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

Venetia laughed along, shrugging off the cost of importing all the flowers in from Amsterdam. ‘Mmm …“Farewell our English daffodil”? Serena would love that!’

The two girls moved up to Venetia’s bedroom to avoid the chaos of the last-minute preparations, pilfering a chilled bottle of champagne as they went. It was now half past six. Guests were arriving at half past seven, and Serena had insisted on arriving an hour after that. Despite her experience as a hostess, Venetia was always nervous before one of her social events, and was glad of Camilla’s company – particularly as her sister had just dropped the bombshell that she had finished with Nat.

‘Champagne?’ she said, popping the cork.

Camilla shook her head. She wasn’t quite in the mood to party. Two hours earlier, she had been standing in the rain at Canary Wharf, looking into Nat’s confused eyes.

‘Why do you want to meet here, Cam?’ Nat had asked when she had intercepted him dashing out of his Docklands office, his jacket held over his head against the rain. ‘Weren’t we meeting at Venetia’s?’

Camilla took a deep breath and told him there wasn’t going to be a party – not for him, anyway. More importantly, there wasn’t going to be a wedding. Camilla had chosen this neutral ground because it was cold, anonymous and clinical. Shivering by the Thames, surrounded by huge glass buildings sweeping into the sky, splats of rain falling on their cheeks. Telling him was hard, but the decision had been easy. When she’d returned home from Megève and seen the Tory party Selection Weekend application papers on her desk she’d known immediately what she’d wanted. She didn’t just want to be an MP, she wanted to be a cabinet minister. Or, when she dared to dream, achieve an even higher position. And for that she needed the right partner: a political partner. Not someone whose glamour-model and drug-dabbling past might tarnish her own reputation. After all, Camilla had enough tarnish of her own.

‘Cheer up,’ said Venetia, pressing the flute of champagne into her sister’s hand. ‘You did the right thing.’

‘Did I?’ asked Camilla, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘It’s nice to share nights like tonight with someone.’

Camilla walked across to the long French windows looking down onto the park.

Suddenly she turned back to face Venetia. ‘Jesus, though! Can you believe that Nat told Daddy about our so-called September wedding, too? Before he’d even proposed?’

‘Ouch,’ replied Venetia. ‘I’m sure he was looking forward to having a banking scion in the Balcon family. This news is going to put him in a bad mood.’

‘Bad mood. There’s a change,’ sneered Camilla.

‘No, a really bad mood,’ continued Venetia, her soft features suddenly looking drawn. ‘He was already threatening not to come tonight.’

‘Oh, he’ll come,’ said Camilla, absent-mindedly squirting some jasmine-scented perfume from the dressing table onto her wrists. ‘Why on earth would he miss an opportunity to be the centre of attention?’

The taxi pulled up against the kerb of Kensington Park Gardens and, as Cate stepped onto the pavement she heard a string quartet strike up, ‘Come Fly with Me’ from inside Venetia’s house. She thrust a twenty-pound note in the cabbie’s hand and breathed in the early evening air. She was already in a good mood, and the addition of a Sinatra soundtrack made her feel like she was in a Doris Day movie. Of course she was sad that Serena was leaving for New York, and she was dreading seeing her father at the party, but none of that could dim the happiness she felt now that her own life was finally full of excitement and promise. Cate caught her breath and almost hugged herself as she thought about it: she was editorial director of her own publishing company! How many journalists could say that? Only that morning they’d signed a twelve-month lease on an office, a tiny space squidged between London Bridge station and Borough Market, but it was a cool address with a decent rent and a boardroom-cum-broom-cupboard that doubled as Nick’s office. She’d arrived – not exactly in style yet – but she was definitely on her way there.

‘Where’s your date? I thought you were bringing someone?’ asked Venetia, hugging Cate as she waltzed through the door in a fitted inky-blue Lanvin dress.

‘Ooh, a new man,’ teased Camilla, shaking off her bad mood and giving her sister a warm squeeze.

‘Two men actually,’ smiled Cate, taking a Martini.

‘Your date is coming with another man? How modern!’ said Venetia with a wry smirk.

‘Oh, stop it,’ said Cate, tapping Venetia on the arm in mock reproach. ‘One is my business partner; the other is our investment guy. No gossip I’m afraid.’

‘Famous last words,’ winked Camilla.

‘Farewell Our English Rose!’ scoffed David Goldman to Nick as he pulled his invitation out of its fuchsia tissue-paper wrapping. ‘What the fuck’s all that about?’ he hissed, handing it to a doorman.

‘Don’t get us thrown out before we even get in,’ muttered Nick out of the side of his mouth, making a big show of smiling at the burly security guards standing in front of Venetia’s house. The front door had been roped off from eager paparazzi looking for famous guests. ‘Cate must have been pissed when she invited us to this.’

‘She knows what two handsome young men like ourselves can add to a gathering like tonight. We’re in demand,’ said David, entirely seriously, slowing down as they passed the photographers. The photographers merely scowled. Funnelled into the queue by the door, David started checking out the well-heeled, underdressed party-goers in front.

‘God, everyone sounds so posh,’ he whispered.

‘Irritable vowel syndrome,’ smiled Nick, pushing his friend through the door. ‘Now just get inside.’

At that moment, the street lit up with flashbulbs as a black Mercedes pulled up to the kerb.

‘S’rena. Over ’ere, darlin’’ shouted the paparazzi, elbowing each other to get a shot of the bronzed beauty climbing from the car and walking elegantly across the Kensington pavement. By any standards Serena looked fantastic, her hair swept up into an elegant chignon with sexy tendrils curling onto her high cheekbones.

Momentarily annoyed that the photographers had got wind of the party, Serena nevertheless stood at the foot of the steps and slipped off her vintage Chanel mink to reveal a blush-pink gown in such fine silk jersey it seemed to slither off her body. The total effect was magnificent – the colour of the dress was so pale, the fabric so fluid, that to the casual glance she looked almost naked. She turned slightly sideways and pushed one leg forward so that the long slit in her dress revealed a hint of tanned thigh, bowing her head seductively. She knew that this would be the shot on the front of the tabloids tomorrow morning.

Reluctantly allowing herself to be ushered inside by Conrad Davies, her agent and escort for the evening, she glanced at her Piguet watch. It was eight forty-five: good. Everyone should be here, she thought. Clinging to Conrad’s arm, she moved through the huge hallway, accepting a rose Martini from a waiter and stopping to kiss an assortment of London society players. It was a glittering turnout, she thought smugly, noticing Sting and Trudie Styler in one corner, Elton John and Elle Macpherson chatting on the stairs and Jade Jagger laughing with Matthew Williamson by the cocktail bar – it seemed the whole of London’s fashionable elite had swung by to say their goodbyes.

‘This is just darling of you,’ gushed Serena, embracing Venetia and planting a half kiss on each cheek. ‘Everybody’s here. And all for me.’

Venetia smiled weakly. Thank goodness for Janey and her Rolodex – Venetia had had no idea who Serena’s friends were. Much like Serena, she smiled.

Cate and Camilla appeared through the double doors and all four women squealed together, embracing in one huge, glamorous scrum. Ignoring the stars around them, the Balcon girls huddled together and swapped gossip like schoolgirls at a slumber party.

‘Where’s Michael?’ asked Cate, disappointed not to see him. ‘I haven’t even met him yet and you’re leaving us for him!’

‘I am not leaving you for Michael,’ Serena smiled sweetly, stroking her sister on the arm. ‘I am leaving London for New York. Anyway,’ she continued, helping herself to a tiny carrot shaving from a passing tray, ‘Michael’s on business in Cape Town. So Conrad is my date tonight, aren’t you darling?’ She blew a kiss over at the handsome middle-aged man wearing a crisp white shirt and a cravat.

‘Our last night before we embark on our long-distance relationship,’ he shouted over in a deep Richard Burton baritone.

You wish, thought Serena spitefully, knowing that as soon as there was some distance between them, she was going to fire him. Now she was moving to the US, a London agent was, frankly, surplus to her requirements. Conrad should be grateful she wasn’t telling him tonight and spoiling this fabulous party.

Serena turned back to the girls. ‘So, anyway, where’s Daddy?’ she asked.

No party’s going to start properly without me, thought Oswald confidently, rolling up outside Venetia’s front door in the Bentley. He glanced at his watch: nine fifteen. Good. Everybody should be there now, he thought, screwing up Venetia’s handwritten note asking everyone to be at the party for Serena’s arrival at eight thirty. His youngest daughter should be bloody glad he was bothering to turn up at all. He was deeply unhappy about this Sarkis fellow she had hooked up with. An American was bad enough, he reflected, but this Sarkis was half Lebanese. Why on earth should he turn up to a party to celebrate that? He was glad she’d ditched that plebeian poofter Tom, of course – father was a miner or some such, but if Venetia could find someone like Jonathon von Bismarck, surely Serena could have anyone. Someone of good, solid English stock. He wiped his lightly sweating brow with a handkerchief and turned to Maria Dante in the back seat, taking her hand gently. Tonight’s the night, he thought, gleefully taking in her voluptuous body as they stepped out in front of the paparazzi. Tonight’s the night.

‘At bloody last,’ whispered Venetia urgently to Jonathon. The man of the house was craning his neck around the room, sure he’d just seen an inept waiter spill cranberry juice on the carpet. He would be taking that off the caterer’s bill.

‘What? What the hell’s wrong with you now?’ Jonathon snapped back.

‘Daddy’s here,’ said Venetia, nodding towards the front door. ‘He’s only just arrived.’

‘And look, he’s brought Maria Dante with him,’ smiled Jonathon, knowing that would impress some clients he had invited to the party. They had no idea who Robbie Williams was, but Maria Dante, now that was classy. She was wearing a vast cyan gown, her breasts spilling over the low-scooped neckline, her black hair piled up on top of her head, looking every inch the opera diva.

Oswald and Maria moved slowly through the crowd, nodding and accepting compliments graciously like a royal couple on walkabout among their subjects, finally stopping to kiss Serena. Oswald had not seen her since Christmas. It was no secret she was his favourite daughter, a chip off the old block in more ways than one, but his patience had been pushed to the limit when Cate had let slip that she was moving to New York. In Oswald’s eyes, it constituted betrayal.

‘You’re making a big mistake going to New York,’ he whispered in her ear, his muted voice dripping with superiority. Serena had not become his favourite child by being submissive. ‘You’re my father, not my travel agent,’ parried Serena smoothly.

Noticing that several people had started to eavesdrop on their conversation, Oswald instantly changed gear and embraced his daughter.

‘So – let’s party,’ he boomed, lifting a gin and tonic from a passing tray. ‘We’ve got Sinatra and Serena, both my favourites. Let’s face the music and dance.’

Venetia pulled on Serena’s arm to ask her to stay while Oswald drifted off into the crowd. ‘What?’ asked Serena.

‘So, what do you think of her?’ smiled Venetia, pointing in the direction of Maria.

‘What is she wearing?’ sniffed Serena indignantly. ‘And that big hair! Her head looks like a petrol cloud.’