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

‘I was fired in February, that’s true,’ she said evenly. ‘But, Mr Hammond, out of the dozen very successful people sitting in this room today, I would wager that nearly every one of us has been fired at some point. Achievers often are.’

She glanced around the room and noticed Lesley Abbott smile.

Nigel Hammond looked back and scribbled some notes on the book in front of him. Then he closed it with a thud, his face completely impassive.

‘Cate. Cate! Where are you going?’ Cate was fleeing the building as fast as her Manolo Blahniks would carry her and Nick, in his flat black loafers, was struggling to keep up. She stopped and turned to face him with tears in her eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘the thing about me being fired. I’m sorry – I’ve spoilt it for both of us. I’m going to see my father. Maybe he’ll want to invest or perhaps he could call his friend Philip Watchorn who’s very connected and wealthy and …’ The words tumbled out of her mouth until they became tangled up and she just let her arms flop at her sides.

Nick just wanted to reach out and give her a hug: this beautiful, dynamic career woman who at this moment looked like a disappointed child.

‘Slow down, Cate. Slow down,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you did brilliantly. I’ve been fired too, remember? It just so happens that you’re better known than I am, so people have heard about it.’ He put his hand on her arm but she snatched it away, pulling on her trench coat.

‘I bet no one in that room had been fired,’ she said miserably, fiddling with the belt.

Nick shrugged. ‘You impressed me. I’d have given you the money.’

Cate looked at Nick and she could have sworn his cheeks had gone slightly red. ‘Do you wanna go and get a drink?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I’m going into Mayfair. I’ll get us the money, Nick. I will,’ she said quietly, determinedly.

He watched her go down the street and gave a slow smile at the brave girl hailing a taxi. It was getting dark and the streetlights were just winking on. In his heart of hearts, Nick didn’t think it had gone very well either. They had answered all the questions with passion and authority, but Cate had been right. It was a punt. If he had a million quid, would he really want to put it into a magazine run by a start-up company that might very well fold within six months? He seriously doubted it.

The Balcon Gallery was tucked away on a tiny side-street off Mount Street, a quiet, rarefied pocket of London, full of society hairdressing salons and upmarket art dealerships. Its proud red-brick frontage had a crisp white canopy, a sombre blue door and a large window full of expensive eighteenth- and nineteenth-century masterpieces. The gallery was a world away from the trendy Brit-Art spaces of London’s East End, where men in mullets painted swastikas in blood to sell to millionaire admen and rock stars. The Balcon Gallery pitched itself at the other end of the art-lovers’ spectrum; quiet, old-school money who preferred more traditional pieces to sit in their old-school Belgravia and Kensington homes. Known as a specialist in nineteenth-century Dutch artists, the gallery had recently begun to move with the times and branched out into late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century French bronzes and, as Cate approached, she could see a dainty Degas ballet dancer in the window.

Cate pushed open the door and a tinkling bell rang over her head. Sitting at a table at the end of the room, Mark Robertson, the gallery’s office manager, was drawing up an invoice for an immaculately groomed middle-aged couple, while Oswald perched on the edge of the desk talking to them.

Oswald looked up and flashed Cate one of his most charming smiles.

‘Ah, here’s my daughter,’ he beamed to the customers. The woman, with her honey-blonde highlighted hair, Hermès ostrich Kelly bag and Ferragamo shoes, recognized Cate from Class magazine and smiled a little more broadly.

‘Do you want to go upstairs to the office, darling? I’ll be up shortly,’ Oswald said cheerily. Cate nodded and walked up the tiny spiral staircase at the end of the room. As she went, she watched her father at work. It was a shame he spent so little time at the gallery, she thought: he was a natural salesman. Even that little jovial father-greets-daughter interchange was perfectly pitched. A showman and a charlatan, she thought grimly.

The building was tall, long and thin, a perfect space for a gallery, although it meant that the office, located in the eaves, was rather cramped. The table in the middle of the room was spilling over with invoices and papers; as she sat at it, she flicked through an auction brochure detailing the sale of some rare Henry Moore sculptures.

Helping herself to a coffee from a pot on the sideboard, she sipped it slowly, her mind a maelstrom of thought. She felt just as nervous now as she had earlier in the day. But it had been a gut-wrenching, heart-pounding adrenalin rush in the PCT boardroom; sitting in the Balcon Gallery offices she felt small, apprehensive and resigned. She really hadn’t wanted to come and see Oswald, but she could still see Nick’s proud but disappointed expression as they had left the investment meeting. She looked at the dummy magazine sitting in her bag, its cover slightly thumbed and torn and she felt a rush of sadness. Why was she getting sentimental about a magazine? she scolded herself. It wasn’t an abandoned puppy, it was a business – and a damn good one, if only someone would give them a helping hand. And, as she thought this, she heard the slow thud of her father coming up the spiral stairs.

He was wearing his London clothes, noted Cate, taking in his fine navy suit with a Dracula red silk lining, no doubt going on to one of his fancy St James’s gentlemen’s clubs afterwards.

‘So to what do we owe this pleasure?’ asked Oswald briskly, ‘I assume you want something – something too important to be resolved with a phone call.’

He pulled a pocket watch from inside his jacket, peered at it through his half-moon reading spectacles and put it back with a tut. ‘I have to be at White’s at seven for dinner with Watchorn so you’d better make it snappy. Make me an Earl Grey, would you?’

Cate went over to the sideboard, switched the chrome kettle on and put two spoonfuls of tea into the bottom of Oswald’s teapot. Turning back, she pulled the dummy out of the holdall and put it on the table in front of her father.

‘I wondered if you’d have a look at this, Daddy?’ she said as casually as she could.

Oswald picked it up and quickly thumbed through the pages.

‘I’m aware of this. Your friend David Goldman sent it to a friend of mine.’

Cate should have known. It was typical that her father would know her every move. Whatever she’d done, good or bad, even when she was thousands of miles away, she’d always had the feeling that he was watching her, a disapproving look on his face. ‘However, I believe you’ve been offered a job in New York.’ Oswald pointed over to the kettle which was billowing out huge clouds of steam. Cate jumped up and began to make the tea, beginning to feel genuinely unsettled now.

‘Venetia told me,’ said Oswald, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Frankly I feel it would be the best for everyone. You’ve let yourself and the family down with this sacking. And this way you can be some company for Serena. At least one of you has some sort of career.’

‘Daddy, I don’t want to go to New York,’ she said slowly. ‘I want to do this.’

‘Ah, this.’ He picked up the magazine and started flicking through the pages dismissively. ‘Yes, Nigel Hammond called me to ask what I thought about it.’

Cate’s heart froze. Nigel Hammond? ‘You know Nigel Hammond?’ she said, a tremor in her voice.

‘I have a great many friends, Catherine,’ said Oswald, looking at her over his glasses. ‘I have done something with my life and they respect my opinion.’

‘So what did you say to him?’

Oswald put the magazine down and looked at his daughter, clearly enjoying his moment of power. ‘What could I tell him? Hmm? That you’d just been fired from a very similar business to the one you’re asking him to invest his money in? I simply referred Nigel to William Walton at Alliance. I thought he’d be the person best placed to comment on whether you were a good risk. Nigel is a very cautious investor.’

She span round and glared at him, her eyes blazing at his betrayal. ‘But you knew …’ she hissed, ‘you knew that …’ But she could see it was pointless. The frustration she had felt over the last few weeks gushed to the surface. ‘You don’t want me to succeed,’ she shouted, her voice thick. ‘What’s wrong with me? What’s your problem with me? What’s sodding wrong?’

Oswald smiled over sourly. ‘I didn’t give you a two-hundred-thousand-pound education to talk like that. Now, I think you’d better be running along. I’m going to be late for dinner.’

As she watched Oswald pull away in his Bentley she squeezed her hand into an angry fist. She knew Daddy would be difficult – obstructive even – but couldn’t believe he’d put a mere acquaintance before his daughter. She took deep gulps of London air, vainly trying to stop the fat tears streaming down her cheeks. Scrabbling to pull a tissue out of her bag she noticed the luminous blue light of her mobile ringing. She took a deep breath, wiped her nose and flipped it open.

‘Cate?’ It was Nick.

‘Hi Nick,’ she replied, trying to hide the wobble in her voice with a sniff. ‘I can barely hear you. Where are you?’

‘I’m in the pub getting very, very drunk. Cate, you’ll never believe it! We got the bloody money!’

She stopped, staggered.

‘No way! But how? Nigel Hammond spoke to my dad and the bastard passed him on to William Walton.’

She could hear Nick laughing down the phone.

‘I know! David told me about that. Apparently Hammond thought William Walton was a cocky American jerk. I believe “full of crap” was his phrase. Quite taken with you, though. Thought your presentation was “very spunky”. I think you’ve found a fan. And Cate?’ said Nick, his voice happy and slightly slurred, ‘I think you’re pretty damn great too.’

She wiped her eyes and a small grin started to form on her lips. She was beginning to feel much better.

17 (#ulink_b3e853eb-3c97-52ac-98d5-c85177643213)

‘She will absolutely love this,’ said Camilla, sipping a mineral water and looking around Venetia’s Kensington home. The interior of one of West London’s smartest houses had been transformed into an indoor rose garden. Lattice-work trellises had been erected on every wall, wound around with delicate flowers in every shade of pink. Doorways were festooned with pale cream satin ribbon, and layers of lilac tulle had been arranged on the ceiling like fabric waves. On every available surface sat enormous bowls of scented water with tiny tea-lights floating inside. At one end of the ballroom a stage, strewn with petals, had been erected, on which a jazz orchestra would play. Janey Norris, Serena’s PA, was striding around with a clipboard and a headpiece, barking orders into the ether, while at least thirty catering staff scurried around dusting trays of rose martinis with gold cinnamon and arranging canapés on pink porcelain serving trays.

Venetia nodded happily. She was nothing if not inventive when it came to throwing parties. Along with Andy and Patti Wong’s New Year bash and Elton John’s white-tie and tiara ball, Venetia Balcon’s summer party, held every August in Kensington Park Gardens was a must on the social calendar.

With such an impressive reputation as a hostess, Venetia knew she had to create something very special for Serena’s leaving party. She wasn’t overjoyed that her youngest sister was moving to New York – especially with a man of Michael’s reputation – but the least she could do was to give her a decent send-off.

Camilla picked up one of the party invitations. ‘Farewell Our English Rose,’ she giggled, reading out the gold-embossed words on the front. ‘But aren’t roses out of season? Shouldn’t it have been a Daffodil Party, or something? This must have cost a fortune.’