It was the hottest day of the year and the Guards Polo Club was buzzing. Anyone who mattered was sipping champagne in the Cartier tent in the Smith’s Lawn enclosure.
There was always gossip to dissect when high society, Hollywood and big City money collided, but today there was only one topic of conversation on anyone’s lips: Donna Delemere, society wife, daughter-in-law of one of the richest men in England, had been a hooker! Karin had nearly choked on her wheat-free pancakes when she had opened her paper that morning.
High Infidelity!
read the headlines.
Delemere wife – Call Girl: Society wife plays high-class escort to arms dealer
.
It was a genuine shock and, even now, hours later, as she mingled with the beautiful and the rich in the Cartier enclosure, she still found it hard to take in. After all, there were plenty of women in Karin’s social circle that she would have put money on having been high-class hookers sometime during their ascent to the top flight of society – but quiet, mousy Donna? Karin had read every word of the shocking story, praying that she hadn’t been name-checked as a ‘friend’, and when she was satisfied that her brand
name hadn’t been sullied with the scandal, she had called Donna to extend her support. Not surprisingly, she had not been able to reach her. Her mobile was turned off and the Delemere home phone went straight to a terse message on the answerphone.
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ said Celia Chase,
Class
magazine’s editor-in-chief, sidling up to Karin as she was examining the table plan just inside the Cartier marquee. ‘I don’t think I can remember such a scandalous summer.’
Karin’s first thought was to jump to her friend’s defence and give this stick-thin blonde a piece of her mind, but she needed the press on side at all times, so she smiled politely. ‘I can assure you it’s a pack of lies,’ she said, taking a sip of mineral water to moisten her lips. ‘I haven’t spoken to her yet, but I’m sure she’ll be instructing her solicitors as we speak.’
‘Someone else asking about Donna?’ said Molly, walking over to Karin, her arm protectively around Marcus’s waist.
‘Poor thing,’ said Karin, playing with the little Cartier lunch pass that was pinned onto her cream chiffon dress. ‘The knives are out for her. At least she can count on us, anyway.’
Adam came over and gave Karin a kiss on her bare shoulder. He looked handsome in a cream two-button suit and a pale blue shirt with a high collar. ‘We’ve just been invited into the Chinawhite tent after the match. What’s that?’ he asked, taking a flute of champagne from the outdoor bar.
‘Big club in London. Good DJs,’ said Molly. ‘Kind of a Moroccan vibe. They have a tent here every year.’
‘Moroccan vibe, eh?’ said Marcus, sipping his Pimms. ‘So there’ll be belly dancers and hookahs?’
‘No, Donna’s not here today,’ sniggered Adam.
‘Honey!’ cried Karin, slapping him on his arm, ‘this isn’t
funny. Donna is my friend. People will be talking about us.’
‘I thought that’s what you loved,’ he smiled.
‘Not like this,’ she said seriously.
What a wonderful afternoon, thought Molly, sitting down for lunch in the marquee. She loved the Cartier International Day: an amazing social scene plus sexy Argentinian polo players cantering up the pitch in those fabulously tight jodhpurs – what more could you want? Adding to her pleasure was the reaction to the Donna Delemere revelations; it was playing out exactly as she had hoped. People who had never met Donna revelled in the delicious gossip and delighted in speculating on which other well-known names had been high-class escorts to Adnan’s circle. The Sunday newspaper that Alex had chosen had done a brilliant job: in an eight-page special, they had boasted how they had smashed an international vice ring involving top models and personalities who would service the world’s most wealthy men for £10,000 a time. The whole thing, they had claimed, was masterminded by London madam ‘Bettina B’, who they were now calling Europe’s Heidi Fleiss. Molly smiled to herself. In another life she could have been a tabloid reporter.
As for the people who did know Donna, Molly could tell by their embarrassed disquiet that the story had suddenly stirred up all sorts of unwelcome concerns. They all had something to hide somewhere down the line; seeing one of their number sliding back down to the bottom of the heap made them very nervous indeed.
Serves you all right for being such judgemental bastards
, she thought, fixing a stare on Karin. Molly knew what women like that said about her. That she was a washed-up nobody. A slut, a whore. Well, look who really is the whore, Molly
thought triumphantly. One of their butter-wouldn’t-melt inner circle.
The rest of the day passed in a whirl of socializing. Molly kept bumping into people she hadn’t seen in ages, people to whom she could boast about going out with Marcus Blackwell, about how happy she was, about her fabulous renovations at The Standlings. It was wonderful. Finally, Molly and Marcus left the grounds in Marcus’s convertible, taking a quick exit out of the park to avoid the traffic jams. With the sweet summer evening breeze ruffling through her hair, and Marcus’s hand reassuringly on her knee, Molly was filled with a glorious molten happiness. It had been a perfect day. They were only ten minutes from home when her mobile phone rang. She sighed; there was always something.
She snapped open the phone, but didn’t recognize the voice at the other end. ‘Who is this?’ she said, frowning.
‘It’s Patsy Jones, Donna’s sister,’ said the voice. ‘Forgive me calling, but I needed to speak to you.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Molly, noting the crack in the woman’s voice.
‘It’s Donna. Daniel’s left her and, well, Donna’s taken an overdose.’
The following evening, Molly drew up to Delemere Manor in Marcus’s chauffeur-driven car. There was the inevitable pack of paparazzi by the gates, of course, but as the house was buried in a thousand acres of parkland, there was an eerie quiet around the house itself. What Molly found even more disquieting was that she had heard no word from Alex. She had met him on the previous Friday evening in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow to arrange full payment to Sharif Kahlid. Alex was due to fly out to Spain that evening, wisely putting himself beyond the reach of reporters when the story broke, but he hadn’t been in touch since; he clearly hadn’t heard about Donna’s overdose. She had thought about trying to contact him but decided it was better to visit Donna and find what had really happened first.
Donna’s sister Patsy answered the door of Delemere Manor; Molly instantly remembered her from Evie’s christening. In her late thirties, she had dark blonde hair that straggled to her shoulders, and a once-pretty face that looked permanently tired. She looked completely out of place in the hallway of the manor with its marble busts and Old Masters on the walls. Molly idly imagined them in some nineteenth-century period
drama, with Patsy cast as the galley cook and Molly the lady of the manor, ruling everyone with her iron fist.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ said Patsy in a small voice, as she led Molly into a small drawing room. ‘It’s been awful. Photographers trying to scale the walls, reporters phoning all morning. I can’t get in touch with Daniel at all and Alex and Vivienne are in Spain. Donna doesn’t want to tell him until she has spoken to Daniel, but when we couldn’t track him down …’ Patsy tailed off, her voice wobbling. ‘… Well, anyway, Donna said you would be the best person to call.’
Molly took off her jacket and threw it over a Hepplewhite chair and nodded sympathetically. ‘I take it she’s back from hospital?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Patsy. ‘It was only an overnight stay. She took paracetamol but not enough to do any real damage. The Delemeres’ family doctor has been wonderful; sorted out for Donna to see a psychiatrist. One of the best, apparently.’
Molly smiled, her face a mask of concern, secretly wondering why she over all of Donna’s other friends had been requested. The least of all evils, she thought; Karin and Christina would scare the bejesus out of the likes of Patsy.
‘Well, let’s go and see her,’ said Molly decisively. ‘I can’t imagine how awful this whole episode has been for her.’
Molly followed Patsy up the sweeping mahogany staircase, down a corridor and into the master bedroom, where Donna was lying like a thin child in a heavily swagged four-poster bed. She was propped up on a thick wedge of white pillows, trying to read a magazine in the early evening light pouring in from the long Georgian windows.
Lucky bitch
, thought Molly.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said with a weak smile as Molly sat on the bed beside her. ‘Sorry for dragging you all the way out here.’
‘I’m a country girl myself now, remember,’ said Molly, squeezing her hand. ‘It didn’t take long and, anyway, I would have come at whatever time of day or night, you know that.’ She looked around the bedroom. ‘Where’s Evie?’ she asked.
‘With the nanny. She’s fine.’
There was an awkward pause before Molly asked the obvious question. ‘Oh Donna, why? I know you’re in a bad place, but you’ve got a little daughter to think of now.’
Donna turned away and gazed blankly out of the window. There was a long silence before she spoke, her voice even and measured.
‘It doesn’t feel great when everyone you know – and everyone you
don’t
know – is judging you and talking about you. When you know they are calling you a slut and a slag and a whore.’
She turned back to look at Molly. ‘And yes, when you know that it’s going to haunt your child in the playground for the next fifteen years. And you know that it’s your fault for once being foolish and short-sighted when you should have been old enough to know better.’
Donna shifted uncomfortably on her pillow and reached for a glass of water.
‘Your friends aren’t saying anything of the sort,’ said Molly, not sounding entirely convinced. ‘And people you don’t know will have something better to gossip about tomorrow.’
Donna shrugged. ‘The doctors said I might have had some undiagnosed postnatal depression.’
‘And what do you think?’ asked Molly.
‘I think I should have gone to see a doctor a while ago.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Because postnatal depression is not the sort of thing you are supposed to have in the Delemere family,’ said Donna.
Molly looked at her, pale and fragile between the sheets and silently agreed. Donna was weak. Burying her problems like her precious bloody organic vegetables beneath the soil, only to have them rot and fester. She didn’t belong in a family like the Delemeres’, which had prospered over the generations through strength of character and resilience. It made Molly angry. She was glad Donna hadn’t actually topped herself, of course, but, hearing her sad, pathetic story had only convinced Molly that she was doing the right thing; she was helping the Delemeres.
‘What can I do, Donna?’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Find Daniel,’ said Donna, her eyes pleading. ‘I don’t even know if he’s heard what has happened because he left his mobile phone here and he’s not answering at the London house.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘We were tipped off about the story on Saturday night. Daniel left soon afterwards.’
Molly nodded gravely, but inside she was skipping with glee. She couldn’t have scripted it better if she had been a Hollywood screenwriter.
‘And what do I tell him?’
Finally the tears began to roll down Donna’s pale face. ‘Tell him the truth,’ she gulped. ‘Tell him I love him and that I’m sorry.’
‘I will,’ said Molly. ‘You can trust me.’
The cottage in the grounds of Cliveden, one of England’s grandest estates, was everything Chris had said and more. From the main house, that splendid honey-coloured Palladian pile, a driveway snaked away through lush parkland down to the River Thames. A short walk along a private towpath and there it was; a cute little Victorian cottage perched right on the edge of the silent water. It was a remote, peaceful spot, where the only sounds were ducks, insects and the occasional miniature deer scrabbling through the undergrowth on the hillside above the cottage. Erin loved it, and was smitten by the romantic history of the place.
When she had arrived from London two days earlier, Chris had taken her on a stroll along the river, passing another quaint cottage which, he told her, was where Christine Keeler had stayed in the early 1960s. Erin had vaguely known the story, but Chris had vividly filled in the lurid details: the beautiful high-class call girl who partied with the rich, glamorous aristocratic Astor set and had almost brought down the government when she had become entangled with cabinet minister John Profumo at a party held by Cliveden’s swimming pool. It only added to the
glamour of the place for Erin. She found that Chris had already moved a desk for her by the window in the living room, where she could sit and write and watch the sun setting over the river. It was spectacular, thought Erin now, lifting her head from her laptop, a blood-red sky reflecting in the water and staining it pink and gold. She had settled down to do some work after supper but she was restless. It was her first-ever Monday off work since she had started at the Midas Corporation and she just couldn’t relax.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Chris, looking up from a notebook. He was sitting in an armchair wearing gold-rimmed glasses, which Erin thought made him look more vulnerable,
cute
. She closed her eyes and stubbed the thought out like a cigarette.
‘Nothing,’ she said, still staring out of the window.
‘Erin …’ scolded Chris.
‘I can’t think of anything to write about,’ she said, doodling some circles on a notepad in front of her.
‘Erin, there’s a billion things to write about.’
‘Yes, well, everything I want to write about has been done already,’ she said hopelessly, getting up and flopping onto the sofa.
Chris moved across to sit next to her. ‘Listen, there’re only seven basic plots in the world, so your work is always going to have some similarity to something already written.’
‘Seven storylines?’ she repeated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s true, and Shakespeare used most of them.’
‘So now you’re going to tell me that
When Harry Met Sally
is just a rewrite of
Hamlet
?’
‘No. But take horror for example. It’s always the old “overcoming the monster” plot-line. You know,
Moby Dick, Alien
, all those.’
Erin laughed. ‘Overcoming the monster. That’s my memoir of my brush with Julian Sewell.’
Chris took his glasses off, smiling. ‘I see you’ve finally come to your senses. I tried to tell you he was a wrong ’un.’
‘No you didn’t,’ she laughed.
‘Well, I would have if you’d given me the opportunity. I never saw you for dust when he was on the scene.’
‘And to think I thought I meant nothing to you,’ Erin teased.
They both looked at each awkwardly and Erin began scribbling on her pad again. ‘Will you let me read what you’ve written then?’
‘No,’ said Chris.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not finished.’
Erin groaned. ‘Well, tell me a bit more about this overcoming the monster thing. I like the sound of it.’
Chris put a cushion at the back of his head and stretched his legs out.
‘Overcoming the monster is one of the most basic plots in story-telling,’ he said. ‘“Little Red Riding Hood” is a good example, or “Hansel and Gretel”. Even James Bond – it’s good versus evil, where good has to conquer the bad to get the precious treasure, the princess, to save the world, whatever.’
Erin thought about it for a moment. ‘It sounds like Karin and Adam,’ she said.
‘I heard Karin was a bit of a monster,’ smiled Chris.
‘No, Adam’s the prize, the treasure,’ said Erin thoughtfully. ‘Karin guards him like a Minotaur or something. Every woman that comes into contact with Adam seems to be after him – to her at least. Except they’re not all good,’ she said, frowning. ‘Certainly not women like Molly Sinclair.’
‘They sound like a right bunch of gold-diggers.’
‘Well, yes and no.’
‘No?’ said Chris, laughing, ‘but the man’s a billionaire!’
‘I mean, they are not doing anything that women of their age weren’t doing a hundred years ago – and it was entirely respectable to do it. Marrying for money, position in society.’
‘Bloody hell. Listen to you,’ said Chris, a note of surprise in his voice. ‘It’s like the feminist movement never happened.’
‘But that’s the point. It has,’ said Erin. ‘The women who chase Adam Gold have choices. Chase the career or chase the man. Gold-diggers chose the man. And I guess women like Karin want both.’
‘Well, that’s what you should write about!’ said Chris suddenly, slapping the arm of the sofa. ‘Adam’s wonderful world of women!’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Erin uncertainly, ‘I’d get fired.’
‘But you wouldn’t be writing about him or Karin or Molly or anyone, not specifically,’ said Chris, sitting up, ‘You can create a world. A literary beau monde. It’s what Fitzgerald made a career out of.
The Beautiful and the Damned, Tender Is the Night
.’
‘Oh, I love that book,’ smiled Erin, relaxing into the sofa. She hadn’t felt like this in ages. Clever and creative and capable.
Chris had moved nearer to her on the sofa. Part of her felt hot and uncomfortable, another part of her was buzzing at the banter between them and the possibility of something happening. She glanced up quickly at Chris and suddenly noticed how long his eyelashes were. Even though it was a warm night, he had lit a fire, and the logs spat and crackled.
Suddenly Chris stood up, as if he had sensed the change in atmosphere between them. He walked into the kitchen to open a bottle of red wine: a medal winner, he told Erin. That meant nothing to her, but it tasted sublime, like blackcurrants and spices on her tongue.
‘Umm, I like your job,’ she laughed softly.
‘I like it too, but I could think of a better way to make a living.’
‘Oh yeah? Doing what?’
‘Being able to make a career out of writing,’ he said, sitting down next to Erin again. ‘It would be brilliant. Me and my girl being able to live away from London, somewhere like this.’
His fingers touched hers on the cushion and Erin felt a spark jump between them. She waited for a moment to see if it was mistake, to see if Chris would remove them, but he kept his hand on hers and looked at her with a nervous expression completely out of character with the confident, womanizing Irish man-about-town.
‘Chris, I … Dammit!’
Erin’s mobile buzzed loudly on the desk. She had promised him she would switch it off, but she had left it on vibrate, just in case. They both looked at the phone humming insistently.
‘Are you going to answer it?’ said Chris, raising an eyebrow. Erin thought he looked annoyed, but she ignored it.
‘It might be work,’ she said weakly, feeling the electricity between them vanish as she said it.
‘Fuck work,’ said Chris angrily.
Erin looked unsure. The phone was still vibrating. It might be important.
Chris followed her glance and jumped up, grabbing the phone. ‘Erin. You have a few days off,’ he said, holding the phone in his fist. ‘You’re entitled to a break and you have a book to write, or should I say a book to start, otherwise you are going to get fired by your agent.’
‘But you don’t understand,’ said Erin, raising her voice. She snatched the mobile from his hand and ran through to
the kitchen. Through the closed door, Chris could hear a muffled conversation. When she returned he fixed her with a sour expression.
‘You’re going back to London, aren’t you?’
‘I have to,’ said Erin. ‘There’s been a fire in the Midas Corporation mine in Kazakhstan. Adam is freaking out. He has to fly out there.’
‘So why do you have to go back to work? He has other people that can sort things out, doesn’t he? I mean, they managed okay before you came along.’
Erin flung her mobile on the sofa angrily. ‘Chris. The Midas Corporation is a multi-billion-dollar business. I can’t just turn my loyalties on or off as it suits me. I am Adam’s assistant, I have to be there whenever he needs me. And he needs me now.’
Chris started shaking his head slowly. ‘You’re desperate to be part of that world, aren’t you? No wonder you can’t bring yourself to write about the women who hang around Adam, because you appreciate what they’re after.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a shit,’ she snapped. ‘Forgive me if I enjoy my job, and forgive me if I want to help my boss. Adam saved me from a mundane life in Cornwall, and I’ll never forget it.’
A small smile of resignation pulled at Chris’s lips. ‘You’re in love with him, aren’t you?’
‘I am not,’ said Erin, blushing furiously, feeling as if she’d been caught out. Chris saw her expression and shook his head sadly.
‘Well, I guess I can’t blame you. He’s super-rich and good looking, and so are his friends. I just thought you were different,’ he said softly.
‘I’m leaving,’ she said, moving towards the door.
‘Oh, don’t be stupid,’ said Chris, moving across to stop her. ‘It’s late and it’s dark.’
‘I thought you were my friend,’ shouted Erin, pushing him away.
‘I am,’ replied Chris, touching her on her shoulder. ‘That’s why I’m saying this.’
Erin looked at him intently and shook her head. He’d touched a raw nerve and she hated him for it. ‘I’m going back to London,’ she whispered, and ran upstairs to pack.