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Nearing the room, I see a babble of well-dressed girls milling around, knocking back glasses of champagne while music thuds gently. There’s a catwalk running through the center of the room, with a net of silver balloons strung above it, and rows of silk-swagged chairs.

I wait patiently as the girls ahead of me are ticked off, then I step forward to a blond girl in a pink prom dress. She’s holding a clipboard and gives me a chilly smile. “Can I help you?”Advertisement

“Yes.” I nod. “I’m here for the fashion show.”

She scans my top-to-toe black outfit dubiously. (Pencil trousers, camisole, little cropped jacket. I chose it especially because all fashionistas wear black, don’t they?) “Are you on the list?”

“Yes.” I reach for my invitation. “I’m Diamanté’s cousin.”

“Oh, her cousin.” Her smile becomes even more frozen. “Lovely.”

“In fact, I need to talk to her before the show; do you know where she is?”

“I’m afraid Diamanté’s tied up-” the girl begins smoothly.

“It’s urgent. I really, really do need to see her. I’ve got this, by the way.” I brandish my VIP backstage pass at her. “I could just go hunting. But if you could locate her it would help…”

“OK,” the girl says after a pause. She reaches for her teeny jewel-encrusted phone and dials a number. “Some cousin wants to see Diamanté; is she around?” She adds in a barely concealed murmur, “No. Never saw her before. Well, if you say so…” She puts her phone away. “Diamanté says she’ll meet you backstage. Through there?” She points down the corridor to another door.

“Go ahead!” I instruct Sadie in a whisper. “See if you can find the necklace backstage! It must be easy to spot!” I follow a guy with a crate of Moët down the carpeted corridor and am flashing my VIP backstage pass at a bouncer when Sadie reappears.

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“Easy to spot?” she says, her voice trembling. “You must be joking! We’re never going to find it! Never!”

“What do you mean?” I say anxiously as I walk in. “What are you-”

Oh no. Oh bloody hell.

I’m standing in a large area filled with mirrors and chairs and hair dryers blasting and the chatter of makeup artists and about thirty models. They’re all tall and skinny, slouching on their chairs or milling around talking on their mobile phones. They’re all wearing skimpy diaphanous dresses. And they’re all wearing at least twenty necklaces piled high around their necks. Chains, pearls, pendants… Everywhere I look there are necklaces. It’s a necklace haystack.

I’m exchanging horrified looks with Sadie when I hear a drawling voice.

“Lara! You came!”

I wheel around to see Diamanté teetering toward me. She’s wearing a tiny skirt covered in love hearts, a skinny vest, a studded silver belt, and patent stiletto shoe boots. She’s holding two glasses of champagne, and she offers one to me.

“Hi, Diamanté. Congratulations! Thanks so much for inviting me. This is amazing!” I gesture around the room, then take a deep breath. The important thing is not to seem too desperate or needy. “So, anyway.” I aim for a light, casual tone. “I have this huge favor to ask you. You know that dragonfly necklace that your father was after? The old one with the glass beads?”

Diamanté blinks at me in surprise. “How d’you know about that?”

“Er… long story. Anyway, it was originally Great-Aunt Sadie’s, and my mum always loved it and I wanted to surprise her with it.” My fingers are crossed tightly behind my back. “So, maybe after the show I could… er… have it? Possibly? If you didn’t need it anymore?”

Diamanté stares back at me for a few moments, her blond hair streaming down her back and her eyes glazed.

“My dad’s a fuckhead,” she says at last, with emphasis.

I stare at her uncertainly until the penny finally drops. Oh, great. This is all I need. She’s pissed. She’s probably been drinking champagne all day.

“He’s a fucking… fuckhead.” She swigs her champagne.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “He is. And that’s why you need to give the necklace to me. To me ,” I repeat, very loudly and clearly.

Diamanté’s swaying on her shoe boots, and I grab her arm to steady her.

“The dragonfly necklace,” I say. “Do-you-know-where-it-is?”

Diamanté turns her face to survey me a minute, leaning so close I can smell champagne and cigarettes and Altoids on her breath. pqdm.com