The Next Best Thing by Sarah Long Read Free Book Online Page A

sides in a sort of Moroccan nirvana of spiritual cleansing. If Rupert made a fuss, she could always have a jock-style power shower fitted in the guest bathroom.
    Her mind buzzing with design ideas, Lydia went back to the sitting room and sank down on a large and ugly leather sola. It was like Rupert himself, she thought disloyally, big, beige and
comfortable, and directly facing an extremely large television screen. The room was given over to the needs of a man coming in from work with no thought in his head beyond kicking off his shoes to
watch Sky Sports over a takeaway chicken tikka masala. Needless to say, it would have to change. You couldn’t have smart dinners where the guests were expected to have their drinks sitting in
a circle around the council-house-style monster telly.
    It gave Lydia a rush of excitement to think about briefing a designer. No wonder brides always lost weight, there was so much to do that you forgot about food. She had a shortlist of three
interior architects and was waiting to see who would give her the best price in exchange for a four-page spread in the magazine. It was lucky the photos were always taken of interiors without any
people sitting in them to ruin the view. Rupert, bless him, was a lovely guy, but hardly likely to enhance a mood shot of the kind of Soho Loft meets the Andes vibe that she was aiming for. He was
more Johnnie Boclen meets happy-clappy schoolmaster.
    She remembered the first time she had met him, in New York, in the piano bar of the Pierre Hotel, a stately establishment where the corridors were lined with unctuous staff. Very old money, and
just what Lydia thought she was looking for. During her brief affair with Will, he had brought her to New York to stay at the Paramount, a Johnny-come-lately kind of place, done out like a
nightclub so you couldn’t see anyone’s face in reception. John Malkovich had held the door open for her, which was nice, but it was all a bit too cool for its own good.
    In contrast to the darkness of the Paramount, the Pierre was all gold and magnolia, fatly upholstered chairs, ten sheets on your bed. Rupert had been looking very at ease; he was big enough for
this place, whereas Will, had she brought him here all those years ago, would have looked small and displaced, like a street busker who had somehow made it through the wall of bouncers.
    Rupert and Lydia had been set up on a double date, which they undertook in the ironic spirit of the British abroad, the idea of ‘dating’ being beyond hilarious in their home country.
With their trademark haplessness, the British expected to just fall into the right relationship, whereas the Americans worked earnestly to establish the best possible base from which to proceed.
Luckily, the date had paid off, and she had hit the jackpot.
    Sod the work, thought Lydia, I’ve got a wedding to plan. She put her coat back on and decided to check out Kelly Hoppen on the Fulham Road where she was thinking of having her list. They
had nothing in the window except three white vases at astronomical prices, which all looked very promising.
    The rain was sheeting down as Lydia walked up the road to Sloane Square where the Peter Jones courtesy bus arrived just in time to rescue her from those damned nuisance charity workers
patrolling the Kings Road with their clipboards. As if she didn’t have enough to spend her money on right now. She sank gratefully into the luxuriously upholstered seat. At the age of
thirty-seven, she was a short engagement away from being a rich Chelsea wife, with an interesting and successful career to boot. When she could so easily have slipped into the life of a sad
freelance hack with a bedsit in Balham. It had been a gamble, moving to New York, but one that had paid off. You won’t make the scene if you don’t hit the green, to quote one of those
mottos of self-improvement so beloved of Americans, the masters of reinvention. Don’t ask, don’t get. Go for broke.