Vanity. Lucy Lord

of the Poppy jealousy, OK? Would you want to be in her shoes, constantly reassuring Damian that he’s cleverer than her, while he mopes about, sulking all day, in what I imagine is their vast warehouse apartment?’

      Bella laughed. ‘That’s such a vivid image! S’pose not.’ She was smiling broadly now, as Andy’s foot, which had been rubbing her leg all night, had made its way up to her knickers.

      ‘Aren’t you going to finish your mussels?’ Andy smiled into her eyes, increasing the pressure of his foot.

      ‘I’d rather you finished my muscles at home.’

      The next morning, Bella woke around nine a.m. and stretched contentedly. She still loved the fact she would never again be rudely awoken by a shrill alarm signalling another dreary day in another dreary office. She felt much happier today. The sun was shining through muslin curtains, Andy was wonderful, her life was wonderful, everything was wonderful. She pottered about at a leisurely pace, putting the radio on and making herself a cup of tea. She filled her pretty eau-de-nil watering can and went out onto her balcony to water her window boxes. This little daily act gave her a disproportionate amount of pleasure. Her mint and chives were coming along a treat. She kissed her fingers and patted the plants.

      ‘Grow, my babies, grow.’ She was glad nobody could see her and wondered if this might be a sign of broodiness. She certainly didn’t yearn for a baby right now. She was perfectly happy with things just as they were, and although she knew she wanted one eventually, and reckoned Andy would make a great father, she had no intention of rocking the boat.

      Though her flat was really much too small for two, and she and Andy had talked about selling it and buying somewhere bigger, she loved it too much to leave quite yet. The crappy property market was as good an excuse as any, and Andy was still paying off the enormous loan he’d taken out to pay for his wedding to Alison last year, which had been called off at the last minute. The fact that Alison had been shagging her boss, so it should have been her financial responsibility, still rankled with Bella, but Andy was a slave to his tiresome principles.

      By the time she’d showered, dressed, made the bed (arranging and plumping up all the artfully mismatched cushions exactly to her satisfaction) and read a chapter or two of her book over a boiled egg and thickly buttered toast, it was nearly midday. Guiltily, Bella shut the book. There wouldn’t be time for her run now – she’d booked her jointly rented studio for 12.30. She couldn’t imagine how she’d ever managed to get up in time to arrive, bad-tempered and dishevelled, at whichever horrible office she’d been temping at for a nine-a.m.-prompt start. Actually, the promptness had happened rarely, if ever. She felt another surge of happiness that those days were over.

      As she walked towards the door and automatically checked herself out in the mirror next to it, she stopped and shook her head in dissatisfaction. Something was wrong. Bella had longish legs and a larger than average bust for her 5 foot 7, size 10/12 frame (despite slender ankles, wrists and shoulders, she always felt like a bloody carthorse next to Poppy). She’d had vague hopes of channelling Audrey Hepburn today in high ponytail, black Capri pants and a boat-necked, horizontally striped T-shirt. From her shoulders up she looked great, the ponytail and boat neck setting off her collarbones, high cheekbones and big brown eyes a treat. Audrey was not an entirely preposterous idea. Her legs were fine in the Capri pants.

      But in between – oh, dear. The horizontal stripes made her bust look vast (and not in a good way – matronly was the word that sprang to mind). And for fuck’s sake, was she starting to develop a paunch? She supposed it was possible, with the ongoing eating and drinking of happy coupledom, and her increasing laziness when it came to exercise. She promised herself that she would hit the procrastinating on the head as she went back into her bedroom to change. Tomorrow she would definitely get up in time for her run.

      Bella eventually arrived at Westbourne Studios at 1.30 p.m.

      ‘Yah, Daddy’s just given me and Jazz a mil each to buy a flat, but you can’t get anything decent round here for that sort of money,’ Sienna was saying into her iPhone as Bella walked into her time-share studio. ‘Oh, hi, Bella.’ She smiled and waved a thin, wafty hand.

      Ludicrously overprivileged and good-looking, Sienna Sax-Hoffmann was studying History of Art at London University. She had told Bella that her father wanted her to have a bolthole for her studies, when ‘the Uni library gets too much. Dear Daddy, he can be so overprotective, but it’s rather fun having one’s own studio three mornings a week, don’t you think?’ Sienna only actually managed to get up in time to play on the Internet in her studio once a week, at most, but Bella didn’t hold that against her (well, how could she?). She found Sienna rather sweet. Perhaps it was because she was so pretty. Bella knew that with her artistic eye, she always gave people who were easy on it less of a hard time than those who repulsed her physically – male or female. She wasn’t particularly proud of this.

      Sienna was about 5 foot 10, skinny as a catwalk model with an eating disorder, and pale as milk. Her naturally white-blonde hair cascaded in long waves around a coolly patrician face, all angular bones and huge, bruised, dark blue eyes. She played up her delicate appearance with fey, floaty, vintage garments, today looking breathtakingly fragile in a cream lacy maxidress, pearl choker (probably real) and jewelled flip-flops that showed off her narrow pedicured feet. Bella imagined that your average man’s unimaginative, testosterone-driven protective instincts would go into overdrive at the sight of her.

      ‘Hi, Bella.’ Sienna smiled as she put her phone down. ‘You’re late.’

      ‘I know. Never been much good at punctuality.’ Bella smiled back as she started setting up her easel.

      ‘I should be off then. D’you want me to pay you back for the extra hour? Not really fair for you to cough up for when you’re not here. Daddy can easily afford it …’ Sienna started and Bella laughed.

      ‘My lateness isn’t your dad’s fault, sweetie. Nope, this is my punishment for being the past-mistress of pissing about.’

      Sienna laughed too. ‘Well, you’d better make the most of what time you’ve got left then.’ She looked out of the window and groaned. ‘Oh, Goooood. Bloody Josh is out there again. I swear that boy is stalking me.’

      Bella followed her gaze. Sitting at the wheel of a convertible red Porsche was a baby-faced boy of immeasurably arrogant demeanour. If the car wasn’t clue enough, everything about his appearance screamed money – from the slicked-back dark brown hair and ruddy pink cheeks to the immaculately faded jeans and butter-soft leather jacket. While this might conceivably have had some allure on an older man, on a boy of barely 21 it was both loathsome and faintly ludicrous.

      ‘He is sooooo uncool.’ Sienna rolled her eyes at Bella as she picked up her vintage lace parasol. ‘He hangs out at places like Whisky Mist and Mahiki, trying to suck up to Harry Wales. He’s thick as pigshit too – God knows how he got into King’s. But he’s so loaded he’s got half the boring wannabe Sloanes at college eating out of his hand.’

      If Sienna thought he was loaded, reflected Bella, the baby-faced Josh must be rich as Croesus. Certain sectors of society had yet to be hit by the recession, it seemed.

      ‘Toby, shut up, you fucker! You’re such a fucking loser!’

      ‘Cretin! Thunder thighs! Fatso!’

      ‘Loser! Wankstain! Fuckwit! Toby’s a fuckwit, Toby’s a fuckwit!’

      Alison put her fingers in her ears and tried to ignore the screaming bickering of her teenage almost stepchildren as she concentrated on the details of the latest horrible case she was working on. You’d think the classically (some might say boringly) wood-panelled, leather-upholstered study would be soundproof, but no. Their spoilt, public-school, brattish voices, an entire floor up, would probably pierce the thick concrete walls of a torture cell (the like of which the creeps she was defending would doubtless end up in, if she didn’t sufficiently deploy the Human Rights Act).

      Alison was meant to have married Andy last year. They’d been together for thirteen years, ever since Cambridge, and it had seemed like a logical progression.