Free Perfect Strangers by Tasmina Perry Page A

she moved.
    She felt a flutter of excitement, of mischievousness. Grinning, she turned to Francesca.
    ‘So which shoes do you think I should wear with this, then?’ she asked.

8
    Sophie was having second thoughts. As she tottered across Waterloo station’s busy concourse on five-inch heels, she felt overdressed and unbalanced. She clutched the hem of her dress – Lana’s dress, actually – desperate to keep it off the smeared floor. Three of the sequins had already come off in the taxi, and she was pretty sure that the fabric was too delicate to dry-clean.
    ‘Why did you let me wear these bloody shoes?’ she hissed at Francesca. ‘I can barely walk.’
    ‘You’re wearing them because they’re beautiful, and they make your legs look thinner.’
    ‘But no one can see my legs – they can’t even see the shoes.’
    Francesca stepped daintily on to the escalator and tossed her long hair back.
    ‘Stop complaining,’ she smiled. ‘This party is going to be fabulous, we’re going to be fabulous. And remember, you’re Lana Wosserface, otherwise we’ll never get in.’
    ‘Oh God,’ Sophie whispered to herself as she looked towards the entrance. The party was being held in the old Eurostar terminal – according to the invitation, actually on the platform – and the archway that had previously been the security screening area was the only way in. It looked incredible: the whole structure had been covered with shimmery blue material, and a bright blue carpet had been rolled out to meet the bottom of the escalator.
    ‘Be cool,’ said Francesca as they walked up to the clipboard girls standing behind the velvet rope – who were dressed in azure sequinned minidresses, like sexy mermaids. Fighting the urge to run away – not that she could have run in those shoes – Sophie simply smiled at them and handed over the invitation. She had spent enough time on the other side of the rope to know that people on the door can smell fear.
    ‘Lana?’ said the girl, looking her up and down. Her expression was serious. Sophie’s heart was pounding, fearing they were about to get caught out. ‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed dinner. But I’m sure we can get someone to sort you out some food,’ she said sympathetically.
    ‘Don’t worry about food,’ smiled Sophie, realising they were in.
    ‘Have a good time,’ grinned the clipboard girl.
    Sophie beamed. ‘We will.’
    Her jaw almost dropped as they walked inside. The whole of the Eurostar terminal had been transformed into a fantastic dining-room-cum nightclub. The track had been covered over and turned into an ad hoc dining area, with huge flower arrangements in the centre of each circular table, the blue and white flowers mixed with peacock feathers. At the far end of the platform was a flashing dance floor and a stage, and suspended from the hangar-height roof were thousands of glowing blue lanterns. It was so magical it almost took Sophie’s breath away.
    ‘Is that who I think it is?’ she whispered, staring at the stage.
    George Clooney was standing at a podium offering a weekend on a yacht in the Caribbean as an auction prize, which brought on a flurry of frantic bidding.
    ‘And you wanted to stay in tonight,’ giggled Francesca. ‘This is the party of the bloody decade!’
    She walked over to a board which had the seating plan laid out on it.
    ‘According to this, we’re on table 53,’ said Francesca.
    ‘No, Lana’s on table 53,’ corrected Sophie. ‘And she’s probably been seated right next to her best friend. We can’t just go and sit down in her spot, can we?’
    Francesca sighed.
    ‘I suppose not. Anyway, dinner’s over. I think the live act is about to come on any minute. That Damien Hirst-customised Range Rover has got to be the star prize, hasn’t it?’
    Sophie watched in amazement as a white 4×4 drove on to the stage and parked up next to George Clooney’s podium. What credit crunch? she thought.
    ‘Listen, I’ve got to