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

‘Cheapskate,’ teased Nick, ‘I thought I was the one with the tight fist!’

‘I’m just worried that this launch party is getting expensive,’ replied Cate.

‘Well, that may be so, but until we’re selling one hundred and fifty thousand copies a month, we’ve got to become experts in the art of illusion,’ smiled Nick.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I know I’ve been a bit tight on budgets, but we have to know when to save and when to spend. And tonight, the last thing we want to do is look cheap, especially with all the top-notch advertisers there. We might be a little magazine operating out of a room next door to a Moroccan takeaway, but we don’t want to look it,’ he grinned.

Despite herself, Cate was impressed. Because they’d both been on the same journey in launching Sand, climbing the same learning curve, making the same mistakes, she’d always seen Nick as someone who was making it up as he went along, someone who was playing the same game as she was. But right now, here in front of her, she saw him for what he was – a talented businessman with drive and vision, a sharp entrepreneur whom she could trust to make her magazine a success.

‘Hmm, “Image is everything”?’ she said with a wry smile. ‘You must have got that from me.’

He bent down to open a carton and took out a box-fresh copy of the first issue of Sand magazine, holding it out in front of him with both arms extended.

It was hard for them not to feel a rush of pride as they looked at it, touched it. On its cover, a sumptuous, sexy image of Rachel Barnaby in a gold swimsuit, smiling seductively in front of a Cote d’Azur palm tree. Inside, pages of glossy images of gorgeous people and glamorous places which made you want to jump into the rich, expensive wonderland they had created for the reader.

‘Who’d have thought it?’ she grinned. ‘Brought to you straight out of Borough Market rather than some trillionaire’s yacht?’

‘Pretty good,’ said Nick.

‘Pretty good,’ admitted Cate with a shy smile. ‘Although ask me again in three months’ time when we’ve got a run of sales figures.’

‘You are so miserable sometimes,’ smiled Nick, shaking his head. ‘Now let’s get these magazines to this party and show everyone just how good you are!’

‘How good we are,’ said Cate.

Nothing had quite prepared Venetia for how guilty and exhausted having an affair would make her feel. She had read all the features on infidelity that the women’s magazines could provide; she had devoured virtually every bodice-ripping glamour novel in the airport bookshop. She had even listened wide-eyed to the stories from her most indiscreet and philandering friends over the years. But she had never, for a moment, ever considered that those experiences would relate to her life.

Taking a shower in the top-floor suite of One Aldwych Hotel, letting the warm jets of water flood over her skin, she felt the full weight of it, the full burden of the guilt and the exhaustion of living the lie. After Seville, she had resisted Jack’s calls for a full week. Every instinct in her body had urged her to stop the one-night stand in its tracks. But that perfect moment under the stars in Spain had reawakened some life-force inside her and she had found it impossible to stay away from Jack Kidman.

When he had daringly called her at home, she had finally agreed to meet him, telling herself it was only to persuade him to stop calling. They had ended up having sensational sex at the Mandarin Oriental, two bodies entwined perfectly on a tapestry rug. It was the beginning of a series of snatched, sexually charged moments in hotel rooms, at his Westbourne Grove apartment or, on one particularly risqué occasion, in the fabric store-cupboard at the Venetia Balcon shop. Over the past three weeks, they had met up at least a dozen times: before work, after work, between appointments – and as the lies to Jonathon increased and her workload doubled, she wondered daily whether it was worth it. But it was worth it, despite everything. For the first time in years, she felt alive.

Jack was lounging on the bed, wrapped in a tumble of white sheets and finishing off a room-service club sandwich as she walked back into the room from the shower.

‘There’s some fruit salad here. Do you want some?’

Venetia shook her head. ‘I’m half an hour late for the party as it is.’

‘I don’t know why I can’t come along. I could pretend not to know you.’

Venetia looked at him mournfully and shook her head adamantly. ‘Because I’m meeting Jonathon. Anyway, it wouldn’t feel right. I can’t lie to my sisters.’

She began towelling herself down vigorously, trying to rub out the smell of sex and guilt before the party.

‘I guess you’re right. I might not be able to keep my hands off you. Then we’d be in all sorts of trouble.’ He smiled wolfishly.

Venetia looked at him intently, taking in the firm tanned body and the open smile. She knew she had to ask a question that had haunted her since that first night in Seville.

‘Jack, what do you see in me?’

He started laughing softly and reached out his hands to gesture her onto the bed. ‘What do I see in you?’ he paused with a faux-puzzled expression. ‘You have a nice nose, I suppose.’

She immediately looked wounded.

‘I’m joking, I’m joking! Although yes, you do have a nice nose. Come here,’ he laughed.

She sat on the edge of the bed and lay back in his arms. He fed her a strawberry, letting his fingers rest on the inside of her bottom lip.

‘Van, you are sexy, you are beautiful, you are talented. You are going to take over the world with your business and I’m going to keep kicking you up that pert, sexy little bum to help you do it.’

Venetia stayed silent for a while. This was all so wrong, but there was something about Jack Kidman that made her feel powerless to stop it. He made her laugh, he made her feel clever, he made her feel interesting. He was creative, clever, spontaneous: the type of man she’d been looking for all her life. But she had simply met him too late. She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of Jonathon. But it was no good, she couldn’t even picture his face. Jack Kidman had got right under her skin and her morals had crumbled. Pandora’s box had been opened.

The party was being held in the penthouse suite of the brand new Monument Hotel in the City, rumoured to be the biggest penthouse suite in London. As it had only been open a week, they had managed to get the use of it for free, in return for some publicity in the magazine. The press officer had been salivating over the proposed guest list: after all, it never did any new establishment any harm to host a glamorous party in the first few days of opening. Cate would have preferred a West End location for the party, but with such a tiny budget, she knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

‘Bloody hell, this is nice,’ said Nick, as the lift doors hissed open onto the atrium of the penthouse, where Pete Miller, the art director, had erected a twelve-foot-high blow-up of Sand’s first cover. In fact, the whole place looked really impressive. Handsome members of hotel staff in black Armani suits were floating around the rooms adding the final touches to the party: lighting candles, straightening ashtrays, making sure the two bars were fully stocked.

Cate and Nick wandered from room to room, taking in its luxury. It was striking, if masculine, in design. The walls were lined with Japanese cherry-wood, long black leather sofas filled the huge lounge area, which had floor-to-ceiling windows leading onto an enormous terrace that overlooked the entire city. It was a fabulous entertaining suite, no doubt squarely aimed at male CEOs visiting London on big business.

Nick opened the glass doors and the pair of them slipped out onto the terrace, grinning at each other like kids. The warm June evening air hit their faces as they stepped out. The city stretched out in front of them, lit up like a miniature New York skyline. You could see the strange ‘Gherkin’ building with its impressive lattice of lights, you could even make out the circular shape of the London Eye in the distance, and the shape of Tower Bridge, like two bishop chess pieces facing each other across the Thames.

A middle-aged man in a black suit came bustling over and introduced himself as Willem, the general manager of the hotel. ‘We are so pleased to be accommodating you tonight,’ he gushed in a light Eastern European accent. ‘Just let me know if you need anything. You will find me on extension two-two-five-three. Will your sister Serena be attending tonight?’ he asked Cate expectantly.

‘She will be attending, yes,’ said Cate with a smirk at Willem’s triumphant look before he hurried off to straighten some more ashtrays.

‘So Serena’s coming?’ asked Nick, helping himself to a glass of champagne.

‘Of course she’s coming,’ replied Cate. ‘She’s my sister.’

‘But so’s Tom.’

Cate looked back at him with a start.

‘Well, of course he’s coming,’ said Nick, mimicking her, ‘he’s my best friend. Not to mention an investor. Actually, he’s staying here in the hotel tonight. We thought Serena might be coming so I said I’d ring down to him in his suite when she’s gone.’

‘God, this is all so childish,’ muttered Cate. ‘I can’t believe they haven’t even seen each other yet.’

‘They will in time,’ said Nick. ‘But I guess tonight isn’t quite the right time for a reconciliation, in full view of one hundred and fifty people and the gentlemen of the press.’

‘I can’t tell her he’s coming,’ said Cate, playing distractedly with her earrings. ‘She’s stressed enough at the minute. She’ll just refuse.’

‘Oh Cate, you look fantastic!’ said Vicky, Sand’s fashion editor, who had rushed over and was running her fingers over the fabric of Cate’s Donna Karan dress. Nick mumbled his excuses and moved away to check on the guest list as the first arrivals were starting to trickle into the suite.

‘How many people have you seen?’ asked Cate anxiously. ‘Have any of the VIPs arrived?’ She was secretly worrying again that the City venue might have been a mistake, no matter how economical it had been to stage the party here.

Vicky pulled a face and handed Cate a glass of Moët. ‘It’s an awful lot of champagne to take back to the office if people don’t show.’

There was no need to worry. By eight o’clock, the penthouse was heaving with glamorous bodies. Senior representatives of all the major advertisers had come and were thumbing eagerly through the copies of Sand displayed around the suite. The soft jazz background music had to be turned up to full volume to be heard above the laughing crowd and Cate, a few drinks more relaxed, allowed herself to bask in the attention she was receiving from all quarters.