Читать книгу Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 41

A stocky man in a pair of dirty jeans stopped Serena’s driver at the gates of Huntsford by slapping a meaty hand on the windscreen of the Mercedes. The driver calmly leaned out of his window and politely enquired what the problem was.

‘Gotta wristband?’ asked the gorilla, waving a clipboard.

Serena pressed a button and allowed her electric window to purr down. ‘This is my home,’ she said sternly, too tired to flash the man her movie-star smile. Immediately recognizing Serena, the security guard gruffly apologized and let the car proceed on its way.

‘How ridiculous,’ she hissed, looking back at the bothersome man over her shoulder. As she turned back, her mouth dropped open at the transformation of Huntsford before her. Even half a mile away from the main house, she gasped at the size of the operation. On the horizon she could make out an enormous, dome-shaped stage held up by a web of scaffolding. The driveway was lined with iron railings, topless men in jeans were erecting signs pointing to toilets, car park and restaurant, while at the far side of the lake was a parade of vans, lorries, generators and trailers. At least sixty people milled around, lugging cables, striding across the lawns with clipboards or carrying huge tureens into the catering tents. It was vast – impressive, she thought, a smile curling up on her full lips.

She had driven a hard bargain with her father when he had called her two days earlier to persuade her to attend. Her instincts were completely against it. She still felt raw and betrayed, especially after her meeting with Michael, and certainly didn’t feel ready to venture out into the public eye quite yet. After news of her pregnancy had broken, some of the knives had really come out. The suggestion that she was yesterday’s news, or lacked the exotic, worldwide appeal in a new, more cosmopolitan age had particularly hurt. If she was going to thrust herself back into the limelight willingly, she reasoned, then it was going to have to be worth her while. So she had demanded a cut of the action. She had told her father that she wanted seven per cent of the box-office takings, which Oswald had ruthlessly negotiated down to three per cent. Not ideal, she thought to herself, but well worth the drive into the countryside. It was sure to impact positively on her profile, too; the dutiful daughter helping out at her father’s musical event: even the detractors would love that one.

‘Something of a transformation, wouldn’t you say?’ said Oswald to his daughter as she pulled up to the double doors, helping her from the car and giving her a cautious embrace.

‘Yes, it’s quite a change,’ smiled Serena, pulling her microshorts further down her legs to look a little more respectable. ‘It looks just like Glastonbury.’

Oswald recoiled in horror. ‘That dreadful hippy festival? I don’t think so,’ he replied curtly.

Serena swung her Mulberry bag off her arm and sauntered inside. ‘Only joking, Daddy. I can see it’s going to be fabulous.’ She let a silence pass between them, waiting to see if he would bring up their argument of a few weeks earlier. But Oswald seemed content to let that incident – and the bigger subject of her pregnancy – pass without comment.

‘Maria is arriving at the house at five,’ he informed her casually. ‘I assume you’ll be joining us for dinner? Perhaps you could make a little more effort to get to know her better.’

Yes, right, she thought darkly. She hadn’t spoken to the woman since her leaving party back in April, and had zero intention of offering an olive branch now. She had hoped that the pushy Italian would have been a passing fancy for her father, just like all the other women in his life over the past fifteen years: the divorcées, flight attendants, ageing models and middle-aged society women had all lasted about as long as his shampoo. But it disturbed her that this liaison seemed to be growing a little more serious. They had been seen out and about together at all sorts of social events over the past three months; Richard Kay’s Mail column had even begun to refer to Dante as Oswald’s partner. It irked her, but she couldn’t put her finger on why.

Hot and sticky, she decided to go up to her room to change, quickly selecting a tiny Sass & Bide denim miniskirt, a vest top and a glittery pair of Gina flip-flops. Pregnancy had yet to make an iota of difference to her slender figure, she thought happily, admiring her reflection in the mirror by the window. Of all the sisters, Serena had by far the best-appointed room in the house, with two huge bay windows overlooking the lake, giving a view that was more breathtaking than if she had been overlooking the New York Cityscape or the Thames. It was special, natural, stunning.

She felt a sense of belonging as she opened the windows and let the balmy breeze kiss her face. It was the family seat, so she would always feel a special bond with the place, but today she felt even more intrinsically tied to its stonework, grounds and atmosphere. An ultrasound scan the previous day had discovered that her unborn foetus was a boy. She was going to have to investigate the title of Huntsford as a matter of priority, hoping there weren’t any bothersome laws barring children of an unmarried couple from inheriting the title. Surely not: this was the twenty-first century. She smiled as she thought about her child as the eleventh baron of Huntsford. That would give her a powerful grip over the estate that lay in front of her. There was so much she could do with it: not like Daddy, who had let vanity and greed cloud his judgement. With Serena in charge, Huntsford could become one of the great English estates to rival Longleat. She had every faith that her career would resurrect itself, but she was realistic enough to know that fame was transient and that she would not be able to rely on her looks for ever. Plus she had already consulted a lawyer about getting a huge child-maintenance payment off that bastard Sarkis. She was going to take him for every penny she could.

Feeling energized by all these thoughts of money, Serena decided to go and explore the circus outside. Making some attempt at a disguise, she put on a large pair of Chanel sunglasses and fixed her long hair back with a navy-and-white Breton headscarf. As she now had a vested interest in the success of the event, she didn’t want all the male workers now beavering about to have any distractions. As she walked out into the sunshine, Serena had to admit that the young events manager, that poor, plain-looking girl Zoë Cartwright, had done an excellent job. The Lady Penelope Carvery, the main restaurant festooned with cream layered voile and named after Oswald’s beloved 1922 Rolls-Royce, was as spectacular as any marquee she had been in, while Zoë had told her that huge tropical flower arrangements were due to arrive the following morning to give the place the feeling of a botanical hothouse.

As she walked around the impressive site, Serena ran over the short speech she had prepared to deliver the next afternoon to open the event. She was going to enjoy that, she thought. What she was going to wear, however, presented more of a challenge. Her travel trunk was packed full of delicious gowns that Serena knew would make an impact – but which one should she choose? For the first time ever, she found herself favouring something simple. An Armani gown in molten brown with a stunning topaz clasp at the bottom of the deep V of the back. Far less revealing than the sheer, diaphanous black gown she had also brought along, and less showy than the white Grecian Versace number in which she knew she looked fabulous. But it was stunning and appropriate, nevertheless, and it was a gown that said she was a successful, powerful woman who wanted to be taken seriously.

‘Preparing for tomorrow?’ asked a voice behind her. Serena turned to find herself eyeballing a very attractive man in a pair of pale jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned to reveal a laminated identity card dangling over a ripple of taut, bronzed six-pack. His hair was sexily dishevelled, his deep blue eyes flashed at her, wanting to play.

‘Do I know you?’ asked Serena haughtily, caught off guard by the effect that this man was having on her.

‘Miles Roberts,’ he replied, tucking a hardback book under his arm and extending a hand to shake.

‘And what do you do, Miles?’ asked Serena, unable to stop the teasing tone.

‘I’m the artist liaison manager.’

Serena pulled off her glasses and smiled broadly at him. ‘And what does that mean?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I’d have thought a woman in your line of work would know all about it,’ said Miles with a small smile.

‘So you’ll have the pleasure of tending to the every whim of Maria Dante tomorrow?’

‘Something like that,’ said Miles.

‘I hope you’re getting paid handsomely,’ she smiled tartly.

‘Mind if I walk with you?’ replied Miles, dropping into step with her. ‘I only started a couple of days ago and I haven’t quite got used to the grounds. They’re huge, aren’t they?’

Serena smiled. ‘You get used to it,’ she laughed, feeling her powers of flirtation come back to her. After Michael Sarkis, Serena had sworn she was giving up men for at least the summer, but great-looking men were always worth toying with. He was only some festival worker, after all, but he was model-grade handsome, she thought, sneaking a look at his profile. She could allow herself a few minutes of fun, she thought, pulling her sunglasses back onto her face. Besides, it was better that she walked around with a staff member. She was well aware that anybody could be hiding a camera to take snaps to sell to the tabloids, and the last thing she wanted to do was spoil this philanthropic gesture of appearing at Huntsford by being pictured tripping over cables or arguing with security.

‘So where are you walking to?’ asked Miles hopefully.

‘Walk with me to the stage,’ she said, her hand brushing his ever so lightly, ‘I need to go and check it out and look at the view.’

‘Why?’ asked Miles. ‘Are you really hosting the evening? I did hear a rumour.’

‘Not entirely hosting, introducing,’ she said with a coquettish smile. ‘Subtle difference. I intend to be in bed by nine o’clock. Opera festivals really aren’t my scene.’

‘Oh yes, I suppose you must be getting tired, what with the …’ Miles had a sudden stricken look on his face, realizing he’d made a faux pas. He couldn’t help staring at Serena’s firm bronzed midriff poking out from under a little bit of cotton vest top.

‘So you’ve been pregnant, then?’ She laughed, ‘Yes, I’m in that stage commonly known as “knackered all the time”, darling.’

‘Well I don’t fancy your chances of getting a good night’s sleep tomorrow night,’ he smiled. ‘Not unless your bedroom is a soundproofed nuclear bunker.’

‘Oh, so you know about the nuclear bunker?’ laughed Serena.

Miles looked confused. ‘My father built a nuclear bunker in the eighties. Out behind the rose garden, of all places. Can you believe the paranoia, not to mention the waste of money? But you’re right, I can’t imagine it will be the best night’s sleep I ever had. Maybe I should go back to London …’ She trailed off.

‘Oh, but I thought you were staying here for a while,’ said Miles, disappointment in his voice. He stopped, once again embarrassed at knowing details about Serena’s life. ‘Well, that’s what the crew have all been saying anyway,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s caused quite a bit of excitement.’

‘Oh yes?’ she flirted. ‘How much?’

‘A great deal.’

‘That’s good,’ she grinned. ‘I was hoping to make a splash.’

‘Oh you will,’ said Miles. ‘You will.’

The last thing Maria wanted to be doing at that precise moment was preparing for the tinpot festival at Huntsford. Oswald had been in a terrible mood ever since her arrival three hours earlier, solidly grumbling and moaning about the soaring costs of the evening. There had been a dramatic surge in ticket enquiries since the papers had reported that Serena was going to make a public appearance, but she doubted it would be enough to balance Oswald’s gluttonous outlay on the event. And the torrential rain forecast for the following day would surely keep the crowds away on the day. Not that she wanted him to lose money; what use was he to her then? But mostly she was furious that all the attention had shifted away from herself to Serena.

When Oswald had told her that his youngest daughter was going to be involved in the Musical Evening a few days earlier, Maria had been incandescent. Maria had been sure that the talentless little tramp was out of the picture for the time being. Her scandal-filled lifestyle had made Oswald purple with rage at the reflected shame it brought on the family name, yet now he was prepared not only to let Serena lead the event and become the star attraction, but also to pay her for the privilege. Maria almost admired Serena’s gall for her ruthless bartering with her father, were it not for the clear indication of the influence she had over him. Well, that was going to stop. As long as Serena could manipulate her father, she controlled Huntsford, and Maria was not going to stand for that. She wanted to snuff out Serena’s influence once and for all.

She crunched her heels into the grass as she stalked angrily towards the trailer she would be using tomorrow. The sun had sunk behind a line of forest-green trees, so the evening was lit like a partial eclipse, the birds still singing in the eerie greyness. Maria glanced at her watch: 7.40 p.m. She cursed again. Dinner was due to be served at the house at eight and it would take fifteen minutes to walk back there. Her trailer was a standard issue twenty-five-foot Portakabin with a long seat and table at one end and a row of chairs and mirrors at the other. In between was stuffed with rails of clothes, hairpieces and vases of flowers. She knew better than to turn on the huge mirrors that were circled with Hollywood-style bulbs, and instead flipped on a little overhead light that gave the cabin a soft glow. There was a man sitting at the long table smoking a cigarette. ‘Oh, you’re here,’ snapped Maria, looking at her watch again. ‘On time, well done.’

‘We’d better keep this quick,’ said the man. ‘There’re about fifty people still milling around the stage. We’re not going to stop until midnight.’ He pushed an envelope over the table like a poker player folding his cards. Maria picked it up and began counting the crisp fifty-pound notes inside with her long fingertips. The feel of large amounts of money still never failed to give her a sexual thrill, and the poor girl from Puglia in her wanted to feel every last note. She felt the cool gaze of the man at the table and stopped herself, stashing the envelope in her black velvet clutch bag.

‘OK, listen,’ she said. ‘We’ll be starting dinner in fifteen minutes. Oswald never allows a dinner to be finished in less than two hours. He likes to luxuriate over every course and insists his guests do too. There are only three staff in the whole house, so it will be easy for you to avoid them.’ She tossed a plain brown envelope onto the table with a thud. ‘Here is the key to the back door. Her room is straight up the main stairway, the third door along the large corridor at the front of the house. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need in there.’

‘You’re sure?’ asked the man.

‘The girl takes cocaine. I saw it with my own eyes at her party in March. She’ll almost certainly have some on her. It wouldn’t surprise me if she wasn’t drinking spirits and taking pills too. She’s such an irresponsible little bitch.’ In Maria’s Italian accent the word came out ‘beach’. The man smiled in the darkness. He could feel himself becoming turned on as he imagined the glorious shirt-tearing catfight that would be had between these gorgeous, dominant women.

‘Well, we’d better find what we’re looking for,’ he said finally, dropping his cigarette into a plastic cup, where it fizzled out with a hiss in the dregs. ‘The newspaper is paying a lot of money for this.’

‘Oh, you’ll get what you want,’ said Maria Dante, nodding so vigorously that a strand of hair fell across her dark brown eyes. ‘Serena Balcon never fails to disappoint.’

Oswald Balcon sat at the head of the Louis XV table in the Red Drawing Room with Maria and Serena flanked on either side of him like two concubines, each gently picking at their asparagus spears.

‘Oswald Balcon,’ chided Maria lightly, looking up at him with glossy chocolate eyes, ‘I think this is the smallest dinner I have ever attended at Huntsford. What happened to the other girls? I thought it was going to be a family affair tonight.’

Oswald placed down his silver knife and fork pointedly, looking more than a little disgruntled. ‘Neither Cate and Camilla nor Venetia and Jonathon will be attending until tomorrow,’ he said, pursing his lips with disapproval. ‘As you are well aware, I can never rely on family support for anything.’

The comment echoed around the room, which was indeed empty, being large enough to seat twenty. The situation was not helped by the frosty atmosphere between the two women, who were pointedly not looking at each other except when passing condiments. A rumble of thunder could be heard far away, like a growl coming from the core of the earth. The sound brought an anxious look across Oswald’s face; he immediately tried to disguise it.

Collins came through the door pushing a silver trolley laden with cloches. He placed Serena’s dinner in front of her, pulling off the silver dome with a flourish. A seared tuna steak was accompanied by a plateful of potatoes and vegetables.

‘What’s this?’ snapped Serena, looking up at Collins, throwing her napkin down angrily. ‘Look at it! It’s practically raw!’

‘But that’s how you always like your steaks, Miss Serena,’ said Collins, looking a little flushed in the face.

‘That was before I became pregnant,’ sighed Serena, not hiding her irritation.

‘Serena! Stop making such a fuss!’ said Oswald, banging his hand on the table. ‘It’s been such a hot day, I asked Collins to serve something light.’

‘Well, obviously you’ve never been pregnant either,’ said Serena, flashing him an icy stare and pushing her chair out from under the table. She was tired and bad-tempered. Exhausted in fact. She felt as if she would melt into the floor at any moment. All she could think of was her room and getting some sleep. She certainly couldn’t stand another two hours being bored to death by her father and Maria cooing at each other.

‘No, neither of you will understand how I am feeling,’ said Serena, standing up now and placing her napkin beside her plate, ‘but I can tell you, it’s pretty awful.’ She fixed her gaze on her father. ‘If I’m going to be in any fit state to do a decent job tomorrow, I need to get some sleep. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

Knowing the wisdom of having Serena as her fresh dazzling self the next day, Oswald nodded and gave the familiar wave of his hand to let her know she had been dismissed.

Maria glanced at the grandfather clock behind her: 8.45 p.m. She stood up suddenly.

‘Serena, please,’ said Maria, giving her the most sincere smile she could, ‘I would feel so offended if you went to bed now.’ She opened her arms like a Madonna. ‘Please stay. We need to get to know each other so much more now. Collins can cook you a nice, well-done steak, can’t you Collins? Then you can stay and relax at the table.’

‘As I said,’ smiled Serena, trying her best to look gracious, ‘I really don’t think you understand how tired a woman in her third month of pregnancy can get. Daddy, maybe we can meet in the morning so we can go over my introductory speech?’

By now, Serena had crossed the room’s Oriental carpet and was moving to the lounge. Maria sprang up from her seat to go after her, almost running through the doorway to catch up with Serena. ‘Serena,’ she said quietly, ‘your father told me earlier how important this dinner is to him – and how we get along.’

Serena span on her heel. ‘He’ll get over it,’ she spat. ‘And in future, I suggest that you make a little more effort with the lady of the house.’

Maria stood and anxiously watched Serena ascend the enormous flight of stairs, as she sulkily stepped up them one by one. ‘Stupid Italian cow,’ said Serena under her breath, already pulling off her shoes to walk up the thick red corridor carpet barefoot.

On the first floor of the house there was a spooky quiet. Most of the lights were turned off. She had seen Collins go around, methodically switching off lamps earlier, no doubt in a desperate attempt to economize. Saving a few pennies on electricity wasn’t exactly going to refill the Huntsford coffers, she thought with irritation. Passing a window that overlooked the lake, she flinched as the lights were switched on over the domed stage, drowning the grounds in crisp, sterile light. Thank goodness she had drawn the curtains in her room, she thought. She didn’t want her bed being lit up like a football stadium.

She pushed down the gilt handle of her bedroom door and stepped inside. Immediately she knew that something was wrong. A presence. Instinctively she clutched the Jimmy Choo shoe with its four-inch heel in her hand like an axe. With her other hand she felt around on the wall for the light switch. There was definitely someone in the room: she could sense it. Finally she found the switch and flipped it on. Her first reaction was to scream, but the sound in her voice transformed into a shout as she immediately recognized the intruder. ‘MILES! What the hell are you …?’

He was carrying a small torch in one hand while the other was rifling through her overnight bag.

‘You won’t find anything in there,’ she said slowly, almost riveted to the spot with disbelief.

‘Serena, I, look …’

Realizing he’d been caught out, he darted for the door. Serena reacted too slowly to stop him, waving the heel of the Jimmy Choo above her head in frustration.

The spell broken, she screamed but, sensing its piercing blast had too far to travel before anyone would hear, she ran out into the corridor, shouting as loudly as she could. Between screams she could hear the sound of frantic footsteps taking the stairs of the grand staircase in bounds, followed quickly afterwards by the roar of a motorcycle engine revving up quickly outside the front door. Oswald stormed into the hallway as Serena looked down from above.

‘What the Dickens is going on?’ he yelled up at her. ‘You decided to leave your dinner, now at least leave us to enjoy ours in peace!’

‘An intruder! There was an intruder in the house!’ shouted Serena.

Oswald ran to the door to see the red taillight of the motorbike disappear as Serena sank slowly to the floor. Putting her head against the banister, she began sobbing.

Camilla walked into the Royal Suite at Claridge’s to find Serena upside down on the floor, her body bent into an inverted V.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, cocking her head to look at her sister.

‘The downward dog, what does it look like?’ sighed Serena, uncoiling herself. ‘My life-coach is in Capri, my shrink has gone AWOL and my agent is fucking useless. Yoga is about the only thing keeping me sane at the minute.’

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ asked Camilla helpfully, sitting down on the sofa.

‘How about a revolver?’ said Serena, pursing her lips.

Serena had gone missing for twenty-four hours after the intruder had been found at Huntsford. Disappeared. Missing from the Musical Evening without a word or message to anyone. It was only when Camilla received a text from Serena the morning after the event that the mystery of her whereabouts was solved. Claridge’s Royal Suite was one of Serena’s favourite bolt holes when the world was closing in: deliciously chintzy, totally private, it even contained Gilbert and Sullivan’s old piano. Not that she could play.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ asked Camilla, helping herself to a grape from the fruit bowl.

The strain was unmistakable in Serena’s face. Camilla was shocked: her sister never looked anything less than gorgeous, confident and totally in control.

‘I put up with a lot of things you know,’ she said fiercely. ‘Paparazzi calling me bitch in the street. Reporters going through my bins. Having my phones tapped. But to find someone in my house. My room.’

She rubbed her temples and her voice softened dramatically. ‘I came here because I wanted to hide. It was awful, Cammy. It really was.’

Bending her knees, she sank down onto the carpet of Claridge’s luxurious suite.

Camilla paused, used to her sister’s dramatics, before noticing that real tears were rolling down Serena’s cheeks. She came over to throw her arm around her shoulder.

‘It’s OK. Come on, this stress isn’t good for the baby,’ she whispered. ‘You’re safe. The intruder didn’t hurt you or take anything.’

‘It’s not OK though, is it?’ replied Serena, blotting the corner of her eye with her fingertip. ‘I heard the evening was a bit of a disaster. How bad was it?’

‘Pretty bad,’ said Camilla with a grimace. In fact, ‘pretty bad’ was an understatement. The previous night had been an unmitigated disaster, which had no doubt cost her father thousands.

‘The main thing was the weather,’ said Camilla. ‘It was so foul yesterday that it kept a lot of the crowds away. Then the PA shorted for about twenty minutes and, to be honest, it was an absolute mud bath. People were still queuing to get out at four in the morning.’

‘What about the introduction? Who opened it?’ she asked, feeling guilty that it should have been her role.

‘Who do you think? Daddy. He droned on for so long he was booed. They’d have started throwing bottles if they hadn’t all been holding umbrellas.’

‘Oh great,’ said Serena, rolling her eyes. ‘I suppose that’s my fault as well. Blame it on the bad guy – everyone else does,’ said Serena. She fell back into the ruby-red sofa and drew her knees up to her chin.

‘How do you mean?’ asked Camilla.

‘Look at the papers. Haven’t you seen them this morning?’

Camilla picked up a stack of Sunday papers that were sitting on top of the suite’s grand piano. The Sunday Reporter had a splash: Serena deserts family for lover.

‘Go on, read it,’ sighed Serena. ‘According to them, I’m the reason the evening was a disaster. Apparently I was supposed to be the star attraction and left Daddy in the lurch.’

Camilla traced the newspaper text with her fingertip. ‘Pregnant Serena flouted her family duty when she skipped the event for a booze-fuelled rendezvous with her lover.’ Camilla looked up. ‘What lover?’

‘Precisely, but I can take that,’ replied Serena, her mouth setting in a thin determined line.

‘What I don’t like is the stuff about my family. I don’t like the implication that I don’t care.’ Her voice trailed off until it was small and fragile.

Camilla looked at her sister, slumped like a glorious film-noir heroine on the sofa. Framed by the glorious backdrop of the Royal Suite, she couldn’t help but think how misery suited Serena. But while she managed to carry off her gloom with style, her obvious upset was completely out of character. Serena’s hide tended to be bulletproof, but Camilla suspected that the run of recent events was beginning to grind her down. Tom, Michael, the tabloid frenzy, the pregnancy, the intruder. How much could one person take in just a few months; even Serena?

‘There’s another thing,’ said Serena, her face darkening. She stretched over to a suitcase that was lying on the floor, ribbons of clothes and shoes tumbling out of it, and pulled out a seal-able bag the size of a matchbox. She placed it on the table.

Camilla touched it with her fingertips, feeling the white powder inside the bag. ‘Shit, Sin. Cocaine?’ she said, looking up in surprise.

Her sister nodded slowly.

‘Yours?’ offered Camilla gingerly, knowing her sister had dabbled in the past.

‘No! Not mine!’ snapped Serena, grabbing back the bag. ‘I’m pregnant, remember?’

‘So whose is it?’

‘I don’t bloody know. I found it in my overnight bag,’ said Serena, her voice regaining its fire. ‘And if that intruder who’d been rooting through my stuff had been there a second longer, he’d have found it.’

‘So what are you saying?’ asked Camilla, sensing more of her sister’s theatrics. ‘That he put it there?’

Serena shook her head vigorously. ‘No, I don’t think he planted it there. I think Maria did; in fact I feel sure of it. That intruder, Miles, I’m certain he was a reporter. Maria tipped him off because she wanted him to find the drugs.’

Camilla couldn’t suppress an incredulous laugh, wondering whether it was Serena’s cocaine and it had made her paranoid.

‘Come on, Sin …’

‘I know how it sounds, but Miles wasn’t on Zoë Cartwright’s list of employees for the event: I asked her. And the way he called himself the artist liaison manager, the way he knew exactly where Maria’s trailer was and knew all about her movements that day …’

‘Supposing you’re right, why on earth would Maria do it?’ asked Camilla, still not convinced.

‘Because she’s a total bitch, Cam. She wants to discredit me. God, this is all so stressful.’ She pulled a mirror out of her bag and started inspecting her face, fingers frantically moving over her smooth skin. ‘I look bloody awful. Do you think I should get a botox shot?’

Camilla looked at her wryly. ‘So you won’t take coke but you’ll have botox?’

‘It’s not funny,’ said Serena, flopping onto a cushion. ‘I tell you, Maria Dante is bad news for this family.’

‘Well then, you know what?’ replied Camilla. ‘I think she and Daddy really deserve each other.’