Friends & Rivals

  When the morning of the wedding finally dawned, Kendall woke feeling much brighter. She’d gone to bed early, at Stella and Rosie’s insistence, and slept for eleven straight hours thanks to the Ambien that Stella had crushed into her hot chocolate.

  After a delicious breakfast of pains au chocolat and almond pancakes, washed down with freshly pressed orange juice and multiple cappuccinos (for some reason she felt ravenously hungry), she jumped in the shower while Stella and Rosie dealt with the arriving army of people.

  ‘Where should I go first?’ Emerging from the bathroom in a bathrobe with a white towel tied turban-style around her head and her face scrubbed clean of make-up, Kendall looked incredibly young and vulnerable. As the matron of honour, Stella immediately took control.

  ‘Hair and nails,’ she said briskly. ‘Anthony’s set up in the study.’

  ‘Is my dress back from downstairs?’ Kendall asked anxiously. ‘I sent it to be pressed last night and I haven’t—’

  ‘The dress is fine. Everything’s fine,’ said Stella, ushering her through to where the hairdresser was waiting.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t see it this morning and the concierge said—’

  ‘Stop worrying,’ said Stella firmly, ‘and leave everything to me.’

  Sometimes, thought Kendall, it paid to have a bossy friend.

  No sooner had she sat down in Anthony’s styling chair than Rosie wandered in carrying a portable telephone. ‘It’s your mother.’ Kendall opened her mouth to protest. She hadn’t spoken to Lorna in months, and what with the whirlwind of the last few weeks, realized she had forgotten to reply to her last two emails. She couldn’t face a haranguing this morning. But Rosie had already thrust the phone into her hand, and before she knew it, Kendall was listening to the familiar voice from five thousand miles across the ocean. Not berating her, as it happened, but wishing her joy.

  ‘I hope my flowers got there in time, honey.’ Lorna’s voice was loaded with love. ‘Coals to Newcastle, I expect, but I wanted you to have something natural and beautiful from all of us at home. We miss you.’

  Guilt and homesickness hit Kendall like a double punch to the stomach. She burst into tears. ‘I miss you too, Mom, and the twins. Once the promotional tour’s over, I promise I’ll come out to visit.’

  ‘With your new husband, I hope,’ said Lorna. ‘You’ll have to get used to saying “we” now, not “I”. You’re about to be a married woman. Kendall.’

  Kendall started howling again. ‘I knooooow!’

  By the time she hung up, her nose was clown-red, her eyes puffy and her cheeks blotched and tear-streaked. Karen, the chief make-up artist, walked in and gasped in horror. ‘No more phone calls!’ she said imperiously. ‘Who gave her this phone?’

  ‘I did,’ said Rosie meekly. ‘It was her mother and—’

  ‘I don’t care if it was Jesus fucking Christ.’ Karen glared at Rosie. ‘In two hours’ time half the world’s press are gonna be zooming in for close-ups on that face. Kendall is not to be upset, she is not to be disturbed, she is not—’

  ‘I am here, you know,’ said Kendall, winking encouragingly at Rosie, who looked as if she might be about to cry herself. ‘Come on, guys. Lighten up.’

  ‘Lighten up?’ said Karen and Anthony in horrified unison.

  ‘Sweetie,’ Karen explained patiently, ‘this is your wedding day. Probably the single biggest PR opportunity of your career. It doesn’t get any more serious than this. Now,’ she clapped her hands loudly, like Mary Poppins, ‘bridesmaid and MOH. I need both of you in the chair right now.’

  Bizarrely, everybody else’s nerves and stress had a calming effect on Kendall. When Stella and her stylist, Sasha, came in with the dress, carefully helping her into it before slipping on her cream satin Manolo Blahnik heels, she felt happier and more peaceful than she had in days.

  ‘How do I look?’ she said, twirling in front of the full-length mirror in the master bedroom. But she already knew the answer. In a clinging silk and lace column from Amanda Wakeley, with her dark hair piled luxuriantly on top of her head and fixed in place with an array of diamond and platinum pins that twinkled like stars when they caught the light, she looked like a goddess of the night. Her make-up was understated, making the most of her luminous skin, with only her extraordinary green cat’s eyes played up by a subtle, smoky shadow. As usual, Karen had worked wonders, although with a face as perfectly formed as Kendall’s, you could hardly go wrong.

  ‘Daddy’s going to die of pride when he sees you,’ said Rosie, hugging her before scurrying off to adjust her own dress.

  ‘I just hope Ivan’s hard-on doesn’t spoil the ceremony,’ said Stella once she’d gone. ‘No one likes to see a groom with a boner.’

  ‘I do,’ grinned Kendall.

  ‘You look amazing honey, truly.’ Stella squeezed her hand. ‘Now, everybody get out of here and leave the bride alone. She needs a few minutes to herself before the cars arrive.’

  The bedroom door closed, and Kendall enjoyed the first minute of absolute quiet since she’d opened her eyes. She twirled and preened in front of the mirror, enjoying her princess moment and drawing strength and confidence from her reflection. She did look beautiful. It wasn’t vanity. It was an objective fact. The magazines tomorrow would be full of pictures and comments, all of them pronouncing her wedding look a dazzling, triumphant success.

  Enjoy it, she told herself. Just enjoy it.

  When the phone rang beside her bed, she picked it up without thinking. All the nerves of the past few days and hours had gone. No one could bring her down now.

  ‘Hello, this is the bride speaking,’ she giggled.

  ‘Hi, Kendall. It’s me.’

  Lex’s voice was like a glass of cold water in the face. Serious. Joyless. Distant. Only last night, she’d been desperate to speak to him. Now she felt her confidence and joie de vivre draining away like rainwater in a gutter.

  ‘I can’t really talk now, Lexy,’ she said nervously. ‘Thanks for calling and everything, but I’m about to leave for the ceremony.’

  ‘I know.’ He sounded strained, as if he were already regretting the call. ‘I should’ve called earlier but I didn’t … I wasn’t …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t know exactly what to say. So I put it off.’

  ‘Well, “congratulations” is probably the safest option. Traditional, you know,’ Kendall joked weakly. ‘A lot of people go with that.’

  ‘It’s not too late,’ Lex blurted.

  The words came out so quickly that at first Kendall wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You don’t have to marry him. You don’t have to go through with it.’

  Kendall sank down on the bed. She was shaking, frightened and angry at the same time. ‘Why are you saying this? What the hell’s wrong with you? It’s my wedding day.’

  ‘Just because people expect it, just because there are cameras and fans out there waiting, it isn’t too late,’ Lex pressed on. ‘You can still change your mind. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘And what makes you think I want to change my mind?’ said Kendall coldly. How dare Lex call, minutes before the biggest moment of her life, and throw a bomb like this in her lap? Yes, she’d treated him badly in the spring. But she didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that I might be happy? That I’m marrying Ivan because I love him?’

  ‘No,’ said Lex bluntly. ‘It hasn’t. I know you don’t love him.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ snapped Kendall. ‘What are you now, telepathic?’

  ‘Any more than he loves you,’ Lex went on relentlessly. ‘This is all about publicity, about business, and you know it.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘You’ll regret it, Kendall. Ivan Charles is a monster. He’s an opportunist, a womanizer—’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

  ‘… a back-stabber, a liar—’

  ‘Back-stabber? And how wo
uld you describe Jack’s recent actions, your beloved partner? What he did to Jester, then going after Ava like that? I’d call that some pretty fucking A-level back-stabbing, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘We’re not talking about Jack,’ said Lex. ‘We’re talking about you making the biggest mistake of your life.’

  ‘Yeah, well, not any more we’re not,’ said Kendall, slamming down the receiver. ‘Jerk,’ she said out loud. She was still shaking. ‘Asshole. Fucking ASSHOLE!’

  Stella Bayley came running in. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asked anxiously. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Kendall grimly. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Rosie stuck her pretty, smiling head around the door. ‘The cars are here. Are you ready?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Kendall, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Fuck Lex Abrahams. Fuck Jack. Fuck all of them. I’m going to marry Ivan and we’re going to be ecstatically happy. ‘Let’s go.’

  Across the lobby of a New York Hotel, where they were both staying on business, Jack Messenger saw his partner looking troubled.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked Lex.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Who was that on the phone just now?’

  Lex turned on him furiously. ‘None of your damn business, Jack, OK? Jesus. Can’t I even make a private call without you breathing down my neck?’

  He stalked off. Jack let him go. Today was Kendall and Ivan’s wedding in London. Everyone at JSM knew that Lex still held a torch for Kendall Bryce, but no one knew it better than Jack. Poor kid. No wonder he was on edge.

  Nay-sayers and would-be malicious gossips were disappointed by the Bryce/Charles nuptials. The least you expected of pop stars and TV talent-show hosts was that their wedding should be brash and vulgar, but Kendall and Ivan’s ceremony was exquisite, a triumph of understated good taste. You could practically see the girl from the Daily Mail gnashing her teeth at the lack of glitter ponies and Jordan-esque bling. Instead the small, celebrity-packed crowd of around a hundred guests were treated to an intimate, touching ceremony under a marquee at the Chelsea Physic Garden. Discreetly hidden gas heaters kept everyone from freezing as they stepped out of the frosted wonderland into a Victorian Christmas-themed tent, decked simply in boughs of berry-laden holly and scented with oranges, cinnamon and cloves. It was dark by the time Ivan and Kendall said their vows beneath a mistletoe-covered arbor, which lent the service an even more festive and magical air.

  Unable to stomach the thought of being given away by a male acquaintance, or worse, an exec from her record company, Kendall decided that she and Ivan would arrive and walk down the aisle together. In the exquisitely simple lace and silk dress, Kendall looked as young and virginal as The Lady of Shalott. Leaning into Ivan, uncharacteristically shy now that the big moment was actually here, she appeared like a little lost lamb, clinging to her shepherd. Ivan, dashingly handsome in a classic Savile Row morning suit, was more than happy to play her protector, guiding her with a firm, loving hand to the temporary ‘altar’ while the string quartet played Handel in the background.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, just audibly, once they’d greeted the minister.

  Kendall nodded mutely.

  ‘Try and relax,’ said Ivan. ‘You look beautiful. You are beautiful.’

  Kendall smiled and squeezed his hand, to a collective ‘Ahhh!’ from the guests in the front row. But her unexpected nerves seemed to continue throughout the service. When the minister asked, ‘Do you, Kendall Lorna Grace take Ivan Peter St John Charles to be your lawful wedded husband?’ Kendall’s ‘I do’ was as faint and tremulous as that of a little girl on her first day at nursery school, answering her teacher’s question. And her hands shook visibly as her new husband slipped on the plain Tiffany wedding band.

  Ivan, by contrast, spoke clearly and with conviction, especially during the ‘forsaking all others’ part, when he made a point of looking Kendall deep in the eyes. His ‘till death do us part’ boomed mellifluously around the marquee like Richard Burton narrating at the Pyramids of Karnak.

  ‘Bloody hell. I think he really means it,’ an old friend from Oxford whispered to his wife.

  ‘I think you might be right.’

  All in all, it was a touchingly romantic ceremony from a couple everybody knew as a pair of tough-minded careerists. Perhaps the traumas of recent events really had changed them and strengthened their bond as a couple? Kendall certainly seemed gentler, and Ivan mellower and more content than any of their friends could remember them, smiling and laughing as they walked back down the aisle to a standing ovation.

  After an extended break for press photographs and interviews, it was finally time for the reception. As the guests sat down to a sumptuous candlelit dinner of smoked salmon parfait, roast goose with all the trimmings and a towering traditional Christmas cake, decorated with silver snowflakes and spun sugar ballet figures dancing The Nutcracker Suite, much of the talk was of the bridesmaids, who had both looked ravishing in simple, floor-length midnight-blue gowns. Rosie Charles was a natural beauty, and Stella Bayley, the object of so much public ‘pity’ (actually gleeful Schadenfreude) since her husband left her, positively dazzled in her borrowed Fred Leighton diamonds, smiling and laughing like a woman on a genuine high.

  Numerous famous married men openly hit on Stella during the reception, to the relief of the Daily Mail journalist who’d been panicking she’d have nothing at all for her feature tomorrow. Sometimes it was tough working for a paper whose motto was the opposite of that of mothers the world over: ‘If you can’t say something nasty, don’t say anything at all.’

  But Catriona Charles had been wrong about one thing. Nobody, not even Rosie, had outshone the bride. Not only was Kendall radiantly beautiful, but she and Ivan seemed so in tune with one another, so naturally and obviously in love, it was impossible to do anything other than wish them well. At dinner Kendall talked excitedly about their upcoming honeymoon in St Bart’s (thereby helpfully letting the press know where to find them; the innocent lamb from the earlier service was gone now, replaced by the more familiar ballsy pop star the nation knew and loved), while Ivan gave a touching and funny speech about their colourful romantic history together. He finished up by praising his young wife’s enormous talent and toasting the success of Flame, ending sweetly: ‘To the woman who lights up my life: my flame, my passion. To my darling Kendall.’

  It wasn’t until 2 a.m., when they finally climbed into their chauffeur-driven vintage Jaguar en route to their ‘top secret’ wedding-night location (a modest hotel in West Sussex, near Gatwick) that the bride and groom had any real time alone together.

  ‘Well done,’ said Ivan kissing her. ‘You were fabulous, perfect, a work of art. I’m a lucky man.’

  ‘Thanks, honey,’ sighed Kendall. She leaned into him, exhausted.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the papers tomorrow,’ said Ivan. ‘Can you? You were the sexiest bride ever. There isn’t a hot-blooded male alive who won’t rush out and buy Flame once they see you in that dress.’

  It was the sort of comment that usually wouldn’t have bothered Kendall. Indeed, it would have pleased her. This was the way she and Ivan always communicated. But tonight, on her wedding night, Lex’s words came back to haunt her.

  ‘This is all about publicity, about business, and you know it.’

  Did she know it? During the service it hadn’t felt that way. It had felt like something more. But like Lucy stepping back through the wardrobe and leaving the magic of Narnia behind, reality reasserted itself unpleasantly now as the car sped away. Lex was at least partly right. Business was and had always been her and Ivan’s glue.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Ivan, seeing her face fall.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m just tired I guess. It’s been a long day.’

  Ivan took her face in his hands and kissed her again, more passionately this time. When he pulled away he asked: ‘Are you happy, Kendall?’

  She stroked his face with
her hand, exploring it the way a blind person might examine a stranger. Even after two years there was a part of Ivan that remained a stranger to her. She wondered if there always would be. But they were together now, man and wife, till death do us part. The die was cast. It was up to her to make it work.

  ‘Yes, Ivan,’ she said, a new note of determination creeping into her voice. ‘I am happy. Very happy.’

  He wrapped his arm around her and they drove on into the night.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Six months later …

  Ava Bentley sipped her freshly pressed grapefruit juice and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Behind her, Eduardo, probably the top hairstylist in Beverly Hills, picked up strands of her lightly highlighted hair with distaste, as if he were peeling some particularly smelly seaweed off a rock.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ Ava asked meekly.

  Eduardo shrugged. ‘When did you last get it cut?’

  Ava thought back. No one had touched her hair since Louise Galvin last year, but she was too embarrassed to tell Eduardo that. Instead she admitted vaguely: ‘Not for a while.’

  ‘And the colour?’

  Ava blushed. ‘Probably nine months?’

  Her Yorkshire accent was so striking, the smart LA women seated near her all turned to stare.

  ‘So what you want today?’ demanded Eduardo. ‘You want shorter, yes?’

  Ava didn’t want shorter, but the record company had insisted on something ‘dramatic’. The general consensus in the States was that the makeover Ivan had got for her in the UK, the ‘new look’ that had felt so radical at the time, was actually pathetically half-hearted. ‘You’re a rock star, not a dreamy school kid,’ Ava was told. ‘Let’s see some edge.’