Читать книгу Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 29

Diego Bono rolled back exhausted onto the crumpled sheets, beads of sweat glistening on his firm, bronzed skin and looked across the room at his new lover. He never usually felt uncomfortable bringing the many conquests he picked up in the gay clubs of Soho back to his Camden apartment, but this one was something else. Elegant, sophisticated and obviously very, very wealthy. Now he was moving in more affluent circles, Diego was definitely going to have to sharpen up his act. He didn’t want anyone to think Diego Bono was just some handsome Spanish hustler on the make. Diego Bono was going places. He propped himself up on his goose-down pillows and lit a menthol cigarette. The silhouette of his partner moved towards the window to open the curtain, letting in a thin stream of late afternoon sun. Diego blew a smoke ring as he admired his companion’s taut white buttocks in the dusty light.

‘May I just say,’ announced Diego in his lightly accented European drawl, ‘you really do have the most amazing arse.’

Jonathon von Bismarck looked over to the bed and started to pull on his crumpled chinos. ‘Yes,’ he replied coolly, giving Diego a thin, arrogant smile, ‘I know.’

Venetia looked at Diego Bono’s sketches, which were strewn across her desk, and smiled. Gosh, this young designer straight out of the Royal College of Art was such a find, she beamed to herself. The designs were perfect for the Venetia Balcon line of women’s wear she was planning to launch in September: clean, casual lines with a hint of preppiness. Cotton jackets with nipped in waists, sheath dresses with slashed necklines and lightweight cashmere sweaters in candy colours. It all added up to a classic jet-set look, Britain’s answer to Michael Kors’ sexy New York chic – exactly the vibe she was after.

She pinned up a drawing on the wall and looked around the office, which was on the top floor of the four-storey Georgian house in Mayfair’s Bruton Street. The first two floors were retail space, selling fine textiles, beautiful crystal, bedding, curtains, soft furnishings and beautiful, handcrafted pieces she had sourced from France, the third floor was their bespoke interior design department and, while she dreamt of turning the fourth floor into the fashion floor, for the moment it was Venetia’s studio.

She sat back in her leather chair and took in the creative chaos with an affectionate look. Venetia Balcon Limited was becoming quite an empire, she thought happily. Swatches of Venetia Balcon fabrics covered the sofa at one end of the room, silver paint pots containing the new Venetia Balcon paint range were piled in another corner, and fine wallpaper, curtains and piles of bedding in soft deluxe fabrics were draped across the big oak table in the centre. But it was the clothing line she was most excited about. Along with Kelly Hoppen and Nina Campbell, Venetia was fast establishing herself as one of the country’s top interior designers. Ever since her days at Vogue, fashion had always been her passion. She admired the way Ralph Lauren and Jasper Conran had created a huge lifestyle empire out of a line of clothes. If they had gone from fashion to homeware, why couldn’t she do it the other way round? She knew the yummy-mummies and bored housewives from Chelsea to Clapham were desperate for a touch of the Venetia Balcon vision of life and she was more than willing to provide it for them. At a price, she smiled.

She took a swig of strong coffee and decided that she’d been working so hard, it wouldn’t hurt to clock off early for the afternoon. She casually flipped through her diary to check she was free. Damn! There was an appointment pencilled in. Jack Kidman? Who on earth was that? She picked up the phone to call her assistant, Leila.

‘Leila – Jack Kidman? Remind me who he is again. Apparently I’ve got a meeting with him in five minutes, but I’m due for a facial in an hour.’

‘You asked me to pencil in a meeting with him after Serena’s party,’ replied Leila anxiously. ‘Friend of one of the guests, I think.’

Venetia groaned. Now she remembered. Amanda Berryman, the PR who looked after Venetia Balcon homeware had asked her to meet one of her friends, some ex-advertising guy who had bought a house in Spain and was looking for an interior designer for the renovation project. She glanced at her watch. Why on earth had she agreed to see him? It wasn’t as though she particularly needed the business. Her diary was already fit to burst with international private and corporate clients, all eager for her style overhauls in their homes or offices. She had got to the stage where she would only personally look after a select handful of projects, farming the rest out to Caroline Rhodes, a young but talented interior stylist she had poached from Kelly Hoppen. And I think Caroline will be the one heading out to Jack Kidman’s holiday home, thought Venetia.

‘Leila?’ she asked, picking up the phone again. ‘Can you see if Caroline is available to take an appointment with me?’

‘’Fraid not, Venetia. She left about half an hour ago on appointments. And Jack Kidman has arrived. Shall I send him up?’

Cursing to herself, she glanced in the huge Venetian glass mirror on one side of the room and settled behind her desk, resigning herself to another grinding meeting. Admen. Cocky, arrogant, swaggering buggers, most of them. Didn’t know good taste if it slapped them in the face. She was certainly going to need that facial.

‘Venetia Balcon?’

A tall, handsome man in his early forties, with the louche, casual air of the very successful, strode into her office.

‘That’s me,’ she smiled, standing up and smoothing down her skirt unconsciously. For a second, she felt guilty sizing up her new client. His shoulders were broad, his salt-and-pepper hair offset by a smooth, tanned complexion and a pair of twinkling dark green eyes. Only a slightly off-centre nose – perhaps a sports injury? – tempered the good looks. She took another sip of coffee to distract herself.

Jack nodded to Venetia, but walked towards the French windows that went out onto the roof terrace.

‘Nice room,’ he said, ‘what a great place for a studio.’

He walked back in and shook her hand, his grip strong and firm, and sat down quickly, drumming his hand on his leg and taking in the space with darting eyes.

Venetia started smiling.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Jack, with a slightly puzzled expression.

‘This is an interior designer’s, not the dentist,’ she smiled.

Jack Kidman held up his hands and started laughing. ‘I know. I know. Just never done this whole interior design thing before,’ he smiled. ‘It’s a bit nerve-racking, sorry.’

‘OK, so why don’t we start at the beginning?’ said Venetia, rising. ‘Tell me why you’re here. Tea? Coffee?’

‘Espresso, if you have it,’ said Jack as Venetia moved to a jet-black Gaggia machine behind her desk. Jack watched her busy herself with the tiny cups and decided that the crisp, cool blonde in front of him was just the woman he was looking for.

‘Well, I have bought a finca just outside Seville,’ he began, clearing his throat. ‘I’m selling my business and the plan is to leave London, part time at first. After that, who knows? Might turn into my home, might not. Anyway, it’s a fantastic building. Old olive press with a few stables and outbuildings, twenty acres of land. Plum trees, apple trees, everything.’

He reached into a leather holdall he had left by the chair and took out a handful of large photographs, spreading them out on Venetia’s desk. They were interior and exterior shots of a crumbling stone building standing in the parched grounds of a neglected Spanish farm. The walls were white but faded, the brickwork exposed and frayed. The courtyard was a ruin except for huge patches of wild lavender. Still, Venetia nodded appreciatively, it had enormous potential. Bags of character, she thought, flipping through the photographs. I’d love a place like this, she mused, imagining the hot rays of Spanish sunshine burning down onto her bare skin … She coughed suddenly.

‘Um, very nice ceilings,’ she said, flushing slightly. ‘Beams in every room, lovely.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Jack, bringing his head closer to hers and pointing at the photographs. ‘Look at this wonderful turret, and that staircase,’ he said, trailing a finger over the prints.

‘Pretty run-down, though,’ said Venetia, turning towards him, unwilling to step too far away.

‘It is, but I have a Spanish architect and team of builders working on it now,’ said Jack. ‘Structurally it will be sound in a matter of weeks, so now I’m thinking about the interiors. I’ve never done a renovation project before.’ He paused with a smile, ‘You can probably tell.’

Venetia was excited despite herself. She knew she was looking at a long, expensive but fascinating job. She was sick to death of tarting up boutique hotels and chi-chi restaurants that closed down after a matter of months. This house was an organic beauty and she also knew that Jack Kidman had the money to do it justice. She had read in the Guardian Media section about the sale of Kidman Agency – the cutting-edge advertising agency that had ridden out the nineties’ recession to become one of the industry’s biggest players. Apparently Tempest Communication – the huge French media conglomerate – were rumoured to be buying it for £75 million.

She looked up and Jack’s dark, laughing eyes met hers. ‘Interested?’ he asked her, downing his espresso in a gulp that left him with a cute moustache of brown froth.

‘I just might be,’ said Venetia. ‘I just might be.’

Venetia rarely turned down the opportunity for a spa treatment at the Knightsbridge Mandarin Oriental, but after Jack Kidman had left her office she suddenly felt unsettled, an excited nervousness running round her body. The mood she was in, she couldn’t sit still for five minutes, let alone lie back for an hour having Decleor’s finest oils massaged into her face and skin. She picked up the phone, cancelled the appointment and her car, slipped off her Yves Saint Laurent slingbacks and pulled on a pair of soft Tod’s driving shoes, which resided permanently under her desk in case of emergencies like this.

Despite having the luxury of a driver, Venetia liked to walk home when she wanted to clear her thoughts. Leaving the office, she weaved through the back streets of Mayfair, past the casinos, the gentlemen’s clubs and society hairdressers, avoiding Mount Street where she would have had to walk dangerously close to the Balcon Gallery. Even though Oswald was rarely there, it wasn’t worth the risk; she certainly wasn’t in the mood to talk to him.

Hyde Park looked crisp and hazy in the late April afternoon. The grass was lush and punchy while a rash of bluebells lined the walkways, which were busy with joggers, Rollerbladers and nannies pushing pushchairs. It was surprisingly warm, and Venetia took off her jacket and let the light sun warm the sleeves of her shirt. Seeing a small crowd of children playing, she took a moment to sit on a bench and watch them. A little girl with red patent shoes chased another child, her pigtails bouncing up and down as she ran away laughing. A little boy began crying as his nanny took away an ice lolly that was melting down his anorak. Three slightly older children were comparing toys, each trying to impress the other. None of the well-groomed mothers standing nearby, Venetia noted, were watching the children, preferring to gossip with the other yummy-mummies. Why aren’t they paying attention to the children? thought Venetia sadly. What could be more interesting than watching them run and laugh? A tear ran down her cheek and she quickly wiped it away. So she’d had a great day, a juicy design project with a handsome owner had just appeared from nowhere. But Venetia knew that the reason she worked so hard was no burning desire to succeed like Camilla, but to escape from her day-to-day loneliness. In a heartbeat, she would gladly swap all the high-powered meetings and the wealthy private clients for one afternoon with a child – her child – playing in the park.

She walked briskly the rest of the way home. She was angry at herself for crying, angry with Jonathon for being so insensitive over her infertility, even angry at Jack Kidman for making her think she could get away from all this misery. Slamming the front door and running up the stairs, she was surprised to find Jonathon lying on the bed in his bathrobe. His hair was wet from the shower and he smelt of musky soap.

‘What are you doing back so early?’

‘I could ask the same about you,’ said Jonathon sharply, picking up on Venetia’s mood. ‘Aren’t you playing tennis this evening?’

‘It was the spa actually,’ said Venetia testily, ‘I didn’t feel like it.’ She pulled off her jacket and threw it on the chaise longue in the bedroom. ‘Anyway, you didn’t answer my question, what are you doing back so early?’ It wasn’t the first time she had caught him back at home when he should have been at the office and it was beginning to make her suspicious. Of what, she couldn’t pinpoint.

‘Am I not allowed to get home before eight now, is that it?’ barked Jonathon, getting up off the bed to walk into the dressing room, still rubbing at his hair with a towel. He tossed it carelessly on the floor and began flipping through a rail of clothes before selecting a pink Charvet shirt and a pair of dark beige chinos. ‘I had a dinner with a potential client who cancelled, if you must know.’ He stopped in front of the enormous Venetian glass mirror, examining a couple of stray nose hairs with distaste. ‘Anyway, we may as well take advantage of the reservation. Do you fancy Cipriani for some supper?’

Venetia sighed to herself, feeling the anger slowly subside. She walked up behind Jonathon and, resting her chin on the shoulder of the white towelling robe, she wrapped her arms around him and began to undo the belt. ‘I thought we could stay in,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘It’s a good time.’

‘A good time?’ said Jonathon, pulling away from her slightly, ‘for what?’

‘Well, I’m ripe,’ she responded a little awkwardly. ‘Darling, do I have to spell it out? We have to do it!’

He pushed her hands off and looked at her coldly. ‘I do wish you would stop treating sex like some military bloody operation. I don’t particularly want to do it on command.’

Venetia’s anger instantly came flooding back. ‘I didn’t realize you were such a bloody romantic!’ she spat, her eyes blazing. ‘I don’t need to remind you that we are running out of time.’ Her voice started wobbling and she could feel hot wells of tears rolling down her face.

‘Oh Jesus,’ growled Jonathan, walking away from her.

Venetia snapped. She grabbed hold of the robe and spun him round. ‘This is our child we’re talking about!’ she screamed. ‘Which part of this don’t you understand? The doctor has told me that I am going through a premature menopause. I am running out of eggs, I’ve got maybe three or four months at most. If we don’t start trying very hard for a child this month – every month – that’s it! There is no more time, there is no child!’

She was crying now, streams of tears smearing her foundation. She bit her lip to try and staunch the flow.

‘So this is what we have in store for the menopausal years, is it?’ Jonathan snarled cruelly. ‘Violent mood swings? Tears at bedtime?’

He calmly walked back into the dressing room, giving the top of his chest a squirt of Aqua di Palma. ‘So you don’t want to go out for dinner then?’

Venetia just stood with her back to him, staring out onto the street, her shoulders heaving with silent tears.

‘I’ll assume that’s a no then,’ he said tartly, threading his Asprey cufflinks through the holes in his shirt. ‘That’s a shame, because we do have a few business matters to discuss.’

Venetia turned to look at him, her eyes red but indignant. ‘Well you can tell me here. We don’t need to go to a restaurant to do business,’ she said icily.

‘In that case, I might as well outline my future plans,’ he replied briskly, fully the businessman now he was dressed again. ‘I noticed from the diary we have another Venetia Balcon board meeting on Monday afternoon.’

‘That’s right,’ said Venetia, taking a sip of Evian to clear her throat. For the last eighteen months Jonathon had attended all board meetings for her business, including many other smaller but important meetings relating to the Venetia Balcon business. He had been the company’s main commercial adviser. After all, just after their marriage he had injected two million pounds of his own money into her business – the two million pounds that had enabled her to move from a tiny shop in the Fulham Road to the beautiful Georgian Mayfair base that Venetia Balcon now occupied. After Venetia, Jonathon was the largest shareholder with forty-five per cent of the company, her finance director Geoffrey Graham holding three per cent and Caroline, her senior interior designer, with a one per cent share.

‘I’ve decided I can’t afford the time any more,’ said Jonathon, combing his hair in the mirror. ‘Orion Capital is looking after a five-billion-pound fund now, and if we’re going to open a Geneva office by the end of the year, I can’t afford any distractions whatsoever. So I won’t be so involved with your business affairs any more, darling.’

Venetia felt a sense of panic. While she found it hard working with her husband – he could be a demanding, controlling perfectionist, she still valued the business perspective he brought to her company. She wouldn’t have dreamt of expanding so rapidly with her women’s-wear line, or opening the New York shop without Jonathan’s enormous commercial input. Geoffrey was an efficient number cruncher, but he didn’t hold a candle to her husband in terms of business acumen.

‘But what do you expect me to do?’ she stammered. ‘You’re part of the business, it’s your investment!’

‘It’s hardly my primary business concern,’ he laughed coldly, ‘However, you’re right, I do want to protect that investment, which is why I have decided to nominate someone to take my place at the board meetings to make decisions about the company on my behalf. Someone who can make rational, impartial decisions. I know you can be a little too passionate sometimes.’

‘Who?’ she asked, playing with the platinum band around her finger.

‘Your father,’ replied Jonathon coolly.

For a moment she wasn’t sure whether he was mocking her or whether he was actually suggesting it seriously, until she saw the triumphant look in his eye.

‘But how …? What can you be thinking?’ she coughed, moving towards him, rubbing her palms together. ‘Jesus, Jonathon, you know how difficult he is. He’s belligerent, obstructive and a downright pain in the arse at the best of times. I can’t – no, make that I won’t – work with him. You can’t seriously expect me to do it!’

Mirroring Venetia, Jonathon began twirling the gold signet ring around his little finger and smiled confidently. ‘As a forty-five per cent stakeholder in your company, darling, I expect you to do whatever I suggest.’