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Elmore Bryant’s white Bentley weaved through the Oxfordshire countryside, along a labyrinth of thin, twisty-turny rural lanes barely wide enough for the big motor to pass through. It was a gorgeous afternoon for a wedding. Considering it was October, the weather had been much kinder than it ought to have been.

Elmore turned to Serena and squeezed her hand, which was resting on the leather seat alongside him. ‘Can I just tell you again what a darling you are for stepping in as my gorgeous escort for today?’ he smiled, pursing his lips up into a faux-kiss. ‘I can’t believe Horatio blew me out at the last minute. Serves me right for involving myself with fly-by-night Brazilians, I suppose.’

Serena smiled. ‘Well he is awfully handsome,’ she said. ‘You have to make some concessions for that.’

‘Anyway, we’ll have more fun,’ said Elmore, waggling the crisp white invitation in his hand. ‘It’s going to be a right old mix of people there, so it’s going to be fabulous for people-watching.’

They were en route to witness the nuptials of Elmore’s friend Melissa D to her banker boyfriend. Melissa D, the Canadian MAW – model-actress-whatever – and resident of Notting Hill had become firm friends with Elmore Bryant, having met him two years earlier at the Water Meadows Clinic. She had been recovering from a cocaine addiction, leaked to the press as ‘exhaustion’, while Elmore was in there to try and kick a nasty Roederer Cristal habit. Melissa was fairly well known in the British party pages, but like many MAWs, she had very little real steady income of her own, and had decided to tread the well-worn path of pretty It-girls before her and marry well.

She had managed to bag Robert Charles Baker, Old Etonian and successful merchant banker, whom she had met at The Cow gastro-pub in Westbourne Grove twelve months earlier. Robert Charles Baker had led a very grey life up until the point he had met Melissa, and was more than happy to acquiesce to her desire for Hello! to cover the wedding. The couple had been even more delighted when Elmore had told them he was bringing Serena Balcon as his guest, which would substantially increase the celebrity quota of the wedding, and hopefully the money Melissa could demand from the magazine. Serena, on the other hand, had failed to share their enthusiasm when Elmore had first invited her, initially refusing to go on the grounds that celebrity magazine weddings were just tacky.

She hadn’t taken that much persuading, however. All summer, with the exception of the catastrophe that had been the Huntsford Musical Evening, Serena had deliberately kept a low profile. Not only had she enjoyed retreating into her shell to lick her wounds, but her absence from the scene had had the welcome effect of making people more desperate for gossip, pictures and information about her life. But it was now October and, as the weeks had rolled on, media interest had waned. Even more alarmingly, a new batch of girls were being discussed in the press. She had instructed her publicist to turn down so many requests for cover interviews that the magazines had simply stopped calling.

In a strange, twisted way, Serena missed having her mobile phone clogged up with random callers from the tabloids and the long-lens snappers camping outside her home. Serena Balcon would never be forgotten, but there was just the slightest chill of worry blowing through her life right now. Yes, it had been her decision to take a little time out, but she was well aware how this game was played, and the last thing she wanted was her next appearance in the press to be a paparazzi shot of her all pregnant and big-breasted. She wanted to retreat and then emerge, butterfly-like, in January, once she had delivered the baby. But perhaps a little show-stopping publicity wouldn’t hurt in the meantime.

Almost as if reading her thoughts, Elmore gave her a sly sideways glance and grinned. ‘You know, Melissa is a beautiful girl, but I think she may be in danger of being upstaged by you this afternoon. You look utterly ravishing. Even if a tad naughty for wearing white.’

Serena looked down at her wonderful silk dress, so fine you could see a suggestion of her La Perla underwear underneath. Its neckline was deeply scooped, with tiny pearl buttons running all the way down the front, the bottom half of which Serena had left half undone to show a length of creamy leg. Her figure had filled out a little, the curve of her bump evident, so her form filled the dress like a delicious Greek urn, the fabric draping over it. Finishing the look with a pair of bronze high-heeled sandals with straps that wound all the way up her calves, and a thick gold bangle on her wrist, she looked like a ripe Grecian goddess.

‘Anyway, I’m not wearing white, I’m wearing blush.’

‘You’re terrible,’ smiled Elmore. And they both laughed.

The Chateau d’Or was one of the hottest destination restaurant/hotels in England, its marble mantelpiece straining under the weight of the many culinary awards it had scooped in the two years since its revamp. Once a grand old stately home modelled on one of the great Loire Valley chateaux, it had recently been transformed into a deluxe Michelin-starred restaurant. But the chateau’s popularity was as much to do with the sexy, sumptuous suites that peppered the grounds. It was the number one venue for romantic weekenders from all over Europe, and the Melissa and Robert nuptials had taken over the whole place for the day. Lime trees flanked the long gravel drive, while the dove-grey stone chateau had four dreamy turrets pointing into the strong blue autumn sky. The ceremony itself was due to take place in the vast conservatory at the back of the building, which had been decked out with tropical flowers and melting ice sculptures shaped into the initials of the bride and groom.

It was not difficult to work out which side was the bride’s and which was the groom’s, one half being awash with Roberto Cavalli, Dolce & Gabanna leopardskin, plumed Philip Treacy hats and the exotic smell of bespoke scent; the other half traditionally British and sombre, packed with a collection of morning suits in various shades of grey, kilts and old school ties. The Hello! photographers sprang into action when Serena walked through the door, their motors whirring frantically as she expertly posed for the shots. Despite not being a real acquaintance, let alone a close relative, Serena was ushered to the second row where all eyes were upon her, greedily inspecting what she was wearing.

Desperate to have a good look around the room to see who else was there, but knowing she shouldn’t appear too eager, Serena stared at her order of service until the music announced the entrance of the bride. From the corner of her eye, Serena examined Robert Charles Baker with a critical eye. A young, early thirties’ face made older by a serious expression and a country solicitor’s haircut, he had watery eyes and a weak chin. His rugby-player’s physique had run to seed, thanks to too many hours behind a desk. He must have thought his luck was in with Melissa, she smiled to herself. It was a classic case of the W11 compromise, where coltish models with a bog-standard background and no real talent would give good genes to the plain, whey-faced upper-middle classes – men whose public-school-bred arrogance made them believe they deserved gorgeous girls rather than the cosy, Alice-banded Sloanes they were far more suited to. Finally all heads turned as the strains of Paul Weller’s ‘You Do Something To Me’ filled the glass room and Melissa floated down the makeshift aisle.

‘What’s she wearing? What’s she wearing?’ hissed Elmore, straining to look. ‘She told me she was going “boho bride”.’ Melissa’s dress was loose and billowy; yards of snow-white organza falling from a high, Empire-line waistband, the sleeves voluminous and trumpet-shaped in the sheerest voile, like some medieval princess’s robe. Her dark chestnut hair hung loose, parted in the centre and falling in long, Pre-Raphaelite waves down either side of her face, cascading onto her shoulders. Instead of a tiara, she was wearing a fine gold headband. ‘All very Ali McGraw,’ whispered Elmore, his head turned almost 180 degrees.

‘Ali Baba more like,’ giggled Serena, turning to look towards the front again. ‘What on earth is that gold headband all about? Has she come as Flash Gordon?’

Satisfied that she was by far the most beautiful and well-dressed woman in the room, Serena settled back to enjoy the ceremony. Of course, it wasn’t her idea of a dream wedding: she found the notion of getting married in what was essentially a hotel more than a little common. Despite having no religious convictions whatsoever, she still thought that floating down a cathedral aisle with a train the length of an Olympic-sized swimming pool was the way to do it. But even Serena found it hard to remain cynical for very long. She’d tried to snort when the couple recited their homemade vows, but she had secretly felt quite touched when Robert and Melissa had kissed for the first time as man and wife and a warm roar of applause had rippled around the room.

As Robert and Melissa walked hand in hand up the aisle and the crowds filed out of the conservatory amid a swell of good-natured banter, Serena’s hands unconsciously began to stroke the curve of her pregnant belly. Just for a second she felt the hollow of loneliness. Shaking her head, she grabbed Elmore’s hand.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she whispered, aware that people were beginning to look at her. ‘I haven’t had a drink in about three months, but right now I could murder one.’

‘Hello, sister-in-law! Well. Prospective sister-in-law.’

Serena, sitting at her table in the banqueting hall, turned to see David Goldman standing in front of her, holding a glass of champagne, wearing the expression of someone for whom sobriety was soon to be a distant memory. Smiling, she stood, matching him in height in her four-inch Grecian sandals.

‘Sister in law?’ she replied. ‘I know I haven’t seen Cate much recently, but is there something you want to tell me?’

David laughed. ‘Merely a term of endearment,’ he said, taking a long sip of pink Moët.

‘Let me guess,’ said Serena, allowing a passing waiter to half-fill her flute, ‘friend of the groom?’

‘Ouch!’ winced David. ‘Below the belt, Miss Balcon. I am not, you should know, a traditional member of the financial community.’

Taking a moment to look him up and down, Serena had to agree with him. His midnight-blue suit was sharp and tailored, the brightness of his white shirt set off his golden tan, his jet-black hair was fashionably tousled, and his eyes – she noticed for the first time – were a rather startling steel grey, like a stormy night sky. In fact David Goldman had enough glamour to belong to the bride’s side of the room. Not that she was going to tell him that.

‘So where’s Cate?

Cate and David must have been together almost four months now, thought Serena, ever since the night of the Sand launch party. While she had only met David once or twice over the whole summer, she knew the couple didn’t see much of each other. Cate seemed to be constantly working, David doing whatever he did in the City. Still, she was rather surprised not to see her sister with her new boyfriend at this wedding.

‘Ah, you know what she’s like,’ sighed David, ‘always doing something or other with that bloody magazine. This weekend she’s in LA doing a cover shoot. Anyway,’ he smiled slowly, ‘as I’m dateless this evening, I would be delighted to spend it with another beautiful Balcon sister.’ He gave a mock bow.

She smiled, admiring his chutzpah. Serena often found that men were intimidated by women like her.

‘I hope you’re not implying that I’m second best? I never play second fiddle.’ Serena was conscious that her voice had a hint of flirtation in it.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied David with a smirk. ‘Now, can I tempt you with a dance?’

Despite herself, Serena was enjoying herself. Elmore had abandoned her, having disappeared to do a set on the piano, his gift to the happy couple. Thrown into the company of David Goldman, she found she rather liked his style. He was happy to gossip about misguided wedding outfits and to deflect the attentions of drunken investment bankers keen to talk to Serena; he also laughed in all the right places when she spoke, and swirled her around the dance floor making her feel as light as a fairy instead of six months pregnant. He wasn’t her type, of course. David Goldman wasn’t a star like Tom Archer or a billionaire businessman like Michael Sarkis, but she was beginning to see what Cate saw in him. David had eyes that looked as if they were constantly thinking up mischief, and a charm that made flirting seem like an art form. She began to wonder what David Goldman saw in her sister. So Cate was sweet, clever and pretty in her own way, but Serena knew David’s type: men that were turned on by beauty, glamour and women with a profile they could parade like a trophy. Men like that just weren’t turned on by women like Cate.

The party was winding down. A handful of guests were now flailing around on the dance floor to cheesy seventies disco music, while across the room, empty wine glasses stood in herds on claret-stained linen. The bride, minus her headband and shoes, and groom, minus his jacket and tie, left waving and giggling for the Honeymoon Suite on the first floor of the chateau. Elmore had last been seen disappearing with the DJ’s assistant, a young, swarthy man with a bottom as firm as an iceberg lettuce. In one corner, Melissa’s bridesmaid, a singer in a fading girl band, was passionately snogging an accountant in a grey suit. Looking around, David picked up a bottle of Moët and, disappointed to find that it was empty, declared that the party was over.

‘Had too much to drink anyway,’ he said, rubbing his temples. ‘So, where are you staying tonight, Miss Balcon? With Elmore? Or can I walk you somewhere?’

‘I believe I’m in somewhere called the Dovecote,’ said Serena. ‘I’m not entirely sure where it is.’

‘At the bottom of the herb garden, if I remember rightly. I’m not far from there,’ said David, standing to pull Serena’s chair back for her.

‘Just as well,’ replied Serena, ‘I may need an arm to steady me. I haven’t had a drink in ages and three glasses of champagne have pushed me right over my limit.’ She felt wobbly in her heels, but when they stepped out into the night, the cold air on her face woke her up with a start. Hurricane lanterns hanging from the trees released a gentle glow like fireflies, so she could just make out the shapes of other couples crossing the lawns on their way back to their suites. Her heels were sinking into the grass. She bent down to unlace her sandals, hanging onto David’s arm for support until she was barefoot on the wet lawn, which was strewn with autumn leaves and confetti. She didn’t let go of him as they walked to the Dovecote and, when they arrived at the door, David didn’t need to ask to come up to her suite. A duplex building, like a giant wooden beehive, they ascended a stone flight of steps to the first floor. A bluey-silver moonlight flooded through the windows, so that the enormous four-poster bed seemed lit up by a spotlight.

‘It’s such a beautiful room, isn’t it?’ she said, her voice soft and nervous.

‘Yes, beautiful,’ said David, unable to tear his gaze away from her. Her dress had gone almost totally sheer in the strange lunar light, giving her an unearthly shimmering glow.

Only feet from her, David reached his hand out to touch her fingertips. ‘What would you do now if I tried to kiss you?’

She paused for several seconds until David took a step closer towards her, touching her cheek with his fingers.

‘I’d let you,’ she faltered, drawing his head closer until she could feel his warm breath on her neck. As his soft lips touched her skin, she felt a fire of longing. It was too long since she had felt someone’s touch.

His fingers expertly moved up to the scoop of her neckline and began slowly, deliberately undoing the tiny pearl buttons one by one, until the fine fabric just slipped off her shoulders and onto the floor like a feather. He unclipped her coffee-coloured lace bra, his head swooping down to take a hard, brown nipple between his lips. Unable to stop herself, her fingers played with the buckle of his belt, uncoiling it from the loops of his trousers like a snake springing into action. A fleeting picture of Cate flashed before her eyes, but she squeezed them shut. Cate wasn’t serious about David, she thought, they hardly saw each other, pushing the image of her sister back like a genie into its bottle.

David pulled Serena’s tiny thong down over her thighs and she pushed him backwards. Not wanting him on top of her with her protruding bump, they fell back into the goose-down folds of the duvet.

‘Like this,’ she whispered.

Totally naked, except for a condom straining over his massive erection, Goldman lay back and Serena straddled him, her firm thighs pressing against his submissive body. She took his cock and tipped the end into her wetness, stroking her clitoris, then sliding him in so slowly that he groaned out, his hands reaching up greedily to play with her breasts. Rocking, then grinding her hips into him, her pelvic muscles squeezing his shaft tightly inside her, she watched his face crease with pleasure, his eyes closed, an ecstatic moan escaping from his lips. Completely in control now, and enjoying the sense of power, she lifted her body upwards so she almost slipped off him before thrusting back down on him again, her free hand cupping his balls.

‘Fuck, fuck, incredible,’ he moaned. His body arched towards her before caving back on the mattress while Serena felt her own intense orgasm. Looking down to see his exhausted, handsome face, his lips tilted upwards, she felt another wave of pleasure rush through her. She smiled, satisfied and reassured. Serena Balcon had not lost her touch.

At half past twelve on Sunday morning, David Goldman rapped noisily on the door of Nick Douglas’s Highgate flat, hoping that his friend would be up and functioning. He needed help. He had slipped out of Serena’s bed hours earlier, hastily checking out of the Chateau d’Or before he bumped into anyone, and no doubt clocking up several speeding tickets on his frantic 120-mile journey back to London, while torturing himself with the question of what to do next. Did he regret having slept with Serena Balcon? Honestly? No. Serena was the conquest he had been waiting twenty years for. Christ, she was sexy, beautiful, horny; he had never slept with a pregnant woman before and, OK, at first the swell of her stomach was a little strange, but my God, the woman had been insatiable until the early hours of the morning. David Goldman had slept with many women, but the glamour models, the bit-part actresses, the fluffy-blonde bits about London: all of them were now instantly forgettable next to Serena Balcon. Except her sister Cate, of course.

He felt suddenly anxious once more. Cate Balcon. Pretty, yes, but not the best-looking woman he’d ever been out with. The body a little bit too curvy for his liking, but she was funny, clever, privileged. And with that sweet, trusting innocence he found lacking in so many women, she had managed to get right under his skin. David Goldman had never seriously considered settling down before, but increasingly he thought that adorable Cate Balcon might just be the woman to … well, not tame him exactly, but at least make him want to settle in one place for a little longer than usual. Which was why, standing outside Nick Douglas’s front door, he felt absolutely terrible. He didn’t want to think about last night any more, but he had to. The champagne, the Pimms, the whisky: it was all still swilling around his bloodstream making his body feel like jelly and his head like cotton wool. He knew that he had two options: to tell Cate what had happened, or to keep quiet. Of course the latter choice was by far the more appealing option, but was Serena the sort to confess to her older sister? In which case it would be far worse than if he tried to undertake some damage limitation himself. He decided to turn to the one person who knew Cate the best: Nick.

The intercom buzzed and he walked in to find Nick lying prostrate on the sofa, surrounded by Sunday newspapers and a plate showing the remains of a full English breakfast: coagulated rivers of egg, bacon rinds and the leftovers of tomato skins. David felt even more sick.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ said David, flipping a pile of magazines off a chair to sit down.

‘Like a pig in shit,’ smiled Nick. ‘Do not underestimate man’s love of pottering about on a Sunday morning. It’s a great British tradition.’

‘Lucky for some,’ said David, resting a foot on the coffee table. ‘I’ve just bombed it back from Oxfordshire.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Nick, getting up and moving towards the kitchen. ‘Weren’t you at some wedding or something? Tea?’

‘Coffee. Strong.’

‘Coming right up. There’s some football starting in a bit if you feel like hanging around this afternoon. Cate’s not back until tonight, is she?’

‘No, not back until tonight …’ repeated David distractedly. He shifted himself in his chair until he was perched on the edge, his hands nervously running through his hair.

He took a deep breath, for a second wishing he hadn’t come round to Nick’s. Seeing his old friend’s flat, once a pristine designer apartment when he had shared it with Rebecca Willard, now an untidy bachelor pad spilling over with books, CDs, even a pizza box from last night, he realized how much he had grown apart from Nick over the past few months. Suddenly he wasn’t at all sure where Nick’s loyalties would lie. The plain facts were that Nick had spent far more time with Cate recently, and was probably actually closer to her than to David. But David had to bet that their friendship of fifteen years was strong enough. Besides, men had to stick together on these things, didn’t they?

‘I haven’t come for football or for some morning-after TLC, but thanks for the coffee,’ said David, lifting the steaming mug Nick had placed in front of him. He paused.

‘What’s up?’ asked Nick.

David took a deep breath. ‘I’ve done something I shouldn’t.’

‘Jesus, what is it?’ asked Nick, suddenly concerned by David’s grave manner. ‘Has there been an accident?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ said David, reaching up and pulling his collar away from his neck as if it was strangling him. ‘As you know, I was at my friend Robert’s wedding last night. I didn’t really know anybody there.’

‘Not like you,’ smiled Nick cynically.

‘Well … Serena was there.’

David let the silence hang between them, waiting for Nick to take the bait and stop him from having to say the words himself.

‘And?’

David just looked at the floor.

‘Tell me you didn’t …’ said Nick, his eyes wide.

‘She was there, I was drunk,’ said David, his voice getting a little high-pitched. ‘You know what she’s like, she was giving me this whole, “Oh look after me, I don’t know anybody here” thing. She took advantage of me.’

Nick’s voice was deadpan. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

David began to relax a little. He could tell Nick was furious, but at least he wasn’t going to punch him or throw him out of the window.

‘You’re a bloody idiot!’ said Nick quietly, trying to contain his anger. ‘What is Cate going to think? What’s she going to feel? Don’t for a second think you can trade one sister in for another! I’ll tell you this now: Serena won’t give a shit about you. She probably won’t even remember your name this morning – you’re hardly Hollywood Reporter fodder, are you?’

‘She’s not that bad,’ said David quietly.

‘Anyway,’ said Nick, putting his cup down in disgust, ‘this isn’t about Serena, this is about Cate.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said David, getting a little irritated now. ‘You know her best, what shall I do?’

‘You should have thought about that before you put your … God! The woman’s six months pregnant!’

‘Look,’ said David, ‘I know you’re pissed off with me and that you’re close to Cate, but that’s why I came here, to ask your opinion. Do you think I should tell her?’

‘Oh, and what’s the other option?’ said Nick tartly. ‘Brush it under the carpet and hope it goes away?’

David looked a little helpless, much less like a powerful City player, more like a confused little boy. ‘You never know,’ said David, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Serena’s not likely to tell Cate, is she? And if I don’t tell her …’

‘Knowing you, I bet you slunk off with your arms around Serena in full view of everyone yesterday. And wasn’t the place crawling with journalists from Hello!?’

‘They’d all gone home,’ said David petulantly.

Nick struggled to keep some level of composure in his voice. ‘Look mate, you’ve got to tell her. And you have to take the consequences. You’ve made your bed, so to speak.’

David sat back in his chair and exhaled loudly, as if a weight were being lifted from his chest. Suddenly resigned to his fate, he felt a little less lost, a little more like his old self. ‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ he said grumpily.

Nick kicked a pile of newspapers under the sofa. ‘You’re a real wanker, aren’t you?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She really doesn’t deserve you.’

David stood to go, snatching up his car keys from the arm of the chair. ‘That’s a matter of opinion, Nick,’ he said, his confidence almost fully restored. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ And he sauntered out the door.

Cate was jet-lagged, but otherwise was in a good mood. Having breakfast at the swish Wolseley on Piccadilly with Nick and Jenny Tyson, her favourite PR, a lively no-nonsense sort of woman who loved to spill industry gossip, she was feeling tired but happy. And hungry – Cate quickly polished off her American waffles covered with streams of maple syrup, accompanied by a cup of Earl Grey tea. Jenny had nibbled at a bagel, but was in a hurry to dash.

‘Big kiss to you both,’ she said, puckering up at the air over both of Cate’s cheeks. ‘I have to be back at the office by ten, otherwise nobody will do a thing.’

‘I know the feeling,’ said Cate. ‘I’m just going to finish my juice,’ she said, pointing to her glass, ‘then we’re off too.’

As Jenny disappeared through the revolving doors, Nick picked up a brochure for a Maldives island retreat that Jenny had left for them. ‘Well, that was pretty useful,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so hard on PRs in the past. What she was saying is that this hotel will let us take a celebrity out to the Maldives, spend a week shooting them, and they’re going to pay for it all?’

‘Something like that, yes,’ said Cate, amused. ‘Music to your ears, eh Mr Scrooge?’

Cate took a gulp of orange juice and kicked back in the banquette, stretching herself in an effort to wake up a little more. ‘But I tell you, that is the last weekend I am working for the rest of the month. These trips to LA just kill you for the next few days. I think it’s about time I started reclaiming a little bit of my life back from the magazine. What did you do this weekend?’

‘Nothing much,’ shrugged Nick, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. ‘Just mooched around, read the papers, watched a video. A quiet one.’

Cate nodded. ‘I was supposed to go to some wedding with David this weekend, but I had to knock that on the head. That model, Melissa D? Not too keen on her, but I wouldn’t have minded going to the Chateau d’Or: it sounds gorgeous. Maybe David will take me one weekend,’ smiled Cate, reaching to pull on her jacket. ‘I hope it wasn’t too unbearable being on his own, but he’s so sociable, isn’t he? Have you spoken to him?’

‘No. Yes. Er, no,’ said Nick, reaching down to pick up his bag from the floor. ‘Have you?’

‘Well, have you spoken to him – yes or no?’ said Cate, amused.

He looked over at the revolving door, pretending not to have heard her. ‘Shall we go?’

Cate’s instincts, although muted by jet lag, could still pick up on the atmosphere. ‘Nick, what’s wrong? Have you spoken to David?’ she asked, more seriously this time.

‘No,’ said Nick crossly, ‘now let’s go. I’ve got a meeting at eleven.’

Cate smelt a rat. It wasn’t like Nick. During the meeting he had been ebullient and chatty as usual but, as soon as the conversation had switched to David, he had become like a Trappist monk.

‘Nick Douglas,’ said Cate again sharply, ‘is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘No!’ said Nick.

‘Well you’re a crap liar,’ said Cate, who put her bag back on the table with a thump. ‘Have you seen David?’

‘OK. Yes, actually, very briefly yesterday afternoon.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’

Cate narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Come on, Nick, what am I missing here?’

‘Look, I’m sure David will tell you all about the wedding himself,’ said Nick, suddenly regretting having said anything.

‘And is there anything to tell?’ asked Cate again. She knew intuitively that something was wrong. The prospect of David attending a wedding that had no doubt been packed with glamorous young things was not one to fill her with confidence. She was not a fool. Things had been going well between them, but she was not deluded: she knew that David had an eye for the pretty girls and, while she’d never seen any evidence of it during the four months they’d been seeing each other, what better place to test his faithfulness than at a wedding like that?

‘Is there something I should know about David at the wedding?’ said Cate, trying to catch Nick’s eye. Nick simply shook his head.

She grunted. ‘I could just ask David, but who knows whether you’ll get the truth from any man?’ she said pointedly. ‘I think I’ll ask Serena to ask her friend Elmore. I know he was at the wedding.’

‘Well, why not ask Serena directly?’ said Nick. ‘She was there too.’

‘Well I will!’ said Cate, collecting her things.

Nick grimaced, cursing himself for letting his mouth run off again. He had been sure David Goldman would have talked to Cate already. ‘Leave it Cate,’ said Nick, trying to sound more casual, ‘there’s nothing to tell. You’re just overreacting.’

‘Well, forgive me if you’ve made me paranoid, Nick,’ she said sarcastically.

‘Let’s just get back to the office,’ said Nick, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re just jet-lagged.’

Cate shrugged him off and turned for the door. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

Back at her desk, Cate was restless. She didn’t see David more than two or three times a week, but they spoke frequently and it was unusual that, during the twelve hours she had been back, she hadn’t heard a peep from him. Nick had definitely been on edge about something at breakfast that morning. He was a terrible liar. Very soon after they’d met back in February, she’d noticed how his eyes shone when he was trying to get something past her.

Unable to concentrate, she picked up her jacket and walked out of the building to hail a cab, giving the driver Serena’s address in Chelsea. The weather was on the turn: blobs of rain started to bounce off the window where she lightly rested her head, watching London slip by in a daze. Suddenly her mobile rang. She picked it up and looked at the number. It was Nick. She put it back in her bag. The second time it rang she ignored it, and the third time she simply switched it off.

Her first thought had been to confront David, but somehow she knew that he’d be able to outmanoeuvre her. It would be easier to wheedle it out of Serena if she had seen something or heard something. If her sister was one thing, it was a terrible gossip.

Serena had the top two floors in a striking white Palladian-fronted house in The Boltons. Cate rang the intercom buzzer three times before a sleepy voice answered and she was buzzed inside. Cate wondered frantically how to play it. Bluff, she thought. Pretend she knew more than she did. That was the way to do it. Serena answered the door still yawning in a white cotton gown, her long blonde hair tousled like a surf girl’s, an embroidered silk sleep-mask on top of her head.

‘Cate. What do you want?’ she mumbled. ‘It’s my day off.’

‘From what?’ asked Cate, unable to help herself.

Serena tutted and glanced down at her watch. ‘Well, you’ve got about half an hour. The Moonstone Club are coming round at three.’

‘The Moonstone Club?’

‘Elmore’s found this incredible psychic who’s got a PhD and everything. She chairs these meetings where we all talk about spirituality and stuff. There’s about ten of us and it’s just amazing. It’s like the, the new … book club.’

Cate couldn’t believe Serena had ever attended a book group.

She took a moment to look around Serena’s new flat, which she had just moved into after a two-month stay at Claridge’s. It had not been carefully interior-designed, just like Serena and Tom’s Cheyne Walk house, but there was a pretty insouciance about it, a blank white canvas with polished walnut floors, full of beautiful, glamorous things for a beautiful, glamorous person. Overlooking St Mary’s Church, it must have been costing her a fortune.

‘How did you find this place?’ asked Cate curiously.

‘Remember Sheikh Kolum, who I used to see all the time when I used to go down to L’Equipe Anglais?’

Before Tom, Serena had gone through a phase when she was never out of London’s Eurotrash nightclubs. ‘Vaguely,’ she lied.

‘Well, it’s his London pad. He’s hardly ever here; always in Paris these days, so he says I can have it until at least New Year. Anyway, can I get you anything?’ she yawned, waving her hand in front of her casually as if she had no intention whatsoever of going to get anything for her. Cate knew she could spend half an hour making small talk until the Moonstone Club arrived, or get straight to the point, her curiosity about David still gnawing away at her.

‘How was the wedding?’

‘OK, nothing special,’ replied Serena casually.

There. Cate could see it. She knew her sister so well that she could distinguish her arrogant indifference from evading an issue.

‘I want to know what happened,’ said Cate quickly. ‘And you might as well tell me everything because Nick’s already told me.’

Serena seemed to twitch awake as if she’d been given an adrenalin shot. ‘Oh, and what’s Nick told you?’ she said haughtily.

‘He told me about David.’

‘Oh, what does Nick Douglas know about anything?’ said Serena, tying her cotton gown around her more protectively. Serena was an actress. She was a good liar: convincing, manipulative, natural. But Cate could see a look of pure guilt painted on her face. Not obvious, more soft and subtle like a watercolour, but it was there nonetheless.

‘David went to see Nick yesterday after the wedding. He told him,’ said Cate with false knowingness in her voice.

Serena gazed down at her fingers stretched out in front of her. For a few moments the room fell totally silent.

‘He came on to me, you know,’ she said, looking up suddenly, her eyes blazing defiantly.

The enormity of what had just been said spun around the room. Cate’s breath quickened. Five simple words: ‘He came on to me.’ Me. Serena. Her sister. She felt as if she had been kicked in the chest.

‘It was you?’ she whispered.

Serena’s face was pallid with guilt. ‘Cate, seriously. Nothing happened,’ she said quickly, trying to sound casual.

‘I don’t believe it!’ said Cate, the words starting like a whisper, building in ferocity until she was screaming. ‘You slept with him, didn’t you?’ she spat, jumping up off the sofa.

Serena took a step backwards, beginning to edge out of the room. ‘Cate, I didn’t. I promise,’ she stammered.

‘At least have the guts not to lie to me,’ Cate yelled, struggling to catch her breath. She looked at Serena’s pale face and wanted to summon up a barrage of hate in her voice, but it wouldn’t come. Instead she turned her back away from her sister and started pacing the room, blinking tears back furiously. She felt every muscle in her body crumple.

‘Catey, I’m sorry. I really am.’ She moved forward to touch Cate who recoiled back so quickly she almost stumbled.

‘Get away from me,’ she started sobbing. ‘Get away.’

She sank back into the sofa, her body like a rag doll.

‘Why? Serena, why did you do it?’

‘Cate. I feel so terrible. I was drunk. You know I haven’t been drinking. I didn’t think –’

‘I don’t care if you were drunk,’ she said ferociously. ‘I don’t care if you were so drunk you screwed every man in the room. What I care about …’ Cate could feel her voice crack. ‘Is why him …? When you could have had anybody, why did you have to pick him?’

Serena sat on the edge of a chair, her hands falling in her lap. ‘Because he wanted me,’ she said softly. Her voice was low, calm and controlled. Cate couldn’t tell whether it was with guilt or arrogance.

‘You bitch,’ whispered Cate, feeling her fingernails dig into her palms. ‘You selfish, spoilt, self-obsessed little bitch.’

‘It didn’t mean anything,’ faltered Serena.

‘It didn’t mean anything?’ Cate replied incredulously. She swiped her hand in frustration through the air. ‘Well, it means something to me,’ she croaked. She put her head down and, biting her lip to keep controlled, picked her bag up and headed for the door.

‘Cate, don’t go. Please, let’s talk about it …’

Cate looked back, her eyes simply sad. ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ she said, opening the door.

‘Cate, wait. No …’

But Cate had gone, running down the stairs and onto the street, feeling as if her whole world had exploded and was raining down around her in a cloud of thick, dark, choking ash.