Читать книгу Daddy’s Girls - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 12

The kitchen at Huntsford was the warmest room in the castle. Buried in its west wing, heat spewing out of the claret Aga and always smelling of freshly baked pies, it was a cosy sanctuary that everyone was drawn to. As a child and well into her teens, Serena would spend hours there, sitting at the big farmhouse table and stuffing her face with warm muffins when she should have been revising, or practising the piano, or tidying her room. Mrs Collins the cook should have sent her away or reported her to Oswald, but she was always such entertaining company, gossiping about school or making fun of her father, she didn’t have the heart. It was no surprise to the Huntsford staff that Serena had relied on her good looks and charm to make her way in life.

‘Here you are!’ Cate stood at the doorway in bare feet, holding a mug of coffee, and smiled to herself at the familiar scene. Dressed in an old pair of corduroy trousers and a tiny white cotton vest that stretched just far enough over her pert breasts, Serena had her feet curled up on the oak bench and was picking at a banana muffin, looking rather sorry for herself. She looked beautiful now rather than merely pretty, as she had done in her youth, thought Cate, but it still could have been a snapshot from ten, fifteen years ago.

‘Muffin?’ Serena’s voice was feeble and wobbly, her wide mouth downturned and sombre as she held out a conker-coloured cake in Cate’s direction. ‘Mrs Collins made me a batch but I can’t eat a thing. I just feel sick to my stomach.’

‘Hungover, perhaps?’ asked Cate with a smile. ‘Bananas, a diet coke and a brisk walk always do the trick for me.’

Serena looked at her incredulously. ‘What do you mean, “hungover”? I am sick with misery. In case you weren’t paying any attention last night, my relationship has unravelled.’

Cate was used to treading on eggshells around her sister – the slightest thing could easily set off a diva hissy fit, and it was clear that today she had to be extra careful. She went over to give her sister a hug; she felt thin and delicate in Cate’s arms. Her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, smelt fresh, but the red eyes from last night’s performance remained.

‘I still think we should take that walk. How about it?’

‘I have to wait for my PA to come over,’ sighed Serena. ‘I’ve got nothing suitable to wear, unless you call a kaftan suitable for a bloody miserable February.’

‘Well, borrow something of mine,’ said Cate.

Serena let out a snort. ‘I’m a size eight.’

They turned their heads as Venetia strolled into the kitchen, wearing a pair of Katharine Hepburn trousers and a slim-fitting olive cashmere polo neck, with a stack of newspapers under her arm and a frown on her face.

‘You’d better take a look at this.’ She threw the papers onto the tabletop and they spread out in a fan. Serena’s name was on every front page.

‘What the hell?’ Serena’s face went deathly pale as she saw images of Tom jumping off Roman’s dahabeah splashed across the front page of every tabloid.

‘Tom In The Drink – Serena Splits’, read one. ‘Nile Nookie Sends Serena Spare’, screamed another.

‘The papers were going to find out sooner or later,’ said Venetia, trying to strike a positive tone.

‘This is precisely what I pay a publicist thousands of pounds a month to keep out,’ hissed Serena as she frantically rifled through the papers. ‘I am going to fire her arse as soon as I get back to London.’

She stopped dead in her tracks as she read the first spread in the Sun. It carried a picture of a heavy-breasted girl in a bikini pouting next to a superimposed shot of Tom.

‘Archer tried to pick me up.’ As she read out the words, Serena’s voice began to wobble. She spun round to face Cate, stabbing the newspaper with her finger so hard it made a hole.

‘Just who the fuck is this tart? Who?’ she screamed, finally bursting into tears.

‘Come on Sin,’ Cate offered, using her youngest sister’s oldest nickname. ‘She’s just some nobody after a fast buck,’ she continued, putting her arm around her sister’s heaving shoulders.

Serena looked up suddenly, stopping the tears as quickly as they had started. She looked at Cate hopefully. ‘This isn’t true though, is it? Tom would never cheat on me, would he?’

Cate looked over Serena’s shoulder to read the story, while passing her sister a mug of tea. ‘I’m sure it’s just some silly barmaid in his local pub,’ replied Cate reassuringly. ‘She probably mistook Tom giving her a tip for a come-on. It’s amazing how people’s memory can change once they’ve had a big Fleet Street cheque waved in front of their nose.’

Outside the big mullioned window they could hear the clip-clop of horses’ hooves in the kitchen yard. Cate unbolted the big oak kitchen door to see Camilla climbing off a big bay mare. She was dressed in a pair of cream jodhpurs and fitted navy hunting jacket.

‘If there’s coffee on the go, I’ll kill for it,’ she called to Cate. She took off her riding hat, her blonde hair tumbling onto her shoulders.

‘Watch your step,’ Cate whispered as she approached the door, ‘Serena’s about to kill someone herself. Her story’s broken in the papers.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Camilla strode purposefully into the kitchen where Serena now had her head in her palms. She looked up as her sister entered.

‘Camilla. Thank God. There must be something legal we can do about this,’ she moaned.

‘But it’s true, darling,’ interrupted Cate delicately. ‘You and Tom have split up.’

Serena rounded on her sister crossly.

‘Thank you for the recap.’

Camilla was speedily running her finger over the text in professional mode.

‘We can potentially get an injunction to stop other things appearing – but we’ll be lucky to catch the News of the World coming out tomorrow.’

‘Anyway,’ said Venetia, curling a lock of hair around her finger, ‘it’s not entirely negative. I think you come out of it quite well,’ she said, pointing to the Mirror’s lead story, headlined, ‘Fairy Tale Over’.

‘What fairy tale?’ spat Serena, flinging newspapers across the room. ‘Beauty and the Bloody Beast? How can you possibly think I have come out of this “quite well”? Quite well is a multimillion-dollar divorce settlement, not tabloid humiliation.’

Having managed twenty-six years of Serena’s tantrums Venetia knew the best thing was to quash it as soon as possible. ‘Come on, let’s all go and get some fresh air,’ she said firmly, clapping her hands and herding them outside like a party of nursery-school children. ‘This will be old news by next week.’

Reluctantly Serena pulled on a pair of gumboots, grabbed Mrs Collins’ old multicoloured poncho from the back of the chair and slung it over her shoulders as they walked out into the grounds. The castle faded slowly from view as they walked further and further, the windows of the house glowing like a pumpkin against the dark drabness of the morning. From a distance Huntsford looked particularly grand, neo-Gothic with striking castellations, and the dramatic hills rising in the background cradled Huntsford like an emerald womb. Oswald had made some impressive renovations to the property since he inherited it; re-excavating the moat and adding a cricket pitch, a maze, a stunning light-filled orangery – and even a nuclear bunker in the eighties when everyone was feeling particularly jumpy about the Russkies. Even though it was looking a little ragged round the edges – the moat where Oswald used to take a daily swim was now full of moss, leaves and lichen – it still looked stunning at this time of day.

Serena was in no mood to sit back and enjoy the landscape. Her emotions were running riot. Anger. Hurt. And weaker forces she could hardly let herself admit – embarrassment and fear. It didn’t make sense, she thought, furiously stomping through the damp grass. Why would Tom be interested in some fat country girl, when he had her? She was sure Tom wouldn’t have been unfaithful, no matter what the papers said, but she was disappointed that she hadn’t found him waiting at the house when she’d returned from Egypt. After he’d finally been fished out of the Nile, Tom and Serena had had a prickly conversation about ‘spending some time apart’. Tom was going to take the first flight out of Cairo, while Serena had gratefully accepted Michael’s offer of his Gulfstream.

As there’d been no hordes of paparazzi waiting for her at Northolt, the RAF base in West London used by many celebrities to land their private planes, Serena had supposed that their bust-up had gone undetected by the media. She’d been relieved. On home soil she was sure she and Tom could work things out amicably, make a few choice appearances at the Ivy, smiling and holding hands to dispel any rumours, and take things from there.

But so far there had been nothing. No tearful appearances from Tom, no midnight phone calls, no expensive ‘forgive me’ Paula Pryke flower arrangements. Not even a text message to see how she was coping. The selfish bastard.

Having never suffered the indignity of being dumped before now, she couldn’t understand how their relationship had unravelled so fast, much less why Tom would want to end it so suddenly. What scared her most was what else it might be the end of – the best beds by the pool at the Eden Roc, the best table at the Cipriani, the invites to the couture shows, yacht parties, the Oscars. She felt nauseous thinking about it.

‘The worst thing,’ said Serena, getting suddenly aggravated and spinning round to face her sisters, ‘the very worst thing is that I’m in New York in a few weeks. Vanity Fair is hosting a party to celebrate my new film while I’m doing the East Coast junket. How can I turn up alone? I mean, Graydon isn’t even single any more.’

Cate and Venetia looked at each other cynically, looping an arm each through Serena’s as they walked along the long, dew-sodden grass as it sloped down towards the lake and the boathouse.

‘Come on, Sin, you are beautiful, talented, funny,’ said Cate, pulling her along.

‘Every man in the world would give his right arm to be at that party and find you single,’ added Venetia. ‘You’re fabulous.’

A weak smile pulled at Serena’s lips. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

Camilla smiled to herself. Such confidence in a crisis.

‘And that’s assuming you’ll even be single in a fortnight,’ she added, joining in the family motivation session. ‘Are you sure this isn’t just a tiff? What makes you think the relationship’s actually finished?’

Serena sighed dramatically. ‘The only way he could make this more final is if he hands me a bloody P45. He said he wants to take some “time out”, and he hasn’t even had the decency to call me.’

‘So why don’t you call him?’ asked Cate. ‘By the sound of it, you’ve hardly talked this through.’

‘No. Why should I be the one to ring him?’ Serena said tartly. ‘He was the one that behaved like a disgusting hooligan and then has the cheek to say we should take a break, as if I was the one in the wrong. He can keep that stupid fat country tart and see where that gets him.’

‘But if you don’t give him a ring, it’s going to be stalemate,’ said Cate pragmatically.

They had now reached the edge of the water. Serena looked out over the gleaming lake and began biting one tiny manicured fingernail. She looked sideways at Cate in a way that made Cate instantly on guard. She had a sixth sense when she was about to be manipulated by Serena.

‘You could always call him …’ Serena said slowly. ‘You two always got on. He’ll speak to you.’

Cate smiled and shook her head. ‘Oh no you don’t. Don’t try this one.’

‘Oh, please. I’ll do anything if you just do me this one favour.’

Venetia and Camilla exchanged smirks while Cate kept shaking her head.

‘Please, Catey. You never do anything for me,’ replied Serena sulkily, but seeing Cate’s face, she softened and changed tack. ‘Please. You can have that white Chanel couture coat I know you love. It probably won’t fit you, but you can have it anyway.’

Knowing it was futile to resist, Cate gave Serena a hug. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises.’

The moment was broken by a shrill ringing. ‘My phone,’ squealed Serena, pulling it out of her pocket. ‘You answer it,’ she said, thrusting it at Venetia. ‘If it’s Tom, tell him … tell him I’ve run away.’

Venetia refused to take it, so Serena angrily snapped it open, stalking off up the lakeside path towards the boat-house. ‘Yes?’

It was Janey Norris, Serena’s PA, who quickly and officiously ran through the arrangements for Serena’s day as if she was describing the D-Day landings. The ETA of Serena’s suitcases at Huntsford, the time of a meeting with her publicist, an emergency summit with her agent. ‘Your shrink and life-coach are both on holiday until next Friday,’ revealed Janey as Serena took exasperated breaths, ‘but I’ve arranged for a private masseur to come to your house on Tuesday for a hot-stone treatment, relaxing cranial therapy and four wave Hawaiian massage.’

‘Very good,’ nodded Serena. ‘And messages?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Forty-seven since this morning,’ reported Janey. ‘None from Tom, but somebody called Michael Sarkis was insistent he speak to you.’

Serena exhaled and snapped the phone shut, her conversation with Janey immediately terminated.

‘Has Tom called?’ asked Cate expectantly, trotting to catch up with Serena.

‘No,’ snapped her sister, ‘but I have to make a call, if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Who to?’ pushed Cate.

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘Who to?’ asked Cate again, her journalistic instincts sensing intrigue.

‘Michael, if you must know.’

Cate looked up, bemused. ‘Which Michael? Caine? Stipe? Angelo?’ she said with a smile.

‘Michael Sarkis, actually,’ said her sister a little smugly. ‘His GV brought me back from Egypt.’

‘Michael Sarkis the hotel guy?’ Cate lifted an eyebrow.

‘What’s that look for?’ Serena stomped away towards the boathouse as Venetia caught up with Cate.

‘What’s wrong now?’ asked Venetia, linking arms with her sister. ‘It’s so sad. She looks in so much pain.’

‘Pain?’ smiled Camilla cynically. ‘Fear, more like. She needs Tom and she knows it.’

‘You say that,’ said Cate with a frown, ‘but she’s just off for some secret chat with Michael Sarkis.’

Camilla looked worried. ‘She doesn’t want to get involved with the likes of him. He’s semi-criminal from what I’ve heard. Rumours of arms dealing and all sorts.’

All three girls looked at each other. ‘You know what she’s like.’

They did.

Serena had reached the boathouse – a small half-timbered structure on the far side of the Huntsford Lake. She opened the door with a creak, pushed a cobweb away with her hand and looked around tentatively, scared of mice or spiders. It was eerily quiet inside, but the soft eggshell paint of the interior and the tattered padded wicker chairs overlooking the water gave it a sense of calm.

She brushed some dust off the window seat and sat down, dialling the number that Janey had given her. Her fingernails stabbed at the buttons of the mobile – she was angry at Cate’s reaction to the name Michael Sarkis. Totally competitive, Serena assumed everyone was that way and, as much as she loved them, she was convinced her sisters didn’t want her to shin any higher up the greasy social pole.

She stared out at the lake, shimmering dark silver in front of her as the phone rang out. Her thoughts drifted to Tom and how she wanted to hurt him for making her feel so foolish, so humiliated.

The voice was male and businesslike but immediately softened when Serena announced herself.

‘Serena. How are you, my darling?’ he purred playfully. ‘I saw the pictures in Le Monde. I have no idea how they got pictures on La Mamounia. There must have been a long-lens photographer at the dock.’

Secretly pleased that her story had gone international, Serena still adopted a wounded tone. ‘It’s fine,’ she sighed, in a voice that indicated things were far from fine. ‘But thank you so much for the lift to London. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to just disappear after everything that happened. Not that I can actually return home. I’ve had to come to my father’s place.’

‘I know,’ said Michael firmly, ‘which is why I’m calling. I know you must have a hundred places you can escape to from the paparazzi, but I think my villa in Mustique would be perfect. It’s very, very private.’

Serena’s heart fluttered. She’d heard he had one of the most impressive houses on the island – bigger than Tommy Hilfiger’s, prettier than Princess Margaret’s old villa …

‘Does that sound any good?’

Serena paused, trying not to sound too excited. ‘It sounds lovely.’

‘That’s good. I want to offer it to you for as long as you need. Go, take a friend, relax, have a few spa treatments. You might even enjoy it.’

‘Are you sure?’ she breathed flirtatiously.

‘Of course I’m sure. It will be a pleasure. My secretary will call you tomorrow with further arrangements. Ciao, Serena.’

The line went dead with a click and Serena flopped back on the cushions. Thinking of Tom, her mouth tightened into a sour scowl and then, a second later, broke into a broad, victorious smile. She ran out of the boathouse, as fast as her gumboots would take her, skipping playfully as she approached her sisters.

‘Right then,’ she announced, pulling her arms tightly around her poncho as she felt her hangover kicking in. ‘Who fancies going to Mustique?’