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

‘Anyway,’ continued Cable delicately, ‘there was a proviso in the loan conditions that your home is at risk should you default on payments.’

‘Huntsford is in trust,’ said Oswald arrogantly, ‘we’re safe.’

‘Not exactly, no,’ said Cable slowly. ‘And I believe you have already defaulted on one payment?’

Oswald sighed loudly. ‘One payment, they’re not exactly going to put the noose around my neck quite yet, are they?’

Peter glanced at his wristwatch. He had been with Oswald for two hours and was keen to keep a lunch appointment with his new girlfriend. He leant forward and steepled his fingers.

‘Quite simply, Oswald, we need to increase the monies coming into the estate – and quickly, otherwise we’re in danger of being forced to reconsider our options.’ He paused. ‘Can you get any additional funds from your daughters? I believe they are quite successful?’

‘I am not taking any charity from anyone, least of all them,’ he replied loftily, clearly angered.

Cable decided to try another tack.

‘What we could do – and let me point out that this is what other estate owners in your position have done when they had debts to pay – is to lease Huntsford for a duration of say, fifty years. There are at least a dozen hotel and leisure companies that would kill to occupy such a magnificent property. They would lease it for commercial use – conferences, for example – and Huntsford would still officially belong to the Balcon estate. You could even live on the grounds in a separate cottage. In fact, only last week, we were approached by a representative of the Sarkis Group, a very large hotel conglomerate, and the figures they mentioned were really quite impressive.’

Oswald had gone quite pink. ‘Sarkis?’ he shouted. ‘Leasing Huntsford? How dare you even suggest these things as viable solutions?’

‘Well, we have to think of something,’ said Peter, flustered by the severity of Oswald’s reaction.

‘Quite right,’ said Oswald, picking up his case and standing. ‘And if you’re not prepared to think creatively, then it’s quite obvious that it’s down to me.’ He stormed out of the room without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.

37 (#ulink_10d83762-5c34-536a-98c1-0f39785ec041)

Cate gazed around the cocktail reception of the British Society of Magazine Awards, held every year at Park Lane’s Grosvenor House Hotel, and couldn’t help but wonder once again how she had managed to be up for a gong. Sand was such a tiny magazine compared to the industry players walking around the room; there were five hundred representatives from right across the spectrum, from Vogue to GQ via Golf World and Country Life. From issue one, sales of Sand had been surprisingly strong. A magazine packed with gorgeous clothes and exotic locations had struck a chord with the general public over a long hot summer, and the high-paying, high-end fashion and cosmetic advertising had just started trickling in. But editing and publishing her own magazine still felt something of a hobby, so to have been nominated for Launch Editor of the Year had stunned her. Looking around the reception, Cate felt slightly fraudulent and undeserving to be there, like a child who had wandered from the playpen to the grown-ups’ room and was about to get found out any second.

‘So, who do you know? Who are the big names here?’ asked Sand’s art director, Pete Miller, who looked awkward in a rented dinner suit and dirty trainers as he guzzled a buck’s fizz. Cate was grateful that, despite the huge cost of a table, Nick had insisted the whole team should come. She craned her neck to look at the sea of black tie and cocktail dresses. ‘A few people. And there are a few people I’d rather avoid, so if I give you a nudge, hide me.’

She wasn’t sure what was making her feel more nauseous: butterflies at the prospect of winning an award, or anxiety at the thought of bumping into William Walton. Although she had long recovered from her dismissal from Class magazine, which seemed another lifetime away, the recent fight with Serena had dredged up all her feelings of rejection, shame and inadequacy. She had spent the last three weeks throwing herself into work and long hours, trying to distract herself from the absolute pain of betrayal that Serena had inflicted. She had surprised herself by feeling nothing for David’s fecklessness. In fact he had been simple enough to jettison from her life, despite all the deliveries of expensive flowers. But Serena: that was a different matter. Cate still felt so fragile and bruised, she would rather have skipped the entire award ceremony in favour of another solitary night alone with a bottle of wine, where no one could touch her or hurt her.

Cate excused herself from Pete, who had begun a ham-fisted attempt to chat up Ruth the picture editor, and went to freshen up in the ladies’ room. She reapplied her lip-gloss and took a moment to check her reflection in the mirror. An emerald-green Matthew Williamson silk evening dress floated over her curves, her long hair was brushed over her shoulders, sweeps of blush made her cheekbones look high and round: at least she looked good. She went into a cubicle, locked the door and took a few deep breaths. Gradually she was aware of voices in the adjoining stall. ‘Apparently she is a shoo-in for the Launch Editor award,’ said the first voice, followed by the gentle snorting sound of white powder disappearing up a nostril.

Another voice responded tartly. ‘I mean, we would all win awards and prizes if Daddy bankrolled us with a magazine to play with, just because we’d been fired.’

Cate tipped down the toilet-seat lid and perched on the edge of the cold plastic, not daring to breathe and wishing that she could tap together the heels of her Jimmy Choo sandals and be whisked off home. The dinner had yet to start. Maybe she could slip out unnoticed and be home for eight. It wasn’t as if she was going to win anything anyway.

‘Someone looks miserable, considering she’s about to collect an award,’ smiled Nick Douglas, catching her coming out of the ladies’ room.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked, pasting on a smile. ‘You’re supposed to be here supporting me on the eve of victory.’

‘I’ve been checking out the table plan with Vicky and Marie.’

Cate felt a ridiculous stab of jealousy. Nick was perfectly entitled to socialize with members of the staff – even the prettiest members, she thought. She remembered the way all the Sand