LITMIR.BIZ

       3

      Taking Tom’s hand, I carefully step onto the narrow wooden gangway and through a twink-ling fairy-light-studded voile tunnel, arriving in a Maplewood-panelled stateroom swathed in streams of silver satin with opulent mountains of fruit – grapes, plums, pineapples and pears – all piled high in pewter platters set on head-height pillars. There’s even a ceiling curtain cascading from the enormous central chandelier. A string quartet is playing Mozart in one corner, and a group of waiters – who surely must be Ralph Lauren models, they’re that fit – are loading up silver trays with canapés in the other.

      The whole yacht looks like an Italian Renaissance painting. On one wall, there’s even a giant mural of Botticelli’s The Birth Of Venus – I know, because I read up when Tom and I first got together. He’s a talented artist in his spare time, and I wanted to appear cultured and educated, show an interest in his passion for painting. And I can see where he gets it from now; I imagine he grew up surrounded by this stuff – a million miles away from the Take That poster I had pinned to the space beside my bed.

      ‘Ciao, mio bel figlio. Tom, daaahling, you made it!’ It’s Isabella, looking resplendent in a floor-grazing lemon lace Givenchy gown. And blimey, she’s even wearing a jewelled tiara on top of her immaculately coiffed jet-black hair. She loops her arm through Tom’s and immediately steers him away from me. I smile as he glances over his shoulder to mouth ‘sorry’ when Isabella refuses to let him go. She’s definitely not taking no for an answer; even when he tactfully tries to release his arm from her grasp, she grabs his hand instead and practically catapults him towards her guests. Poor Tom. He hates being cantered out like some kind of show pony.

      ‘What’s she come as? Queen of fucking everything!’

      An arm circles my waist. I spin around – I’d recognise that outrageously acerbic voice anywhere.

      Eddie!

      Oh my God. We chat on the phone and Twitter all the time, but I haven’t actually seen Eddie, physically, in ages, and now he’s here, standing right in front of me and looking more like a superstar than ever. His dapper blond hair is now all messy quiff, and he’s wearing an exquisitely tailored charcoal grey Tom Ford suit. And on closer inspection he’s had a little lifting work around his sparkly blue-green eyes and his brows have definitely been manscaped. He looks fantastic. Flawless. And smells divine, too, of tropical summer holidays – coconut and citrus.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ I fling my arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. ‘God I’ve missed you. I thought you were in LA.’ Eddie is my other best friend and used to work at Carrington’s as Tom’s BA, or boy assistant – that was before he was ‘discovered’ on Kelly’s TV show and practically became a superstar overnight. He has his own chat show with a Saturday night primetime slot, and a reality series called Eddie: I Do It My Way, and lives between his villa in the Hollywood hills and a penthouse apartment overlooking Mulberry Marina. And he’s actually stayed at Simon Cowell’s house in America, as Simon’s personal guest! Doesn’t get much starrier than that.

      ‘Tom invited me – as a nice surprise for you,’ Eddie says, as we pull apart.

      ‘Aw, how lovely. He’s so thoughtful,’ I beam.

      ‘Ooh, he is – the quintessential gentleman. Delish too. Not as beautiful as my Ciaran, mind you, but still, a very close second.’ He nudges me.

      ‘How is Ciaran? Is he here?’ I scan the deck.

      ‘No, he’s looking after Pussy – you know what a diva that dog is, hates travelling and refuses to go in a crate, so Ciaran’s flown straight back to LA with her on his lap after she created the most almighty fuss when Claire dared to go near her.’ I laugh and shake my head. Pussy is Eddie’s fluffy white bichon frise, and thoroughly spoilt, so it’s hardly surprising. Claire is Eddie’s manager, Peter André’s too.

      ‘Straight back? What do you mean?’

      ‘Only a fleeting visit, petal. Filming starts on my second series tomorrow. We were in Ireland yesterday, at some windswept tiny town that time forgot …’ He rolls his eyes. ‘For Ciaran’s cousin’s wedding – Sinéad, Shona, Sorcha; something like that, anyway … I forget which one, he has that many … and I wasn’t even drinking.’ He waves a dismissive hand in the air and I smile, thinking, same old Eddie, as grandiose as ever, fame really hasn’t changed him one bit; he must be the only person I know who can go to a wedding and then claim not even to know the bride’s name the very next day. ‘Yes, it was a last-minute decision – we weren’t going to bother after the way his family shunned him when he finally leapt out of the closet. Anyone would think he’d tried to poke the Pope, the way they all carried on.’ Eddie pauses to pull a face while I wonder if perhaps it was just that they were a bit

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