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

The woman sneered. ‘We had breakfast together, Serena. Surely you remember? But that’s not all we have in common, is it?’

‘I don’t follow you,’ replied Serena coolly, wanting to avoid the confrontation.

‘Well, let me spell it out for you, shall I?’ said Marlena, her Eastern European accent making her words clipped and precise. ‘Same taste in dresses.’ She nodded at Serena’s red Valentino gown, then ran her hands over the crimson fabric of her own strapless dress. ‘The parties we like to go to,’ she continued, her hand trailing in the direction of the diners. ‘And of course the same taste in men. But then how could I have forgotten that?’

Serena had, of course, been aware that Marlena Verboski had moved out of Michael’s duplex shortly before she had arrived in New York. But she was in no mood to apologize for the breakdown of Michael’s relationship with this tramp.

‘Get over it, darling. Relationships end. Things move on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get back to the party.’

Marlena pointed a long manicured fingernail at her.

‘Relationships end when some bitch comes along and steals your man from right under your nose.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Serena smugly, ‘somebody seems to have coat-checked their manners at the door.’

Marlena moved between Serena and her exit, bringing her face up close to hers.

‘Oh I’m not here to be nice to you, you arrogant bitch,’ she hissed. ‘I want to tell you what you have done to my life. You have destroyed it. I gave Michael six years of my life and you took it all away in one afternoon.’

‘An afternoon?’ laughed Serena nervously, ‘I hope you’re not referring to the time I met you both in Egypt. Believe me, that was all terribly harmless. I was in the middle of a break-up with my boyfriend at the time, in case you didn’t read the papers.’

‘You seduced him in Egypt and fucked him in Mustique,’ spat her rival, moving closer, shaking with rage. ‘I’m not stupid. We were taking a holiday in Palm Beach together and then he disappeared. I contacted his pilot so I know he was in Mustique. I know you were there too. He left me in Palm Beach, he left me …’ Her voice began to crack with emotion.

‘You can’t blame me for what Michael told you,’ replied Serena icily. ‘He told me that your relationship had been winding down and that you couldn’t face the reality that it was over. I see that is clearly the case.’

Marlena’s laugh came out like a cackle. ‘Is that what he said?’ She pointed to the grape-sized diamond dangling on a chain around Serena’s neck and nodded. ‘See that stone? Did he tell you it was a special gift he had bought for you? That diamond was on my finger two months ago. He gave it to me for Christmas. Learn two things about Michael,’ she said coldly. ‘Never believe anything he says, and understand why he is so successful in business. He never wastes any money.’

Serena put a hand protectively over her necklace. ‘Don’t be ridiculous: this diamond is mine. This is a piece of estate jewellery Michael bought at auction. For me. Stop acting like a jealous, crazy woman. I was beginning to feel sorry for you.’

Marlena gazed at the jewel and then trailed her eyes up to Serena’s face. ‘I know every facet, every shadow, every pool of colour in that stone. I loved it. I loved it enough to recognize it immediately when I saw it hanging off your neck. It has a heart-shaped flaw in the centre when you hold it up to the light, no? I can see from your face that it has …’

She paused and Serena could see that her eyes were glistening.

‘I loved it, but I loved myself more. That’s why I gave Michael everything back when I left him,’ she whispered. ‘Anyway. You deserve that stone. Beautiful. Hard. Flawed,’ she spat.

‘Gave everything back?’ snorted Serena, taking a haughty sip of cocktail, ‘I didn’t think that would be your style.’

Marlena laughed coldly. ‘Is that all you think I am? A gold-digging Russian? A model on the make? A whore? I am better than that and I am better than him. You two deserve each other.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Go home.’

Serena had had enough and moved to push past Marlena.

‘No, you go to hell!’ Marlena pushed back but, as she did, slipped and stepped backwards. The train of her dress swished sideways over the parade of tea-lights, instantly catching light.

‘Shit! SHIT!’ cried Marlena, twisting her body back and forth, trying to get away from the flames that were creeping up her back. She stumbled, twisting her heel and falling hard on one knee. A quick-thinking waiter ran over and, whipping a cloth from a table in a shower of silver and glass, smothered the flames. Serena looked down at the woman sprawled on the floor of this grand party, her knee bleeding, her dress charred and torn, her body shaking as she sobbed openly. Serena turned away, not wanting to be connected with this social humiliation and, as she did, her eyes locked with Marlena’s just for a second. ‘You’re next,’ mouthed Marlena. ‘You’re next.’

Serena fled back through the hall. When she was far enough away, she leant against a pillar and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of tuberose that was coming from the candles. Just then, a photographer from W magazine’s diary pages tapped Serena on the shoulder and asked to take a picture. Gathering herself, Serena posed for the flashbulbs. ‘Serena, can you tell me who your dress and necklace are by?’ asked a pretty journalist with her Dictaphone poised. ‘Oh, Valentino …’ mumbled Serena distractedly, her eyes wandering into the main room where New York’s finest were polishing off their symphony of desserts.

‘And the necklace?’ asked the journalist.

‘My necklace, my necklace …’ she started, the words bubbling in her throat. Lost in her thoughts, she walked away from the journalist who was left looking at her open-mouthed. She moved purposefully back towards the dining room, weaving between the powerful players without recognizing anybody, her mind a swirl of guilt, rage, and – most of all – shock. How dare Michael Sarkis treat her, Serena Balcon, like some second-rate girlfriend you give cast-off trinkets to? She saw his face through the crowd and she felt her fingers stretch into claws. He could shove the ten-carat diamond up where the sun don’t shine, she thought, stalking over in her heels. Ignoring Michael’s companion, she walked up to him, bringing her eyes level with his dark orbs and growled, ‘We need to talk.’

Michael laughed lightly and took a nonchalant sip of his cognac. ‘Actually the person you need to talk to is this man,’ he said, gesturing towards the middle-aged man in a double-breasted dinner jacket standing at his side. Serena ignored him and carried on staring at Michael, her eyes blazing with fury, until Michael spoke again. ‘Serena,’ he said slowly and patronizingly, ‘meet Ed Charles.’

The two words got Serena’s attention. Ed Charles was Broadway’s most powerful producer, who had made millions from a dozen sensational musicals over the past twenty years, four of which had been made into hugely successful Hollywood movies. While he wasn’t quite Steven Spielberg, Ed Charles had the power to make careers. She took a deep breath to compose herself and turned to face him.

‘Mr Charles,’ she smiled as broadly as she could manage, ‘how wonderful to meet you.’ She extended a hand towards him, conscious that it was still slightly damp. He waved a glass of port in front of her good-naturedly. ‘No, the pleasure is all mine,’ he smiled. ‘In fact I was just telling my old friend Michael here that I would love you to come by my house next week to talk about a project I think you’ll be interested in.’

Serena tried to suppress a delighted grin. Her agent had told her that Charles was producing a version of Fin de Siècle for adaptation into a big blockbuster. Anyone who could hold a note was rumoured to be up for a part. Greg Dyson, a hip music-video director turned major Hollywood talent was already down to direct. Serena felt her throat become clammy with excitement, her fury instantly forgotten. She stroked Ed on the arm and launched into a full charm offensive. ‘I can’t imagine what that could be,’ she smiled, ‘but you can definitely count me in.’

‘I’m just off Sutton Place,’ said Charles, nodding. ‘I’ll let you know the time and day later in the week. But it would be lovely to have a proper conversation then. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my table for coffee.’

Serena turned to Michael, who was loosening the waistband of his trousers and grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she teased, forgetting how she could have been so angry. Michael wrapped a hand around the back of her waist and pulled her in towards him, licking the side of her neck with the tip of his tongue. ‘Just don’t say I never do anything for you,’ he said.

22 (#ulink_4bf8dee8-7176-5ad7-8907-091d42b76a99)

The Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket racecourse was the first classic of the English flat-racing season, and the weather honoured the occasion with a cornflower-blue sky and a beautiful morning light that made the turf gleam like emeralds. Away from the Millennium Grandstand where a glittering crowd was anticipating some of the finest racing of the season, Oswald Balcon was pacing by the saddling boxes, lecturing the trainer of his horse about tactics for the big race.

‘We’d better be in for a result today, Broadbent,’ rumbled Oswald, slapping the gleaming chestnut rump of Fierce Temper, his favourite toy. He kicked the heel of his brogue into the turf, barely making an impression. ‘Are you sure Temper can run on this? Bit bloody firm this ground, don’t you think? Too firm if you ask me. It’d better not be a waste of money adding him to the racecard.’

Barry Broadbent merely inclined his head and nodded sympathetically. He was a trainer of the old school, his crinkled sun-weathered face had seen everything the racing game had to offer, and overprotective owners were just part of the scenery. He tipped the brim of his conker-brown trilby towards Oswald and smiled.

‘You know how competitive it is these days, your lordship,’ he said. ‘With the likes of the Coolmore and Godolphin stableyards out there we’ve got to pick races where we think we have a great chance. The ground could do with a bit more juice, but I think we’ve got a great chance today.’

Oswald snorted dismissively and looked over to their young jockey, Finbar O’Connor, a nineteen-year-old Irish boy who had recently been signed up by Barry.

‘Yes, but what about him?’ said Oswald. ‘You know my thoughts on this. The boy is too bloody young. Where’s the experience there, eh? Why can’t you get someone like Kieran Fallon or Dettori locked into your yard? I’m paying you enough, I want quality!’

Broadbent shrugged, but stood his ground.

‘Finbar may be young, sir, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a champion jockey. Remember Walter Swinburn? He was still a teenager when he won the Derby with Shergar. You see sir, Temper is a fantastic horse,’ he smiled affectionately, stroking the white blaze of the chestnut’s nose, ‘but you need someone who can control you, don’t you boy? And Finbar has that in spades.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Oswald, and stalked off.

For once, Oswald’s ill temper hid a real nervousness about the day. Horse racing was the one thing the tenth baron had a genuine and enduring passion for. Since his days at Cambridge in the late fifties when he would skip lectures to take the short hop to Newmarket, he had dreamt of a day like today when he would stand by a winner in the paddock, a winner that actually belonged to him. Well, part-owned, anyway. The fact that he shared Fierce Temper with Nicholas Charlesworth and Philip Watchorn under the name of BWC Holdings Limited was a constant source of annoyance to Oswald; he wanted both ownership of the horse and the glory. OK, so going in with Charlesworth and Watchorn had eased the financial load of owning a world-class racehorse, but what had they brought to the party except money? He was the expert, he was the one with the vision.

Oswald had suggested the idea to Philip and Nicholas twelve months ago. Not that it was much of a hard sell: fellow gambler Charlesworth had taken little persuading, while Watchorn could easily see the corporate hospitality opportunities that came with being an important owner. As soon as the others were on board, Oswald had immediately dispatched Aidan O’Donnell, a respected Irish bloodstock agent, to find them a suitable horse. They had picked up Fierce Temper, son of Triple Crown winner Danes Hill, for a decent price, because the horse had been having a mixed season in his juvenile year and didn’t show any obvious signs of becoming a champion. Aidan O’Donnell had, however, thought otherwise and, having secured the horse, he had brought in Barry Broadbent, a former Derby-winning trainer who, after a bout of prostate cancer ten years ago, had retired from the business. O’Donnell had talked him into returning to the turf and Fierce Temper had become the jewel in the crown of Barry’s new small yard in Epsom. He was the most promising horse he’d seen in years; it was to be his career swansong.

Philip Watchorn had taken a hospitality marquee opposite the Millennium Grandstand from where his guests could have lunch before the race and which would give them a magnificent viewpoint of the Rowley Mile. Oswald sauntered across the ground, revelling in the feeling of being an owner rather than just a punter. He felt like he’d won already.

‘Oswald!’ boomed Philip Watchorn as he walked into the marquee. Thrusting a glass of Moët into his hand, Watchorn introduced Oswald to his guests who, along with Venetia and Jonathon, were sipping champagne and talking excitedly about the bets they had placed for the earlier race, the One Thousand Guineas. Oswald curled his mouth in distaste. Didn’t these people understand how important racing was? It was more than a day out and some free booze.

‘Don’t say you have been harassing Broadbent again,’ said Philip. ‘Can’t you leave the poor man alone?’

‘I hope we made the right decision with him,’ grumbled Oswald, taking a small sip of the champagne. ‘Why didn’t we go to one of the big Newmarket super-yards where all the important owners keep their horses?’ he continued, almost talking to himself.

‘Well, correct me if I’m wrong,’ chortled Philip, helping himself to a quail’s egg canapé, ‘but didn’t you talk glowingly of Barry nine months ago? According to you he had a fantastic record and reputation before he got ill – and he’s built up a great yard since we persuaded him out of retirement, hasn’t he? I thought you wanted an Epsom yard – it’s a damn sight nearer to where we all live. I don’t know about you, but I enjoy popping down there to watch Fierce Temper train.’