Читать книгу Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 38

Cate balanced on the toilet seat in Sand’s tiny office bathroom, attempting to pull on a black Pierre Hardy heel, apply her lip-gloss, and rub some bronzing cream into her legs all at the same time.

‘Cate? Are you still in there?’ said an impatient voice, followed by a bang on the door. ‘Come on, the taxi’s here!’

‘Give me two minutes, Nick,’ she muttered, swearing to herself as she dropped a huge dollop of bronzer onto the floor. She took a deep breath. ‘Ready?’ she sighed as she looked in the mirror, but was surprised to find that she was pleased with what she saw. She had poured herself into a cream Donna Karan cocktail dress. She knew it wasn’t the most forgiving colour, but if you forgot about the slight wobble around her thighs, she really looked quite pretty. Her hair fell loose and glossy between her shoulder blades and her eyes, lined with lashings of kohl and mascara, looked wide, sparkling and alert. She pulled a blue velvet box from her bag and opened it. Sitting on a little satin cushion was a pair of large diamond drop studs. Her mother’s. She hadn’t worn them for years, always waiting for a special occasion. No night had ever felt special enough. Well, if there was ever an occasion to wear them, it was tonight, for Sand magazine’s launch party. She threaded them through her lobes and smiled. ‘Ready.’

As she stepped out of the bathroom into the office, Nick was waiting for her, dressed in a one-button charcoal suit with a crisp pale-blue shirt, his sandy-brown hair swept back from his face. She caught her breath, wishing Nick wasn’t looking quite so handsome, and slid her clutch bag under her arm. She felt his eyes brush over her, but he said nothing about her appearance; the compliments had stopped long ago, but the smile on his face revealed his approval.

Quickly flicking his eyes away, Nick nodded to a pile of boxes by the door. ‘How many magazines should we take down then?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ said Cate. ‘About fifty?’

‘Cheapskate,’ teased Nick, ‘I thought I was the one with the tight fist!’

‘I’m just worried that this launch party is getting expensive,’ replied Cate.

‘Well, that may be so, but until we’re selling one hundred and fifty thousand copies a month, we’ve got to become experts in the art of illusion,’ smiled Nick.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I know I’ve been a bit tight on budgets, but we have to know when to save and when to spend. And tonight, the last thing we want to do is look cheap, especially with all the top-notch advertisers there. We might be a little magazine operating out of a room next door to a Moroccan takeaway, but we don’t want to look it,’ he grinned.

Despite herself, Cate was impressed. Because they’d both been on the same journey in launching Sand, climbing the same learning curve, making the same mistakes, she’d always seen Nick as someone who was making it up as he went along, someone who was playing the same game as she was. But right now, here in front of her, she saw him for what he was – a talented businessman with drive and vision, a sharp entrepreneur whom she could trust to make her magazine a success.

‘Hmm, “Image is everything”?’ she said with a wry smile. ‘You must have got that from me.’

He bent down to open a carton and took out a box-fresh copy of the first issue of Sand magazine, holding it out in front of him with both arms extended.

It was hard for them not to feel a rush of pride as they looked at it, touched it. On its cover, a sumptuous, sexy image of Rachel Barnaby in a gold swimsuit, smiling seductively in front of a Cote d’Azur palm tree. Inside, pages of glossy images of gorgeous people and glamorous places which made you want to jump into the rich, expensive wonderland they had created for the reader.

‘Who’d have thought it?’ she grinned. ‘Brought to you straight out of Borough Market rather than some trillionaire’s yacht?’

‘Pretty good,’ said Nick.

‘Pretty good,’ admitted Cate with a shy smile. ‘Although ask me again in three months’ time when we’ve got a run of sales figures.’

‘You are so miserable sometimes,’ smiled Nick, shaking his head. ‘Now let’s get these magazines to this party and show everyone just how good you are!’

‘How good we are,’ said Cate.

Nothing had quite prepared Venetia for how guilty and exhausted having an affair would make her feel. She had read all the features on infidelity that the women’s magazines could provide; she had devoured virtually every bodice-ripping glamour novel in the airport bookshop. She had even listened wide-eyed to the stories from her most indiscreet and philandering friends over the years. But she had never, for a moment, ever considered that those experiences would relate to her life.

Taking a shower in the top-floor suite of One Aldwych Hotel, letting the warm jets of water flood over her skin, she felt the full weight of it, the full burden of the guilt and the exhaustion of living the lie. After Seville, she had resisted Jack’s calls for a full week. Every instinct in her body had urged her to stop the one-night stand in its tracks. But that perfect moment under the stars in Spain had reawakened some life-force inside her and she had found it impossible to stay away from Jack Kidman.

When he had daringly called her at home, she had finally agreed to meet him, telling herself it was only to persuade him to stop calling. They had ended up having sensational sex at the Mandarin Oriental, two bodies entwined perfectly on a tapestry rug. It was the beginning of a series of snatched, sexually charged moments in hotel rooms, at his Westbourne Grove apartment or, on one particularly risqué occasion, in the fabric store-cupboard at the Venetia Balcon shop. Over the past three weeks, they had met up at least a dozen times: before work, after work, between appointments – and as the lies to Jonathon increased and her workload doubled, she wondered daily whether it was worth it. But it was worth it, despite everything. For the first time in years, she felt alive.

Jack was lounging on the bed, wrapped in a tumble of white sheets and finishing off a room-service club sandwich as she walked back into the room from the shower.

‘There’s some fruit salad here. Do you want some?’

Venetia shook her head. ‘I’m half an hour late for the party as it is.’

‘I don’t know why I can’t come along. I could pretend not to know you.’

Venetia looked at him mournfully and shook her head adamantly. ‘Because I’m meeting Jonathon. Anyway, it wouldn’t feel right. I can’t lie to my sisters.’

She began towelling herself down vigorously, trying to rub out the smell of sex and guilt before the party.

‘I guess you’re right. I might not be able to keep my hands off you. Then we’d be in all sorts of trouble.’ He smiled wolfishly.

Venetia looked at him intently, taking in the firm tanned body and the open smile. She knew she had to ask a question that had haunted her since that first night in Seville.

‘Jack, what do you see in me?’

He started laughing softly and reached out his hands to gesture her onto the bed. ‘What do I see in you?’ he paused with a faux-puzzled expression. ‘You have a nice nose, I suppose.’

She immediately looked wounded.

‘I’m joking, I’m joking! Although yes, you do have a nice nose. Come here,’ he laughed.

She sat on the edge of the bed and lay back in his arms. He fed her a strawberry, letting his fingers rest on the inside of her bottom lip.

‘Van, you are sexy, you are beautiful, you are talented. You are going to take over the world with your business and I’m going to keep kicking you up that pert, sexy little bum to help you do it.’

Venetia stayed silent for a while. This was all so wrong, but there was something about Jack Kidman that made her feel powerless to stop it. He made her laugh, he made her feel clever, he made her feel interesting. He was creative, clever, spontaneous: the type of man she’d been looking for all her life. But she had simply met him too late. She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of Jonathon. But it was no good, she couldn’t even picture his face. Jack Kidman had got right under her skin and her morals had crumbled. Pandora’s box had been opened.

The party was being held in the penthouse suite of the brand new Monument Hotel in the City, rumoured to be the biggest penthouse suite in London. As it had only been open a week, they had managed to get the use of it for free, in return for some publicity in the magazine. The press officer had been salivating over the proposed guest list: after all, it never did any new establishment any harm to host a glamorous party in the first few days of opening. Cate would have preferred a West End location for the party, but with such a tiny budget, she knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

‘Bloody hell, this is nice,’ said Nick, as the lift doors hissed open onto the atrium of the penthouse, where Pete Miller, the art director, had erected a twelve-foot-high blow-up of Sand’s first cover. In fact, the whole place looked really impressive. Handsome members of hotel staff in black Armani suits were floating around the rooms adding the final touches to the party: lighting candles, straightening ashtrays, making sure the two bars were fully stocked.

Cate and Nick wandered from room to room, taking in its luxury. It was striking, if masculine, in design. The walls were lined with Japanese cherry-wood, long black leather sofas filled the huge lounge area, which had floor-to-ceiling windows leading onto an enormous terrace that overlooked the entire city. It was a fabulous entertaining suite, no doubt squarely aimed at male CEOs visiting London on big business.

Nick opened the glass doors and the pair of them slipped out onto the terrace, grinning at each other like kids. The warm June evening air hit their faces as they stepped out. The city stretched out in front of them, lit up like a miniature New York skyline. You could see the strange ‘Gherkin’ building with its impressive lattice of lights, you could even make out the circular shape of the London Eye in the distance, and the shape of Tower Bridge, like two bishop chess pieces facing each other across the Thames.

A middle-aged man in a black suit came bustling over and introduced himself as Willem, the general manager of the hotel. ‘We are so pleased to be accommodating you tonight,’ he gushed in a light Eastern European accent. ‘Just let me know if you need anything. You will find me on extension two-two-five-three. Will your sister Serena be attending tonight?’ he asked Cate expectantly.

‘She will be attending, yes,’ said Cate with a smirk at Willem’s triumphant look before he hurried off to straighten some more ashtrays.

‘So Serena’s coming?’ asked Nick, helping himself to a glass of champagne.

‘Of course she’s coming,’ replied Cate. ‘She’s my sister.’

‘But so’s Tom.’

Cate looked back at him with a start.

‘Well, of course he’s coming,’ said Nick, mimicking her, ‘he’s my best friend. Not to mention an investor. Actually, he’s staying here in the hotel tonight. We thought Serena might be coming so I said I’d ring down to him in his suite when she’s gone.’

‘God, this is all so childish,’ muttered Cate. ‘I can’t believe they haven’t even seen each other yet.’

‘They will in time,’ said Nick. ‘But I guess tonight isn’t quite the right time for a reconciliation, in full view of one hundred and fifty people and the gentlemen of the press.’

‘I can’t tell her he’s coming,’ said Cate, playing distractedly with her earrings. ‘She’s stressed enough at the minute. She’ll just refuse.’

‘Oh Cate, you look fantastic!’ said Vicky, Sand’s fashion editor, who had rushed over and was running her fingers over the fabric of Cate’s Donna Karan dress. Nick mumbled his excuses and moved away to check on the guest list as the first arrivals were starting to trickle into the suite.

‘How many people have you seen?’ asked Cate anxiously. ‘Have any of the VIPs arrived?’ She was secretly worrying again that the City venue might have been a mistake, no matter how economical it had been to stage the party here.

Vicky pulled a face and handed Cate a glass of Moët. ‘It’s an awful lot of champagne to take back to the office if people don’t show.’

There was no need to worry. By eight o’clock, the penthouse was heaving with glamorous bodies. Senior representatives of all the major advertisers had come and were thumbing eagerly through the copies of Sand displayed around the suite. The soft jazz background music had to be turned up to full volume to be heard above the laughing crowd and Cate, a few drinks more relaxed, allowed herself to bask in the attention she was receiving from all quarters.

‘I am so proud of you,’ said Lucy, her old friend from Class magazine, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘You are going to whip the arse off Class,’ she smiled, ‘and I hope you do. That Nicole Valentine has become a big old bitch.’

‘Become?’

They both giggled.

Meanwhile, Camilla and Venetia had arrived, looking stunning in Marni and Prada respectively, and were doing a sterling job helping Cate circulate around the advertisers and showering them with attention. The ad people didn’t seem to mind that the sisters were not actively involved with Sand magazine – they were just happy to talk to one of the Balcon sisters – while a photographer from the Evening Standard snapped away gleefully at the great, the good and the gorgeous.

All the magazine’s investors were out in force, drinking champagne and all looking very pleased with themselves, lapping up the reflected glory. David Goldman had been very clever to know that evenings like this, rubbing shoulders with celebrities in a penthouse suite, was actually what they were investing in, not the magazine itself.

Cate took a minute to stand back in a corner and survey the scene. She had never felt more confident, more alive, more in charge than at this very moment. Across the room she could see Nick standing talking to a group of PRs, with Rebecca hovering by his shoulder. He had undone the button of his jacket and looked handsome and casual. She felt a glimmer of sadness, but immediately pushed it to one side. She and Nick might not be a couple, but they were certainly a great business partnership, and it was definitely time to move on from thinking it could be anything more. At that moment, she caught a glimpse of David Goldman, who was talking to one of the investors. After a few moments, Cate became aware that, as he spoke, his eyes kept wandering in her direction, accompanied by a flirtatious smile. After three glasses of champagne, she certainly had to acknowledge that he was attractive. His hair had grown a little longer since the last time they’d met, and his steel-grey suit matched his twinkling eyes, she thought, giggling to herself and beginning to wish that he would come over to say hello.

‘Catherine, what a charming evening.’

Cate looked up in surprise to see her father. So he had come. A big part of her really didn’t want him here. She was still furious at his meddling with Nigel Hammond, the investor whom he had sent in the direction of William Walton for a reference, almost strangling their investment process at birth. On the other hand, she hadn’t quite been able to bring herself to snub him entirely, being a little fearful at the ramifications of not asking him. Daddy was a man who held a grudge. So she simply sent an invitation to the gallery and put it out of her mind, hoping he simply wouldn’t bother.

‘I was just telling this young lady here,’ said Oswald, pulling her towards an eager-looking journalist busily scribbling away on a notepad, ‘how I introduced you to your first big investor and got this whole ball rolling.’ The journalist looked up bright-eyed, her pen poised to take down more of the story. ‘Yes, Cate, you must be very grateful for all your father’s support.’

She stifled an angry snort.

‘Even though I lost my wife many years ago,’ continued Oswald, turning to the journalist with a grave look, ‘I have always done my very best to ensure that the girls have had everything they wanted and were given every opportunity to follow their dreams.’

‘Has Serena arrived yet?’ said the journalist, her eyes searching the room. ‘What would be fabulous is a family photo. All the sisters with their father?’

‘She’s due any time,’ said Cate, wondering where she had got to.

To avoid the paparazzi clamouring outside the front of the Monument, Serena had arranged to be smuggled into the hotel through the kitchens. A kind-faced concierge accompanied her to the penthouse suite via a service lift. When Cate had begged her to come to the party, she had promised her there was only going to be one photographer there, yet the crowd of snappers on the street was as big as a rugby scrum. She knew she looked sensational in a chocolate-brown jersey minidress that stopped provocatively mid-thigh, but for the first time she could remember, the presence of the photographers had brought on a sense of dread so strong she could feel her skin become clammy. The lift door hissed open at the top floor and, for a moment, Serena stood watching the party. By the window she could see Cate surrounded by people, laughing, while her father was hovering by the bar.

‘Have a good night, Miss Balcon,’ smiled the concierge, waiting for her to step out into the party.

Serena turned to answer him and an unfamiliar emotion gripped her. Panic. Suddenly her heart was pounding so violently that she had to clasp her chest, her breath coming in little pants and her hands starting to tremble. She slammed the button of the lift door for it to close before anyone had the chance to see she’d arrived.

She inhaled sharply to calm herself and turned to face the concierge.

‘I’m not quite ready yet,’ she smiled, rubbing her damp palms together nervously. ‘I, I … think I’d like to check into the hotel, first. Discreetly, of course,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm to make the point. ‘Now, this suite is obviously taken. Which suite would you recommend after this?’

The concierge straightened his jacket and coughed to clear his suddenly dry throat. ‘I would normally recommend the Fenchurch Suite on the floor below, but I believe it is occupied tonight. There is a wonderful junior suite just next door to it, however. I can take you there now and we can do the formal checking-in later.’

‘Excellent,’ said Serena with false composure. ‘Let’s go.’

The Threadneedle Suite was small compared to the penthouse, but it had a huge emperor-sized bed that was plumped up with a white duvet, black leather throw and cream-coloured mongoose cushions. It was surprisingly cosy. And it felt safe. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

When the concierge had gone, Serena kicked off her heels, sat back on the mattress and pulled her knees up to her chin like a vulnerable child. It felt better now, alone, unobserved. She pressed her hand to her forehead as if she were dealing with a particularly stubborn headache, but it was not enough to stop big droplets of tears spilling down her cheeks. She angrily wiped them away, but felt powerless to stop the sobs that creased her shoulders. She thought about what it would be like to go into the party, where every pair of cold, prying eyes would be on her, judging her every thought. Serena was a woman born to bask in people’s attention, but tonight her armour wasn’t strong enough. After all that had happened, she wasn’t ready for it. Cate should have known she wasn’t ready for it.

A searing charge of jealousy ripped through her body as she thought about her sister upstairs, circulating like a frantic butterfly, basking in the glow of compliments. Cate was never the successful one, she thought angrily, raising her eyes to the ceiling where the sound of jazz could just be heard. Serena was the one who was supposed to be fêted and adored. And she was, she reminded herself – but it really didn’t feel like that right now.

She hugged her knees in tighter when she thought about the events of the last few days. She could get over her contract with Jolie Cosmetics not being renewed; it was a stupid, stuffy company, anyway: hardly Estée Lauder. But To Catch a Thief was bombing at the box office, not even making the top ten of releases in its opening weekend after the critics had slated it unanimously. ‘For Serena Balcon to take on the famous Grace Kelly role was not just ill advised, it was imbecilic,’ one particularly vicious review had pronounced. Her agent had delivered even more painful news. Ed Charles, the producer of Fin de Siècle had called him up at the weekend to say that they had decided to go with someone else for the role of Letitia DuPont. A smaller role in the production had not been mentioned; in fact, no part was offered at all.

‘It’s because I’m pregnant, isn’t it?’ she had screamed to her agent down the phone. ‘How dare they? How dare they? We have to leak this information everywhere, it’s just so unfair!’

Her agent pointed out that no contract for the role had ever been signed, that she was merely being considered. But that role had been hers, thought Serena, uselessly punching her fist against her shin. She knew her meeting with Ed Charles had gone well and that her screen test had had a very positive reaction in LA. It was Michael. Michael Sarkis had ruined her life.

The tears were coming out in huge sobs now, as she stroked her arms, like a mother trying to calm her child. For a second, her mind wandered to thoughts of Tom Archer. Four months’ distance had mellowed her feelings towards him. She thought back to a time last summer when they had been at the casino in Monte Carlo. Standing at the roulette table, her number immediately came up the moment Tom moved to her side. ‘I’m your good luck charm,’ he had whispered in her ear. Maybe he was right, thinking about how everything had gone wrong since they’d split up. Maybe Tom Archer was her lucky charm.

She suddenly sat bolt upright and rubbed the tears from her face. This was no way to think, she told herself. She jumped to her feet and switched on the room sound system to drown out the noise of the party upstairs, then strode into the bathroom and splashed water onto her face, looking at herself in the mirror with a determined look. It was time to move forwards, not back.

‘What’s that scent you’re wearing tonight?’ asked Jonathon, sniffing the hollow of Venetia’s neck in a half-hearted fashion. She flinched slightly away from him. It was the same perfume as she always used but, having sprayed it on liberally to mask any trace of Jack Kidman or the hotel room, she had drawn attention to it.

‘Chanel Number Five. Same as ever,’ she smiled at him, not quite catching his eye. ‘You don’t usually notice.’

But Jonathon’s attention had already been distracted away from her.

‘I have to say she’s done quite well,’ he said, scanning the room critically.

‘Who?’

‘Cate. When she mentioned she was trying to raise money for a magazine, I didn’t think she had a cat in hell’s chance. I wouldn’t put a penny of my cash into it, of course. It’ll almost certainly go tits up by Christmas, but you have to commend her on this evening.’

‘Well, it’s a bloody good turnout if you ask me,’ replied Venetia defensively. ‘Oh look. There’s Diego. Let’s go and say hello.’

Diego de Bono, Venetia’s head of women’s-wear design was standing on the terrace in a pair of black sunglasses, even though the light was steadily darkening over the London skyline. Venetia looked at his whippet-thin frame and jet-black crop of hair and thought he looked like some French heroin addict.

‘Actually, I think I’ll go and get some drinks in,’ said Jonathon, steering himself away from the direction in which she was pulling them.

‘Don’t be silly. You’re a partner in the business. Come and say hello to the man who’s going to make the company more money.’

Venetia felt the resistance in his arm and pulled back, annoyed by yet another sign of casual disregard for her life, her day and her business. She shot him a furious glance and pulled on his arm again.

She greeted Diego with an embrace and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Diego. What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘I met a friend for dinner who insisted on taking me to a magazine party. I didn’t know it was your sister’s.’

‘We get around,’ laughed Venetia. ‘Diego. You’ve met my husband, haven’t you?’

The two men’s eyes locked. ‘Yes, I think so,’ smiled Diego at Jonathon. Venetia caught his gaze wandering around the room.

‘Anyway, good opportunity to work a room,’ Diego added with a languid smile. ‘The Times and Guardian fashion editors are both here, so I’m going to go and spread the word of Venetia Balcon.’

He nodded and left them while Venetia rounded on Jonathon.

‘You’re so bloody rude. I know designers aren’t quite your cup of tea, but there’s no need to look so patently bored.’

‘I just hate shop-talk,’ replied Jonathon. ‘Even if it is my shop.’ Venetia sighed and shook his hand away as he tried to take her by the arm.

‘I don’t know why we bother …

‘Darling, I’m sorry. Let me get you a champagne.’

She felt his behaviour do an about-turn as the curve of his mouth softened and he stroked her forearm with his fingertips. His old trick. Testing her, baiting her, infuriating her and then reeling her in at the last moment with a burst of controlled charm.

Relenting, she felt her body soften against him. ‘I just wish you’d make more of an effort with my friends, my colleagues.’

He slid his arm around the back of her neck and pulled her into him, planting a dry kiss on her forehead. ‘Sorry, darling, I’ve been a bit distracted. Work is hard. The Geneva office … but that’s no excuse.’ He pulled his hand up against her face and trailed his fingers down her cheek. ‘Why don’t we blow the party, check into a suite and not come out until the morning.’

The gesture took her by complete surprise. She recoiled inside, but tried not to stiffen in his grip. Not so long ago she would have given anything for Jonathon to inject some passion, spontaneity into their life, but now it all seemed too little too late. And she was certain that she could not face two hotel suites in the space of one day.

‘I think I have a headache coming on. I haven’t been feeling too well all day.’

Jonathon stared down at her with his piercing blue eyes and steered her away to the exit. Trying hard to rub out all thoughts of Jack Kidman, she looked up at him – her husband – and allowed him to take her hand.

‘A headache?’ said Jonathon with relish. ‘In that case, why don’t we say our goodbyes and go home?’

Cate retreated to the tiny third bedroom of the penthouse and tried to call Serena’s mobile. The party was buzzing with journalists, with a mob of paparazzi outside. Serena’s presence at the party would be great publicity for the magazine, but she had to admit that it was probably not a good idea for her to come after all. There was no answer. Where was she? Cate left her a message, when she heard the door of the room slide open and she turned to see David Goldman standing there. He looked razor sharp in a tailored iron-grey suit and a stark white shirt that showcased his tan.

‘Sorry,’ she laughed nervously, ‘I just came in here to take a couple of minutes’ time out. I’ll get back to the rampant socializing in a moment.’

‘Well, if you want to be alone, you really should shut the door,’ said David wolfishly, clicking the latch shut behind him. ‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Shouldn’t you be out there being all man about town?’ smiled Cate, accepting a flute of pink champagne from him. David shrugged. ‘The investors seem to be looking after themselves and Nick is off with Rebecca.’ Cate felt her heart sink momentarily.

‘So, the only other person I know here is you,’ he said, perching himself on the edge of the huge mahogany bed.

Her five-inch heels were killing her, so Cate shrugged and sat down next to David. He immediately moved up against her, the sleeve of his jacket lingering against her bare arm. She felt a rush of giddiness; she wasn’t quite sure whether it was down to the success of the party, the champagne or David’s proximity.

‘You really have done such a fantastic job. I’ve just been telling everyone what an impressive woman you are.’ He paused. ‘One of the most impressive women I’ve ever met in my life.’

Cate felt nerves jangle around her body. She had expected him to pounce as soon as he had locked the bedroom door, and suddenly she found herself thinking that that wasn’t such an unwelcome prospect after all.

‘Oh, I’m sure you make a habit of meeting impressive women,’ said Cate playfully, draining the last of her champagne and placing the flute on the carpet.

‘Are you making fun of me?’ smiled David, finally moving one hand to rest on Cate’s knee.

Cate’s head was starting to spin now, and she did not move away as he pushed a thick strand of hair off her shoulder, even though she could feel his clichéd seduction manipulating her senses.

‘How about a celebratory kiss?’ he whispered. His lips came down on hers. Although a warning bell shrieked on in some distant part of her brain, she found herself responding.

David threaded his hand through her hair, gently pushing her back on the bed. Part of her wanted to resist; the other part just wanted him to kiss her more deeply. They fell back on the fluffy cream duvet, David’s fingers lowering themselves down her neck to touch one of her nipples through the thin fluid fabric of the dress. She gasped and cupped his face with both hands pulling him into a deeper and deeper kiss.

‘What are we doing?’ she said, finally pulling herself up for air.

His hand slipped up the cream folds of her dress, and crept up to the top of her thigh. ‘Finally having some fun.’

‘At last!’ laughed Nick, throwing an arm around Tom Archer’s shoulders. Tom smiled back. He felt grateful to be with his old friend, enjoying the London social scene once more. It had been a long time since he had ventured into the city for a night out and he wanted to make the most of it. So, he hadn’t enjoyed waiting downstairs in the Fenchurch Suite, especially when someone in the next room had started playing music at enormous volume. But when Nick had called to say that it looked as if Serena wasn’t coming, he felt ready to join the fun, even if a small part of him had been looking forward to seeing her. He grabbed a drink and downed it in one.

‘So is it my turn to spend some time with the man of the moment?’ teased Tom.

‘I can’t help it if suddenly everyone wants to talk to me,’ said Nick with a broad smile. ‘Anyway, it’s taken thirty-five years for anyone to notice me, so let me enjoy my moment.’

‘So where’s Cate?’ asked Tom.

‘Dunno,’ said Nick, looking around the packed room once again. ‘I’ve hardly seen her in the last hour. It’s about time we shared a celebratory drink.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Tom playfully.

Nick prodded him in the ribs. ‘No, nothing like that.’

Tom wasn’t entirely convinced as Nick’s eyes continued to dart around the room looking for Cate.

‘Actually, I thought I should mention something,’ said Tom, taking his friend’s elbow and steering him to a corner where they wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I was talking to Marion Doherty; you know, she owns ILF model agency. I’m not sure tonight’s the right time to bring this up, but she told me something I think both you and Cate should hear.’

Nick looked at Tom, watching him shift uncomfortably and loosen his tie a little. ‘The woman was totally coked off her head, so I’m not sure how much to believe, but …’

Nick took a smoked-salmon roulade off a passing tray and waved it at his friend. ‘Go on,’ he urged.

‘Well, she obviously didn’t know that we were friends or that I was an investor in Sand, so there was probably no reason for her to lie.’ Tom paused and took a nervous sip of his second drink, finally looking Nick in the eye. ‘Look, I think you should have a word with your girlfriend,’ he said seriously.

Nick stuffed the canapé into his gaping mouth. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’

Tom looked away.

‘Go on, what? Tell me!’

‘According to Marion, you were supposed to be having Sybil Down – you know, the supermodel?– as your first cover. She’s one of Marion’s girls, right?’

‘Yes, that’s right, she pulled out at the last minute. That’s why Rebecca had to draft in Rachel Barnaby. All worked out for the best, as it happened.’

Tom looked at his friend awkwardly. ‘According to Marion, Rebecca phoned her, telling her that Sybil shouldn’t be working for Sand. Said that you were a tinpot organization and that you were going to fold as quickly as you launched. Made some veiled threat that, if Sybil did the job, she wouldn’t get an important job with one of her clients. Apparently now Marion’s seen the first issue, she thinks Sand is wonderful, but for a few weeks there, you were persona non grata at ILF, mate.’

Nick looked at Tom incredulously. ‘Why the hell would Rebecca do that?’

He let his eyes drift out towards the London skyline. It didn’t make sense. Why would Rebecca sabotage the Sand cover, only to dig it out of a hole immediately afterwards? Cate had set up the Sybil Down shoot and had been distraught when it all fell through. Suddenly he remembered ignoring a remark from Cate, a remark he had thought uncharitable at the time, telling him she had felt awkward about Rebecca drafting in Rachel Barnaby and saving Sand’s first cover shoot.

‘She just wants to undermine Cate,’ said Nick quietly to Tom, as if he was thinking it for the first time.

‘Cate and Rebecca not get on then?’ said Tom, raising one eyebrow quizzically.

‘Fucking Rebecca,’ muttered Nick under his breath. He caught sight of her platinum-blonde hair in the corner of the room and left Tom’s side, moving towards her.

‘Rebecca.’

Rebecca spun round and flung her arm around Nick’s neck, pressing her plunging neckline against his chest. She looked stunning, her curves poured into a backless metallic-coloured dress, cut to mid-thigh. Her breath smelt of whisky, her eyes were wide from cocaine. The longer he looked at her the less he could see a beautiful woman and the more he realized she had an ugly soul. Had Rebecca always been this way or had it taken him this long to wise up to it? He was an idiot.

‘Fabulous party,’ she breathed into his neck. ‘Although I took two goody-bags and there isn’t anything decent in any of them.’

He pushed her away forcefully. ‘I know what you said to Marion Doherty.’

‘About what, darling?’ she giggled, dragging him onto the terrace.

‘Advising her that Sybil Down shouldn’t do our cover.’ He stopped to look at her contemptuously. ‘How fucking dare you?’

Rebecca threaded her hands behind his neck and tried to pull him close to her. ‘Who’s been telling porky-pies? I haven’t done anything of the sort,’ she slurred, brushing her lips around the curve of his neck.

‘Someone I trust,’ Nick replied impassively, shaking her arms away from him. ‘Someone I trust more than you.’

‘Nick, I haven’t said anything,’ she replied, pouting.

‘Really?’ he said sarcastically.

Knowing she’d been caught out, she stepped back away from him and rested her hands on her slim hips. ‘It all worked out for the best though, didn’t it?’ she hissed defensively. ‘When you leave things to me rather than Cate Balcon, things get done. Properly.’

‘Leave Cate out of this,’ snapped Nick. ‘Anyway, she had everything under control. You might have made things right, Rebecca, but you created the fucking problem in the first place.’

‘Listen to you,’ she sneered, tossing her hair back. ‘You’re pathetic. Always defending her. Go on. Surprise me. Tell me you’re sleeping with her. You are, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You’re fucking sleeping with her,’ she screamed, pointing a long finger against his chest.

‘This isn’t about Cate, Rebecca. It’s about you. Why did you do it? Are you really that insecure?

He looked at her, her face twisted with such venom it negated her beauty.

‘No, don’t insult me with an answer. I’m out of here,’ he whispered.

‘Go on,’ she shouted, downing a shot of vodka as he walked off the terrace. ‘Go and find your lapdog. And don’t bother coming home tonight.’

His fists clenched in fury as he walked away from her, feeling ridiculous that he had wasted so much of his time with her; foolish that he’d allowed himself to be taken in by her shallow good looks and mistaken her love of good times for being simply good fun. Still, Rebecca was right about one thing. He wanted to find Cate.

Scanning the room once again, he caught movement as the small bedroom door opened slightly and Cate looked around nervously. He sighed with relief and found himself beginning to smile as she began to walk out of the room. He had to get to her, tell her about Rebecca, Marion, Sybil. But the crowd was thick now. He pushed past a group of guests, knocking a glass of champagne from someone’s hand. He looked down, mumbling an apology, and when he looked up again, he froze. David Goldman was coming out of the room, inches behind Cate, his hand proprietorially around her waist. They were heading in the direction of the lift. They were leaving. Together. Nick inhaled sharply through his nostrils, grabbing a cocktail from a passing waiter. He downed it in one, and slammed the glass back onto the tray.