognition as might have accompanied the words ‘Gone With the Wind’.

  ‘It’s an animation,’ Laura put in, trying not to laugh.

  ‘About a hippo who wants to drop a dress size? I play the hippo’s glamorous younger sister? She’s kind of a maneater and steals all her boyfriends?’

  Some articles Laura had read had called this typecasting. They implied that, despite the rumoured involvement with the music star, Savannah was still looking around for a better offer. Probably wasting her time there though, Laura thought, watching the actress studying a portrait of the Queen and Prince Philip.

  ‘The royal family are in this building, like, now?’ Savannah asked, sounding urgent. ‘Prince Andrew, he’s here now, right?’

  ‘I’m not familiar with His Royal Highness’s diary,’ Dr Summer told her.

  Laura decided to steer the conversation back to the matter in hand. ‘So what’s next?’ she asked
Savannah. ‘What are your plans?’

  This was the moment to ask about the latest celebrity lover. Might she get an exclusive? Laura felt her heart speed up, as always when she was on the verge of something big.

  ‘Collaborations with other artists.’ Savannah yawned. ‘Musicians and stuff.’

  ‘Musicians?’ Laura pounced on the information. ‘What sort of... collaboration, exactly?’

  Savannah gave her a cool look in reply. ‘For my charity, Spread the Love?’

  ‘Any particular musician?’ Laura persisted before Savannah could start banging on about valuing every global individual. But the actress had now walked off.

  The tour continued. ‘The ballroom,’ announced the nineteenth-century architectural expert as they entered a vast chamber with an organ at one end and some thrones under a velvet drape at the other. ‘This is where investitures and state banquets are held.’

  Savannah’s sunglasses swung in his direction. ‘So this is where Angelina got her damehood?’

  As Dr Summer was clearly confused, Laura stepped forward. ‘Angelina Jolie the actress,’ she murmured in his ear. ‘She got an honorary DBE a few years ago. I think Miss Bouche feels a certain, um, rivalry.’ So the cuts had said, anyway.

  The next chamber had a vast bow window. ‘The Music Room is where several of the Queen’s children were christened.’

  Laura’s eyes roamed around, gathering up the details for her piece. There were blue pillars with gold capitals, red chairs, a shining wooden floor.

  ‘Prince Andrew’s still available, right?’ The Bouche sunglasses were once again pointed questioningly at Dr Summer.

  ‘Available?’ the academic faltered.

  ‘As in not married?’

  ‘Oh. I see. Well he was married, of course, to Sarah Ferguson. But they divorced some time ago and—’

  ‘He’s not with anyone now, right?’

  Now Laura got it. The reason they had come here was suddenly clear. Savannah wasn’t with a mystery music star. Or if she was, she was thinking of upgrading. Into the Royal Family, no less.

  An almighty row suddenly erupted. The air was full of the sound of barking dogs. Laura had not noticed them enter, but she now saw that half a dozen large and low-slung ginger-coloured hounds were swarming round Savannah’s skinny black-Ugg-booted ankles.