Gold Diggers

‘Someone called for you while you were out,’ said Jilly, waving an oven glove towards the phone. She was removing a thick crusted pie from the oven, which she placed on the gingham tablecloth.

‘Who was it?’ asked Erin, picking up a Post-it note scrawled with illegible writing. ‘Richard?’ Her relationship with her boyfriend at university was still limping along, even though Erin was now back in Cornwall and Richard was based in London.

‘No, lovey,’ smiled Jilly sympathetically. ‘Katherine someone from an agency, I think?’

Erin felt a rush of excitement. ‘The Deskhop Agency?’

‘That’s the one,’ nodded Jilly. ‘Who are they, then?’

‘It’s a secretarial agency in London,’ said Erin slowly.

‘Secretarial work?’ said Jilly, raising one eyebrow. ‘What about the book?’

‘Gran …’ she replied, hoping not to sound too exasperated, ‘the Deskhop Agency acts for all sorts of media and publishing companies. I thought I might be able to get in through the back door. But don’t worry, it probably won’t come to anything.’

Her grandmother smiled kindly and put her oven gloves down. ‘Erin, don’t you dare go worrying about me. You have a talent, and a talent should take you places, not leave you stranded in a cold little backwater with a pensioner and her stodgy cooking.’

‘But I love the village and I love your cooking!’ protested Erin.

‘I know you do, love,’ said Jilly, running her hand up and down Erin’s arm, ‘but you’re climbing the walls. It’s about time you got out and had some fun while you’re young.’

‘I don’t have enough money to move to London.’

‘You know you do,’ said Jilly.

‘But I can’t use that …’

Erin thought about the nest egg sitting in the bank. Her father had died almost bankrupt, but over the years he had squirrelled away money for his daughter, which had added up to a tidy sum. Erin had never touched it, keeping it for ‘something important’.

‘Maybe it’s time to use it, lovey. Your mum would have wanted you to.’

Erin looked at her grandmother’s deep blue eyes and knew she loved her more than ever. But she also knew she was right.

‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ said Erin, wondering how much of Jilly’s rice pudding she would have to eat before she could slip off and make the phone call.

‘Ah, Erin Devereux. Good of you to call back. I tried your mobile but I’m not sure it’s working.’ Catherine Weiner’s voice was brash and over-friendly. It had been so long since Erin had been up to London for her agency interview, but she remembered how scarily efficient the woman was.

‘Then I tried this number on your CV. Didn’t recognize the dialling code. Where are you? Surrey?’

‘Er, Cornwall,’ said Erin, putting on her best telephone manner.

‘Cornwall,’ replied Catherine, surprised. ‘You’ve not moved down there, have you?’

‘Just staying with friends while my new London flat completes,’ Erin quickly lied. ‘Solicitor tells me it’ll be Friday. Then I’m on the first train back to London.’

‘Well, that’s good news,’ said Catherine, briskly. ‘Because Cornwall is hardly commutable and I think I’ve got a job for you.’

Erin’s interest was piqued. ‘Oh yes?’

‘I see from the notes I took at your interview that you were looking for secretarial cover at a publishing company. Well, this is not that, but it should be lively work for a girl your age.’

‘So what is it?’

‘Events management. It’s a three-week job. The client, a very glamorous lady-about-town needs help staging a benefit dinner. Sending out tickets, lots of admin, lots of running around. She wanted someone bright, organized, presentable. Doesn’t need particularly sharp typing skills, which is why I thought of you. Starts ASAP, mind you. She wants to interview tomorrow. Lots of my girls are committed to long-term contracts, but I thought you might be free …’

Charming, thought Erin.

‘So I have to come up to London for an interview?’ said Erin, thinking about the cost of a train ticket.

‘Erin,’ said Catherine, her voice sharp and reprimanding. ‘This is what’s known as a very sexy gig. Now, are you in or out?’

Erin looked out of the window at the grey emptiness There was no denying it was beautiful here; it even smelt wonderful, with the tang of the sea air mingling with the scent of the wild flowers on the cliffs and the oily trawlers in the harbour. She knew that when she was her grandmother’s age there would be no better place in the world in which to live, but, right now, aged twenty-four, life seemed to be on pause. Cornwall was so cut-off, so disconnected from the rest of the world, she had to get to London to wake herself up. To connect with society. To connect with people.

‘Count me in. I’ll be on the first train tomorrow.’

3 (#ulink_68b079c9-8074-5a59-b3d0-4f0037250de8)

‘Last shot and then that’s it for the day,’ shouted Sally Stevenson, art director of Your Wedding magazine, adjusting the tiara on Summer Sinclair’s head and smoothing down the undulating layers of the Vera Wang gown. Summer groaned with relief. She could see it was already pitch-black outside the French windows of the location house, and she was dying to get home and soak her feet. All day she had wriggled in and out of white meringues and slinky ivory columns, her hair had been pinned up and blow-dried down and she had run through every expression from poetic wistfulness to carefree laughter. In short, she’d spent the day being trussed up like a toilet doily and she was exhausted. Still, at least some of today had been fun, thought Summer, glancing at Charlie McDonald, the male model who had been playing the dashing groom to her blushing bride. Charlie had made her giggle all day long, doing impressions of Stefan the surly Swedish photographer, and chasing the three tiny bridesmaids around the studio creating pandemonium. He was good looking, too, in a preppy, Ralph Lauren kind of way, she thought. Although not my type at all, she corrected herself quickly. Summer tended to go for older men – rich, older men – something her mother had drilled into her since she was a girl.

‘He might be handsome,’ she could hear her mum saying, ‘but can a handsome man get you a private jet?’ No, Charlie was no more than her age, and the last time she had been out with a twenty-four-year-old she had been sixteen – and, even then, he’d been a banking heir.

‘Right now, I want something sexy, something romantic,’ said Stefan sternly. ‘Charlie, can you move to the side of the staircase?’ he directed. ‘And slip your arm around Summer’s waist.’

Charlie moved in close. Bloody hell, he was handsome. Narrow green eyes framed by sooty lashes, clear, lightly tanned skin, a mop of dark blond hair. Without the square jaw he would have been pretty, but the angles of his face toughened him up like a fifties film star. ‘Now, I want you to kiss her gently on the lips.’

Awkwardly, Summer turned her head, feeling her heart beat faster as his lips brushed hers. Charlie was so good looking it was hard to be completely professional, to dissociate desire like you were turning off a tap. It had been over a year since she’d had any sort of intimate contact: despite her looks, Summer rarely dated.

‘Come on, Summer. You’re supposed to have just married this guy!’ shouted Sally. ‘Don’t look at him as if you’re scared stiff.’

Summer forced a smile and moved closer to Charlie as Sally and her assistant began throwing silver and white balloons into the shot.

‘Come on, pretend that you love me,’ Charlie whispered with a soft smile. ‘Then we can all go home.’

The highly strung photographer threw his hands up in the air in frustration. ‘These British!’ he moaned. ‘They are so uptight!’

Sally Stevenson rushed in, clapping her hands. ‘Okay, thank you everyone, that was great,’ she said, lifting her hands above her head for the traditional end-of-shoot applause.

‘So, who wants to come for a drink?’ she asked, looking hopefully at Charlie, who she had booked specially because she fancied him.

‘Don’t mind if I do …’ he said, not taking his eyes off Summer as he spoke.

Summer went into the bathroom to take the thick foundation off her face. She scrambled out of the creamy meringue. Bloody wedding shoots, she thought, staring into the mirror. Then again, she wasn’t exactly Kate Moss, was she?

Come on, Summer, get real and stop grumbling, she chided herself. A fashion shoot for Your Wedding wasn’t the edgy, ground-breaking high-fashion editorial she had dreamt of doing when she had first started modelling; but at least it was work, something she hadn’t had a great deal of since Christmas. At twenty-four, Summer knew that her modelling shelf-life was running out.

Charlie McDonald was waiting for her in the marbled hall, swatting at the balloons as the bridesmaids were bundled into thick duffle coats by their beaming parents.

‘Are you coming for that drink?’ asked Charlie, throwing his bag over his shoulder.