How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(24)

She has got over 200 likes so far. I really hope it doesn’t end up going viral, but she’s tagged a load of other semi-famous Instagrammers too. I’m just pleased she’s left out the details about being followed. At the moment there’s no connection between her post and the dead man.

And I’d like it to stay that way.

Just as I’m about to close the app, a message notification pops up. I don’t even need to see the twisted avatar to know it’s from him.

‘Feeling the heat about the body in the Thames yet? Remember, I’m watching you.’

There’s the eyes emoji too, which I’m sure is meant to be scary, but it actually looks like a child has written it. I delete the message and close the app. Not today, freaky obsessed man-child, useful or not. Not today. I am very much not in the mood.





19


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

A few days later Hen and Tor are at mine for dinner. Maisie has bailed again because she’s on a date with Rupert, whom she amazingly seems to be going strong with. It’s not been very long admittedly, and one thing Joel did get right about Maisie is that she can be very intense. But this doesn’t seem to bother Roo at all.

‘He seems nice.’ Hen shrugs as she pushes her food around her plate pretending to eat it. You can take the girl out of the eating disorder clinic.

‘Too nice.’ Tor eyes Hen’s plate. ‘Treats Maisie like she’s made of glass or something.’

‘Isn’t that exactly the kind of man she wants though? She’s always had a princess complex,’ Hen muses.

‘It’s what she thinks she wants,’ says Tor. ‘What she really needs is someone with a backbone who will stand up to her now and again. That girl has some serious daddy issues.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Hen mumbles. ‘Anyway, you can see them both Wednesday if you like. Daddy’s being awarded some gong or other for his charity work. There’s a huge banquet in his honour and then a party afterwards. You should come. Grut and the rest of the band will be there.’ She gives me a surreptitious wink. This means she’s going to try to hook me up with one of his hairy friends. Grim. And no thank you.

But, it might be nice to have conversations with people who aren’t obsessed with themselves and whoever they’re sleeping with for a change.

‘Will people from the charities be there?’

She nods. ‘Oh, yes. It’s at the V&A. It’ll be teeming with do-gooders, doing good and trying to get people to hand over money. It’s something to with orphan war-zones. Daddy’s chucked a wad of money at it.’ Her eyes widen to almost comic effect when she realises what she’s just said.

‘Hen,’ Tor says. ‘You’re such a dick.’ But she’s laughing. ‘And it’s good that he’s doing something about it.’

‘Yes. But I wish he’d do it without all the bloody pomp and ceremony. It’s vanity and virtue signalling and I wish he’d just write a cheque and shut up sometimes.’

Tor pats her shoulder. ‘Well, there will be lots of other very rich virtue signallers there too whose purse strings will loosen the drunker they are,’ she says. ‘See it as a good thing. Obviously Sylvie and I won’t be there.’ She grimaces.

‘Count me in though.’ I clink my glass against Hen’s.





20


V&A MUSEUM, JOHN MADEJSKI GARDEN, SOUTH KENSINGTON

By Wednesday night I’m convinced this party could be the sort of fulfilment I need to stop my blood lust. Maybe I can volunteer for a charity that helps with violence against women and girls or something.

I’m in a Ganni dress I bought a few weeks ago. Short enough to showcase my legs but high-necked enough that I don’t look like an OnlyFans poster girl. I’ve had my hair blow-dried into perfect waves and Hen’s make-up girl – Suki – has given me the most on-point natural-yet-sexy face. I’m just the right amount of serious charity chick and understated glam. A triumph. I take a quick snap and post it to Insta. Hashtag slaying.

The awards do is in the amazing grounds of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Hen’s already here, hopping from one foot to the other by the velvet rope, when I arrive. She’s gone full boho charity chic, long swooping skirt and loads of necklaces. I even catch a glimpse of a henna tattoo on her midriff. She looks like she is trying to look like she’s been volunteering with orangutans in Borneo for the last two years.

‘Kits! You look beautiful!’ She holds her arms open, inviting me in for a hug, which is a bit awkward as I’m still on the wrong side of the rope, begrudgingly smiling for the scattering of paps on the street.

‘So do you, Henrietta. Very Sienna Miller circa 2004.’

She puffs her hair with faux self-consciousness. ‘Thank you.’

We head inside and I am immediately overwhelmed. It’s the typical combination of money, money and more money. The irony of how much this ‘charity bash’ is costing isn’t lost on me and I grimace inside.

‘Not a penny spared,’ Hen says, raising an eyebrow.

We head towards the garden and a beautiful hostess guides us to a table where Maisie, Ben, Antoinette (Hen and Ben’s sister), Grut, Hen’s parents and Rupert – in his red chinos again – are already sitting. Maisie leaps out of her seat and envelops me in the second awkward hug of the night.