Sucking a martini olive Hetty sat at the bar at the Bulgari in an ice blue velvet dress.
A man with green eyes and a distressed denim face was staring at her. It made her think about the Diesel show that was on the next day. The Russian suddenly blocked her view.
"Hehtttee, I must leave."
She looked up and realised some sort of oligarch emergency was at hand and this was her cue. Christmas! London beckoned. She put her pale pink finger tips to her Cartier choker as a gesture of thanks and...well, the relief was pretty total.
Hetty's head was full to the brim with fluff, coloured fur and diamonds. Italy. It's so sensual that Hetty often feels the need to suck on a lemon and have a very cold shower upon returning home. She is a bit of a Puritan at heart. Packing. Bolting. Zooming. Home.
The sorbet pink front door at Primrose Hill never looked better. Mister Chips snarled in greeting on a silk slipper chair and Hetty noticed a foreign piece of battered vintage floral luggage in the polished black and white tiled hall. Suddenly the palest face she had ever seen streaked with runny electric blue mascara was staring at her from under a damp veil of tangled brown hair.
"Loella!...."I mean say what?"
"Hetty I have run away from home"
"Jesus"
"Yes"
"The children?"
"Steiner day camp, Somerset."
"Almost husband?"
"Rogering a redhead as we speak..."
"Shall I open some Krug...?"
"Correct."
