Gold Diggers

Karin tailed off in surprise as Erin started speaking in fluent Russian.

‘It would be such a shame if you have to leave now,’ she said quietly in the Russian’s ear. ‘You are the most important woman here; without you we really don’t have a party.’

The woman looked bemused, then pleased to hear one of the organizers speaking to her in her mother tongue.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ coaxed Erin. ‘We have another outfit backstage and you will look fabulous. Look, nobody has seen what’s happened. Everybody is watching the show.’

She led the blonde, who had now introduced herself as Irina Engelov, backstage, leaving Karin looking completely dumbfounded.

Shit, shit shit, thought Erin, desperately looking round at the racks of bikinis. Of course there were no spare outfits – it was a bloody swimwear show! She could hardly send Irina back out in a hot pink swimsuit. She spotted Madeline talking to a group of models.

‘Quick, Maddie, you’ve got to take off your dress,’ said Erin urgently.

‘What?’ said Madeline. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment, Erin. The show’s still on.’

‘Do as I say and I’ll explain later,’ pleaded Erin, handing Madeline a towelling robe.

Madeline looked at Erin, and, seeing the desperation in her eyes, quickly nodded.

‘Okay, but I’d better bloody see it again,’ she grumbled, wriggling out of the blue dress. ‘It’s Lanvin, you know.’

‘Maddie, you’ve just saved the day,’ said Erin, grabbing the dress.

She squirted it with some perfume she found on a dressing table and slipped it onto a coat hanger, then sprinted around to where Irina was waiting.

‘Size eight, this season, you’ll look amazing!’ said Erin in Russian, breathing a sigh of relief as Irina pulled on the dress. Irina looked down at herself, simply nodded and walked back to her table as if nothing had happened.

Erin grabbed a glass of champagne and drank it in one.

Molly had gate-crashing down to a fine art. She instructed their taxi driver to drop her and Summer behind a long row of Bentleys and Aston Martins a hundred metres away from the entrance of Strawberry Hill House, then let the car vanish into the cold night before they began to walk down the drive. Their breath made white clouds in the dark air, and Molly’s exposed skin prickled in goosebumps, but she had learned years ago to dispense with a coat for a night on the tiles; acres of visible flesh for popping paparazzi were worth far more than keeping warm. She glanced at Summer who looked like some sexed-up Little Red Riding Hood in a white woollen cape floating over a long, deep burgundy dress, her creamy round breasts spilling over its corset. For so many years, Summer had seemed like baggage. Having a daughter aged her, so from a young age Molly had urged her daughter to call her by her name rather than ‘mother’ so that people wouldn’t suspect she was her child. But ever since Summer had blossomed into such a gorgeous young woman, she had become a definite asset. She could take her daughter to any party in town and men would be buzzing around them like wasps at a picnic. But Summer was more than bait to attract the big fish. Since Japan, she had a new confidence, a new glow that could potentially catch her a really big prize, maybe even a prince – and if she did, that would open doors for Molly. Because where there’s a prince, there’s gotta be a king, she thought with a sly smile.

‘We do have tickets, don’t we?’ asked Summer, feeling nervous as she saw the two burly bouncers at the door.

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ smiled Molly, adjusting her dress to show a little more cleavage. Not having a ticket had never presented a problem to Molly in twenty-five years of partying. A confident swagger and a generous flash of skin counted far more than any bit of embossed card.

‘Time to come back inside,’ smiled Molly to the older guard, stroking his lapel as if it was made out of the softest silk. ‘I just needed to step outside for a moment.’

And they were in, gliding across the threshold without so much as a grunt. Molly still frowned, however. She had been expecting to be met by a swell of people milling around the communal areas, but there was quiet all around the entrance hall, just a few black-tied waiters clearing glasses in the flickering candlelight.

‘Mum, I think people are still eating,’ hissed Summer. ‘What do we do now?’

A little annoyed at having misjudged the time that dinner was to finish, Molly grabbed her daughter’s hand and pulled her towards the large French double doors that led to the main hall.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘we’ll slip in at the back and find a seat.’ Summer stood hovering at the door, cursing her mother for getting her into yet another embarrassing situation. She knew everyone at the dinner tables would be with their friends and that interlopers would be spotted immediately.

‘Come on, I think the auction is about to begin,’ hissed Molly, scanning the tables for empty spaces. They crept to the back of the room until they found two seats. Table eighty-three. The eight other faces at the table turned to look at them with quizzical expressions. Molly turned to the gentleman on her right. He was portly, around sixty with a ruddy complexion and a sweep of white hair pulled over like a 1940s comedian.

‘I hope you don’t mind us taking a pew for a moment,’ she said softly, flashing her cover-girl smile. ‘We’re with the charity. We’ve been rushed off our feet backstage and wanted to pop out and see the auction – do you mind?’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ the man blustered. ‘You must be parched,’ he added, reaching for a bottle of red.

Molly took a sip of the fruity wine and smirked at her daughter.

Summer looked up as applause rippled down the room. Tom Archer, Britain’s sexiest Oscar-winning actor, was walking to a podium that had been set up at the end of the catwalk.

‘The theme of tonight is compassion,’ said Tom, when the cheering had died down. ‘Not partying or dinner or catching up with old friends, or even the wine, although I must say it is rather splendid.’ The crowd chuckled appreciatively as he lifted his glass. Behind the actor, images of climate change flickered onto huge projection screens: melting glaciers, incinerated rainforest, chimneys pumping out black smoke. Molly used the moment to glance around the room. She recognized a least a quarter of the faces. There was the Cipriani crowd, the White Cube crowd, the San Lorenzo crowd, the Russians, the WAGS; it was an impressive turn-out – not even the Serpentine Gallery party had this sort of pull. How the hell had that cow Karin Cavendish managed it?

Tom Archer kicked off the auction with the first lot – a week on Necker Island, with the bids beginning at £25,000. It quickly climbed to £50,000, then £100,000.

‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Tom Archer, his hands stretched into the air. ‘It’s gorgeous out there!’

Molly knew how gorgeous Necker Island was. She had been five years ago, in with a group of friends who were staying as guests of Gunter Strauss, a wealthy German industrialist she had met in Annabel’s. She had fucked him on a pedalo while his wife had been playing tennis. She remembered his greedy lips kissing her inner thigh as the Caribbean sun had burnt down on her bare breasts. He had told her she had the best body he had ever seen as his fingers touched every inch of her hot flesh. As she remembered, Molly’s hand stretched up unconsciously to stroke her neck. But that was fine for a bit of fun and a free holiday when you were young and carefree, she thought, looking around at the tables. But what happens when you get older?

She looked at all the men sitting at the tables with their wives – wives not mistresses. These were women who had passed the finishing line, women who had closed the deal. No wonder they all sat there with self-satisfied smiles as they sipped their wine, flaunted their diamonds and discussed which villa to visit that summer. The younger wives were the worst. The old birds might have more jewels, but the smiles on the young ones were brighter, smarter. They knew that the law was now on their side and if their husband fucked the secretary, they could slam him for half his assets and move on to the next poor sap while their breasts were still pert. Molly looked down and sighed. At forty-three, she was determined not to stay single for a moment longer, especially with men like Adam Gold in the room.

Tom Archer had now auctioned off a week in the Goldsmiths’ Mexican retreat, a fortnight at Michael Sarkis’s de luxe Mustique home and a weekend in Tuscany for a private yoga session with Sting.

‘Okay, now we’ve got rid of all you flash bastards who have just come to book another holiday,’ said Tom to laughter. ‘It’s time to dig deep for some real charity.’ A montage of medical equipment, ambulances and water pumps flashed up on the screen behind him, and the auction sprang to life. The bidding was so frantic, the room sounded like a trading floor on Wall Street. ‘I do prefer the charitable lots to those holidays in exotic places. Less vulgar,’ whispered an elderly neighbour who had been introduced to Molly as Judith Portman, wife of a retired Lazard’s banker.

‘Totally agree,’ smiled Molly. ‘Why buy a fortnight at Michael Sarkis’s house when, if you know him, you can go there for free?’

Summer saw the old lady’s face cloud and quickly jumped in. ‘She’s joking, of course. Obviously charity is our life – and those ambulances really do save lives.’

A loud cheer went up.

‘Two Red Cross ambulances sold to Adam Gold for a hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds!’ said Tom, bringing down the gavel. ‘Thank you very, very much.’

Molly’s ears pricked up and she craned her neck to scan the crowd. There he was, sitting near the catwalk. Even from a distance, Molly could see the broad shoulders, his handsome square jaw dipped modestly as he accepted Tom Archer’s praise. Her gaze flicked to the woman besides him. Karin Cavendish. Damn her.

‘Next we have five hundred acres of rainforest in Mozambique,’ said Tom Archer.

‘Where shall we start …? Ah, our first bid of five thousand from our cautious hostess, Karin Cavendish. Any advance on five?’

‘Oh, I want this,’ said Judith, waving her pink hand in the air.

‘Do I see six thousand at the back?’ said Tom, ‘Yes, six it is!’

Adam Gold looked over and smiled at the old woman as Karin countered the bid. Just then, Molly’s finger soared skywards.

‘Molly! What the hell are you doing?’ hissed Summer, nudging her mother sharply.

‘Getting Adam Gold’s attention,’ whispered Molly.

‘Ah, and I see lovely Molly Sinclair has bid eight thousand pounds for this glorious stretch of rainforest. Well done, Molly!’ announced Tom, as the heads of the audience swivelled towards Molly, who quickly lowered a strap of her dress to show off a little more curve. For a second Molly bathed in the glory, knowing every man’s eyes were on her plunging neckline. Adam Gold smiled at Molly from across the ballroom and Molly’s eyes locked with Karin’s.

‘Any advance on eight thousand?’

To Summer’s relief, Judith Portman’s hand stretched in the air. ‘Nine thousand pounds from the lady next to Molly,’ said Tom. ‘I see we’ve got a little duel going over this fine lot. Excellent stuff, ladies.’