Читать книгу Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 24

‘I could have bought half the shop!’ laughed Camilla, stepping onto the Belgravia pavement from the front door of Christian Louboutin.

‘You almost did,’ smiled Venetia, looking at her sister struggling with four large bags.

‘Well, it is my birthday,’ smiled Camilla, feeling slightly guilty at her splurge. Still, her American Express Black card, given out only to very special customers, could more than cope with a couple of thousand pounds spent on shoes. The girls took one last look at the beautiful high-heeled pumps laid out like precious jewels in the window and started the slow amble through Belgravia. ‘I’ve made a lunch reservation for one-thirty at San Lorenzo,’ said Venetia, turning up the collar on her Fendi jacket. ‘What do you want to do until then? Harvey Nicks? We could even go back to mine for a coffee?’

Camilla shook her head.

‘Oh, sorry, Van. I’d have loved to have stayed out a bit longer but Nat wants me back at the flat for twelve-thirty. He says it’s a surprise.’

‘Has he got you anything for your birthday yet?’ asked Venetia, slipping an arm through her sister’s.

‘Not yet,’ replied Camilla, ‘but I assume that’s my surprise.’

Thirty. Ever since she was a teenager, Camilla had been dreading slipping into old age. Except now that the big three-oh had arrived, it didn’t really feel like that at all. Being thirty definitely suited her – and where she was heading. Parliament. She got goose-bumps and butterflies just thinking about it.

‘It’s twelve already. Does that mean we’ve got to say goodbye?’ asked Venetia in mock horror.

Camilla nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. Thank you for my birthday shop, and my lovely, lovely present,’ she smiled, holding up a cream Jo Malone bag festooned with black ribbons. ‘I think I’d better jump in a cab before I collapse under the weight of my shopping.’

Venetia was sad to see her sister go. Although they lived within a few miles of each other, Camilla worked such long hours she was lucky to see her twice a month.

The sisters embraced and a taxi pulled to the kerb to pick up the beautiful blonde girl with the armfuls of shopping. ‘Glebe Place,’ she said before sliding back into the seat. She watched the expensive stuccoed streets of Belgravia slip by and wondered what her big surprise could be.

One of the most beautiful apartments on one of London’s most prestigious streets, everybody who had seen Camilla’s fabulous four-bedroomed duplex flat assumed the interiors were the product of Venetia Balcon’s renowned design talents. In fact, Camilla had taken great delight in turning down Venetia’s offer to revamp the place when she had bought it, and, ever the control freak, had instead set about doing the work herself. She’d chosen every carpet, fabric and curtain, supervising every major structural improvement and even making innovative suggestions to Tom Barrett, the architect, who had been so impressed by her design savvy that he’d nearly offered her a job.

Camilla clearly had a hidden gift because the apartment was stunning. The walls were chalky white and lined with Diane Arbus prints. The carpets were so thick and soft that they were like a sheet of sheared mink, and the Far Eastern feel of the furniture, in shades of dark teak and cherry, somehow worked alongside the very modern pink neon heart ‘art piece’ and the big stack of photography books on the huge Perspex coffee table. French windows book-ended the apartment, with the back doors stretching out onto a balcony littered with terracotta boxes of flowers and hedgerow. Only a stack of legal files bound in red twine on the big walnut desk hinted that the house belonged to a barrister and not a designer.

Camilla walked into the reception room to find Nat Montague standing in the middle of the cream carpet, a grey cashmere jumper straining over wide shoulders, a crop of nutmeg hair falling mischievously onto his face. She noticed that his navy-blue eyes were sparkling and that he was standing next to a pile of tan leather suitcases.

‘You’re five minutes early,’ he smiled, picking up one of the cases.

Camilla trotted over to her boyfriend and kissed him urgently. ‘Oh Nat, I hate waiting for surprises,’ she pouted. ‘Tell me what it is! What’s with all the luggage?’

‘Your surprise,’ said Nat, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her bottom lip gently. He slid his warm hand down the back of her jeans to stroke the base of her spine and the top of her buttocks.

She pulled away, giggling. ‘Nat …’

He shrugged, disappointed. He would have liked nothing better right now than to peel her clothes off, take her up to the emperor-sized bed and make love to her all afternoon. But, glancing over to the big antique clock on the fireplace, he realized there was not even time for a quickie on the Perspex coffee table.

‘Put your shoes and coat back on,’ he smirked mysteriously. ‘We’re off out.’

Camilla looked puzzled. There was a very cautious part of her that really didn’t like surprises. ‘But Cate is coming round at three …’

‘I’ve cancelled her,’ said Nat with a smug look.

Camilla glanced at her desk, piled high with case files and yellow legal notepads and felt a rush of panic. ‘And I’ve got to do some work …’

She looked at the irritation on Nat’s face and gave a weak, worried smile. ‘OK, OK, let’s go.’

It was only when Nat’s grey Aston Martin turned up the Heathrow Airport approach ramp that Camilla realized they probably weren’t going out for dinner for her birthday. At least, not to any restaurant in England.

‘Now can you tell me where we’re going?’ whined Camilla, pulling at the sleeve of Nat’s jacket as they hurried to the Swiss Air check-in desk. Nat stopped at the counter, pulling out two airline tickets. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said. ‘We’re going to Megève for dinner.’

Camilla’s mind momentarily ran over all the work she had to get done for a case that began on Tuesday, but she quickly shook it off. She was going to Megève! She loved the French ski resort more than anywhere else on earth, and Camilla loved skiing almost as much as work. The Balcon girls had all been forced onto the slopes from toddling age. They used to go to Gstaad then, when Oswald would abandon them on the slopes while he disappeared into the exclusive Eagle Club. So now she had found a different winter resort to frequent. Megève was like Paris on the slopes: all chic Europeans, delicious food and laid-back rustic charm, without the St Moritz glitz she hated.

And of course it was just like Nat to whisk her off there for her birthday. He was prone to flamboyant gestures, and as a rich banker with family money he could afford them – especially when it was in the pursuit of pleasure. In the two years they had been courting, he and Camilla had exhausted not only the British social calendar but the international one as well. Countless weekends had been spent at the polo in Argentina, at the racing in Dubai or sailing in the Grenadines. On top of that, Nat had spent many more weekends with his friends partying around the jet-set circuit while Camilla was preparing for an important case on the Monday morning.

She watched him as he checked them in at the airport desk. She had to admit she’d had some fabulous times with him, but lately the hedonistic streak had been troubling her. She certainly hadn’t liked the profile of him in last month’s Tatler, which had labelled him as the English arm of the Eurotrash. But as he led her towards the executive lounge, she reminded herself that this was his birthday surprise and she tried to push any uncharitable thoughts to the back of her mind.

They arrived in Geneva at six p.m. A black four-by-four was waiting to drive them the seventy kilometres to the village. As they wound higher and higher into the mountains, they watched the architecture change from charmless concrete blocks to wooden chalets, with long icicles dripping from their eaves. As they turned into Megève, its quaint streets smudged with snow, Camilla pressed her nose against the window to watch the skiers in their bulky padded suits head to cafés for vin chaud and fondue after a hard day on the slopes.

Their driver turned off the main route, just before the village centre became pedestrianized, and drove up a small road that took them sharply up the mountain, stopping a few hundred metres above the village at a beautiful chalet. Its front was guarded by a thick row of hedges where clumps of snow hung in the branches like giant frozen magnolia buds, while a thousand fairy lights dripped off its carved balcony.

‘We’ve arrived,’ said Nat happily, while he waited for the driver to open the car door.

‘This is so lovely,’ said Camilla. An old, flustered-looking woman in a grey apron came out of the chalet, a glow of golden light escaping behind her.

‘Bonsoir, bonsoir!’ she called, removing her apron to greet them. Nat ignored her welcome, instead motioning towards the car boot, watching impatiently as the woman struggled in with their three large cases and Nat’s set of skis.

‘Merci,’ smiled Camilla awkwardly, flashing an embarrassed look at Nat as he pulled her inside the chalet.

‘Wow, Nat,’ sighed Camilla, pulling off her parka and taking in the chalet’s interior. It really was exquisite. Like a Hollywood fantasy of a ski-lodge, it was filled with wide brown sofas and fur rugs, leather cushions and cashmere throws. Chocolate-brown velvet drapes hung at the windows, scented candles lined the windowsills, a stag’s head hung above a stone fireplace complete with crackling fire. There was a sauna, a heated boot-rack, and a games room with a gigantic plasma screen. Even Camilla was impressed.

‘Come and see this,’ said Nat, leading her to the back of the chalet where doors opened out onto a patio, a black mosaic Jacuzzi already steaming and bubbling.

‘What’s that?’ laughed Camilla, feeling chilly at the thought of it.

‘For later,’ said Nat with a lazy smile.

All thoughts of work and the case files sitting on her desk at home had dissolved.

‘Want to get ready for dinner?’ asked Nat, pointing in the direction of the staircase. ‘I’ll join you in a sec.’

She nodded and went upstairs into the bedroom. It had an incredible view of the whole of Megève village, which twinkled in front of her in the blue-grey light, while the mountain made shadowy, ominous shapes behind it. It was all so wonderful, yet still Camilla felt unaccountably on edge.

Relax, woman. Enjoy yourself, she scolded herself. This is wonderful. Can’t you let yourself be happy?

She sat down on the edge of the bed and went over it in her mind once again. At least once a week for the past few months, Camilla had been asking herself what she was really doing with Nat. Conscientious, cautious Camilla Balcon and rakish, man-about-town Nat Montague. It just didn’t add up. Being far too busy working through her twenties, she had only had two real boyfriends before Nat: Jeremy Davies and Crispin Hamilton. Both Jeremy and Crispin had been barristers – dry, hard-working, more interested in their caseloads than in Camilla. So when she had met Nat at the Serpentine summer party, he’d been like a firework going off in her hand. The sex was incredible. Lovemaking with Jeremy and Crispin had been like watching paint dry compared to the passion that Nat had unleashed in her. She had never had a single orgasm before she’d met him – now she knew precisely what all the fuss was about. Then there were the exotic holidays, the mad parties and the extravagant gestures that made her feel wanted and loved. But somehow, Nat just didn’t make her feel … oh! She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

Swearing to herself, she unzipped her leather holdall, wondering what on earth Nat had packed for her. She pulled the clothes out quickly, holding each item aloft like a child rummaging through a goody bag. Two sets of her most sexy sheer underwear: you could tell a man had packed this, she smiled. Her ski suit, some socks, a couple of thick cashmere jumpers, her favourite black backless Dior cocktail dress, some five-inch satin heels and – what was this? she wondered, pulling out a tiny pair of black mesh crotchless panties. She didn’t recognize those.

After she had taken a quick shower, she pulled on her cocktail dress and blow-dried her hair until it fell in a golden sheath onto her shoulders. Not usually one to wear much make-up, she rubbed some rouge tint onto her cheeks and dabbed some peach gloss onto her full lips. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she worried that she looked too formal for just a dinner in a chalet, even if it was her birthday. Her concern was interrupted by the sound of the housekeeper’s old Peugeot 205 gunning to life and then fading away into the distance.

‘All alone at last,’ called Nat from the bottom of the stairs. She came down to meet him; he handed her a glass of Chateau Margaux and led her to the table by the long windows. It was set for two people with crystal glasses, linen napkins and white bone-china crockery, all shining in the saffron glow of candlelight.

‘I never knew you could be so romantic,’ said Camilla, only half joking, as she sat down. Their previous romantic nights had often been interrupted by at least six of Nat’s society friends turning up ‘unexpectedly’.

‘I aim to please,’ said Nat, going into the kitchen to fetch a casserole pot and two dishes of steaming vegetables.

‘I feel like a bloody waiter,’ he grumbled as he placed the food on the table, pushing away a lock of brown hair that had flopped over his face. ‘Still, I didn’t want that housekeeper hanging around too long,’ he said, pulling a bottle of Krug from out of a snow-filled ice bucket. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

They sat for a few minutes, eating in silence. ‘I love the pot-au-feu,’ said Camilla, scooping up some of the rich stew with a forkful of buttered carrots.

‘And I love you,’ said Nat quietly, his head bowed slightly over his glass.

Camilla’s fork froze in midair. In their eighteen months together, Nat had never once said ‘I love you’. He’d skirted round the words, usually when drunk and, if she was totally honest with herself, it had never been an issue. Camilla hated the sort of women who constantly sought reassurance with declarations of love from their partners. She herself had never wanted to appear so weak, dependent or desperate.

She took a small breath, taken aback by his words. ‘You love me?’ she repeated, as if it was some kind of alien concept. She was smiling now, almost mocking him, but Nat ploughed on with uncharacteristic fervour.

‘You’re so good for me,’ he said, putting down his knife and fork to look directly at her, the dimple in his chin becoming more pronounced. ‘My family loves you; my colleagues love you.’

He picked up the bottle of Krug and poured himself another glass, wiping his hand across his lip nervously.

‘I know I can be a bit crazy sometimes, but that’s the job and the pressure …’

Camilla started to play with a chunk of meat nervously.

‘But you calm me down. You make me want to settle down. I’m thirty-four, for Chrissake. I can’t go running around like some ageing playboy for ever.’

Now it was Camilla’s turn to take a huge glug of wine as her female intuition told her this conversation was going somewhere she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted it to go.

‘Do you know why I brought you here?’ asked Nat, fixing his gaze on hers through the candlelight.

‘Fondue? A few black runs?’ replied Camilla, laughing nervously.

‘Marry me,’ he said matter-of-factly.

A thick silence rang around the room. Camilla felt her breathing become deep and uneven. She was used to thinking on her feet, arguing, debating on the hoof in court. But at this second she was utterly lost for words. She felt a little nausea in the pit of her belly.

‘Marry you?’ she said with a small smile, stalling for time.

Nat got up and came over to her. He didn’t quite drop to one knee but perched on the edge of the chair and pulled out a claret-coloured Garrard box from his pocket. He flipped it open to reveal an enormous marquise-cut pink diamond that twinkled yellow and lilac in the soft light.

‘We’re good together,’ he said.

She looked at him.

Was he being sincere? Did he really love her? She grimaced. What was love anyway?

But Nathaniel Montague was a good catch, she thought, composing herself.

Or was he? He was wild and careless, but he was rich, successful, important.

Her father liked him. Not that that mattered, she reasoned, immediately putting the thought out of her mind. And being with Nat got her noticed. It wasn’t just Serena who desired the eyes of the crowd on her. She just didn’t know, she agonized, digging her fingers into her thighs.

Nat picked up her left hand and, placing it on the knee of his jeans, pulled the ring out of its box and slid it onto the third finger of her left hand.

‘Does it feel good?’ he asked softly, lulling her with his voice.

She nodded. It did feel good. Heavy and secure.

Nat pulled her to her feet, taking her in his arms and running his hands down her bare back. God, he was sexy.

‘Say yes,’ he whispered into her ear.

‘Yes,’ she responded suddenly, willing herself to relax and be taken by the moment.

‘You’ve made my day,’ he murmured into her neck, pushing the fabric of her dress off her shoulder with a deft movement of his chin.

‘Are you wearing my present?’ he breathed, moving his hand down towards the cleft of her ass. For one moment, Camilla wondered what he could mean, then, remembering the crotchless panties, she started to smile, a rush of power shooting through her like a drug.

‘Actually no,’ she said but, feeling suddenly brave and sexy, she looked at him seductively. ‘Would you like me to?’

Nat took her by the hand and led her up the stairs. The bedroom was in soft darkness, lit only by the moon in a black sky.

‘Put them on,’ said Nat, pointing to the skimpy underwear lying on the bed.

He sat back in a biscuit leather armchair in the corner of the room and watched as Camilla slowly peeled off her dress. She turned around, slipped her La Perla thong down her long legs and stepped into the crotchless knickers.

‘Keep the shoes on,’ drawled Nat, his eyes fixed on her glowing body, shining like a beautiful marble statue in the moonlight.

She slipped the five-inch Jimmy Choo heels back on and stood facing him, on the one hand feeling a little awkward about the sheer sexiness of what she was doing, on the other hand feeling a powerful sense of womanliness as she could see Nat getting visibly aroused.

‘Stand up,’ she purred, holding out her hand.

Nat stood slowly, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. Camilla pulled at his belt and popped opened his Levis, pulling them down along with his boxer shorts. Standing naked together, the same height in her towering heels, Nat took two fingers and pushed them between her legs, quickly finding the gaping hole in the mesh fabric and stroking her slowly there. Camilla groaned and arched her back. As she did so, Nat took one nipple between his lips, biting on it gently. Clasped tightly against each other, they moved towards the fireplace, Camilla taking small, backwards steps as she breathed in his ear, ‘Now, please. Take me.’

Their bodies glowed in the flames from the fireplace. He lowered her onto the fur rug, kissing her all over her face, then slowly moving his mouth down her body, gripping the elastic waistband of her panties with his teeth and pulling them down with one sharp tug. Uncovering her small, tidy pubic growth, he burrowed his face into it, probing his tongue in and out of her and bringing moans of pleasure.

‘Now, please,’ begged Camilla as his hips hovered over her, his throbbing cock waiting to penetrate her. He slid himself slowly into her, lifting her back off the sheepskin so the two rocked together, each thrust going deeper and deeper until she saw his face crease in pleasure and felt his body spasm in release. ‘Fucking incredible,’ he breathed, rolling off Camilla onto the fur rug. Camilla was naked except for the huge diamond. She couldn’t stop smiling as she looked at it twinkling in the firelight.

‘Eight carats,’ he nodded, stroking the ring. ‘Do you know how expensive these pink diamonds are?’ he said, looking up at her to impress the point.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘And it’s going to be a big, beautiful year for the two of us.’

Suddenly Camilla felt the cold and pulled a cashmere throw around her to cover her body.

‘A big year in more ways than one,’ said Camilla, snuggling closer to Nat. ‘I haven’t told you yet, but I’ve got the Tory candidate Selection Weekend next month. You know, the thing I was telling you about? I have to go to it to get on the Central Office approved list.’

Nat turned to face her, propping his head up with his elbow.

‘Baby, you’re not still banging on about that MP nonsense again, are you?’ he said with irritation. ‘Look, sod Parliament and a crappy little salary and eighteen-hour days. This year you’re going to be my wife.’

He stood up and moved over to a big armchair, his flaccid cock flopping onto the leather.

‘I fancy maybe a September wedding,’ he continued, reaching for the glass of wine he had brought upstairs. ‘Of course, that rules out half of the good long-haul destinations for a honeymoon. Pisses it down in the Caribbean around then. But how about a month-long tour around South America? Rio. Peru. Argentina. Maybe we can even take in Mexico.’

Camilla looked at him, unconsciously pulling the cashmere throw more tightly around her body.

‘Nat, this is important to me,’ she said.

‘Darling … it’s silly.’

‘Silly?’ she felt herself bristle. ‘The things I want to do, my ambitions, they’re not silly.’

He sipped his wine and laughed gently at her.

‘Come on. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

With his toe he lifted up the crotchless thong, discarded on the white rug, and flipped it at her. ‘Anyway, fuck all that. We’ll talk about it later. Why don’t you phone home? Give Venetia a ring. Old mother hen will love this bit of happy news.’

Nat sat back naked in the armchair, downing another glass of wine and Krug he had brought upstairs as if they were lemonade. She looked down at the pink dazzling ring and suddenly it felt like a vice. Before she could think further, she was startled by the sound of a loud horn beeping right outside the front door of the chalet.

‘What the hell …?’ she said, pulling the cashmere blanket even tighter.

Nat sprang up from the chair and looked at his watch, pulling on a towelling robe as he did so. ‘Fuck. Is it nine o’clock already?’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Camilla, watching him run downstairs.

Nat stumbled with his words. ‘Er, JJ and Rich, Ant and a few others are in town. I said we might go out to celebrate.’

‘What?’ yelled Camilla. She stood up and wrapped the blanket around her like a toga, following him. ‘I’m not going anywhere! Not tonight of all nights! Nat, what are you thinking?’

There was a loud rattling of several hands on the front door.

‘Come out, come out wherever you are,’ sang a loud, drunken voice.

‘They are not coming in,’ spat Camilla, feeling the romance drain from the evening with every knock on the door.

‘Jesus, Cammy, lighten up!’ said Nat. ‘I found out this afternoon they were in town. There’s a party going on at JJ’s chalet. What was I supposed to say when they rang up? Anyway,’ he smiled, trying to wrap his arms around her, ‘I knew we’d be celebrating …’

‘You can never leave it alone, can you?’ she hissed, pushing him away and catching a glimpse of him reflected in the window. Half naked, his glass tipped at an angle, he looked like a more glamorous version of the Dudley Moore character in Arthur: a rich, pampered buffoon.

‘What can’t I leave alone?’ asked Nat, in a soothing, placating voice.

‘The friends, the parties. Even on the night you bloody propose.’

Nat shook his head and flashed her a patronizing look as he reached for the door. ‘Baby, you know you love me!’

Camilla ran back upstairs into the bedroom and Nat opened the door to let in five raucously drunk Sloaney men. As she sat in the dark listening to their bellowing voices, she knew in an instant that she was not going to marry him. She was Camilla Balcon, destined for Parliament, and she would let nothing and no one get in the way of her ambition.