Page 5 of Vivacity
I don’t even like cardigans.
That said, it’s been such a mild October as we approach Halloween that the trees have barely started to turn, and I muse that London is looking as pretty as it always has.
I haven’t lived here properly in years. Camille, that scheming little Chanel-clad pimp, infiltrated a Google mixer and snapped me up when I was finishing up my MBA at Stanford, and I moved straight to Athens and into the bed of one of the most powerful men in Greece.
Before Palo Alto, I was mainly based here, working in the Hospitality and Leisure sector team in Morgan Stanley’s Investment Banking Division. I had three years at Cambridge but attended school here: St Paul’s Girls’ School, to be exact. While my family is based mainly in Athens, my parents educated us all in London, a hoard of nannies and housekeepers filling in the gaps when the rigours of the British academic calendar threatened to curtail their international jet-setting.
London, therefore, is as close to a home as I’ve ever had, and I bloody love it. It may be a commercial powerhouse, but it’s also a hedonistic playground for the entitled offspring of Europe’s richest families, and, as such, both sides of my personality feel entirely at home here. I can flip between the all-nighters that involve thousand-line spreadsheets just as easily as the ones that involve fabulous cocktails and endless sweaty bodies.
It’s perfect, really.
As soon as I started to wrap things up with Thad, my former boss, I got a broker to secure me a new London pad. With my six-figure-a-month Seraph salary and a trust fund that some may argue is obscene, I’m hardly short of options, but I settled for a gorgeous little rental on Walton Street in South Ken. It’s petite and achingly chic, the prettiest little pale lilac dollhouse whose gnarly wisteria vines bode well for spring, and, most importantly, it’s squarely in my old stomping ground and primely located for excellent socialising.
One must start as one means to go on, right?
So I’ve gathered together a few girlfriends for a little soirée. Nothing too crazy—it is a Tuesday, after all. Just some good drinks, and good food, and good gossip. But I’ve done enough work on myself to be self-aware, and as a Seven Enneagram, I know I need this buzz around me. Friends. Joy. Connection. Intellectual stimulation. I need a full life.
We’ve convened at a lovely little seafood place around the corner from my new pad on charming Draycott Avenue, and I’m gratified to remember that, in this part of town, Tuesday nights are just as buzzing as Friday nights. I’ve organised a table in a cosy alcove at the back of the restaurant so we can have a good catch-up.
The girls troop in, bang on time. (One of the perks of having relentlessly Type A friends is that they’re all madly punctual.) My absolute favourite former seraph, Athena, is,quelle surprise, the first to arrive, with her BFF Marlowe in tow. I fell hard and fast for Marlowe this year, even if her tenure as a Seraph was only a matter of weeks, thanks to her gorgeous boss Brendan falling even harder and faster than I did for her and her daughter, Tabs. Athena went exactly the same way, shacking up with Brendan’s brother, Gabe. Think of a sinfully hot former priest who is now a billionaire, and you’ll get close to the gorgeousness of Gabe.
Then, bringing up the rear is one of my closest friends from school and uni, Lotta Duffy.
‘Okay, so. Context.’ I clasp my hands together once everyone is seated. One of the things I adore is bringing my favourite people from various aspects of my life together in the knowledge that they will enjoy and appreciate each other almost as much as I do. For that to happen speedily, I find that context is required. It’s as if my mind is a constant connection-making machine, and I can’t hold those connections in. I take a breath.
‘Athena and I were seraphim together until she fell in love with her boss, Gabe,’ I tell Lotta. ‘Marlowe and Athena met at Cheltenham Ladies and have been BFFs for years. Marls was a seraph briefly this summer but is basically way less of a tart than me and Athena.’
There's a guffaw from Lotta at this. Marlowe looks mortified, even though I have her and Athena's express permission to outthem as former seraphim. ‘Oh—and Marlowe is in the process of preparing to record an album with Santi.’
Marlowe and Lotta both react with the surprise I’ve expected, and I beam. Why is it such a dopamine hit when your random friends find common ground?
‘You know Santi?’ Marlowe asks Lotta, shrugging off her embarrassment at having been outed as a high-class hooker. The Santi she’s referring to is the world-famous tenor and billionaire owner of the Vale Music classical record label, Santiago Vale.
‘I more than know him. He owes his entire future happiness to me,’ Lotta declares with her trademark lack of humility. ‘I hooked him up with his wife, Sabrina. She was my parents’ chef before I got her that gig with the Vales. And the rest is history.’
‘And you're neighbours,’ I point out. Lotta runs a fancy-as-hell property development company called Elgin with her brother, and Santi owns one of their penthouses.
‘And we're neighbours, when I'm in London. He's a good guy. So you're recording with him? That's a seriously big deal. Congratulations!’
‘I’m still pinching myself,’ Marlowe confesses, and I grin at her. Boy, has this woman been through the mill this summer. Her little girl, Tabby, had to have a pulmonary heart valve transplant, and there were complications, and the whole thing got pretty hairy, if you ask me. Happily, all the drama made Brendan pull his finger out of his arse and realise what she meant to him, and now they’re properly together.
It makes me emotional when I think of it. It’s hard to imagine anyone deserving a happy ever after more than Marls. And the idea that she and her best friend will almost certainly end up as sisters-in-law is too adorable to even process.
We get the wine flowing and cover off Athena’s recent engagement to Gabe in Greece and Marlowe’s upcoming album.
‘How was the leaving party?’ Athena asks.
‘It was fabulous.’ I smile and pause for effect, because who am I kidding? This ismysoirée. My friends have gathered here to celebrate my return to London. ‘Thad organised a full-on Greek orgy for me.’
Right on cue, Marlowe, who still has moments of prudishness, chokes on her wine. Athena shoots her an alarmed look before slapping her on the back.
‘That cough sounded very slut-shaming,’ I tell her.
‘Sorry,’ she croaks. ‘Just—warn a girl, will you? Jesus.’
‘Sounds excellent, if a bit on the nose for you and Thad,’ Athena pronounces, biting down on a smile and shaking her head ruefully.
‘Clichés are clichés for a reason.’ I raise my glass. ‘Because they work.’
