Gold Diggers

‘Ah, Molly, there you are.’ Despite her butter-wouldn’t-melt Home Counties accent, Sophie Edwards-Jones had a core of steel. Feldman Jones Productions was her life. She had grown it from a fax and phone in her kitchen to being one of the top events planners companies in the country.

‘Yes, here I am,’ said Molly brightly, pointedly ignoring the atmosphere. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late but the traffic from Heathrow was a bitch.’

‘So you’ve been away?’

‘Yes,’ said Molly, flicking a sheaf of hair over her shoulder. ‘Back to Badrutt’s Palace. Gorgeous as ever. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘No, you didn’t tell us actually,’ Lindsey Feldman’s voice was harsh. She was a five-foot-two-inch dynamo who didn’t take any shit and was the perfect foil to Sophie’s silver-spoon polish. ‘If you had told us, we might have had something to say about it, seeing as we had a pitch with a client this morning that we needed you to be at.’

Molly looked bemused. ‘We had a meeting? With who?’

‘Callanders, the stockbrokers, remember?’ said Lindsey with a hint of sarcasm. ‘Want us to do their Christmas corporate event? Two thousand guests? We did discuss this, Molly. It was rather embarrassing when you didn’t turn up.’

‘Callanders. Oh shit. Yes. I completely forgot. As I said, my flight didn’t get in until nine-thirty. Then I had to pop home to freshen up.’

Sophie stared at Molly for a long moment. ‘Can we just have a chat in the meeting room, Molly?’

Molly pushed her chair back and walked after the women, seething. How dare they talk to her like that in front of the workies? Making her feel as if she was a teenager caught smoking behind the bike sheds. The nerve! Molly sat down truculently and Lindsey got straight to the point.

‘This can’t go on, Molly,’ she snapped.

‘Jesus, Lindsey. I miss a meeting. I’m sorry,’ said Molly, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. ‘I can take the client out again if it means that much to you.’

‘It might well be too late for that.’

‘Oh don’t worry, we’ll get the pitch,’ said Molly. ‘We always get the pitch.’

‘If we do it will be no thanks to you, Molly,’ said Lindsey abruptly.

Sophie held up a hand, stopping the argument mid-flow. ‘Molly. We might as well cut to the chase,’ she said. ‘This arrangement just isn’t working. You’re hardly in the office, you don’t come to pitches, and when we hold an event you spend the whole time socializing.’

‘Socializing! Isn’t that what you want me to do?’

Sophie nodded. ‘It was what we wanted you to do when we started, but things have changed.’

It was true Molly Sinclair had been a definite asset when Feldman Jones had launched – she had high-class contacts and clients were flattered to see a supermodel at pitches. She certainly added an undeniable sheen of glamour to a party too. But she was simply not doing what they had brought her on to do – attend pitches, charm the CEOs, bring in new clients. Put simply, she was baggage.

‘Molly, we want you out of the partnership.’

Molly felt her blood run cold. She didn’t exactly enjoy working at Feldman Jones, but being a partner in a company gave her credibility. It also gave her a salary. Okay, it wasn’t much, but she relied on it. A woman like Molly could expect swish nights out and holidays to be paid for by some rich guy in return for a blowjob in the shower, but even she had overheads to pay. She hated to admit it, but she needed this job.

‘You can’t do that,’ said Molly, struggling to appear calm and confident, ‘I’m a director of this company.’

Sophie smiled. ‘Yes we can. We’ve already had a lawyer look into it. Don’t worry, you won’t be out of pocket, we’ll get a valuation and buy out your shareholding for a fair price.’

‘But you need me,’ said Molly, a waver of panic in her voice now. ‘You need me to bring in the business.’

Lindsey couldn’t suppress her smirk. ‘Molly, you haven’t brought in any business for over a year, and Feldman Jones Productions generates its own business now. We have a fantastic reputation and we need everyone to be pulling their weight.’

‘I do pull my bloody weight!’ said Molly indignantly.

Lindsey couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘The only thing you pull, Molly, is the clients.’

Molly jumped to her feet and strode to the door. ‘I will enjoy watching this tinpot company crash to its knees when word gets around that I have resigned,’ she said haughtily.

Sophie smiled. ‘I think we’ll manage,’ she said.

‘Oh and Molly?’ Lindsey called after her. ‘Could you clear out your desk? We don’t want the drug squad round again.’

13 (#ulink_90e921b1-c3c8-52e8-ba25-c27c8cb93603)

‘Don’t we have any more girls to see?’ sighed Karin, snapping the portfolio shut and dismissing the fifteen-year-old Estonian blonde with a regal wave. As the skinny model shuffled out of the Karenza office, Karin looked at the pile of model cards in front of her and rubbed her eyes. Karin and her head of merchandise Kirsty Baker had been casting for the Karenza spring/summer advertising campaign all afternoon, and not one girl had been even remotely right.

‘What about Gisele?’ said Kirsty, flicking through a copy of American Elle.

‘Can’t afford her.’

‘Kate?’

‘She’s everywhere. Plus we can’t afford her.’

‘Daria?’

Karin threw down the pile of model cards in irritation. ‘We’re not fucking Gucci, Kirsty. The commercial rates for the very top girls are fifty grand plus a day. This is a three-day shoot, plus travel days, plus agency fees. Then you’ve got the photographer and crew, location costs, the advertising agency’s bill plus the cost of running the ads in the magazines. Christ, we’re talking upwards of a million pounds.’

In fact, Karin was beginning to think that was the only answer, although her instincts were totally against it. Despite the prohibitive costs, she was wary about using a well-known face for the first Karenza campaign. She wanted the ads to showcase the product, not the model. Yes, they needed a girl who oozed glamour and beauty, but they also needed the girl to make it seem as though it was the Karenza swimwear that was giving her those magical attributes, not the other way around. Put simply, they needed show-stopping cinematic visuals and an exotic siren smouldering on a Caribbean beach, not some emaciated teenager in a photographic studio in Hoxton.

Karin stood up and stalked around the office impatiently, twisting her spiked heels into the cream carpet. She had come a long way in seven years since she had started the company from her old Chelsea apartment, but she wanted more, much more. She didn’t want to own a tiny niche of the fashion world, she wanted the whole thing – and she had a plan. While all her friends from Briarton had gone to Florence to take art history courses to equip them for dinner party conversation, Karin had headed straight for the Polimoda, Italy’s famous fashion college. Karin had lapped up every lesson and had quickly formed a strategy. Her decision to go into swimwear had been considered and calculated. Womenswear was too competitive, too brutal, too much of an uphill struggle. Shoes were a closed shop with Blahnik, Choo and Louboutin dominating the top of the market, and accessories were the golden goose of fashion – the mark-up on a designer handbag was huge and more importantly one size fits all. No wonder accessories was where the luxury goods companies LVMH, Gucci group and Club21 made their mouth-watering profits. Instead, Karin had spotted a gap. Society was getting richer and people were getting more greedy. They didn’t just want luxury goods – the bags, the shoes, the cars – they wanted the full luxury lifestyle. Karin had watched as her friends took a dozen holidays a year in an ever-growing list of exotic locations but, despite the constant talk of holiday wardrobes in the glossy magazines, these women rarely dressed at all during the day, staying in a swimsuit from dawn till dusk. Swimwear was sexy, it was glamorous, it was her.

‘Dammit, why are all these silly little girls so skinny and pale?’ said Karin impatiently, flipping through the model cards once again. ‘They just look like children.’

‘That will be because they are children,’ said Kirsty with a smile. ‘Models start at twelve these days, you know.’

‘But we’re not selling clothes to children,’ snapped Karin. ‘Our customers are women, real-life women with hips and tits, not these broom-handle freaks!’

Karin knew what women wanted. They didn’t want revealing wisps of lycra, they wanted to feel like Ursula Andress emerging out of the sea in Dr No, they wanted to feel like Sophia Loren wearing a turban in Arabesque. Classy, sexy, in control. So she created a collection of classic pieces that made great bodies look even hotter. She then carefully drip-fed them into the market, only allowing Karenza to be stocked in exclusive corners of the market like Harrods and Harvey Nichols. She wooed important fashion editors, sending them top-of-the-range bikinis every season and was rewarded by flattering articles about the hot new jet-set swimwear label that everyone was wearing. But it was Sebastian who had encouraged Karin to open her first shop. She had met him two years after her first collection had debuted, and they were engaged six months later. She didn’t need anyone to help her think big, but Sebastian was supportive – and, more importantly, he was connected. A school friend of Seb’s from Eton had offered her the lease on a small shop on Walton Street and, not being able to afford an expensive interior designer, Karin copied the look of a pal’s Cape Cod beach house, all fabulously pared-down with white floorboards and white walls. It was low-key luxe for people who didn’t want to shout about their wealth. It was perfect. Now she had three shops and a £20-million-pound annual turnover and Karenza was Europe’s fastest-growing swimwear company, but for Karin’s fierce ambitions it was not growing fast enough. It needed more visibility as a major luxury. She needed a print campaign in the major glossy magazines. She smiled a small, sad smile. She knew Sebastian would have approved.

Kirsty was waving a black-and-white photograph of a skinny brunette with long legs in Karin’s face.

‘She’s hot. What about her?’

‘Too thin. Looks cocky,’ she said, tossing the photo on the pile dismissively.

‘Or her?’ asked Kirsty, pointing at a toothy blonde.

‘No way! Check out that mouth. She looks like a rabbit.’

‘She did do the Prada show last season,’ offered Kirsty weakly.