Clutching a handful of retouched photographs from the Anguilla shoot, Karin took her freshly squeezed raspberry juice out onto her bedroom’s roof terrace to decide which of the glorious images of Summer Sinclair she was going to use for the Karenza swimwear campaign. For the first week of April it was unusually warm. The air smelt fresh, of grass, spring flowers and promise. It was the perfect morning to plot, plan and think, if only there wasn’t that terrible clatter coming from the guest bedroom.
This is the last time I play Good Samaritan, thought Karin crossly, swatting the photographs down on the wrought-iron table. Out of the goodness of her heart, Karin had allowed Christina to move in. It was only a temporary arrangement, she had made that clear – or at least she thought she had. Karin tutted and tried to read her copy of Vanity Fair, but she just knew she was about to get summoned at any moment.
‘Kay! Kay!’ Christina’s shrill voice cut through the peace. Used to a maid, chef, butler and masseur at her beck and call, Christina was seemingly unable to grasp the fact that Karin was not hired help. She was constantly bombarded with requests, demands and criticisms of her lifestyle: ‘What do you mean you don’t have a chauffeur? You drive yourself?’ ‘What’s the thread count on these sheets?’
‘Karin,’ said the voice, more irritable now.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need you.’
Sighing, Karin got up and stalked back through her bedroom and onto the landing, where Christina was standing in a pair of ivory silk pyjamas, one sleeve rolled up. She looked pathetic and helpless and Karin instantly regretted her irritation; after all, Christina had been through a lot since they had returned from St Barts. Ariel was petitioning for divorce on the grounds of adultery, and Jamie Bacon, their new organic gardener, had been cited in the papers. Christina was stunned – it was the only time in the seven-year marriage she had been unfaithful and she’d been caught out royally first time. She knew that British divorce law was not apportioned on blame, but she didn’t want to take any chance with the settlement.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Karin. ‘Do you want to borrow a dressing gown? I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with La Perla.’
‘I don’t want a dressing gown,’ said Christina tartly, ‘I want you to go and get a camera.’
‘A camera, whatever for?’ asked Karin, following Christina into the guest bedroom, which was crowded with Goyard trunks and shoe boxes, couture dresses spilling over every surface. She grimaced at the mess. She hated mess.
‘I want you to take a photograph of this!’ said Christina dramatically, rolling up the sleeve of her ivory silk pyjama top to expose a slim, tanned arm. Just below the shoulder was an ugly lilac and blue bruise.
‘Urgh! What’s that?’ asked Karin.
‘A huge fucking bruise! What does it look like?’ snapped Christina, pushing it in front of Karin’s nose. ‘Go on, get the camera out. I need a picture.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Karin, examining her friend’s skin more closely.
‘Evidence,’ replied Christina flatly.
‘Did Ariel do this?’ whispered Karin, frowning. ‘He didn’t hit you, did he?’
For a moment Christina refused to meet her friend’s eye. ‘Not exactly,’ she replied.
‘What do you mean, “not exactly”?’
Christina sat down on the bed, crushing a number of expensive silk gowns as she did. She looked up at Karin and pouted. ‘He didn’t exactly hit me, no. But he could have!’
Christina saw her friend’s disapproving look and shrugged. ‘Look, I went round to the house yesterday to pick up some more things. I mean, everything is still there. My riding boots, my Norma Kamali vintage jump suit, that pretty little yellow diamond Graff necklace I wanted to wear to dinner tonight. Everything!’
Karin pursed her lips. Her home wasn’t a hotel.
‘Anyway, I get there and he has only changed the fucking locks! Consuela wouldn’t let me in either. Said Ariel had strictly forbidden it. Can you believe the nerve of the woman? I sorted out her visas, for Chrissakes. She would still be in Manila sweeping shit off the street if it wasn’t for me.’
‘But why’s he changed the locks? Has it turned nasty already?’
‘Not half as nasty as it’s going to get,’ snapped Christina. ‘I think it’s because I sent all his suits to the Salvation Army. If you know any men with a forty-four-inch chest and a thirty-inch leg you should tell them to get down there.’
‘Yes, but what’s all this got to do with the bruise?’ said Karin glancing at her Cartier Tank. It was 10.30 a.m. Adam was due in thirty minutes and she still hadn’t put on her make-up.
‘I was forced to enter through a window,’ said Christina grandly, as if she was giving evidence in court. ‘Consuela always leaves one open when she is cleaning. I mean, imagine the humiliation of it. Anyway, as I was climbing in, I banged my arm on the ice machine. But, as far as my lawyers are concerned, Ariel did it when I was trying to collect some belongings. He assaulted me.’
‘But he didn’t,’ replied Karin. ‘I’d be an accessory!’ She understood Christina’s tactics but was making her sweat a little in return for all the jibes about her chauffeur and sheets.
‘He could have done,’ repeated Christina. ‘Oh, you’ve got to help me Kay, I can’t take chances. We have a pre-nup. The courts might not take any notice of it but, if they do, I’m fucked. One million for every year we’ve been married? Jesus! That’ll buy me a three-bedroom maisonette in South Ken if I’m lucky. I’ll have to have the prix fixe at San Lorenzo,’ she added, shuddering.
‘So what’s the bruise got to do with anything?’
‘Everything,’ she whispered. ‘My lawyer told me that a recent case has revived the concept of blame in divorce. It can affect the payout. At the moment it’s my word against his, and I’ve got photos to prove it.’
Karin scooped her hair up into a ponytail, shaking her head. ‘There’s a Polaroid camera in the dressing room for the shoes; do it yourself if you must. Listen, I’m going to Adam’s friend’s house tonight. Will you be here?’
‘I’m tempted to give Jamie a call. I feel so uptight, I could do with a release, but I had better keep my nose clean,’ she said with a wink.
Karin laughed and Christina wandered off in the direction of the dressing room.
Karin sat at her carved mother-of-pearl dressing table. She rubbed some tinted moisturiser onto her face, added a little blusher on the apples of her cheeks and a slick of lip gloss. She wondered idly how Christina’s life would change. One minute she was in a detached house in Mayfair with a staff of seven, a private jet at her disposal and nothing to do except plan the next extravagant party. The next minute she was in Karin’s spare room, forging criminal injury, and sneaking around after a twenty-two-year-old labourer. She was sure that Christina would land on her feet, although she also suspected that Ariel would play dirty to hold on to his fortune.
The doorbell ding-donged. She slipped on a pair of Tod’s loafers, picked up her holdall, carefully packed for a weekend in the country – trainers, jodhpurs, silk dress, and a tiny coffee-coloured lace teddy she had picked up in Paris – and ran down the stairs. Adam was standing at the door holding the car keys to his Aston Martin. He smelt of pomegranate cologne, soap and shaving foam.
‘Are you ready, honey?’ he asked. ‘I said we’d be there in time for lunch.’
‘I just have to get my coat,’ she said, running to the concealed closet in the hall for an acid-yellow leather jacket, perfect for the bright, fresh morning. As she turned back towards the front door, she saw Christina coming down the curving staircase. Her dark, wet hair was scraped back off her face, her damp body glistening like diamond dew, covered only by a minuscule white towel that stopped at the top of her thighs. She tiptoed over to Adam to give him a light kiss on the cheek.
‘You two have a fabulous time,’ she smiled, before springing back up the stairs, sending a coquettish smile over one shoulder.
Adam was grinning like a Cheshire cat while Karin picked up her holdall and walked to the car without another word, vowing that she’d have that bitch out of the house as soon as she got back to London.
Standing in front of the dressing-room mirror in the master bedroom of The Standlings, Marcus Blackwell’s Buckinghamshire farmhouse, Molly was in an whirl of indecision about what to wear for lunch. Adam Gold and Karin Cavendish were coming for the weekend and she wanted every detail to be just right. She had changed outfits half a dozen times, trying to anticipate what Karin would be wearing; Molly’s outfit had to trump her, but only in a very subtle way. With Marcus out at the local golf club, she had tried on the entire contents of the increasingly large wardrobe she kept at the house. She decided on a elegant scooped-necked dove-grey jersey top with bracelet sleeves, perfectly offset by a pair of deep indigo jeans so tight and sexy they made Molly’s long legs look even longer. Her hair was left long and tousled, and she finished off with a handful of gold jangly bangles and some chocolate-brown loafers. It was a look that said modern, off-duty chatelaine.
Walking over to the long windows overlooking the grounds, her eyes were drawn out into the distance, where the Chiltern Hills beckoned and a pale blue sky stretched out, cloudless, above a sweep of russet trees. Even though Molly had only been dating Marcus for a couple of months, she felt quite at home at The Standlings. Their relationship was progressing quickly and, ever since she had been fired from the PR company, she had practically moved in, complaining to Marcus about ‘being cooped up all day in Kensal Rise’. With time on her hands and a need to impress her new boyfriend, Molly had discovered quite a talent for keeping house. Although she had taken to describing The Standlings to friends as ‘the manor’, in reality it was a substantial eighteenth-century red-brick farmhouse with ten acres of grounds. Marcus had bought the place from a wealthy elderly couple three months earlier, and it was badly in need of some TLC. Declaring the farmhouse far too chintzy for the vice president of a luxury property development company, Molly had persuaded Marcus to embark on a programme of renovation and redecoration, which, of course, she would supervise personally. Kitchen planners from Mark Wilkinson had already visited, and they had decided on Tuscan-style units, granite worktops from Germany, and an island in the middle of the room on which Molly fantasized about having sex with a handsome live-in French chef. Still, that was all to come, and the unrenovated Standlings would have to make do for this weekend. Not that Molly had left anything to chance. She had commissioned her favourite West London florist Orlando to create huge centrepiece blooms of red roses and lilac rhododendrons all over the house, which made the house smell as if it had been dipped into a bottle of cologne. A local caterer had just delivered huge bowls of salads, freshly prepared lobster ravioli and tiramisu, all of which she fully intended to pass off as her own, and bottles of Cristal were chilling in the fridge.
She was just sitting down at the farmhouse table, sipping a small tumbler of vodka-tonic to kick-start the day, when she heard the grumble of Marcus’s Maserati on the driveway and stood up to see Adam’s black Aston Martin following close behind.
‘Molly. Good to see you again,’ said Karin, trying to inject some warmth into her voice as she slipped off her jacket and looked around the farmhouse.
‘I thought you weren’t getting here until one,’ smiled Marcus, embarrassed at just beating his guest home.
‘Oh, Adam drives so fast I thought we were going to take off,’ she smiled.
Karin had to admit Molly had done a good job in the lounge; if you liked that English country house sort of thing, of course. Ruby-red velvet curtains and squashy chocolate-brown sofas blended with antique cabinets and beautiful lamps with bronzed sculptured bases. More quaint than luxurious, thought Karin; certainly not the sort of place Karin had in mind for Adam: that would be a very special property indeed. Something Grade I listed, perhaps, in the Cotswold triangle, with an arboretum, trout fishing, possible previous royal occupiers. She would enjoy the search when the time came – if the time came. Karin had felt needled all the way up to Buckinghamshire, unable to shake off the image of Christina parading herself in front of Adam like the Venus di Milo – how dare she? And he didn’t help matters, lapping up the attention. Still, she felt better now, as she eased herself back into the soft leather of the sofa, feeling comfortably superior. Sitting next to Adam, his hand lightly placed on top of hers, she felt like the prom queen with her king. She had never considered Molly a serious player in the social stakes and, watching her sitting beside her latest conquest, Marcus, in her too-tight jeans, only confirmed Karin’s opinion while bolstering her own credentials. Marcus was a decent enough bloke – intelligent, yes, sober, a little dull, but he was an also-ran; one of life’s runners-up. The second tier country house, the vice presidency, his pleasant but nondescript looks. Karin felt a little sorry for him, wondering how long it would be before Molly traded him in for a better model.
‘Is it true you have Christina Levy staying with you?’ asked Molly with faux concern. ‘Awful, what’s happened to her.’
The St Barts story was circulating like wildfire around London – a cautionary tale for anyone getting too comfortable or careless in their relationship.
‘Oh, I thought she looked pretty good for a woman who has just been dumped,’ smiled Adam, taking a sip of chardonnay. Karin’s good mood suddenly evaporated. She felt her back stiffen, removing her hand from his, and darted a look to Molly. Karin was convinced she had just suppressed a smile.
‘Speaking of which, Molly, how are you shaping up after leaving Feldman Jones?’ she asked with equal concern. ‘Lindsey can be such a cow. I’ll spread the word around to avoid using the company.’ Like hell she would.
‘Yes, Marcus told me about this,’ said Adam. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ said Molly, waving a hand. ‘Lindsey and Sophie were getting greedy, that’s all, they didn’t want to split the pot three ways and I was ousted. It happens in business.’ She directed a smile at Adam. ‘And I have a pretty good track record. I’ll find something better.’
‘What about the Midas Group?’ asked Adam casually. ‘I think our PR department could do with being bolstered by someone with an events bias.’
‘Really?’ said Molly, brightening visibly. ‘That would be great.’
‘Is it a good idea to work so closely with Marcus?’ asked Karin tartly.
Adam scoffed. ‘The only thing Marcus has to do with our events is turn up. Even then you’re not too keen, are you?’ he laughed.
Marcus shrugged. ‘I haven’t got a problem with it if Molly hasn’t. And it might stop you spending all my money on the house,’ he said, smiling at Molly.
Karin felt her guts twist. The thought of having Molly working so closely with Adam was intolerable. Events! What was that? Late-night corporate schmoozing with booze and drugs and goodness knows what other aphrodisiacs.
‘But I thought you were more of a figurehead at Lindsey’s company,’ said Karin. ‘Did you actually do any events planning?’
Karin wanted to kick herself. It had come out snippy and ungracious. As Molly turned to smile sweetly at Adam, Karin knew that she had to be careful and clever.
‘I think there’s enormous overlap with what I did at Feldman Jones and could do at the Midas Group. Corporate entertaining has become so competitive and it’s vital to compete if you want to send out the right company message. I’ve worked with the best caterers, planners, florists in London and—’
Adam held a hand up and laughed. ‘Stop! Stop! I’m here for lunch, not to interview you. Let’s hook up in the week to iron out the details. Now, did somebody mention lobster ravioli?’
Karin look a deep swallow of her wine and could taste only bile. Men could be so bloody stupid.
Molly felt dizzy with pleasure. Three glasses of wine had gone to her head, lunch had been a success and even Karin had commended her on the tiramisu.
‘A little something I whipped up this morning,’ Molly had replied. ‘I can give you the recipe.’
But the thing putting her on such a high was the job offer and the look on Karin’s face when Adam had suggested it. Well, honey, that was just the start of it, thought Molly, as she poured out four espresso coffees into her tiny Wedgwood cups. A few intimate private meetings with Adam and he’ll forget all about you.
‘Oh, bugger,’ said Marcus, slapping his pockets, his eyes looking around the room, ‘I think I left my mobile at the golf club. I’d better go back and get it. Why don’t you all take the horses out for an hour?’
Karin threw an arm round him. ‘You ride? Is there nothing this man can’t do?’
‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’ laughed Marcus. ‘Expert skier, ruthless businessman, and didn’t you row for Yale?’ he grinned.
‘Guilty as charged,’ said Adam immodestly.
‘Do you mind if I give the riding a skip?’ replied Karin. ‘I’ve got a stiff shoulder from a Pilates class. I might go and read in the bedroom. The view is so pretty.’
‘Fine. Let’s all meet back here in an hour.’
The stables at The Standlings had been a pleasant discovery for Molly when she had first visited. She had never suspected that Marcus was a keen rider, but he had proudly explained that his mother had been a national standard eventer who had brought up her children to love all things equestrian. Marcus, however, had spent twenty years living in Manhattan (‘the nearest I got to a horse was the jockey statuettes outside the 21 Club,’ he had joked), so as soon as he arrived in England, he had sought out a property with stabling and horses. Now was her chance to take advantage of it, thought Molly, as she rushed to the master bedroom to pull on her riding boots. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt a rush of anticipation. She felt so horny. Sitting opposite Adam all lunch had almost made her wet. He was without question the sexiest man she had ever met and it was quite incredible that he was absolutely loaded as well. The presence of Karin had only served to heighten her desire, not quash it, firing a competitiveness that was almost a sexual thrill in itself.
She strode to the stables with a spring in her step. There was a small yard, strewn with hay, and she could hear the neighing of Marcus’s chestnut gelding Olympia. Molly walked inside and her face fell. In the stable, tacking up and preparing to mount the horse, was not Adam but Karin.
‘Oh, hello,’ said Molly flatly.
‘Expecting somebody else?’ said Karin archly. ‘Oh, yes. It was Adam wasn’t it?’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ asked Molly, her disappointment turning to anger.
‘Oh, has the strain of making lunch taken the edge off your razor-sharp mind?’ said Karin flatly. ‘You’ll work it out.’
‘I’ll have you know I worked very hard on—’
‘Oh give me a break,’ mocked Karin. ‘I’d be very surprised if you could boil an egg. I’m not entirely sure how long you can keep us this Martha Stewart charade up, but at least Marcus seems taken in by it. By the way, what happened to poor Harry Levin after you got him to pay for all that Mozambique rain-forest?’
‘Leave Harry out of this,’ said Molly thinly.
‘The Standlings was a more attractive proposition than a discount tit job?’
Molly was staring at Karin with undisguised rage. ‘You rude bitch,’ she whispered.
Karin shrugged. ‘Astute rather than rude, I think you’ll find.’
Molly took two steps towards Karin, making her flinch. The horse caught the movement and tossed its head, snorting. ‘Ooh, feeling nervous are we, Karin?’ smiled Molly, taking another step. ‘I don’t think you liked Adam’s suggestion that he and I start working closely together.’
‘Don’t you mean waitressing at a few of the firm’s parties?’ scoffed Karin. ‘No sweetheart, I’m not really worried about that.’
‘You should be,’ said Molly, her eyes narrowing. ‘You really should be.’
The overt challenge made Karin catch her breath and fired up her fury. ‘Don’t even think about threatening me, you opportunitistic whore,’ spat Karin, unable to keep her cool.
‘You’re just a washed-up, gold-digging little coke-head. It might take Adam and Marcus a little while to see it, but we both know what’s under that sweet smile.’ She moved down the stables towards Molly, slapping a riding crop against her thigh.
‘This little setup with Marcus is the very best that an old hag like you is going to ever get, so I’d hang on to it, darling,’ she said. ‘Don’t think that you can trade it up for something shinier, because you can’t. He’s mine.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Molly coolly, putting her hands on her hips and standing her ground, the two women now facing each other, eyes locked. ‘For someone who’s not threatened, you sound awfully rattled.’
‘Rattled?’ laughed Karin smugly. ‘I don’t think so. In the meantime, a word of advice …’ She smiled sweetly and pointed the whip at Molly. ‘Don’t ever think about crossing me, Molly, because, if you do, I will become the biggest bitch you’ve ever seen.’
They stood there, neither woman moving an inch, until suddenly Olympia whinnied and stamped, breaking the deadlock.
‘Coming, sweetie!’ called Karin, still not taking her eyes off Molly. Then she turned on her heel and walked back to the horse, taking the reins to lead him out of the door.
‘Oh, and Molly?’ she said, turning and throwing the riding crop so that it went skittering across the cobbles to land at Molly’s feet. ‘I think you might be needing that more than me.’