Tales Of Temptation: Rivals / Pride / Ambition

Chapter Seven

Emily would never tire of the buzz of a live TV appearance. She’d done it countless times and never got nervous, but the anticipation of knowing you were about to be broadcast into countless living rooms across the country invoked a peculiar, addictive sort of adrenalin. Power, Christopher had diagnosed not twenty-four hours earlier when they had wrapped their scenes for the day. In those moments, darling, you can say or do anything and they can’t do a thing to stop it. You could plant an idea, you could sow a revolution; you could change the world!

Emily wasn’t interested in changing the world. The world changed for her.

One thing of which she was starting to tire, however, was Christopher. She found she got easily weary of men once the initial chase was done, once they had told her how stunning and perfect she was over and over again and they’d experimented with every conceivable sexual position so there was no more mystery to uncover. That was the point at which she became aware of Christopher’s breath in her face and the fact he had hairs growing out of his nose, if you looked closely.

Her stylist had brought a selection of outfits and laid them out now for Emily to choose from. It was refreshing to be able to model her own clothes—recently it had felt as if the Heriscombe House production were taking over her life—and perused the options.

Burberry pearl dress: ‘Too frumpy.’ Ghost knee-length tunic: ‘Too officey.’ Lacy Elie Saab number not a million miles from what her character might wear: ‘Too Lucinda Liddell!’

She raised a beautiful beaded Julien Macdonald.

‘I suppose this will have to do.’ She sighed. It was slightly shorter than she’d wanted—tonight Emily was determined to give the right impression, of a girl who would never contemplate getting involved with a married man, let alone one who was having his end away with everything in a skirt (more to the point, out of a skirt)—but she had to admit the heatwave was unrelenting, and to dress like a nun would only make her sweat and her concealer run.

Part of the heath had been closed off for the ball and people were arriving in droves, milling in conversation as smiling waitresses circulated with trays of fizzing champagne and extravagant canapés. A hundred or more lavishly decorated tables—white linens running to the ground and gold-leaf centrepieces—were arranged in view of the stage, which was decked out in swathes of hanging silk and a glinting podium where she and Christopher would shortly appear to present the award. A raft of cameras was positioned beneath it, lenses pointed like rifles.

Quite what the award was for, she wasn’t entirely sure…something to do with fundraising pioneers? It didn’t matter—what mattered was that she would waft out looking angelic, flash her megawatt smile and appear as graceful and alluring as she always did. A few pretty pictures in tomorrow’s papers would soon quash any murmurs of dissent. It was amazing what the right gown could do.

Emily stepped out into the balmy evening. The sun was cooling, falling behind the trees and bathing the grounds in burnished light.

She was about to go find Christopher so they could practise their banter when something in the trees caught her eye.

Maud Screwe.

Rather, Julia Chambers: but there had always been a Maud inside Julia just waiting to get out. One of life’s born losers; she’d known it the instant they’d met.

Only, for once, Julia wasn’t alone.

The footman was with her; the one who had dared speak to her the night Nina Tarot arrived. And they were holding hands! Were they? Yes, it wasn’t her eyes deceiving her, and now he was stroking Julia’s face—her pasty, plump face! And, yes, it was really happening: he was leaning in to kiss her…! That couldn’t be right. Emily was the pretty one, the one all the boys fancied and all the girls wanted to be—it had been that way for ever and always would be: a fact sure as day followed night, a truth so fixed and final it belonged inscribed in some leather-bound tome gathering dust on a library shelf. Julia was fat and boring and in sixth form had cultivated a spotty back: the concept that a man could be interested in that when Emily Windermere herself was in the vicinity tipped her globe drunkenly off its axis. She endured a rush of dizzy nausea.

Oblivious to the world around them, the couple linked arms. Emily watched them go, incensed, confused, staring for a long time at the spot where they’d been.

Julia mounted the slope behind the house and surveyed the scene. Evening dresses sparkled in the last of the afternoon sun, the fragrant aroma of summer flowers mixing with the heady scent of perfume as guests settled and the ceremony began. The compere was a weekend talk show host renowned for his close-to-the-bone humour: she wondered if he’d be making a quip at Emily and Christopher’s expense tonight.

She realised she didn’t care any more. Maybe she didn’t have to be like Emily to be happy. Maybe there were more important things than recognition and celebrity and being in a constant state of resplendent, detached beauty. Maybe Christopher Fenwick wasn’t as great as she’d thought, after all.

Since the previous night’s launch Julia had been floating on air. She and Isaac hadn’t been able to tear their eyes from each other during filming, and when they’d wrapped he’d caught her hand on the way out of the dining room and pulled her into the shadows, kissing her as she’d never been kissed before.