Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin

Venetia began studying the San Paulo wine list intently. ‘As I say, we’re not sure what the problem is,’ she replied stoically, her heart racing.

‘Well, it’s about time one of you gave this family an heir. Still, at least we know you can have children, don’t we?’ he leered, fixing Venetia with a cruel smile.

The memory she had been deliberately suppressing for weeks now came flooding back with a force that was frightening. She’d been seventeen years old. She’d had a summer fling with a boy in the village that ended three months later in a Marie Stopes clinic in London. Her father had insisted on literally dragging her to the door. It was not her age he had objected to, but the father. ‘Do you want a retarded ape for a child?’ he had taunted her. ‘Well, not under my roof!’ She wondered if the abortion had had anything to do with her infertility now, but she couldn’t mention it to Dr Rhys-Jones, not with Jonathon’s disapproving face watching her every move.

Her painful thoughts were brought to a halt as a voluptuous dark-haired woman approached the table. In her late thirties, Maria Dante wore heavy make-up over her handsome features, her curvy body wrapped in a sharply tailored corset dress and jacket.

‘Hi Maria,’ smiled Venetia, trying to regain her composure. ‘Good to see you again.’

Maria Dante nodded graciously and allowed the waiter to pull back her chair for her to sit down.

‘How were rehearsals?’ asked Oswald, stretching over to kiss her powdered cheek.

‘Going well,’ replied the singer, in an accent that was a cocktail of Italian and American. ‘The opening night is on the twenty-third, so you can see for yourself how well. That is, if you would still like to come?’

Venetia looked at the two of them, puzzled by the familiarity between her father and the singer.

‘Oh, have you two met?’ she asked.

‘Only on the telephone,’ laughed Maria, looking at Oswald appreciatively. He had surpassed her expectations.

Oswald took a sip of wine, and smiled smugly at his daughter.

‘After you mentioned the possibility of a musical evening at Huntsford, I took the liberty of phoning Miss Dante.’ He looked over at her like an antiques dealer sizing up his latest sideboard. ‘We were surprised that we had so many friends in common, weren’t we, Maria?’

The singer giggled girlishly. ‘Oh, too many people.’

Venetia smiled weakly. She had set up the lunch as a business meeting to introduce them, in the hope that Maria might charm Oswald into holding the event at Huntsford. Now she felt as if she were gate-crashing a first date.

‘Let’s cut to the chase so we can get on with a civilized lunch,’ said Oswald, swilling his wine around the glass. ‘I’m up for the event in principle. But if we are going to stage it at Huntsford, I want it done properly. Something on a grand scale. Something elegant. Something spectacular. I mean, bloody hell! anybody with access to the bloody Internet goes down to Glyndebourne these days. I’m not having that. Don’t want it to be like a ruddy singsong in someone’s back garden. The Balcon family have a reputation to protect.’

He paused to rub his stomach, which hung over the waistband of his trousers.

‘I completely agree that it should be exclusive,’ interrupted Venetia, ‘which is why I think we should be looking at two hundred and fifty pounds a ticket. That way at least fifty per cent of the ticket price can go to charity.’

Oswald put his glass down and sighed.

‘I thought I made it clear about charity,’ said Oswald, correcting the hard tone of his voice when he saw the startled expression on Maria’s face.

‘You should be the first one to know how much everything costs these days,’ he said to Venetia. ‘God only knows, you spend enough of Jonathon’s money.’

She bridled.

‘Anyway, we have Maria’s fee to take into consideration,’ he continued, glugging more Pinot.

‘Fee?’ said Venetia, shifting in her chair. ‘I thought …’ She tried unsuccessfully to catch Maria’s gaze. ‘But what about the charity?’

‘My daughter.’ He began talking to Maria as if Venetia wasn’t present. ‘She always wants to help everyone. She wants to save the world!’

He laughed, then turned back to Venetia. ‘Darling, the commercial reality is that these things are expensive. Don’t you think all these so-called charity concerts are lining somebody’s pocket? What’s the point on skimping on our evening of music just so we can send some loose change to some cripples? I for one won’t pretend it’s some grand humanitarian effort. It’s hypocritical nonsense.’

Venetia was surprised to see that Maria was nodding as Oswald spoke, since the singer had been quite excited about the proceeds going to the National Children’s Home when they had spoken about it the previous week.

‘Now Maria.’ He placed a hand on Maria’s knee that she allowed to linger. ‘It all begins with you, my darling. What dates did you come up with?’

She burrowed for her diary, not bothering to look at Venetia. ‘I have a couple of shows in Verona in the second week of July. I was rather looking at the first week of June.’

‘Splendid!’ said Oswald, reaching for the bottle of wine. ‘Now then, Venetia, do you think Serena would compere it? You do know my daughter Serena Balcon?’ boasted Oswald to Maria. ‘Such a beautiful girl.’

Venetia rolled her eyes. The way he paraded his preferences for his youngest daughter never failed to rile the other sisters.

‘And couldn’t we get Camilla to rustle up all those legal bores she knows?’ he continued. ‘There’s huge corporate possibilities with all this,’ he added in a stage whisper to Maria.

Oswald was clearly on a roll now, enjoying being centre stage. ‘Charlesworth’s quite connected in the classical world. And bloody Watchorn can put his money where his mouth is and drum up some of his Cabinet friends he’s always banging on about. I wonder if the PM would be around about then?’

He carried on with his plans happily, draining his glass and clicking his fingers irritably for service, but Venetia sat silently, with her hands in her lap, feeling totally wretched, realizing that her brilliant plans for a glorious evening at Huntsford had been well and truly hijacked.

12 (#ulink_b1175251-836c-5302-9597-7b84e2a4e9ef)

It was 9.30 p.m. and Nick Douglas had still not arrived. The Flask pub on the edge of Highgate’s tiny green had been cranked up to full Sunday-night volume, the air full of loud laughter, weekend gossip and the smell of beer and cigarettes. Cate had been lucky to find a seat in the corner where she sipped a glass of white wine and pretended to read a leaflet advertising yoga classes. She glanced at the Cartier Tank watch on her wrist and considered going home. She usually gave up waiting for people at half an hour, and if any of her other publishing contacts had shown the slightest interest in joining her fledgling company she’d have given up long ago and slunk back to her flat to watch Midsomer Murders. As it was, Cate was feeling very alone. The three publishers that she had approached had told her that they were unhappy in their jobs. The thing was, none of them were that unhappy that they wanted to take a risk with Cate. Even Cecil Bradley, while supportive of Cate’s ambition, had declined to come out of retirement. There was frankly only one person left: Nick Douglas. And even he couldn’t be bothered to turn up.

‘Cate Balcon?’

She looked up to see a tall, slim man wearing jeans and a long, grey wool coat. His light brown hair was cropped, his hazel eyes were intense and his wide, full-lipped mouth was unsmiling. Nick Douglas had the sort of broody handsomeness and the lean skier’s build that usually made Cate drool. But without a word of apology or even a smile, Nick Douglas looked like the typical arrogant public schoolboy nightmare of her teenage years.

‘Nick? I was just about to go.’ She couldn’t stop the words coming out spitefully.

‘We said half past nine.’

‘It was nine, actually,’ said Cate, her smile thin and fixed. She took a deep breath. She didn’t want this to get off to a bad start. Nick certainly didn’t look particularly enamoured by his first impressions either.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ she said, trying to thaw the atmosphere.

‘No, no, I’ll get them,’ said Nick. ‘They know me here. White wine, is it?’

‘No more wine,’ said Cate, shaking her head, aware that she was feeling a little light-headed after drinking two large glasses of Chardonnay in quick succession. ‘Just a Diet Coke, please. Ice and lemon.’

‘A Diet Coke girl.’ He smiled and swaggered off. Cate felt her dislike of Nick Douglas increase. As he headed to the bar, Cate noticed that he had instantly attracted the attention of a pretty blonde barmaid. Maybe she had agreed to the meeting too hastily. He might be a friend of Tom’s, but Cate didn’t know Nick Douglas from Adam and now, here she was, half drunk in a London pub, about to show this cocky upstart her precious magazine dummy. How did she know that this Nick Douglas wasn’t going to steal all her ideas and then drop her like a hot potato?

By the time she had drained the remnants of her wine, Nick had brought the drinks, pulled his coat off and squeezed into the tiny space beside her, the warm leg of his jeans pressing against hers.

‘This is a bit odd, isn’t it?’ he smiled for the first time.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Feels like a blind date.’

Cate laughed nervously. ‘Well, it certainly felt as if I’d been stood up.’