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

Serena sat bolt upright in the black leather. ‘What do you mean, want to meet me?’

‘Relax. It’s just that word about us is getting around, darling,’ he laughed gently. ‘Apparently Liz Smith wrote a diary piece about us yesterday. I didn’t see it.’

Serena was shocked, but not surprised. On the one hand, it was surely good news that the big gossip columnists were writing about her, but on the other hand, she had only wanted word to get out about her and Michael after she was sure about their relationship. Tom was fading from her mind so swiftly that she sometimes had to ask herself if she had really spent five years of her life with him. But, as they pulled up to the dignified townhouse on East Seventieth Street, she wondered whether she really wanted to go public with Michael.

‘Michael, sweetheart. So good to see you!’ A platinum blonde in her mid-forties stepped forward as Serena and Michael entered the chandelier-lit drawing room. Harriet Fletch, ex-wife of millionaire restaurateur Daniel Fletch, was dressed in a powder-grey Tuleh chiffon dress with enormous diamond earrings drooping from her lobes. She smiled wanly at Serena, her eyes showing both curiosity and distaste.

Low-key supper, my foot, thought Serena, glancing quickly around the room. It was a cavernous space for Manhattan – all marble and oak panelling with gilt fittings and framed oil paintings. All rather vulgar, Serena judged absently, before her attention was distracted by a handsome Hispanic waiter in black tails who was presenting a platter of caviar blinis to other prototype blondes, all dressed in identical expensive designer clothes and jewellery and all with that same hungry, ruthless look in their eyes.

Thank goodness I wore the trouser suit, she thought as another gorgeous waiter handed her a glass of Krug. Whatever happened to the dress code for supper being a pair of Seven jeans, some heels and a pretty little Diane von Furstenberg top? That was how it worked in Chelsea, after all.

‘So this is Serena Balcon, I’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to my home,’ said Harriet, extending a thin, bony hand. ‘I loved seeing your sister’s place in Vogue the other day. Venetia is such a talented interior designer. I can’t wait until she opens her little store over here.’

Serena smiled graciously, but bristled underneath. She certainly didn’t need reminding of that little embarrassment; she was still smarting from Venetia’s appearance in her favourite magazine. Serena had reassured herself that Venetia’s Kensington home had been the star of the feature, but still, Vogue was her turf, and she didn’t like her sisters muscling in.

‘And how lovely to see you here with Michael,’ continued Harriet, stroking Michael’s cheek. ‘One of my favourite men in the world.’

The truth was, Harriet Fletch was far from delighted to see Serena at Michael’s side. On Monday, when she had heard the delicious rumour at Frederic Fekkai’s salon that Michael and his two-bit model girlfriend had split up, she wasted no time organizing one of her legendary soirées. Ever since her divorce from Daniel Fletch, Harriet had been on the lookout for husband number four, and Michael Sarkis more than filled her long list of requirements. Fabulously wealthy, incredibly sexy and with all those wonderful spa hotels all over the world, she need never spend another penny at the Bergdorf salon again! So she was seething as she read over her citron pressé and wheat-free pancakes that Michael had been seen squiring this wealthy English girl. But seeing Serena in the flesh, Harriet felt she was not defeated quite yet. OK, Serena was good-looking, but that aloof expression, the pompous Princess Diana accent, this Balcon girl was the ice queen incarnate, and Harriet knew from the Upper East Side gossip mill that Michael liked his women exotic, malleable and extremely adventurous in bed. This frosty frigid Brit wouldn’t last two minutes.

Harriet had of course made very sure that Serena was separated from Michael at dinner, placing her amongst people she had been sure would dislike her. Courtney Katz, Harriet’s best friend and ruthless social conspirator, and Gary Becker, plastic surgeon to the stars, who was sure to be turned off by Serena’s fleshy, natural look. However, Harriet had not reckoned on Serena’s social resilience; as a battle-hardened veteran of her father’s soirées, she could squeeze sparkling conversation from a shy Trappist monk. By the time the diners had reached their pistachio soufflés, Serena had steered the chat onto safe dinner party territory: whether the Hamptons were over as the summer weekend destination of choice. Serena let the conversation float over her head and glanced over at Michael, sandwiched between Harriet and an elegant woman in her sixties at the other end of the table. He tipped his head towards her and smiled. She gave him a slow wink back, unaware that Harriet was watching her every move.

‘Anyone who wants to take coffee in the study, feel free,’ announced Harriet suddenly, determined to interrupt this moment of intimacy.

‘Shall we?’ asked Gary Becker, the plastic surgeon sitting to Serena’s left, pulling out her chair. He was keen to spend more time with the English beauty: she was the first woman he had seen in years who had no need for cosmetic enhancement. She was like a precious gem to his artistic eyes, a perfect orchid to a botanist. The guests filed through the double doors of the dining room into the ‘study’. The huge room was crammed with oversized leather sofas and lamps with shades the size of space hoppers; these cast a warm yellow light around the room and onto the walls of neatly lined books.

Keen to shake off Gary, Serena strolled over and ran a finger down the spines of the books. Not quite the Huntsford collection, she thought smugly: more likely put together by an interior designer who had brought in the leather-bound science tomes, the heavy books of art and architecture, even the row of orange and white Penguin classics. Every one of them looked suspiciously unloved and unread. She took a black filter coffee from one of the ever-present gorgeous waiters and wandered through another door, finding herself in another spacious room, this time filled with English and French antiques. Who ever said New York properties were small? thought Serena.

Realizing that the coffee had wiped away her plum lip-gloss, she went to look for the bathroom to freshen up. As all the waiters were attending to the guests with silver coffee pots, she dismissed the idea of asking for directions and drifted upstairs, following the curve of the thick mahogany banister to the second floor. The wide corridors were lined with framed black-and-white photographs and smelt of Tiger lilies, but there was no sign of a bathroom. As she was turning to go back down, Serena distinctly heard a voice say her name. It had come from a room at the end of the corridor; she edged towards the sound of the voices. Through the tiny crack of the open door, she could see a huge mirror surrounded by light bulbs, and just caught the reflection of Harriet Fletch and Courtney Katz reapplying their heavy make-up.

‘I don’t see how she can make a living as a model,’ said Harriet cattily, rubbing a smudge of colour into her lips. ‘Rather big, isn’t she? Must be one hundred twenty pounds at least. She certainly shouldn’t be wearing that white pant suit.’

‘Seemed a little dull, too,’ said Serena’s dinner companion. ‘Lovely skin, though.’

Serena felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Big? Dull? She had never been called big or dull in her life.

‘I mean what is she, other than Tom Archer’s ex?’ asked Harriet, her hard voice muffled by the door.

‘An actress, I think. Can’t tell you anything she’s been in, though,’ said Courtney pointedly.

Serena’s jaw tightened with anger as she heard the two women dismiss her clothes, her career, her family. Only one second ago she’d been saying how fabulous Venetia’s house was: now Harriet Fletch was dismissing it as ‘stuffy’. Quivering with rage, she had to put a finger on the rim of her coffee cup to stop it rattling.

‘Thing about these upper-class Brits is that they still think they’re something special,’ continued Harriet. ‘The Empire is over, honey – it’s the twenty-first century! And most of those so-called grand families have so little money these days. I mean, that woman who writes Harry Potter. I hear she earns more than the queen these days.’

‘I don’t know what you were so worried about,’ laughed Courtney, snapping her compact shut. ‘I pumped as much information out of her at dinner as I could. She’s going back to England tomorrow. She’s only here to do some publicity.’

‘Is that so?’ said Harriet, the glee purring out from between her thin coral lips. ‘Well, I think I’ll give Michael a ring on Monday. Maybe invite him over for a more private supper.’

Hearing the women move from the dresser, Serena darted into another room, waiting until she could hear the sound of their heels clacking on the parquet of the ground floor. She took a deep breath to compose herself. How dare those hideous women talk about her like that? Who exactly did they think they were? If they could trace their lineage back fifty years to some jumped-up soup millionaire, they thought they were social royalty. They were anachronisms, vultures; women who could trap a man into marriage and then pick his carcass clean before moving on to the next poor sap. After a few more moments burning with righteous anger, Serena composed herself and slipped back down the stairs to rejoin the party, studiously ignoring Harriet Fletch who was scolding a waiter for putting a hot coffee-pot directly onto the top of an antique writing desk.

‘There you are, darling,’ said Michael, appearing at her side and slipping a hand around her waist. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ he purred, brushing his warm lips across the top of her ear.

‘What a nice evening,’ she whispered, planting a lingering kiss on Michael’s cheek in direct eyeshot of Harriet.

‘Well, everyone loves you,’ he drawled, leading her through French windows onto a terrace that had a view of Central Park. Michael pulled Serena to him and cupped her face in his hands.

‘How much are you enjoying it?’ he whispered, kissing the top of the nose. ‘A lot or enough?’

‘Enough? What do you mean?’ asked Serena.

Michael paused, a dangerous smile on his lips.

‘Enough to move here? To spend more time with me?’

Serena thought back to her conversation with Stephen Feldman and a flash of excitement lurched in her stomach.

‘Oh, I think I’ll take Manhattan,’ she laughed, gently gripping his fingertips between hers.

‘Well then, move in with me,’ said Michael softly. ‘I know it’s soon for you, but I just want to see you all the time. I don’t want to have to grab a dinner or a night with you when I’m rushing around on business. I want you to be here.’

She turned away from him, stalling for a moment to think. She desperately wanted to live in New York, but surely it was too early to jump into anything?

Her eyes moved from the skyline of New York back inside the house, where the drawing room glowed amber in the dark. Standing at the French windows was the silhouette of Harriet Fletch staring out onto the terrace, her hand on her hip, watching them intently.

Serena smiled over at her triumphantly before moving her head towards Michael to nuzzle his ear.

‘Move in with you?’ she whispered playfully, still looking at Harriet over his shoulder with unflinching eyes. ‘It would give me the greatest pleasure.’

14 (#ulink_0d9c0e55-da64-507d-8e06-3f6d6df33b10)

‘The problem you face is this,’ said David Goldman, sticking his fork into his medium-rare steak and trying to make himself heard over the Coq D’Argent lunchtime crowd. ‘You’re trying to raise money for magazine publishing, one of the highest-risk businesses of all, and investors are frightened of it.’ Goldman paused to chew his beef and looked at Cate and Nick sitting nervously across the table from him. ‘And they’re frightened for a good reason. Did you know that out of four hundred and fifty-three new consumer magazine launches last year, three hundred and seventy of them have already folded? Not good odds, is it?’

Cate took a sip of her wine and sized up her lunch guest. A slick, mid-thirties corporate broker with a Meribel tan and an immaculately tailored Gieves & Hawkes suit, David Goldman oozed confidence. It was just a shame none of that confidence seemed directed at their magazine project.

‘All that may be true,’ said Cate, glancing to Nick for support, ‘but the magazines that do succeed can make a lot of money. We have a great product, years of experience, a strong management team –’

David wiped his lips with a linen napkin, the corners of his mouth turning into a smile. ‘Cate, you don’t have to convince me about how good your proposition is. Your track record speaks for itself. As for young Nick here –’ he hit his friend on the arm playfully with his napkin –‘I’ve known him since our first day at university together, so I know that, even though he can act like a buffoon, he can also make anything work if he puts his mind to it.’

Nick Douglas managed a weak smile. Trapped in his badly fitting suit, drinking wine he knew he could not afford should David not offer to pick up the bill, Nick had felt uncomfortable since lunch had begun and his friend’s harsh assessment of the business’s prospects hadn’t helped. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ he mumbled, poking dispiritedly at his moules-frites, ‘But seriously, do you think we can raise enough cash to do this thing or are we wasting our time? We have to launch in June or we’ll miss all the summer trade – not great for a travel and style mag. The only other option is to leave it for another nine months, by which point I’ll be jobless and bankrupt.’

David Goldman let his eyes wander across the restaurant to a curvy blonde in a tight short skirt wiggling across the room. ‘Well, the other problem you face, of course,’ he said, turning reluctantly back to look at Nick, ‘is the amount of money you want to raise. How much is it again?’ he asked, flipping through the pristine business plan that Nick had placed in front of him. He nodded and pursed his lips. ‘One point five million quid?’ There was something about the way he said it that made it seem an insignificant amount of money.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Nick anxiously. ‘Too much? Not enough?’

David put his glass of wine down on the business plan cover sheet, leaving a claret-coloured mark. ‘Difficult amount, that’s all. A bit too much money for most individual investors, a bit too small for the venture capital companies. They usually deal in investments well over five mil. Even then, they don’t like start-up companies.’

Nick and Cate looked deflated. Since their first meeting a little over a week ago, they’d worked fifteen hours a day creating a convincing business plan. Now they were sitting in one of the City’s hottest power-broking dens, multimillion deals bouncing off the walls around them, and it was beginning to sound as if it had all been a waste of time.

‘Is there any good news?’ asked Nick grimly, his large hazel eyes searching his friend’s.