Chapter 7
7
M arc lived in Hampstead, which wasn’t far from Muswell Hill as the crow flies but Cassie wasn’t a crow. She was a woman who had to take the bus to Highgate tube station then change at Camden Town on a Sunday when every person in the western hemisphere aged between twelve and twenty-five was converging on Camden.
Still, Cassie was eager to have a good nose around Marc’s place. Of course she’d looked up his address and the old rental listing for it on Rightmove, Zoopla and Prime Location. She’d already cast her judgement on the open slatted glass spiral staircase (perilous and impractical), the décor (minimalist bland) and the angular bathtub in the ensuite of the main bedroom (very uncomfortable).
Marc was also paying more in ground rent and service charges per month than Cassie was (or could afford) for her annual rent.
It was a far cry from his last place. Or the last place of his that Cassie had been to several years ago. Under duress. Russell had been away on a book tour and Lucy had refused to go to Marc’s engagement party on her own.
‘He’s getting married to a model. Camille is bound to have invited loads of her glamorous pals,’ Lucy had said when Cassie had tried to wriggle out of it. ‘The girl code clearly states that friends don’t let their friends go unaccompanied to parties full of models! Please! Have a heart!’
A party that was going to be wall-to-wall beautiful women wasn’t at all tempting. It was also very inappropriate to rock up as a plus-one to Marc’s engagement party, given their unfortunate history. Cassie had tried to think of an excuse that was fairly close to the truth. ‘It will be too awkward. I never invited him to my engagement party and anyway, Marc is much more your friend than my friend.’
‘You’ll barely have to talk to Marc.’ Lucy was in no mood for Cassie’s feeble excuses. ‘And we’ve been through this so many times. Honestly, Marc is lovely once you get to know him.’
By then Cassie had known Marc for over ten years and he was very far from lovely. On the other hand, she was desperate to have a snoop around his fancy apartment and to gawp at his fancy fiancée in the flesh, rather than just on Instagram and in the pages of fashion magazines. So with a cheap bottle of wine and a belly full of butterflies, Cassie had accompanied Lucy to Marc’s huge penthouse in Battersea, right on the river, with incredible wraparound views.
It had been an imposing space full of quite imposing people but Cassie was delighted to bump into an old friend from their Skirt days . When Cassie had been the assistant to the commercial director, Grace had been assistant to the fashion director and confined mostly to the fashion cupboard. They’d been sisters in lowly assistant solidarity.
Some twelve years later, Grace had acquired a very terrifying, very rich art-dealer husband and the confidence, connections and cachet that came when a very terrifying, very rich man clearly worshipped you. She now dressed several A-list clients, styled and shot for a variety of both luxury and edgy fashion brands and was the creative director of a small but highly revered British luggage and accessories label.
But she was still the same Grace who’d used to dye her hair black, let Cassie ‘borrow’ clothes from the fashion cupboard and loved a good gossip. So when Cassie and Lucy bumped into Grace in the guest cloakroom and Cassie expressed her surprise at the lack of models, Grace rolled her eyes.
‘Camille not a girl’s girl. Doesn’t like any competition,’ she revealed in a fierce whisper.
‘Oh, but I hope she’s nice though,’ Lucy whispered back. ‘Marc deserves someone nice. It’s been such a whirlwind engagement, so they must love each other very much.’
Clearly Lucy had never googled Camille. Cassie had, even before she’d been roped into attending the other woman’s engagement party.
‘Oh, sweet summer child,’ she said gently.
Lucy paused from reapplying her lipstick. ‘What? What?’
‘Camille’s on the rebound. She was dating that Formula One boss for years ,’ Grace explained.
‘Which one? The little one? I thought he was married.’
‘No, the French one. He’s old. In his sixties,’ Cassie said, because also unlike Lucy, she was no stranger to the Daily Mail ’s sidebar of shame. ‘He’s quite the larger gentleman but super rich. A billionaire.’
‘He has big dick energy,’ Grace added. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t, obviously, but he is very charming, very charismatic. He absolutely refused to put a ring on it when Camille issued him with an ultimatum.’
‘When was that?’ Lucy demanded.
It hadn’t even been a year. ‘Not so long ago,’ Cassie muttered.
‘Marc might not be a billionaire but he—’
‘He has big dick energy too,’ said a new voice with a husky French accent. They’d been so busy gossiping that the three of them hadn’t even noticed someone come into the powder room.
A very beautiful, very sexy someone with a sultry face and a body to match. Tawny blonde hair that was the right kind of dishevelled, as if it had been tangled in a lover’s hand. Cassie had never been this close to a Victoria’s Secret model before and all she could do was stare, embarrassment staining her cheeks red.
‘Marc is lovely,’ Lucy said again. ‘He really is.’
Camille shrugged and even the shrug of her elegant shoulders was sexy; then she smiled so they could see the trademark gap between her front teeth, which was even more celebrated than her thigh gap. ‘And yes, he’s very, very rich.’ She glanced at herself in the mirror and adjusted her absolutely perfect breasts, showcased in a plunging black dress that had hardly any front or any back. ‘A woman has to think about her future.’
‘But also, he is lovely,’ Lucy persisted but Camille wouldn’t be drawn.
She simply smiled again and the three of them filed out so Camille could pee in peace, though Cassie couldn’t believe that Camille needed to do something as mundane as have a wee.
‘It’s probably not very “cool” or “fashionable” to admit that you’re in love with someone,’ Lucy said, making quote marks with her fingers. She was clearly quite rattled by what had just occurred. ‘God, I need a drink.’
‘Look, I’m the last person to condemn a woman who marries a man for his money,’ Grace said, as they followed Lucy through the vast open-plan living space to the kitchen where the bar had been set up. ‘But it’s not going to work unless you really love that man. I give it six months, tops.’
Then Grace had crossed the room to where Vaughn, her husband, was talking to Marc. Vaughn put his arm around her and curved her body against him. They fitted together well. And the way Vaughn glanced down at Grace, his austere features softened for a fleeting second, made Cassie wish that she could find a stern-looking man who momentarily turned to mush when he looked at her. It also made her hope that Camille and Marc might really be a love match too.
Cassie didn’t like Marc. Not one little bit. But at the same time, getting married to someone who only loved you for your investment portfolio wasn’t a fate she wanted for him.
Later, as she was standing on the terrace, watching the lights of the city ripple and reflect on the Thames below, she heard a step behind her and turned round to see Marc standing there.
‘Sorry,’ Cassie said automatically, reflexively. Maybe she was sorry because she knew this new beginning that they were here to celebrate was doomed. But mostly she was sorry because she knew she shouldn’t be there at all. It was weird and inappropriate. ‘Russell’s away. Lucy wanted me to come.’
‘Right,’ Marc said thinly, like he didn’t care why Cassie was there but wished that she wasn’t.
‘I’ll leave you alone.’ Cassie couldn’t wait to get out of Marc’s sightline. He looked so disapproving, as if she was ruining not just his party but his beautiful river views. ‘Congratulations, by the way.’
To her ears it sounded insincere and mocking and from the twist of his lips, Marc thought so too.
Cassie was about to brush past him, escape to the sanctuary of a large room filled with his rich, insincere friends, when she paused. Her hand was on Marc’s arm before she even realised what she was doing. She could feel the muscles in his forearm, hidden by crisp black cotton, tense under her fingers.
‘Seriously, Marc, I’m really happy for you. Lucy says that you’ll be moving to Paris. Exciting!’
She’d been excited herself when Lucy told her the news because it meant that there was less chance of having to see Marc and the look on his face whenever he saw her. It was hard to put a finger on what his expression conveyed; contempt, disdain, nothing good.
Much like the way he was staring down at her hand on his arm, like he couldn’t believe that she had the fucking audacity to touch him.
‘You’re happy for me?’ Incredulity was etched into every syllable.
‘Yes, happy for you … and Camille,’ Cassie insisted.
For a brief few seconds, Marc’s hand covered hers, then he flexed his arm to shake away her touch. ‘Thank you,’ he said like those two words killed him, and Cassie all but ran to find Lucy and insist that it was time for them to head back to the far more pleasant uplands of north London.
She’d tried not to relive those moments on the balcony. Chalked it down to what it was: yet another hideous encounter with Marc Lacourt, which had once again left Cassie feeling scratchy and unsettled.
Anyway, Grace had been wrong. Marc’s marriage had lasted eight months. Then before she even heard it from Lucy, Cassie saw, while once again perusing the sidebar of shame, that Camille was back with her billionaire Formula One boss. They were going to get married as soon as her divorce was finalised.
Marc had sold the penthouse apartment before the wedding because of the relocation to Paris, never expecting to be back in London a short time later, on his own, just in time for lockdown.
Now he was renting in Hampstead in a pretty little mews – gated, of course, to keep out the riff-raff. Cassie tapped in the security code that Marc had sent her, then wobbled over the cobblestones, which were playing havoc with her wedge sandals.
His was the last house in the row. Cassie rang the intercom and wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. The temperature was in the mid-twenties without the oppressive humidity of the previous couple of weeks, which meant Cassie’s clammy hands were due to nerves and not the heat.
She couldn’t imagine why she was nervous. It was only Marc.
‘Cassie?’ His voice floated out from the intercom. ‘I’ll buzz you in, just give the door a big push.’
Then came the promised buzz and she pushed the heavy wooden door and stepped into the lion’s den.
As lion’s dens went, this was one pretty spectacular. The slightly twee exterior of the house was deceptive because inside all was white and bright and airy. Also, surprisingly big, which hadn’t been apparent from the estate agents’ pictures she’d pored over.
The entire back wall of the house, which stretched up three storeys, was made of glass, which flooded the space with light. Cassie heard footsteps above her and looked up to see Marc heading down that treacherous open-slatted, glass spiral staircase which dominated the centre of the open-plan living room and kitchen.
She wiped her hands on her jeans again and straightened her spine.
‘Why are you hovering by the door?’ Marc asked. He was wearing dark jeans and a grey T-shirt, his feet bare and his hair damp, as if he’d just got out of the shower. He seemed more relaxed than normal, which was ironic because Cassie felt like several of her more fragile and delicate bones might snap from sheer tension.
‘I’m hovering because I’m not sure if I’m staying,’ she said, because she had a speech planned. When Marc raised his eyebrows and folded his arms so he looked more like his usual sneery, supercilious self, it made it easier to say what had to be said.
He gave a terse nod of the head. ‘Go on then.’
‘Look, I know I may have been quite territorial about this weekend but I’ve been planning it for months.’ Cassie’s voice hardly wavered at. ‘I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that, like me, you want Lucy to have the best birthday weekend possible, especially now. But everything is pretty much organised and although I might be willing to compromise, I have several red lines and you’ve crossed them all. Also, I’m not your secretary. I’m not staff. For fuck’s sake, Marc, you’re trying to micromanage the meat content of the weekend. So there’s no point in me coming in if you’re going to be a dick.’
There was a moment’s fraught silence, though really was there ever any other kind of silence between them? Then Marc gave Cassie another terse nod.
‘OK, I’ll try to dial down the dickishness but perhaps you’ll do me the kindness of actually listening to my suggestions instead of automatically dismissing them,’ he said.
Maybe there was some truth in that. ‘I’d be happy to,’ Cassie said, with her fingers crossed behind her back.
He stepped aside and gestured with a hand. ‘Well, now that we’ve agreed the terms of our mutual non-aggression pact, would you like to come through to the garden? It’s up the stairs.’
Cassie looked up the stairs. Going up them wasn’t so bad, but coming down she’d need a rope and a safety harness. She’d always had a problem, almost a phobia, about open staircases. Especially open spiral staircases. An open spiral staircase made of glass was the stuff of actual nightmares.
Marc walked through a big open arch into the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ Still she lingered in the entrance, putting off the stairs for a few more moments.
‘How do you take it?’
Cassie leaned against one side of the arch. ‘Oh, instant is fine.’
‘I don’t have instant,’ Marc said in scandalised tones as if Cassie had just asked him if he had scabies, or last year’s iPhone. He was standing in front of a sleek but very complicated-looking coffee machine and ran a possessive hand over one of its attachments. Cassie averted her eyes because she remembered that same possessive hand … ‘How do you take your coffee?’
She hesitated. This seemed like one of Marc’s patented simple but actually very tricky questions. ‘Um, with milk?’
‘Unless it’s a latte, which the Italians only drink for breakfast, coffee’s meant to be drunk black,’ Marc informed Cassie because she’d forgotten that he was one of those people who’d made coffee part of their personality. ‘I mean, what kind of roast do you prefer?’
Cassie was one of those people who actually had a personality, so she didn’t know what he was going on about. ‘Roast?’
‘Do you like a smooth blend or something a bit more punchy?’ he explained with faux patience, like he was humouring a toddler on the verge of a meltdown.
‘Maybe I’ll have a tea instead. Just an ordinary tea. Builder’s tea? English breakfast? Am I allowed milk in it?’ She didn’t even mean to be catty, she just needed some caffeine, but Marc’s lips had thinned and oh God, they couldn’t even sort out a hot drinks order without it becoming hostile. ‘I’m fine. I can just have some water. Still. Or sparkling. Whatever.’
‘I can do a builder’s,’ Marc said, turning his back on her. ‘I’ll bring it up to the garden.’