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

A Hispanic maid bustled onto the terrace holding two big bowls of shrimp salad and a jug of iced water with floating wedges of lime. ‘A light lunch,’ smiled Serena, stabbing at a curl of rocket. ‘Sorry we couldn’t have popped down to Da Silvano or somewhere in the Village, but I’m rushed off my feet with appointments today before this damned party. I’ve got a manicure, pedicure and massage at Bergdorfs at two, and I’ve not even been for a run yet,’ she said, a quiver of panic in her voice.

‘But at least you have a gown for this evening,’ smiled Roman proudly. ‘You are going to look beyond fabulous.’

Serena nodded. She knew she was going to have to look her very best if she was going to shine at this evening’s Costume Institute Gala. Held at the Metropolitan Museum, the gala was unique in attracting an A-list mix of New York society, music industry cheeses and Hollywood stars, not forgetting the glamorous fashion pack. Eight hundred of America’s hottest, hippest and most fashionable were about to vie for attention in the hottest party of the year. Serena’s publicist Muffy had told her that if she could make a splash tonight, not only New York but the whole of America would wake up to the charms of Serena Balcon. Of course, she had to make the right kind of splash. The gala usually had a theme and tonight’s was ‘A Night of Burlesque’. It was a delicate balancing act. Too often guests took it too seriously and ended up dressing like some half-clothed gothic tragedy. On the other hand, she appreciated that looking totally glamorous while also entering into the spirit of the evening would certainly get her noticed.

But trust Roman to come up with such a fabulous concoction, she thought, picturing it lying on her bed. A long, strapless gown with acres of fabric billowing out into a sumptuous train, it had been woven from strips of dark chiffon in various shades of black from charcoal to darkest ebony. A boned corset made by Mr Pearl clung to her body like molten metal. Whilst the couture confection had been a present from Roman, he wasn’t doing it entirely without ulterior motives. He knew that once Serena Balcon walked up those steps, all of New York’s big fashion spenders and front-row girls would want to know who had made her incredible gown. He wasn’t going to sit back and let Carolina Herrera and Oscar de la Renta dress American society for ever.

‘Anyway, tell me all about New York,’ said Roman, nibbling daintily on a Honduran prawn.

‘Oh, it’s fabulous,’ beamed Serena. ‘Town & Country are shooting me for their cover next month. At Michael’s beach house in Southampton.’

‘Holidays in the Hamptons,’ grinned Roman. ‘So we’re a fully converted New Yorker, are we? Or still hankering after London life?’

Serena snorted. ‘You’ve got to be kidding! I don’t know why I didn’t move here years ago. That whole Chelsea thing just seems so parochial now. I have met so many amazing people – artists, directors, and I mean really big directors, not just someone who’s been to film school and owns a camera,’ she gushed, almost knocking over her glass with excitement.

The fact that she was lonely in New York was something Serena tried to push to the back of her mind. Everyone in the city took everything so seriously and, while there was always something fabulous to go to – a party, a benefit, a gallery opening, she missed someone she was close to, to talk to, to share in her triumphs. She missed her sisters. She’d also realized too late that Michael was too much of a workaholic to be the Manhattan sidekick she craved. The vast scale of his business empire had only become clear once Serena had moved to New York – three hundred hotels under numerous divisions, two casinos, as well as a raft of prime real estate.

His life had a routine that Serena’s day had to be fitted into. He worked from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. each day. Serena was expected to meet him for dinner at the New York Sarkis hotel at 7.30 p.m. Only then – and if he wished – would they hit the social scene together. He disliked Serena going to parties without him and he made his displeasure evident. Normally Serena wouldn’t have put up with such behaviour from any man: she was used to calling the shots in her relationships. But in New York she didn’t have her support network of friends and family to fall back on, so for the time being she wasn’t going to rock the boat. And especially not with the summer season – the Hamptons house, the weekends on his yacht – so close. At least I’m practical, she thought smugly to herself.

‘Anyway,’ continued Serena, stretching her legs out and toying with the lime floating in her drink. ‘It’s not as if I can go back to London now, is it?’

‘Oh? How come?’ asked Roman, a bemused expression on his face.

‘Well,’ replied Serena, tossing back her hair, a dazzling white in the midday sun. ‘A few weeks ago we put the Cheyne Walk house on the market. I thought it was about time – everything’s being done through the lawyers, of course. It’s only been on a week and we’ve already had an offer over the asking price. Not surprisingly, of course, you can’t put a price on it being Serena Balcon’s old place, can you? The buyers want an early completion and I guess there’s nothing stopping us, is there? I’m out here now and Tom’s apparently enjoying being a country bumpkin.’

‘But is that wise?’ asked Roman, taking tiny sips of water. ‘I mean, shouldn’t you try to keep a base in London?’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Serena, appearing totally surprised, ‘This is my life now. If I want to go back for a holiday, I can stay with one of my sisters – preferably Venetia, at least she has quite a nice house. But really,’ she sighed, pulling the aqua-tinted sunglasses off the top of her head and peering at the fabulous view, ‘I have no intention of going back any time soon.’

Freshly blow-dried, massaged, manicured, tweezered and made-up, Serena decided to blend herself a frozen margarita before attempting to squeeze herself into her Roman LeFey original. Michael was due any moment, cutting it fine as usual, she noted, looking at the clock. Dressed in nothing but a scrap of lacy underwear, a pair of sky-high Manolos and brandishing an enormous cocktail glass, Serena felt like some villainous Bond girl as she walked across Michael’s living room towards the CD player. In fact, Michael’s whole apartment lent itself to the high-tech assassin ambience. There was a bank of plasma televisions across one wall, a glass Christian Liagre coffee table in the centre, and cream pop-art furniture on either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which were hidden by curtains made from long threads of tiny pearls. The whole look was maddeningly seductive and expensive and made the Cheyne Walk townhouse she shared with Tom seem, well, a little parochial.

Serena picked up a remote no larger than one of Michael’s Cohiba cigars. She pressed a button and ambient jazz oozed through the room. Gulping back the rest of her margarita, she felt sexy and alive. Her eyes closed, she swayed to the music, beginning to move her arms up over her head like an exotic snake charmer hypnotizing her prey. Swinging her hips to the rhythm, she drew her fingers down from the top of her neck down over her breasts to her navel in her erotic private dance. Then she heard the lounge door close. She whirled around to find Michael standing there. He flung his copy of Fortune magazine on the coffee table and began loosening his tie. ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ he smiled, looking her bronzed body up and down.

‘You can’t say I don’t ever give you a royal welcome,’ replied Serena, dancing over to him and kissing him gently on the neck. Michael growled and reached for her, but she playfully pushed him away and moved towards the dressing room.

‘No time for play,’ she smiled saucily. ‘I have to go and beautify myself.’

Michael spread his hands in appeal and ran after her. ‘Well, why don’t we take a shower together then?’ he called, a hungry tone in his voice.

‘No, no, no!’ squealed Serena, running away from him and pulling the bedroom door closed behind her. ‘I’m going to get dressed,’ she called. ‘Just wait until you see my dress! It’s perfect!’

Michael shrugged and padded to the marble and limestone bathroom, sliding his clothes off as he approached, while Serena stood gazing down at the delicate fabric of her gown before she began to pull it up and over her body, careful not to touch her hair. Orlando Pita had teased her mane into a sleek ponytail and she fastened a black orchid into the nape of her neck for effect. She turned to look at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and almost gasped at the elegant beauty staring back at her. ‘Eat your heart out, Nicole Kidman,’ she smiled, gazing at herself until she heard the sound of bare feet padding across thick carpet.

She turned around to see Michael, naked except for a small white towel, the hair all over his forearms, shoulders and chest glistening with moisture from the shower. She stood there, posing for a second, ready for Michael’s gushing praise for her breathtaking beauty. ‘Jesus, Serena!’ he said finally.

She smiled seductively, pulling her ponytail around onto her bare shoulder like a python. ‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ she purred. ‘It’s a present from Roman.’

‘It’s awful!’ said Michael flatly.

Serena’s smile disappeared as she smoothed her hands across the chiffon. ‘But it’s beautiful,’ she said.

‘Serena, it’s fucking awful,’ said Michael forcefully, dropping the towel to the floor. ‘You look like you’re going to a funeral! This is supposed to be a glamorous event tonight. Take it off!’

The cold menace in his voice slapped Serena in the face. She had never been told she was anything short of sensational. Even her father, who had been quick to call Cate fat or Venetia a string-bean, had always treated her like the family’s Helen of Troy.

‘What do you mean you don’t like it?’ she gasped. ‘Just because it’s shades of black doesn’t mean I look like a bloody widow,’ she said, biting the top layer of her lip.

Michael’s response was cutting, impassive. ‘Take it off,’ he said.

He walked over to the mirror and started towel-drying his hair. ‘Wear that red Valentino I bought you,’ he sniffed without turning to face her. ‘And take the funeral wreath out of your hair. Is it supposed to be sexy?’

‘Fuck you!’ said Serena, stalking on her heels into the bathroom where she slammed the door shut, a little strip of chiffon catching on the door as she went. She sank down onto the cold limestone floor and sat there, shocked. She had never once doubted her appearance. She had thought she looked incredible tonight. She wanted to be the girl in the beautiful Roman LeFey gown that every magazine from W to Vanity Fair would photograph and run as the lead picture on their society pages.

She knew she looked fabulous, and she also knew she didn’t have to listen to Michael. She could walk out of the bathroom, take his arm, turn up to the party like a stunning chiffon cloud and outshine everyone. But, for one second, she felt more scared, vulnerable and alone than she had felt in a long time. Michael’s dangerous edge that she had found so enticing in Mustique kept her submissive. His constant instructions on where she could and couldn’t go, his gifts of clothes and jewellery which would make her look a certain way, his jealous monopolizing of her social life, it was all slowly breaking down her resistance. Each time she let him have his way, the Serena Balcon she had been in London got a little smaller, a little more timid. And it scared her. She’d seen the same fear of displeasing her man in Venetia’s eyes when Jonathon would angrily round on her at some party or dinner. Not once had Serena ever thought that she would turn into this woman, sitting on a cold floor, slumped against a door, anxious, nervous – terrified – to return to the man on the other side of it. For a fleeting second, the nagging doubt that had been building over the past weeks reappeared. Why was she living with Michael Sarkis? Away from the parties and the benefit dinners, did she really like his company?

‘Jesus, pull yourself together, Serena!’ she scolded herself, pulling herself up, looking at herself in the mirror. It just wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth ruining her evening and it wasn’t worth upsetting Michael. After all, being with him was definitely getting her noticed in the place that counted – America. It moved her up another notch in society. And a dress wasn’t worth upsetting that applecart for.

Staring at her reflection, she stroked down the silk from the top of the strapless bodice all the way down to her legs, wondering for a moment how disappointed Roman would be if she did not wear the gown he had spent weeks creating. But only for a moment. Pulling the black orchid from her hair, she walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom, ignoring Michael’s looks. She stepped out of the gown and pulled on the red slinky floor-length gown, adding a huge diamond choker that Michael had given her. Immediately she felt like a different woman. More obviously sexy, and still sophisticated, but she felt she had regained control. ‘Better,’ said Michael as she waited by the door for him. ‘Now I think we had better go. Dinner starts at eight.’

Fifth Avenue was pandemonium by the time the car pulled up at the huge façade of the Metropolitan Museum at Eighty-Second Street. A line of black limousines snaked back up the road, each taking their turn to unload their glamorous cargo onto the red carpet before driving off into the night. The entrance was a marquee-covered tunnel where photographers from picture agencies, television companies and glossy magazines lined up behind the crash barriers to get their shot of the A-list guests as they walked inside. Seeing that J-Lo, looking spectacular in a snow-white gown, had entered only seconds before her, Serena was anxious that she would get a subdued response from the snappers. She need not have worried. The lenses raised, the shutters whirred and the paparazzi all shouted her name as she glided past them up the enormous staircase and into the building where the Great Hall had been decorated with a thousand flickering votive candles.

She took a blood-orange cocktail from a waiter and surveyed the scene. Thank goodness she’d given the burlesque theme a miss, she decided. Amber Thompson, America’s hottest platinum-blonde supermodel, was wearing a lavender powder wig and a long corset dress that was laced from her shoulder blades down to her heels and exposed a cheeky flash of bronzed buttock as she walked. More Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe, thought Serena with a sneer. Thankfully no one else was wearing red.

‘You look stunning,’ smiled Michael into her ear, biting the bottom of her lobe, stroking the palm of his hand across her bottom. She smiled at him indulgently. Basking in New York’s social elite limelight, she had almost forgotten about their earlier spat. Industry and society figures drifted up to them, exchanging air-kisses, compliments and platitudes. She grabbed Michael’s hand as they worked the crowd, talking to producers, senior figures from the museum, and the wives of billionaire philanthropists. It was a heady exotic mix. Rumour was right; everybody came to this party – Hollywood society, editors in chief and the world of fashion all seamlessly mingling.

As they sat down, Serena took a minute to survey her table. It was impressive. To her left was Tyler Sang, the multimillion-selling hip-hop mogul and Sahara, his raven-haired twenty-five-year-old wife. Next to them was a space where Roman LeFey and Patric, who was flying in from Paris, would sit. Petula, the fashionably odd-looking model, was sitting next to her rock-star fiancé Zachary, while to Michael’s left sat Warren Johnson, the legendary Wall Street financier and his much-younger fourth wife Marissa. Roman and Patric arrived at the table just as Serena was reading the menu out loud to everybody. Roman’s face was stony, shaking his head so slowly it was almost unnoticeable. As he took his seat, the determined, unsmiling line of his mouth spoke volumes.

For half an hour, Serena entertained herself talking to Sahara, whom she found amusingly vulgar. The half-Tahitian beauty was regaling her with her plans for a jewellery and make-up line for babies. It wasn’t until they were halfway through the lamb shank with quail gravy that Serena realized to her horror that Sahara had been feeding her food to a tea-cup Pomeranian dog peeking out of the top of her bag. ‘Poor Rococo is thirsty, aren’t you baby?’ cooed Sahara as she lifted a flute of champagne to the dog’s mouth and let it lap up greedy gulps.

Turning away in disgust, Serena tried to catch Roman’s eye, but he appeared to be locked in conversation with Petula and Zac, the model and rock star. Realizing that she had definitely upset him, she excused herself from Sahara, stood up and walked around to the back of Roman’s chair, putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘Please don’t be cross,’ she whispered into his ear, ‘I had an accident with the bathroom door. The chiffon split, it was awful! I didn’t want to embarrass you by wearing a less than perfect dress.’

‘You ripped it?’ said Roman, raising an eyebrow as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

‘I know!’ sighed Serena dramatically. ‘Not really a rip. More of a slash, actually. I’m so, so sorry, I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise.’

Roman glanced over at Michael who was leaning in to Sahara, his hand on her bare arm, sharing a private joke. He simply nodded. ‘I understand, Serena,’ he said coolly.

Christ, some people are so sensitive, thought Serena, walking back to her chair to pick up her clutch. She was desperate for a cigarette. Where the hell was she supposed to have a sneaky ciggie in an art gallery? It was probably smoke-alarmed up to the rafters. Not entirely sure where she was going in the throng of people and tables, she found herself back in the Great Hall, where she stood for a moment, gazing up at the soft, blurry glow from a thousand candles.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ asked a sarcastic voice from behind her. She turned around and her stomach lurched.

The voice, a curious combination of venom and sadness, belonged to Marlena Verboski, Michael’s ex-girlfriend, from the Egyptian yacht. She was a beautiful woman, long, cocoa-brown hair falling either side of an oval face, but her buttermilk complexion was showing all the signs of sleepless nights and tears.

Serena took a confident sip of her Mandarin Martini. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Marlena Verboski. We met in Egypt?’

Serena swirled the liquid around in the base of her glass. ‘Yes, I vaguely recall you.’