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

‘I am so proud of you,’ said Lucy, her old friend from Class magazine, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘You are going to whip the arse off Class,’ she smiled, ‘and I hope you do. That Nicole Valentine has become a big old bitch.’

‘Become?’

They both giggled.

Meanwhile, Camilla and Venetia had arrived, looking stunning in Marni and Prada respectively, and were doing a sterling job helping Cate circulate around the advertisers and showering them with attention. The ad people didn’t seem to mind that the sisters were not actively involved with Sand magazine – they were just happy to talk to one of the Balcon sisters – while a photographer from the EveningStandard snapped away gleefully at the great, the good and the gorgeous.

All the magazine’s investors were out in force, drinking champagne and all looking very pleased with themselves, lapping up the reflected glory. David Goldman had been very clever to know that evenings like this, rubbing shoulders with celebrities in a penthouse suite, was actually what they were investing in, not the magazine itself.

Cate took a minute to stand back in a corner and survey the scene. She had never felt more confident, more alive, more in charge than at this very moment. Across the room she could see Nick standing talking to a group of PRs, with Rebecca hovering by his shoulder. He had undone the button of his jacket and looked handsome and casual. She felt a glimmer of sadness, but immediately pushed it to one side. She and Nick might not be a couple, but they were certainly a great business partnership, and it was definitely time to move on from thinking it could be anything more. At that moment, she caught a glimpse of David Goldman, who was talking to one of the investors. After a few moments, Cate became aware that, as he spoke, his eyes kept wandering in her direction, accompanied by a flirtatious smile. After three glasses of champagne, she certainly had to acknowledge that he was attractive. His hair had grown a little longer since the last time they’d met, and his steel-grey suit matched his twinkling eyes, she thought, giggling to herself and beginning to wish that he would come over to say hello.

‘Catherine, what a charming evening.’

Cate looked up in surprise to see her father. So he had come. A big part of her really didn’t want him here. She was still furious at his meddling with Nigel Hammond, the investor whom he had sent in the direction of William Walton for a reference, almost strangling their investment process at birth. On the other hand, she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to snub him entirely, being a little fearful at the ramifications of not asking him. Daddy was a man who held a grudge. So she simply sent an invitation to the gallery and put it out of her mind, hoping he simply wouldn’t bother.

‘I was just telling this young lady here,’ said Oswald, pulling her towards an eager-looking journalist busily scribbling away on a notepad, ‘how I introduced you to your first big investor and got this whole ball rolling.’ The journalist looked up bright-eyed, her pen poised to take down more of the story. ‘Yes, Cate, you must be very grateful for all your father’s support.’

She stifled an angry snort.

‘Even though I lost my wife many years ago,’ continued Oswald, turning to the journalist with a grave look, ‘I have always done my very best to ensure that the girls have had everything they wanted and were given every opportunity to follow their dreams.’

‘Has Serena arrived yet?’ said the journalist, her eyes searching the room. ‘What would be fabulous is a family photo. All the sisters with their father?’

‘She’s due any time,’ said Cate, wondering where she had got to.

To avoid the paparazzi clamouring outside the front of the Monument, Serena had arranged to be smuggled into the hotel through the kitchens. A kind-faced concierge accompanied her to the penthouse suite via a service lift. When Cate had begged her to come to the party, she had promised her there was only going to be one photographer there, yet the crowd of snappers on the street was as big as a rugby scrum. She knew she looked sensational in a chocolate-brown jersey minidress that stopped provocatively mid-thigh, but for the first time she could remember, the presence of the photographers had brought on a sense of dread so strong she could feel her skin become clammy. The lift door hissed open at the top floor and, for a moment, Serena stood watching the party. By the window she could see Cate surrounded by people, laughing, while her father was hovering by the bar.

‘Have a good night, Miss Balcon,’ smiled the concierge, waiting for her to step out into the party.

Serena turned to answer him and an unfamiliar emotion gripped her. Panic. Suddenly her heart was pounding so violently that she had to clasp her chest, her breath coming in little pants and her hands starting to tremble. She slammed the button of the lift door for it to close before anyone had the chance to see she’d arrived.

She inhaled sharply to calm herself and turned to face the concierge.

‘I’m not quite ready yet,’ she smiled, rubbing her damp palms together nervously. ‘I, I … think I’d like to check into the hotel, first. Discreetly, of course,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm to make the point. ‘Now, this suite is obviously taken. Which suite would you recommend after this?’

The concierge straightened his jacket and coughed to clear his suddenly dry throat. ‘I would normally recommend the Fenchurch Suite on the floor below, but I believe it is occupied tonight. There is a wonderful junior suite just next door to it, however. I can take you there now and we can do the formal checking-in later.’

‘Excellent,’ said Serena with false composure. ‘Let’s go.’

The Threadneedle Suite was small compared to the penthouse, but it had a huge emperor-sized bed that was plumped up with a white duvet, black leather throw and cream-coloured mongoose cushions. It was surprisingly cosy. And it felt safe. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

When the concierge had gone, Serena kicked off her heels, sat back on the mattress and pulled her knees up to her chin like a vulnerable child. It felt better now, alone, unobserved. She pressed her hand to her forehead as if she were dealing with a particularly stubborn headache, but it was not enough to stop big droplets of tears spilling down her cheeks. She angrily wiped them away, but felt powerless to stop the sobs that creased her shoulders. She thought about what it would be like to go into the party, where every pair of cold, prying eyes would be on her, judging her every thought. Serena was a woman born to bask in people’s attention, but tonight her armour wasn’t strong enough. After all that had happened, she wasn’t ready for it. Cate should have known she wasn’t ready for it.

A searing charge of jealousy ripped through her body as she thought about her sister upstairs, circulating like a frantic butterfly, basking in the glow of compliments. Cate was never the successful one, she thought angrily, raising her eyes to the ceiling where the sound of jazz could just be heard. Serena was the one who was supposed to be fêted and adored. And she was, she reminded herself – but it really didn’t feel like that right now.

She hugged her knees in tighter when she thought about the events of the last few days. She could get over her contract with Jolie Cosmetics not being renewed; it was a stupid, stuffy company, anyway: hardly Estée Lauder. But To Catch a Thief was bombing at the box office, not even making the top ten of releases in its opening weekend after the critics had slated it unanimously. ‘For Serena Balcon to take on the famous Grace Kelly role was not just ill advised, it was imbecilic,’ one particularly vicious review had pronounced. Her agent had delivered even more painful news. Ed Charles, the producer of Fin de Siècle had called him up at the weekend to say that they had decided to go with someone else for the role of Letitia DuPont. A smaller role in the production had not been mentioned; in fact, no part was offered at all.

‘It’s because I’m pregnant, isn’t it?’ she had screamed to her agent down the phone. ‘How dare they? How dare they? We have to leak this information everywhere, it’s just so unfair!’

Her agent pointed out that no contract for the role had ever been signed, that she was merely being considered. But that role had been hers, thought Serena, uselessly punching her fist against her shin. She knew her meeting with Ed Charles had gone well and that her screen test had had a very positive reaction in LA. It was Michael. Michael Sarkis had ruined her life.

The tears were coming out in huge sobs now, as she stroked her arms, like a mother trying to calm her child. For a second, her mind wandered to thoughts of Tom Archer. Four months’ distance had mellowed her feelings towards him. She thought back to a time last summer when they had been at the casino in Monte Carlo. Standing at the roulette table, her number immediately came up the moment Tom moved to her side. ‘I’m your good luck charm,’ he had whispered in her ear. Maybe he was right, thinking about how everything had gone wrong since they’d split up. Maybe Tom Archer was her lucky charm.

She suddenly sat bolt upright and rubbed the tears from her face. This was no way to think, she told herself. She jumped to her feet and switched on the room sound system to drown out the noise of the party upstairs, then strode into the bathroom and splashed water onto her face, looking at herself in the mirror with a determined look. It was time to move forwards, not back.

‘What’s that scent you’re wearing tonight?’ asked Jonathon, sniffing the hollow of Venetia’s neck in a half-hearted fashion. She flinched slightly away from him. It was the same perfume as she always used but, having sprayed it on liberally to mask any trace of Jack Kidman or the hotel room, she had drawn attention to it.

‘Chanel Number Five. Same as ever,’ she smiled at him, not quite catching his eye. ‘You don’t usually notice.’

But Jonathon’s attention had already been distracted away from her.

‘I have to say she’s done quite well,’ he said, scanning the room critically.

‘Who?’

‘Cate. When she mentioned she was trying to raise money for a magazine, I didn’t think she had a cat in hell’s chance. I wouldn’t put a penny of my cash into it, of course. It’ll almost certainly go tits up by Christmas, but you have to commend her on this evening.’

‘Well, it’s a bloody good turnout if you ask me,’ replied Venetia defensively. ‘Oh look. There’s Diego. Let’s go and say hello.’

Diego de Bono, Venetia’s head of women’s-wear design was standing on the terrace in a pair of black sunglasses, even though the light was steadily darkening over the London skyline. Venetia looked at his whippet-thin frame and jet-black crop of hair and thought he looked like some French heroin addict.

‘Actually, I think I’ll go and get some drinks in,’ said Jonathon, steering himself away from the direction in which she was pulling them.

‘Don’t be silly. You’re a partner in the business. Come and say hello to the man who’s going to make the company more money.’

Venetia felt the resistance in his arm and pulled back, annoyed by yet another sign of casual disregard for her life, her day and her business. She shot him a furious glance and pulled on his arm again.

She greeted Diego with an embrace and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Diego. What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘I met a friend for dinner who insisted on taking me to a magazine party. I didn’t know it was your sister’s.’

‘We get around,’ laughed Venetia. ‘Diego. You’ve met my husband, haven’t you?’

The two men’s eyes locked. ‘Yes, I think so,’ smiled Diego at Jonathon. Venetia caught his gaze wandering around the room.

‘Anyway, good opportunity to work a room,’ Diego added with a languid smile. ‘The Times and Guardian fashion editors are both here, so I’m going to go and spread the word of Venetia Balcon.’

He nodded and left them while Venetia rounded on Jonathon.

‘You’re so bloody rude. I know designers aren’t quite your cup of tea, but there’s no need to look so patently bored.’

‘I just hate shop-talk,’ replied Jonathon. ‘Even if it is my shop.’ Venetia sighed and shook his hand away as he tried to take her by the arm.

‘I don’t know why we bother …

‘Darling, I’m sorry. Let me get you a champagne.’