Читать книгу Daddy’s Girls - Tasmina Perry, Tasmina Perry - Страница 19

Serena was so bored she could hardly keep her eyes open. Although she usually loved talking about herself, she was sick to death of repeating the same glib sound bites about her ‘work’ on To Catch a Thief. Since she’d got back from Mustique two weeks ago, there had been three draining days of interviews in London and hundreds of phone interviews with all sorts of Japanese and European publications. Boring questions from people who could hardly speak a word of English. Now she had another two days of press and television interviews in New York, and if she had to trot out one more tired, clichéd line about, ‘What attracted me to the movie’, she swore she’d commit hari-kari with the heel of her Jimmy Choo.

‘Final question, please,’ said Clara the publicist, popping her red-bobbed head into the Four Seasons Suite overlooking Central Park where Serena was enduring her final interview of the day.

Thank Christ, thought Serena, forcing one final smile for the journalist from Time Out New York. She took a dainty sip of Badoit mineral water and crossed her legs, smoothing down the sharp crease of the Gucci slacks with her fingers. ‘Fire away.’

The journalist shifted in his chair. Clara had warned him that all questions related to Serena and Tom Archer’s recent break-up were strictly off the agenda, but with minutes of the interview to go, he had to give it a shot.

‘So then,’ he began, pushing his Dictaphone a little further in front of Serena, ‘you and your sisters are big stars in England. Do you think you can be as successful in New York?’

Serena tossed a sheaf of hair over her shoulder. This was the sort of question she enjoyed. ‘Well, of course I’m rather well known in London,’ she smiled, trying to sound modest. ‘And because of that my sisters have some degree of popularity …’

Having warmed her up, the journalist decided to change tack.

‘You went on a cruise on Roman LeFey’s boat. Did you enjoy it?’

Serena’s eyes instantly narrowed.

‘Yes, Roman is a very good friend of mine and we often travel together.’ She instantly knew where this was going and she wasn’t going to let this sallow hack get any sensational headline out of her.

‘Egypt is a beautiful country. I had a wonderful time,’ she said obliquely.

‘And I understand Roman introduced you to the billionaire hotelier Michael Sarkis?’

Serena gave up, a cloud of disapproval evident on her face. ‘I’m here to talk about the movie,’ she snapped, so ferociously that even the thick-skinned writer drew back in shock.

‘Of course,’ he stammered, ‘I just thought one quote about …’

Serena picked up the telephone beside her. ‘Clara, darling, we need you in here one moment.’

Clara bustled back into the room, her clipboard held tightly against her chest and a fixed smile on her face. She was one of the best publicists in the business and could get rid of unwanted attention in an instant. Serena pointed at the journalist haughtily. ‘Personal questions, darling,’ she said, shivering with distaste.

Clara beamed at the journalist and thrust a press pack into his hands. ‘I think that’s it for today. Any other information you might need should be in there. Goodbye!’

The journalist looked at her, deflated, pushed the papers into his bag and scurried out of the door, leaving the two women alone in the grandeur of the suite. ‘How was that? Not too awful?’ asked Clara kindly, topping up Serena’s mineral water.

Serena flopped back into the luscious feather down of the sofa, resting one stiletto boot heel on the coffee table, rubbing her toes through the leather.

‘I’m bloody exhausted,’ she pouted. ‘Journalists. They’re such a headache. Speaking of which, those lilies are making me feel sick,’ she said, flapping a hand at an enormous vase of trumpet flowers. ‘Can you move them and then get me some aspirin? I’ve got to leave this room before I get cabin fever.’

Clara was both professional and experienced, and over the years had dealt with more divas than she cared to remember. She merely smiled sweetly and phoned the concierge. ‘Aspirin’s on the way,’ she replied, busily tidying up the coffee cups as Serena tutted from the sofa.

‘You do remember,’ added Clara gently, ‘that the cast and crew screening of To Catch a Thief begins at eight p.m.?’

Serena flashed her a look of undisguised boredom. She had no intention of sitting in the dark with the third assistant director and the costume mistress. And besides, she had much bigger fish than To Catch a Thief to fry.

‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to make that, darling,’ she replied airily, lighting up a cigarette.

‘I have a very busy evening tonight and I want to be fresh for tomorrow. By the way,’ she continued casually, ‘can you make sure we have San Pellegrino instead of Badoit in the room tomorrow? Badoit is just a tad too salty.’

Upstairs in the Four Seasons’ presidential suite, Serena took a shower then paced around the room nervously. She walked over to the suite’s dining area, that jutted out fifty-one floors above Madison Avenue, making you feel as if you were floating in space over the pulsating heart of Manhattan. Perching on the edge of the dining table, she looked out at the panorama of New York spread out in front of her. Central Park had become a thick black gulf in the growing dark while yellow taxis darted around it like hornets. She took another drag of her cigarette. New York. She looked at it twinkling in front of her like a golden opportunity made physical, and shivered. Never before had she felt quite so exhilarated, yet quite so apprehensive. In London she had been the queen of the social scene; it was safe and cosy. But here, in front of the Manhattan skyline, London just seemed insignificant.

Serena didn’t want to be London’s hottest star; she wanted to be the world’s hottest star. And that was why she was about to meet Stephen Feldman in the Four Seasons’ bar. Feldman was chairman of Feldman Artist Management, one of the hottest, most ruthless and best-connected artist managers in America. Bicoastal, bisexual and brilliant, even a two-bit waitress was one Feldman strategy away from being a Hollywood superstar. And now he wanted to meet Serena Balcon. She glanced at her watch, then looked at herself reflected in the darkening window. She looked good, and if she played her cards right, New York – America – would soon be hers.

‘Two words. Grace Kelly,’ said Stephen Feldman in his camp New York drawl. ‘In fact, you’re gonna be bigger than Kelly. Sure, she was classy, but she was the daughter of a bum. Serena Balcon is the genuine article. I just know we’re gonna do something very special together.’ Stephen downed his glass of claret and waved the bar’s wine waiter over for a refill. Serena sat back in her banquette and basked. She was loving the attention that Feldman was lavishing on her, eyeing her up like a trainer inspecting a prized stallion.

‘That said, honey, you’ve got a lotta problems,’ he said picking a speck of dust from his camel Brioni cashmere jacket.

Serena looked at him, startled. ‘Problems?’ she spluttered, almost spilling her cocktail. ‘You’ve just been telling me how wonderful I am!’

‘Sweetie, just hear me out,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘If we’re going to get you up there with Julia, Catherine and Gwyneth, we’re gonna have to make some changes, which starts with getting a proper support system around you. I can’t believe you haven’t already got a manager!’ he said incredulously. ‘Honey, even waitresses in LA have a manager.’

‘I have an agent in LA and London and a publicist in London and it’s worked for me so far,’ she replied, trying to contain her annoyance. If Feldman didn’t have such a fearsome reputation, if he hadn’t worked wonders with the careers of Hollywood legends like David Sanders and Michael Montgomery, she would have been long gone.

‘It’s worked in London, honey. You’re playing with the big boys now,’ smiled Feldman, running his hand through his highlighted blond hair. ‘Plus, you don’t have Tom Archer by your side any more. Sure, he was cute, he was going places – he’s even got Oscar buzz around him now, but he’s gone. Now you have to get noticed by yourself.’ Feldman started stroking his chin, thinking up an angle. ‘Hooking you up with Hollywood royalty wouldn’t hurt. Look how Zeta-Jones skyrocketed after she met Douglas. Or what about the real thing? Hey, why not have a discreet affair with Prince William? You must know him, right?’

They ordered another round of drinks and Feldman took her through his plan. It was both dizzyingly exciting about the future and brutally critical of her past. Serena, he pointed out brusquely, had spent the last five years working on her celebrity not her career. Did she think Julia Roberts or Tom Cruise had made it without a carefully considered strategy? Yes, Feldman had watched some of Serena’s tapes, he said, but they had been mediocre movies with mediocre performances. However, there was some good news. Within five minutes of meeting her, Feldman said, he had known that Serena Balcon could be a good actress and, more importantly, a big, big star. She had a fabulous voice; a little plummy, sure, but rich and sexy, and there was charisma and expression in every little gesture she made. And her physical beauty was awesome.

‘So we’re going to get you to some acting classes,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I know a great woman, Ellen Barber, worked at Lee Strasberg for years, now she does a lot of stuff for me.’

Serena squirmed, caught between anger and embarrassment and still thinking about this so-called ‘Oscar buzz’ around Tom. Where did that come from? Not that poky little arthouse film that had had blink-and-you-miss-it distribution, surely?

‘Acting lessons? At this stage?’

Feldman just raised his eyebrows and looked at her. Serena met his gaze for a moment, then just nodded. Pleased, Feldman carried on with his vision. She would sign up with Greg Bloomberg, former whizz kid at the huge talent agency CAA, who had recently formed the SPK super-agency with some other talent from William Morris and CAA out in LA. He wanted her to be personally looked after by one of the top publicists, not one of their underlings – Pat Kingsley in LA, Lesley Dart or Muffy Beagle in New York. Most importantly, she would have to move to LA.

‘LA,’ she stuttered, instantly balking. She cast her mind back to several years earlier, shortly after she had been expelled from St Mary’s school, when she had flown out to LA to ‘make it’. It had been the only time she had met serious opposition from her father and the only time she had failed at anything. Six months, hundreds of auditions, and a bit-part in a mobile phone commercial later, she had returned to Britain with the stale taste of America’s West Coast in her mouth.

‘But I hate LA,’ she said, ‘the whole city is one big car park!’

Stephen laughed. He had been right about Serena: the girl was a diva already. ‘Sure, and that’s why I spend half my time in New York.’

‘Well, why couldn’t I then?’ asked Serena, pulling her best little-girl face.

Feldman thought for a moment. ‘I guess you could. Liv Tyler, Uma, Julianne Moore, lots of the big girls are based here. You’d still have to go out regularly to build up your profile on the West Coast, but I guess you could do it. The main thing is that you gotta forget about London and come to where the action is, baby!’

‘Well then,’ said Serena, lifting her flute, ‘I guess we’re in business.’

‘Damn straight!’ replied Stephen, clinking his glass against hers. ‘By the time we’ve finished, you’re not going to be just an actress, you’re going to be an international business brand – clothing lines, perfumes, real estate. J-Lo’s gonna shit when she sees you coming. We’re gonna be rich, baby, real rich!’

As she left the hotel and stood by the steps waiting for Michael Sarkis’s car, Serena looked into her compact mirror. She was pleased with the reflection. Her cream Stella McCartney trouser suit, left tantalizingly bare under the jacket, was the right side of casual but with enough chic to impress the Upper East Side ladies she was about to meet.

‘Just a low-key supper,’ Michael had said, insisting she come and meet some of his friends. Serena had been cautious, but flattered by the invitation. Since their passionate night in Mustique, Serena and Michael had been on as many dates as his hectic schedule would allow. There had been a night in Michael’s Mayfair apartment when he had been over in London on business, a dinner at the Voltaire in Paris when she had been doing the European junket and then there had been the weekend in New York. They had stayed in, eaten Chinese from little white cartons, and had had great sex in every room of Michael’s Fifth Avenue duplex; in the Jacuzzi, on the Philippe Starck coffee table, over the white leather couch. She’d been left exhilarated but uneasy. She had no idea whether their relationship was just fabulous, frenzied sex or whether they were edging towards something more. This invitation to meet Michael’s friends suggested it might just be the latter. And, to her surprise, she found herself hoping that might be the case.

‘Serena, baby. You look good enough to eat.’ She stepped into the back of the black Lincoln in which Michael was waiting, sinking into the deep leather seat. He motioned to his driver to close the privacy window. As the glass hissed upwards he slipped a hand under her jacket, brushing his thumb across her nipple.

‘Remind me who these friends are again?’ she mumbled softly, running her hands inside his cashmere overcoat. ‘Couldn’t we just turn around and go back up to my suite?’

‘Later, baby, there’re some people who want to meet you,’ smiled Michael.

Serena sat bolt upright in the black leather. ‘What do you mean, want to meet me?’

‘Relax. It’s just that word about us is getting around, darling,’ he laughed gently. ‘Apparently Liz Smith wrote a diary piece about us yesterday. I didn’t see it.’

Serena was shocked, but not surprised. On the one hand, it was surely good news that the big gossip columnists were writing about her, but on the other hand, she had only wanted word to get out about her and Michael after she was sure about their relationship. Tom was fading from her mind so swiftly that she sometimes had to ask herself if she had really spent five years of her life with him. But, as they pulled up to the dignified townhouse on East Seventieth Street, she wondered whether she really wanted to go public with Michael.

‘Michael, sweetheart. So good to see you!’ A platinum blonde in her mid-forties stepped forward as Serena and Michael entered the chandelier-lit drawing room. Harriet Fletch, ex-wife of millionaire restaurateur Daniel Fletch, was dressed in a powder-grey Tuleh chiffon dress with enormous diamond earrings drooping from her lobes. She smiled wanly at Serena, her eyes showing both curiosity and distaste.

Low-key supper, my foot, thought Serena, glancing quickly around the room. It was a cavernous space for Manhattan – all marble and oak panelling with gilt fittings and framed oil paintings. All rather vulgar, Serena judged absently, before her attention was distracted by a handsome Hispanic waiter in black tails who was presenting a platter of caviar blinis to other prototype blondes, all dressed in identical expensive designer clothes and jewellery and all with that same hungry, ruthless look in their eyes.

Thank goodness I wore the trouser suit, she thought as another gorgeous waiter handed her a glass of Krug. Whatever happened to the dress code for supper being a pair of Seven jeans, some heels and a pretty little Diane von Furstenberg top? That was how it worked in Chelsea, after all.

‘So this is Serena Balcon, I’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to my home,’ said Harriet, extending a thin, bony hand. ‘I loved seeing your sister’s place in Vogue the other day. Venetia is such a talented interior designer. I can’t wait until she opens her little store over here.’

Serena smiled graciously, but bristled underneath. She certainly didn’t need reminding of that little embarrassment; she was still smarting from Venetia’s appearance in her favourite magazine. Serena had reassured herself that Venetia’s Kensington home had been the star of the feature, but still, Vogue was her turf, and she didn’t like her sisters muscling in.

‘And how lovely to see you here with Michael,’ continued Harriet, stroking Michael’s cheek. ‘One of my favourite men in the world.’

The truth was, Harriet Fletch was far from delighted to see Serena at Michael’s side. On Monday, when she had heard the delicious rumour at Frederic Fekkai’s salon that Michael and his two-bit model girlfriend had split up, she wasted no time organizing one of her legendary soirées. Ever since her divorce from Daniel Fletch, Harriet had been on the lookout for husband number four, and Michael Sarkis more than filled her long list of requirements. Fabulously wealthy, incredibly sexy and with all those wonderful spa hotels all over the world, she need never spend another penny at the Bergdorf salon again! So she was seething as she read over her citron pressé and wheat-free pancakes that Michael had been seen squiring this wealthy English girl. But seeing Serena in the flesh, Harriet felt she was not defeated quite yet. OK, Serena was good-looking, but that aloof expression, the pompous Princess Diana accent, this Balcon girl was the ice queen incarnate, and Harriet knew from the Upper East Side gossip mill that Michael liked his women exotic, malleable and extremely adventurous in bed. This frosty frigid Brit wouldn’t last two minutes.

Harriet had of course made very sure that Serena was separated from Michael at dinner, placing her amongst people she had been sure would dislike her. Courtney Katz, Harriet’s best friend and ruthless social conspirator, and Gary Becker, plastic surgeon to the stars, who was sure to be turned off by Serena’s fleshy, natural look. However, Harriet had not reckoned on Serena’s social resilience; as a battle-hardened veteran of her father’s soirées, she could squeeze sparkling conversation from a shy Trappist monk. By the time the diners had reached their pistachio soufflés, Serena had steered the chat onto safe dinner party territory: whether the Hamptons were over as the summer weekend destination of choice. Serena let the conversation float over her head and glanced over at Michael, sandwiched between Harriet and an elegant woman in her sixties at the other end of the table. He tipped his head towards her and smiled. She gave him a slow wink back, unaware that Harriet was watching her every move.

‘Anyone who wants to take coffee in the study, feel free,’ announced Harriet suddenly, determined to interrupt this moment of intimacy.

‘Shall we?’ asked Gary Becker, the plastic surgeon sitting to Serena’s left, pulling out her chair. He was keen to spend more time with the English beauty: she was the first woman he had seen in years who had no need for cosmetic enhancement. She was like a precious gem to his artistic eyes, a perfect orchid to a botanist. The guests filed through the double doors of the dining room into the ‘study’. The huge room was crammed with oversized leather sofas and lamps with shades the size of space hoppers; these cast a warm yellow light around the room and onto the walls of neatly lined books.

Keen to shake off Gary, Serena strolled over and ran a finger down the spines of the books. Not quite the Huntsford collection, she thought smugly: more likely put together by an interior designer who had brought in the leather-bound science tomes, the heavy books of art and architecture, even the row of orange and white Penguin classics. Every one of them looked suspiciously unloved and unread. She took a black filter coffee from one of the ever-present gorgeous waiters and wandered through another door, finding herself in another spacious room, this time filled with English and French antiques. Who ever said New York properties were small? thought Serena.

Realizing that the coffee had wiped away her plum lip-gloss, she went to look for the bathroom to freshen up. As all the waiters were attending to the guests with silver coffee pots, she dismissed the idea of asking for directions and drifted upstairs, following the curve of the thick mahogany banister to the second floor. The wide corridors were lined with framed black-and-white photographs and smelt of Tiger lilies, but there was no sign of a bathroom. As she was turning to go back down, Serena distinctly heard a voice say her name. It had come from a room at the end of the corridor; she edged towards the sound of the voices. Through the tiny crack of the open door, she could see a huge mirror surrounded by light bulbs, and just caught the reflection of Harriet Fletch and Courtney Katz reapplying their heavy make-up.

‘I don’t see how she can make a living as a model,’ said Harriet cattily, rubbing a smudge of colour into her lips. ‘Rather big, isn’t she? Must be one hundred twenty pounds at least. She certainly shouldn’t be wearing that white pant suit.’

‘Seemed a little dull, too,’ said Serena’s dinner companion. ‘Lovely skin, though.’

Serena felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Big? Dull? She had never been called big or dull in her life.

‘I mean what is she, other than Tom Archer’s ex?’ asked Harriet, her hard voice muffled by the door.

‘An actress, I think. Can’t tell you anything she’s been in, though,’ said Courtney pointedly.

Serena’s jaw tightened with anger as she heard the two women dismiss her clothes, her career, her family. Only one second ago she’d been saying how fabulous Venetia’s house was: now Harriet Fletch was dismissing it as ‘stuffy’. Quivering with rage, she had to put a finger on the rim of her coffee cup to stop it rattling.

‘Thing about these upper-class Brits is that they still think they’re something special,’ continued Harriet. ‘The Empire is over, honey – it’s the twenty-first century! And most of those so-called grand families have so little money these days. I mean, that woman who writes Harry Potter. I hear she earns more than the queen these days.’

‘I don’t know what you were so worried about,’ laughed Courtney, snapping her compact shut. ‘I pumped as much information out of her at dinner as I could. She’s going back to England tomorrow. She’s only here to do some publicity.’

‘Is that so?’ said Harriet, the glee purring out from between her thin coral lips. ‘Well, I think I’ll give Michael a ring on Monday. Maybe invite him over for a more private supper.’

Hearing the women move from the dresser, Serena darted into another room, waiting until she could hear the sound of their heels clacking on the parquet of the ground floor. She took a deep breath to compose herself. How dare those hideous women talk about her like that? Who exactly did they think they were? If they could trace their lineage back fifty years to some jumped-up soup millionaire, they thought they were social royalty. They were anachronisms, vultures; women who could trap a man into marriage and then pick his carcass clean before moving on to the next poor sap. After a few more moments burning with righteous anger, Serena composed herself and slipped back down the stairs to rejoin the party, studiously ignoring Harriet Fletch who was scolding a waiter for putting a hot coffee-pot directly onto the top of an antique writing desk.

‘There you are, darling,’ said Michael, appearing at her side and slipping a hand around her waist. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ he purred, brushing his warm lips across the top of her ear.

‘What a nice evening,’ she whispered, planting a lingering kiss on Michael’s cheek in direct eyeshot of Harriet.

‘Well, everyone loves you,’ he drawled, leading her through French windows onto a terrace that had a view of Central Park. Michael pulled Serena to him and cupped her face in his hands.

‘How much are you enjoying it?’ he whispered, kissing the top of the nose. ‘A lot or enough?’

‘Enough? What do you mean?’ asked Serena.

Michael paused, a dangerous smile on his lips.

‘Enough to move here? To spend more time with me?’

Serena thought back to her conversation with Stephen Feldman and a flash of excitement lurched in her stomach.

‘Oh, I think I’ll take Manhattan,’ she laughed, gently gripping his fingertips between hers.

‘Well then, move in with me,’ said Michael softly. ‘I know it’s soon for you, but I just want to see you all the time. I don’t want to have to grab a dinner or a night with you when I’m rushing around on business. I want you to be here.’

She turned away from him, stalling for a moment to think. She desperately wanted to live in New York, but surely it was too early to jump into anything?

Her eyes moved from the skyline of New York back inside the house, where the drawing room glowed amber in the dark. Standing at the French windows was the silhouette of Harriet Fletch staring out onto the terrace, her hand on her hip, watching them intently.

Serena smiled over at her triumphantly before moving her head towards Michael to nuzzle his ear.

‘Move in with you?’ she whispered playfully, still looking at Harriet over his shoulder with unflinching eyes. ‘It would give me the greatest pleasure.’