‘He’s not that bad,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, he said the party’s really happening upstairs. Come on.’
Reluctantly, Sasha followed him up the marble staircase. The disadvantage of dating a sportsman – if you could calling driving a car a sport – was that they tended to flock together: the drivers, the footballers, the boxers. Some were very nice, of course, but many were just plain chavvy. All that gold jewellery and tattoos: she shivered. No, she really needed to start rethinking her relationship with Josh, especially as he’d been badgering her about his idea for a men’s clothing line. Like that would ever work.
‘There he is,’ said Josh eagerly, taking Sasha’s hand and leading her into a darkened bedroom. There were half a dozen people lounging around watching two girls dancing to banging dance music. Steve Darling came over wearing a brown silk shirt and a fixed glassy smile. Sasha instantly stiffened.
‘Hey-hey!’ cried Steve, throwing his arms open wide.‘The glamour couple are here, now the party can really get started.’ He held up a rolled note and gestured towards a bedside table where lines of cocaine were already chopped out. ‘Fancy a nose-up? It’s Christmas after all.’
Sasha saw the look of interest on Josh’s face, but after a glance at her, he shook his head. Sasha never took drugs and he knew she didn’t approve. ‘Maybe later, eh, mate?’
‘Well have a drink then,’ said Steve, turning to a blonde girl in a red minidress who was gyrating her hips against a tall man Sasha recognised as Premiership footballer Gary Shute. ‘Here, Louise, get Josh and his lady friend a drink, will you?’
The girl flashed Sasha a narrow look as she reached for a bottle chilling in an ice bucket. Sasha almost laughed out loud. Like I’d ever be interested in some footballer, sweetie, she thought.
‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘In fact, we’ve got to be going, haven’t we, Josh?’
‘Come on, not yet,’ said Steve, stroking the shoulder of the blonde. ‘Louise here is a dancer and she was just going to put on a show for us.’
Not waiting to hear any more, Sasha turned and walked straight down the stairs. Josh came clattering after her.
‘Sash!’ he called. ‘Hey, where are you going?’
She stopped on the landing and turned to face him. ‘I’m getting as far away from your sordid little friends as I can.’
‘They’re all right,’ said Josh defensively. ‘Train hard, play hard – they’re just a bit pissed, that’s all.’
‘If you say so. Either way I’m going home. Are you coming?’
‘No, I think I’m going to hang out here for a while.’
‘Fine,’ said Sasha. And as she stalked towards the front door, she found she was actually very relieved to be leaving Josh behind.
Sasha was woken by an insistent ringing.
For a few moments, she tried to ignore it, pulling the warm duvet tighter around her, but it was no use. Moaning, she switched on her bedside light and groped for her watch: 5 a.m.
‘What the hell?’ she whispered. It was still pitch black outside, and as the doorbell kept on ringing, her annoyance quickly turned to fear. She adored her four-storey Chelsea townhouse, but for several months now she had been thinking about moving into an apartment with CCTV and twenty-four-hour concierge, or at least getting
her study turned into a panic room. You couldn’t pick up a newspaper these days without hearing horror stories leaking out of the smartest enclaves of London. There was Karin Cavendish, the swimwear designer, who had a stalker. Then there was that violent robbery in Chelsea. No, you couldn’t be too careful these days. Especially when you were beautiful. Or had money. Or both.
She grabbed her mobile, tapping in 999 . . . they could be here in minutes . . . but before she could press ‘call’, the phone began vibrating in her hand. ‘Josh’ read the LCD display. ‘Bastard,’ she muttered.
‘It’s me,’ said Josh as soon as she picked up.
‘I know,’ she hissed. ‘And you’ve just fucking scared the life out of me.’
‘I’m outside. You have to let me in.’
‘Strangely enough, I’m not in the mood for a booty call.’
‘Please, Sasha. This is important.’
She heard a waver of panic in his voice.
‘What’s the matter?’
Maha, Sasha’s burly Hungarian housekeeper, poked her head round the door. She was carrying a solid-looking torch.
‘Is everything OK, Miss Sasha? Shall we call the police?’