The Making of Mia Read online

  ‘That was brilliant – I’ve never seen Mummy so put out by anyone before!’

  Jo grinned at her friend. ‘Was it too much? Was I rude? Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so blunt with the truth …’

  ‘Oh, sod it, Jo.’ Amelia stood up and brushed the biscuit crumbs from her flat stomach. ‘She bloody well knew you were at school on a scholarship and she knew she wouldn’t like the truth but she persisted anyway. Like Daddy says, “Don’t ask questions that you don’t want to know the answers to.”’ Amelia frowned as she thought of her father away on his countless ‘business trips’ and felt a pang of sadness for her mother.

  ‘Anyway, want to see where you’ll be laying your pauper’s head?’

  As Amelia showed her around the house, Jo couldn’t believe that people lived like this – Amelia’s house was a stately home, like something out of a modern-day fairy-tale. From the sedate hallway they stepped into a luxurious living-room, with deep velvety carpets, heavy swathes of curtains and expensive antique furniture. The dining-room had mounted stag heads on the faded Colefax and Fowler wallpaper, and the table was set with antique silver that glowed yellow. Room after room unfolded – such as the ‘Sunday room’, the ‘library’ and the ‘nursery’ – before Jo was shown the master bathroom, complete with marble floor, Jacuzzi bath and the most high-tech shower Jo had ever seen. She didn’t think showers with so many jets existed.

  Feeling exhilarated, and slightly sick at the unsubtle wealth, Jo tried not to let her mouth drop open when they came to the guest bedroom from the ‘second staircase’.

  ‘And this will be your room,’ Amelia said, as she pushed the heavy door open. The four-poster bed was placed so Jo had a view of the vegetable garden and the Hampshire fields beyond, and the en suite – three times the size of Jo’s mother’s bathroom – came complete with fluffy white towels and Aveda toiletries. Jo didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Wow, Ames, this is amazing.’

  Amelia shrugged and bounced up and down on the bed, messing up the McCaw Allan sheets. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Mummy interior-designs all the rooms in rotation and this was the most recent one. It’s pretty new.’

  Jo joined her friend on the bed and grinned. ‘It’s heavenly. I’m so pleased I’ve come. Thanks for inviting me.’

  Amelia smirked and hugged her friend. ‘Not a problem. Now, get yourself ready because we’re going shopping for that party I was telling you about. I managed to get you on the guest-list at the last minute. Although,’ she said with a smug grin, ‘if you’re the girlfriend of the owner it isn’t exactly hard to do.’

  Jo felt her smile falter. ‘But …’

  ‘Now, Jo,’ Amelia said sternly, ‘you have to think positively. We’re going to find you some gorgeous clothes and then we’re going to spend the rest of the day pampering ourselves. What do you say?’

  Jo wanted to suggest that Amelia was out of her mind, but she didn’t dare.

  ‘It sounds great!’ she enthused in her perkiest voice, hoping Amelia wouldn’t think she was lying. ‘Can’t wait, super!’

  Amelia smiled. ‘Then let’s hit the shops.’

  The first boutique the girls went in was terrible – full of skinny designer clothes that cost a fortune and would have been more suited to models than Jo. Amelia bounced around grabbing clothes off the rails while Jo trailed behind her, looking at the tiny scraps of material and hating herself.

  ‘Aren’t you going to try anything on?’ Amelia called over to Jo, who was eyeing a black jumper that only went up to a size sixteen – quite a few sizes too small for Jo.

  ‘Not in here I don’t think, Ames,’ Jo said diplomatically, not wanting to put a downer on the mood. ‘Nothing in here’s really to my taste, you know?’ she remarked with a smile, crossing her fingers behind her back and wondering if Amelia was blind to her weight. ‘But you try things on – let’s find you an outfit to impress Charlie.’

  As Amelia literally skipped into a spacious dressing-room, Jo wondered, awkwardly, where she was supposed to wait. A haughty assistant hovered disapprovingly, and just as Jo decided she’d wait outside the shop, Amelia’s thin brown arm appeared from the dressing-room curtain and pulled her in. ‘Sit,’ she commanded, and as Jo sat down on the flimsy stool she didn’t know where to look.

  Amelia pulled off her tatty jeans and vest top easily, and Jo tried – but failed – not to drink in Amelia’s pert size-eight frame as she looked for a part of the cubicle that wasn’t made of mirror. She stared at how the curve of Amelia’s tits and hips contrasted with the flat of her stomach and flare of her bottom, and realised that despite her fashion magazines she’d never seen anyone so naked. A tiny ruffled black thong and a flimsy silk bra set off Amelia’s lightly tanned skin and Jo, who was wearing large off-white knickers and matching bra, felt terrible. She had no idea that girls of her age looked so sexy and she suddenly felt self-conscious.

  ‘What do you think of this one?’ Amelia said as she turned around, pulled off her Lejaby bra, and slipped into a green dress that was slashed down to the stomach – it was identical to the Versace one Jennifer Lopez wore to the Grammys. Jo gulped.

  ‘It’s very sexy,’ she said, as she noticed the smooth skin of Amelia’s taut midriff, and tried not to stare at her nipples poking through the sliver of material at the front.

  Amelia stared at herself in the mirror and frowned. ‘But is it too obvious?’

  ‘Obvious?’

  ‘You know … does it make me look too slutty?’

  Jo laughed. ‘You look like a model. Sensational. You could be a brunette Kate Moss.’ If she didn’t like Amelia so much, she’d have hated her.

  Amelia turned round and stuck her hips out at her reflection. ‘I’m too short to be a model,’ she said, staring at herself distractedly and then wrinkling her nose. ‘Although I suppose I could be a TV presenter, if I wanted to be. They’re all tiny in real life, apparently. Cordelia met Cat Deeley from SMTV in a bar in town a few weeks ago and couldn’t get over how small she was.’ Amelia smoothed the top against her flat stomach and sighed. ‘Perhaps this dress in hot pink rather than sea green. What do you think?’

  As they trailed around the expensive boutiques of Winchester, Jo began to despair. They were never going to find anything to fit her, let alone make her look even half as good as Amelia on a bad day. Amelia watched Jo get more and more downcast, and just as Amelia thought Jo looked suicidal she thought she’d play her trump card.

  ‘Jo,’ she began nervously, hoping her friend would be pleased – not annoyed – at what she was about to suggest. ‘There’s a shop just a bit further down here that may have some clothes that … you’d like,’ she said, tentatively. ‘Do you want to try it?’

  Jo nodded glumly. It was clear there were no shops around here that would stock anything that would fit her.

  ‘The thing is … well. This is the shop. What do you think?’

  Jo walked around the shop silently, taking in the oversized yet fashionable clothes in amazement. She didn’t understand.

  ‘It’s a new maternity shop,’ Amelia whispered to Jo. ‘Don’t be angry with me, it’s just some things in here will fit you better than others and I thought you might like them.’ Amelia’s whisper trailed off, and Jo didn’t know if she should be pleased at the fact that there were some decent, near-sexy clothes in her size here or if she should walk out, insulted. Just as she thought she couldn’t go through with the humiliation of buying clothes for pregnant women, a delicate indigo tunic caught her eye.

  ‘If anyone asks, I’m due in four weeks,’ she whispered back to Amelia, and Amelia comically clapped her hands together in glee as Jo picked up the top and began to browse with a smile on her face.

  In the changing-room Jo lost the smile.

  ‘I look like an idiot,’ she said to Amelia, hating herself for believing, just for a second, that she could look beautiful. ‘I should stick to black. I’m safe in black.’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘You look g
reat, look at yourself.’

  Jo stood self-consciously in front of the full-length mirror and tried to hide her bulging stomach behind her hands. The tunic was cleverly cut to show some of her cleavage and then dropped down in subtle pleats over her stomach. A black crocheted shawl covered her bare arms, and the stretchy dark denim jeans (albeit with a maternity pouch that nobody could see) made her legs look slightly longer. If Jo squinted, they could have passed for Diesel.

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  Amelia sighed and sat down on the floor.

  ‘Look, since we’ve left school you’ve lost a couple of pounds from your face and it really shows.’ Jo looked at her friend in disbelief. ‘And as for your clothes, well, those shapeless sacks you wear don’t do you justice.’ Amelia looked pointedly at Jo’s ankle-length faded black skirt and dark grey T-shirt that was bunched up on the floor.

  Jo started to open her mouth to protest but Amelia wouldn’t let her. Jo could very easily see how Amelia was Sarah Gladstone-Denham’s daughter.

  ‘Wear these clothes tonight, let me put some make-up on you, and try looking like a different person just for a few hours. If it all goes wrong – which it won’t – nobody will ever see you again anyway, but if it all goes right you can buy me a drink. What do you say?’

  Jo stared at her reflection for a long time and then let the faintest smile show on her face. ‘Go on, then,’ she said with a grin. ‘Although if I get mistaken for a drag queen later, you’ll be in trouble.’

  Chapter Four

  Jo and Amelia were sitting in the Beetle outside Gigolo – Charlie’s recently opened bar in the heart of Winchester – and Jo was on the verge of a panic attack.

  ‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ she whispered, as Amelia applied a final stroke of blusher to Jo’s cheeks. Jo moved her face away from Amelia’s hands and stared at the impossibly glamorous people queuing outside the bar. She felt irrational fear running through her veins. ‘Ames, do I really have to wear all this make-up?’ she asked her friend. ‘I feel a bit odd with all this stuff on my face … A bit … obvious.’

  Jo pulled a mirror from her bag and gazed at herself with slight horror. Amelia had spent what seemed like hours on her, blow-drying her hair until it shone, shading blue Dior cream eyeshadow over her lids, and accenting the curve of her eyes with heavy black liner. Maybelline Great Lash mascara provided a femme fatale look, and a final sweep of Pout Flush Blush gave the impression of cheekbones. Jo wasn’t sure if she looked sensational or if she resembled a clown, but she was sure she wasn’t fashionable – last month’s issue of Cosmo said the natural look was in.

  Amelia smiled kindly, but before she said anything Jo buried her head in her hands.

  ‘It’s going to be like school all over again, isn’t it? Everyone is going to take the piss out of me and my make-up and you’re going to end up babysitting me.’

  Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said gently. ‘You look amazing – like a completely different person … Now, let’s go.’ Amelia jumped out of the car, hoping that as soon as they were in the bar Jo would stop worrying, but Jo followed her slowly, wobbling on the kitten heels Amelia had made her buy and feeling overdressed and foolish.

  The new jeans she’d been so proud of earlier that day suddenly felt too tight, and Jo was sure that her love handles could be seen through her top. She watched the gorgeous girls in the queue pout and stick out their hipbones as they waited to get in, and then felt her heart drop as she realised just how enormous she was in comparison to them. The only way to get through the evening, Jo decided, was to pretend to be an undercover reporter doing a piece on body fascism in England. She wasn’t really fat, she told herself, just wearing padding for a magazine assignment.

  Amelia confidently led Jo past the staring girls in the queue and, after shooting the burly bouncers a flirtatious grin, led Jo into the dark bar. A barman spotted Amelia and wolf-whistled, but his expression froze slightly when he spotted Jo lumbering behind her. Suddenly everyone stopped talking, and Jo felt herself tense up – she knew they were staring at her, and not in a good way. Amelia took control of the situation and steered Jo to a free table in a roped-off VIP section.

  ‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said, spotting a space at the bar. ‘I’m just going to get us some drinks.’

  When Jo didn’t say anything, Amelia studied her face carefully, and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Don’t worry about what everyone thinks,’ she said, grabbing one of Jo’s hands and giving it a squeeze.

  But Jo did. As soon as Amelia walked away Jo noticed a pair of skinny girls looking at her curiously. Immediately Jo felt like a rare animal in a cage with no way to escape, and she wished she could run to the ladies’ and hide. Instead, she tried to hold in her stomach, and when that failed she crossed her arms over her chest protectively. Amelia swung herself into a seat, and splashed some drinks on to the black leather coasters on top of the table. Her cheeks were glowing.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think everyone’s staring at me and laughing,’ Jo said flatly.

  Amelia grinned. ‘What? No, what do you think of Gigolo? It’s incredible, isn’t it? Bet it beats the bars in London.’

  Jo forced herself to look around, being careful not to catch anyone’s eye. Although she wasn’t about to admit that it was the first time she’d been in a bar, she agreed that it was extraordinary. From the outside the doorway looked as though it led into an average Edwardian building, but inside the walls alternated from leopard skin to a deep blue-black that was flecked with glinting pieces of silver. The ceiling had ornate Victorian-style coving painted a luscious gold, and antique chandeliers swooped down over the red velvet chairs. It was an Alice in Wonderland fantasy, and Jo suddenly felt as though she had stepped into the glossy pages of a style magazine. In such an alluring setting her make-up felt right, and Jo felt a world of possibilities open up before her. If she could fit into a bar like this, she could fit into the glamorous publishing world – one of designer clothes, fast men and beautiful girls.

  ‘It’s astonishing,’ she told Amelia, as her eyes flicked across the men brandishing red fifty-pound notes at the bar, the opulent lighting that cast a luxurious glow over everyone, and the expensive diamond-cut glasses. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this!’

  Amelia, who was sipping a cocktail, nodded. ‘His brother – who owns most of the pubs and bars in Hampshire – said Charlie could have Gigolo for his twenty-first birthday as long as he lived in the flat upstairs and ran the bar to profit. It’s only a matter of time before he makes his name in the scene in London.’ She took another slug of her cocktail and grinned a pink, sticky grin. ‘Charlie is going to take London by storm, and I’m going to be right by his side.’

  Somehow hearing his name mentioned through the big-beat track, Charlie Rutherford sauntered over to their table and sat down next to Amelia. He casually draped his arm around her. ‘Hey, babes,’ he said, his accent giving away his public-school roots despite his scruffy jeans and blazer combination. ‘Been showing off again?’

  Amelia punched Charlie jokingly, and swooped in for a kiss. ‘Only because I’m so proud of you!’ she said, happily. As Amelia kissed her boyfriend, Jo checked him out – he looked rich, like he had never wanted for anything. He had thick, sweeping, dark hair, haughty brown eyes and a body to die for. He was all lean muscle, height and sex appeal.

  ‘Jo, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Jo, my friend from school.’

  Charlie smiled lazily at her. ‘Whassup?’ he asked stupidly, before composing himself and saying, ‘Good to meet you,’ despite not meaning it for a second.

  Amelia was keen for Jo to feel comfortable as soon as possible, and thought her boyfriend was the man to help achieve it. ‘Charlie, want to give her the tour?’

  Jo began to protest. ‘It’s fine, really—’ she began, but Amelia interrupted her.

  ‘You should really see the private rooms. GQ called them “the jewel
s in the crown of the best bar outside London”,’ Amelia parroted like a PR girl. ‘They’re bloody cool.’

  Jo reluctantly followed Charlie through the crowds of people, refusing to take her eyes off the shining black floor. Charlie made mindless small talk, knowing Jo wouldn’t be able to hear him over the sound system pumping out Fatboy Slim, but he was aware that Amelia was watching them and that he needed to give a performance to stay in her good books. As they reached a narrow corridor, Charlie paused.

  ‘Only the regulars know what bit of the walls to press to get into the exclusive spaces. Let me show you one of the main ones.’ He casually leant against the wall and pushed an invisible door into a dark room lit with ultra-violet lights. Jo felt a waft of cigarette smoke hit her, and it was a moment before she could get her bearings. As she gazed around the room she saw there was a group of five girls sitting at a mirrored table, and she tried to appear nonchalant when she saw that they were cutting lines of cocaine with a black credit card.

  ‘Fancy some blow?’ Charlie asked when he noticed Jo watching them. He gave her a cruel smile. ‘As you’re a friend of Amelia’s I’ll let you have the first line for free.’

  Jo shook her head, but Charlie laughed in her face. It was a different laugh to the one Jo had seen when he was with Amelia. It was mean.

  ‘You know you want to,’ he said, leaning towards her. Jo could smell the alcohol on his breath, and she squirmed slightly. She didn’t want to seem rude, but she didn’t like Amelia’s boyfriend leaning in so close.

  ‘Fat bitches like you are always desperate for coke,’ Charlie leered, and his voice was syrupy. ‘It’s the only thing that stops you eating … although looking like you do, I imagine you don’t get much very often. Go on, Jo-Jo,’ he encouraged nastily. ‘I bet you’d mainline it if it was sugar.’