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

‘Oh, sorry, Van. I’d have loved to have stayed out a bit longer but Nat wants me back at the flat for twelve-thirty. He says it’s a surprise.’

‘Has he got you anything for your birthday yet?’ asked Venetia, slipping an arm through her sister’s.

‘Not yet,’ replied Camilla, ‘but I assume that’s my surprise.’

Thirty. Ever since she was a teenager, Camilla had been dreading slipping into old age. Except now that the big three-oh had arrived, it didn’t really feel like that at all. Being thirty definitely suited her – and where she was heading. Parliament. She got goose-bumps and butterflies just thinking about it.

‘It’s twelve already. Does that mean we’ve got to say goodbye?’ asked Venetia in mock horror.

Camilla nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Thank you for my birthday shop, and my lovely, lovely present,’ she smiled, holding up a cream Jo Malone bag festooned with black ribbons. ‘I think I’d better jump in a cab before I collapse under the weight of my shopping.’

Venetia was sad to see her sister go. Although they lived within a few miles of each other, Camilla worked such long hours she was lucky to see her twice a month.

The sisters embraced and a taxi pulled to the kerb to pick up the beautiful blonde girl with the armfuls of shopping. ‘Glebe Place,’ she said before sliding back into the seat. She watched the expensive stuccoed streets of Belgravia slip by and wondered what her big surprise could be.

One of the most beautiful apartments on one of London’s most prestigious streets, everybody who had seen Camilla’s fabulous four-bedroomed duplex flat assumed the interiors were the product of Venetia Balcon’s renowned design talents. In fact, Camilla had taken great delight in turning down Venetia’s offer to revamp the place when she had bought it, and, ever the control freak, had instead set about doing the work herself. She’d chosen every carpet, fabric and curtain, supervising every major structural improvement and even making innovative suggestions to Tom Barrett, the architect, who had been so impressed by her design savvy that he’d nearly offered her a job.

Camilla clearly had a hidden gift because the apartment was stunning. The walls were chalky white and lined with Diane Arbus prints. The carpets were so thick and soft that they were like a sheet of sheared mink, and the Far Eastern feel of the furniture, in shades of dark teak and cherry, somehow worked alongside the very modern pink neon heart ‘art piece’ and the big stack of photography books on the huge Perspex coffee table. French windows book-ended the apartment, with the back doors stretching out onto a balcony littered with terracotta boxes of flowers and hedgerow. Only a stack of legal files bound in red twine on the big walnut desk hinted that the house belonged to a barrister and not a designer.

Camilla walked into the reception room to find Nat Montague standing in the middle of the cream carpet, a grey cashmere jumper straining over wide shoulders, a crop of nutmeg hair falling mischievously onto his face. She noticed that his navy-blue eyes were sparkling and that he was standing next to a pile of tan leather suitcases.

‘You’re five minutes early,’ he smiled, picking up one of the cases.

Camilla trotted over to her boyfriend and kissed him urgently. ‘Oh Nat, I hate waiting for surprises,’ she pouted. ‘Tell me what it is! What’s with all the luggage?’

‘Your surprise,’ said Nat, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her bottom lip gently. He slid his warm hand down the back of her jeans to stroke the base of her spine and the top of her buttocks.

She pulled away, giggling. ‘Nat …’

He shrugged, disappointed. He would have liked nothing better right now than to peel her clothes off, take her up to the emperor-sized bed and make love to her all afternoon. But, glancing over to the big antique clock on the fireplace, he realized there was not even time for a quickie on the Perspex coffee table.

‘Put your shoes and coat back on,’ he smirked mysteriously. ‘We’re off out.’

Camilla looked puzzled. There was a very cautious part of her that really didn’t like surprises. ‘But Cate is coming round at three …’

‘I’ve cancelled her,’ said Nat with a smug look.

Camilla glanced at her desk, piled high with case files and yellow legal notepads and felt a rush of panic. ‘And I’ve got to do some work …’

She looked at the irritation on Nat’s face and gave a weak, worried smile. ‘OK, OK, let’s go.’

It was only when Nat’s grey Aston Martin turned up the Heathrow Airport approach ramp that Camilla realized they probably weren’t going out for dinner for her birthday. At least, not to any restaurant in England.

‘Now can you tell me where we’re going?’ whined Camilla, pulling at the sleeve of Nat’s jacket as they hurried to the Swiss Air check-in desk. Nat stopped at the counter, pulling out two airline tickets. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Megève for dinner.’

Camilla’s mind momentarily ran over all the work she had to get done for a case that began on Tuesday, but she quickly shook it off. She was going to Megève! She loved the French ski resort more than anywhere else on earth, and Camilla loved skiing almost as much as work. The Balcon girls had all been forced onto the slopes from toddling age. They used to go to Gstaad then, when Oswald would abandon them on the slopes while he disappeared into the exclusive Eagle Club. So now she had found a different winter resort to frequent. Megève was like Paris on the slopes: all chic Europeans, delicious food and laid-back rustic charm, without the St Moritz glitz she hated.

And of course it was just like Nat to whisk her off there for her birthday. He was prone to flamboyant gestures, and as a rich banker with family money he could afford them – especially when it was in the pursuit of pleasure. In the two years they had been courting, he and Camilla had exhausted not only the British social calendar but the international one as well. Countless weekends had been spent at the polo in Argentina, at the racing in Dubai or sailing in the Grenadines. On top of that, Nat had spent many more weekends with his friends partying around the jet-set circuit while Camilla was preparing for an important case on the Monday morning.

She watched him as he checked them in at the airport desk. She had to admit she’d had some fabulous times with him, but lately the hedonistic streak had been troubling her. She certainly hadn’t liked the profile of him in last month’s Tatler, which had labelled him as the English arm of the Eurotrash. But as he led her towards the executive lounge, she reminded herself that this was his birthday surprise and she tried to push any uncharitable thoughts to the back of her mind.

They arrived in Geneva at six p.m. A black four-by-four was waiting to drive them the seventy kilometres to the village. As they wound higher and higher into the mountains, they watched the architecture change from charmless concrete blocks to wooden chalets, with long icicles dripping from their eaves. As they turned into Megève, its quaint streets smudged with snow, Camilla pressed her nose against the window to watch the skiers in their bulky padded suits head to cafés for vin chaud and fondue after a hard day on the slopes.

Their driver turned off the main route, just before the village centre became pedestrianized, and drove up a small road that took them sharply up the mountain, stopping a few hundred metres above the village at a beautiful chalet. Its front was guarded by a thick row of hedges where clumps of snow hung in the branches like giant frozen magnolia buds, while a thousand fairy lights dripped off its carved balcony.

‘We’ve arrived,’ said Nat happily, while he waited for the driver to open the car door.

‘This is so lovely,’ said Camilla. An old, flustered-looking woman in a grey apron came out of the chalet, a glow of golden light escaping behind her.

‘Bonsoir, bonsoir!’ she called, removing her apron to greet them. Nat ignored her welcome, instead motioning towards the car boot, watching impatiently as the woman struggled in with their three large cases and Nat’s set of skis.

‘Merci,’ smiled Camilla awkwardly, flashing an embarrassed look at Nat as he pulled her inside the chalet.

‘Wow, Nat,’ sighed Camilla, pulling off her parka and taking in the chalet’s interior. It really was exquisite. Like a Hollywood fantasy of a ski-lodge, it was filled with wide brown sofas and fur rugs, leather cushions and cashmere throws. Chocolate-brown velvet drapes hung at the windows, scented candles lined the windowsills, a stag’s head hung above a stone fireplace complete with crackling fire. There was a sauna, a heated boot-rack, and a games room with a gigantic plasma screen. Even Camilla was impressed.

‘Come and see this,’ said Nat, leading her to the back of the chalet where doors opened out onto a patio, a black mosaic Jacuzzi already steaming and bubbling.

‘What’s that?’ laughed Camilla, feeling chilly at the thought of it.

‘For later,’ said Nat with a lazy smile.

All thoughts of work and the case files sitting on her desk at home had dissolved.

‘Want to get ready for dinner?’ asked Nat, pointing in the direction of the staircase. ‘I’ll join you in a sec.’

She nodded and went upstairs into the bedroom. It had an incredible view of the whole of Megève village, which twinkled in front of her in the blue-grey light, while the mountain made shadowy, ominous shapes behind it. It was all so wonderful, yet still Camilla felt unaccountably on edge.

Relax, woman. Enjoy yourself, she scolded herself. This is wonderful. Can’t you let yourself be happy?

She sat down on the edge of the bed and went over it in her mind once again. At least once a week for the past few months, Camilla had been asking herself what she was really doing with Nat. Conscientious, cautious Camilla Balcon and rakish, man-about-town Nat Montague. It just didn’t add up. Being far too busy working through her twenties, she had only had two real boyfriends before Nat: Jeremy Davies and Crispin Hamilton. Both Jeremy and Crispin had been barristers – dry, hard-working, more interested in their caseloads than in Camilla. So when she had met Nat at the Serpentine summer party, he’d been like a firework going off in her hand. The sex was incredible. Lovemaking with Jeremy and Crispin had been like watching paint dry compared to the passion that Nat had unleashed in her. She had never had a single orgasm before she’d met him – now she knew precisely what all the fuss was about. Then there were the exotic holidays, the mad parties and the extravagant gestures that made her feel wanted and loved. But somehow, Nat just didn’t make her feel … oh! She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

Swearing to herself, she unzipped her leather holdall, wondering what on earth Nat had packed for her. She pulled the clothes out quickly, holding each item aloft like a child rummaging through a goody bag. Two sets of her most sexy sheer underwear: you could tell a man had packed this, she smiled. Her ski suit, some socks, a couple of thick cashmere jumpers, her favourite black backless Dior cocktail dress, some five-inch satin heels and – what was this? she wondered, pulling out a tiny pair of black mesh crotchless panties. She didn’t recognize those.

After she had taken a quick shower, she pulled on her cocktail dress and blow-dried her hair until it fell in a golden sheath onto her shoulders. Not usually one to wear much make-up, she rubbed some rouge tint onto her cheeks and dabbed some peach gloss onto her full lips. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she worried that she looked too formal for just a dinner in a chalet, even if it was her birthday. Her concern was interrupted by the sound of the housekeeper’s old Peugeot 205 gunning to life and then fading away into the distance.

‘All alone at last,’ called Nat from the bottom of the stairs. She came down to meet him; he handed her a glass of Chateau Margaux and led her to the table by the long windows. It was set for two people with crystal glasses, linen napkins and white bone-china crockery, all shining in the saffron glow of candlelight.

‘I never knew you could be so romantic,’ said Camilla, only half joking, as she sat down. Their previous romantic nights had often been interrupted by at least six of Nat’s society friends turning up ‘unexpectedly’.

‘I aim to please,’ said Nat, going into the kitchen to fetch a casserole pot and two dishes of steaming vegetables.

‘I feel like a bloody waiter,’ he grumbled as he placed the food on the table, pushing away a lock of brown hair that had flopped over his face. ‘Still, I didn’t want that housekeeper hanging around too long,’ he said, pulling a bottle of Krug from out of a snow-filled ice bucket. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

They sat for a few minutes, eating in silence. ‘I love the pot-au-feu,’ said Camilla, scooping up some of the rich stew with a forkful of buttered carrots.

‘And I love you,’ said Nat quietly, his head bowed slightly over his glass.

Camilla’s fork froze in midair. In their eighteen months together, Nat had never once said ‘I love you’. He’d skirted round the words, usually when drunk and, if she was totally honest with herself, it had never been an issue. Camilla hated the sort of women who constantly sought reassurance with declarations of love from their partners. She herself had never wanted to appear so weak, dependent or desperate.