25

From seat 1a, the only seat Serena would consider when travelling by commercial airline, she had a clear view of the Home Counties. She watched the fields of Berkshire drift into view and, beyond them, the sprawling metropolis of London, today looking green and inviting, unobscured by the smoggy drizzle that often hung over the capital whenever she flew in from New York.

‘Ten minutes to landing,’ said an upright British voice over the PA system as Serena drained off the last of her fruit juice, popped her seat into the upright position and moved her cashmere pillow to her lap. She had mixed feelings about coming home, even if it was just a pit stop on her way to the south of France. She was mainly here for business: there was the sale of the Cheyne Walk house to complete and an important meeting to attend – her contract with Jolie Cosmetics was due to be renewed any time now, and she felt she could push up her money if she went to see the British chief executive of the company personally at his Eaton Square home.

It was all pretty tedious stuff, although if she was totally honest with herself she could do with a break from the New York scene anyway. For the past few weeks, her days had been filled by endless trips to the salon; the evenings had been crammed with so many New York parties that they were blending into one. It wasn’t easy being this glamorous. Still, the blur of canapés and air-kissing seemed to be paying off: Serena Balcon was hot again.

The meeting at Ed Charles’s house had gone well, although she still couldn’t believe that she had actually had to sing for the Broadway producer in the basement studio of his brownstone townhouse. She hadn’t had to do that since when she was in the dramatic society at school. But Ed had made all the right noises about her not just getting a role in Fin de Siècle, but the role of Letitia Dupont. It was a killer part in more ways than one: Letitia was a Vegas showgirl with a murderous side, as glamorous as Nicole Kidman’s character in Moulin Rouge and as sassy and spiky as CZJ’s Oscar-winning role in Chicago. And, on top of that, only yesterday her agent had called to tell her she’d been asked to do a screen test for a big action thriller; a big action thriller rumoured to be starring Tom Cruise, no less.

Serena stretched her legs out and wriggled her toes around in her cashmere socks, more than satisfied with her progress. An Oscar nomination could be hers in eighteen months, she smiled smugly. Who needed Tom Archer, anyway?

‘Hi darling, it’s me!’ cooed Serena, wafting through Cate’s front door and looking around with a slightly displeased look on her face when she saw the size of Cate’s mews house. ‘Tell me my luggage has arrived or I will just die!’

Cate, wearing her Saturday-night uniform of Juicy Couture tracksuit and no make-up, came over to give her sister a hug.

‘It’s arrived, but why did you need to FedEx it over? It’s only two small bags,’ she asked, pointing at the two Goyard cases in the corner. ‘Could you not struggle through customs with those?’

‘Darling, everyone pre-sends their luggage these days,’ said Serena. ‘Anyway, those cases might be chic but they’re a little heavy. I don’t want to strain anything.’

Serena wafted past Cate into the living room. Cate’s house was a slender, three-storey mews painted a pale pink and tucked away off the Portobello Road. It wasn’t big, but Cate had turned it into a light, girly space full of cream carpets, neutral walls and huge vases brightening every corner, overflowing with sweet peas and peonies.

‘I’m cooking a roast, hope you’re hungry,’ said Cate, pouring them two big glasses of mineral water. ‘I know you like to sleep rather than eat on the plane.’

‘That’s sweet, Cate, but I really do feel a bit icky,’ said Serena, rooting through her bag to pull out a big box of face cream.

‘There you go,’ she said, thrusting the package into Cate’s hands. ‘Some sort of anti-ageing cream: thought it would be right up your street. Apparently it’s the latest thing; got diamond dust in it, although why on earth anyone would want to send me products for mature skin, I don’t know.’

Serena took a tiny sip of her water and followed Cate into her stylish walnut and marble kitchen.

‘Are you sure you don’t want any of this?’ asked Cate, sticking a knife into the beef.

Serena shook her head and patted her stomach. ‘I’m on a funny diet at the moment.’

‘What is it?’ asked Cate, arching an eyebrow. ‘The Not Eating diet? You’ve gone so thin!’

‘It’s OK for you,’ said Serena, looking her sister up and down, showing off her curves in her velour tracksuit. ‘You don’t work in fashion any more – and anyway, you’ve got your big, happy personality. You don’t need to be a size four.’

Cate smiled and shook her head, reminding herself that, in Serena’s mind, that was a compliment. There was no point in complaining anyway, as her sister had moved on to a more important subject: Serena’s Fabulous Life. According to Stephen Feldman, Serena’s new manager, word was that she wasn’t just going to be the British and European face of Jolie Cosmetics, but was going to become the worldwide face as well. That was, she said, a deal which had to be worth in excess of four to five million. And, she added, it wouldn’t do her Hollywood prospects any harm to be on every billboard and magazine in the known world, either.

As Serena gushed out the gossip, Cate began to notice that Serena hadn’t mentioned Michael Sarkis once. There was the constant referral to ‘we’, as in ‘When “we” went to the Save Venice Ball’, ‘When “we” were invited to Henry Kissinger’s duplex’, or ‘When “we” were scouting real estate in the Hamptons’. But nothing about ‘him’ or ‘them’. And she never referred to Michael by name. Cate was curious, but she knew there was no point in asking. Everything was always glittery and right on Planet Serena; she never bitched about her own Wonderful Life, only other people’s. But Cate couldn’t help thinking it was strange. It had been a long time since Cate herself had been in that position, but she remembered well enough that the first three months of a new relationship were so full of excitement, passion and fun, it just spilled over; you wanted to tell the world.

As if reading Cate’s thoughts, Serena abruptly changed the subject.

‘Anyway,’ she said, kicking off her Stephane Kélian heels and stretching out on the long beige sofa, ‘I want to know what’s happening with you. I’m sure someone told me you had the hots for that Nick Douglas? Don’t get me wrong, honey, he’s very cute. God knows I fell for those rough Northern-boy charms with Tom, but Nick’s really not right for you.’

Cate smiled softly. ‘No, no. We’re just business partners and that’s all. Nick and I get on really well and we’re good as a team. I know he’s Tom’s friend and that’s bound to make you biased towards him, but honestly, Sin, he’s really a good guy.’

‘And Venetia?’ asked Serena, checking her reflection in a gold compact she had taken from her bag. ‘I can’t believe she went to Spain! The first time I’m back in ages, and Venetia’s swanning around in Seville, Camilla’s on some management weekend – and I have to camp out here!’

‘Well, I’m sorry you find my house so distressing,’ said Cate, finally annoyed now. ‘Perhaps you should go to Claridge’s, or somewhere where they understand your special needs!’

Serena looked up from her compact mirror vaguely. ‘Mmm? Sorry darling, I was miles away. What’s Venetia doing again?’

Cate sighed, seeing that her rebuke had not even registered on her sister. ‘Van’s doing a big job renovating some guy’s farmhouse in Andalusia. It sounds wonderful out there and she really needed to get away, what with all the trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ asked Serena, snapping her compact shut. She was faintly aware that her older sister had seemed worried and distracted at her farewell party weeks earlier, but she had thought it was just the pressure of throwing a super bash for Serena.

‘Did she not tell you?’ asked Cate. ‘She’s having a premature menopause or something. It’s really weird.’

Serena looked at Cate blankly, as if once again she’d failed to absorb the information. ‘Oh,’ she said finally, her voice almost a whisper.

Cate frowned and looked curiously at her sister. Serena was very rarely lost for words. ‘Anyway, apparently Van’s ovarian reserves are so low that she has to get pregnant in the next few months, or that’s it. She’ll be heartbroken if she can’t have children.’

The room welled up with silence. Cate looked up, waiting for some response. Serena swung her legs off the sofa and walked towards the kitchen. ‘Is it all right if I get something to drink? A Diet Coke or something?’ she asked distractedly over her shoulder.

‘Sure,’ said Cate, ‘but I was just about to open a bottle of wine. There’s a nice Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge.’

Serena shook her head, ‘No, no. I think I’ll have tea,’ she said as she opened the fridge. She definitely looked shaken by Venetia’s news, thought Cate. Maybe she does have a soul, after all.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, following Serena into the kitchen and putting her plate on the marble worktop.

‘Of course I am!’ snapped Serena, slamming the fridge door shut.

‘I know it’s upsetting about Venetia,’ said Cate, putting out a hand, ‘but she’ll get through it, she always does.’

Serena walked back into the lounge past Cate and curled up on the sofa, bringing her slim knees up to her chin, her arms hugging her legs. Cate walked back and sat next to her, putting a reassuring arm around her shoulders. ‘Sin, is there something wrong? Tell me what it is.’

Serena fell silent for at least a minute, then exhaled sharply and buried her face in her knees. The weight of her own troubles had been building for the past few weeks; now, with this news about Venetia, she felt as if she might burst. She thought back briefly to when she was with Tom – she could always tell him anything or offload all her anxieties, however trivial, onto him. But in New York there was no one who she could talk to; not any of her fabulous new friends, certainly not Michael. And in all the career excitement of the last few weeks, this little secret had been buried inside her so tight and so deep, she had almost convinced herself it would go away.

She looked up into Cate’s kind face. Her sister was so concerned, so eager to help. That’s what she had missed being in New York. Her family. Serena took a deep breath.

‘I think I might be pregnant,’ she said, her voice husky with emotion.

It was Cate’s turn to catch her breath. She put her hand on Serena’s knee. ‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ she said, trying to gauge her sister’s emotions.

‘No, it isn’t a sodding good thing!’ said Serena, giving a mocking laugh. ‘It certainly isn’t what I want, and I doubt very much it’s what Michael wants either. My career is really taking off, Cate,’ her voice now was loaded with panic. ‘I’m up for two really big roles and people in LA are beginning to recognize me. I just can’t take time off, I just can’t be off the scene.’

Cate had never seen Serena cry so bitterly before, not even the day after she’d split with Tom. She usually seemed so composed and in control. Now, even as fat tears rolled down her cheeks, Serena still had poise and elegance, but Cate could tell she was near to cracking.

‘Are you sure about it?’ asked Cate as gently as she could.

‘It’s probably fine,’ said Serena briskly. ‘Probably just some hormone thing.’

‘But have you been to the doctor, have you done a test?’

‘No, nothing,’ Serena said, shaking her head.

Cate smiled to herself. It was just like Serena to bury her head in the sand. When her pet rabbit Marilyn had died when she was six, she had hidden her in a wooden box and insisted to anyone who had tried to sympathize that Marilyn had ‘gone to France for the summer’.

‘I’ve just missed a period, that’s all,’ said Serena. ‘It might be stress, it probably is. I’ve been so busy …’

‘But you’re obviously worried about it. Why don’t you take a test?’

‘I’ll go and see my OB when I’m less busy,’ said Serena, climbing to her feet. ‘Now please let’s stop talking about it.’

‘No!’ said Cate, pulling her back down onto the sofa. ‘Look at you, you’re a nervous wreck!’

‘Cate,’ said Serena calmly, ‘you probably don’t understand what it means to be incredibly busy, but I do not have time to go to the doctor. I’ve got meetings in London, press in Cannes, I’ve got the Amfar party – and then Michael is taking the yacht to the grand prix in Monaco.’

‘OK, so let’s put your mind at rest,’ said Cate, firmly in editor mode. ‘I’ll go and buy a test now from the chemist around the corner.’

Serena suddenly looked frightened. ‘But what if someone knows it’s me? It would be a disaster if this got out.’

Cate patted her knee. ‘Don’t be silly: I’m buying the test. No one around here gives a hoot about me – I’m hardly the most famous person in Notting Hill. If it makes you happier I’ll wear a baseball cap!’

‘God, it all sounds so cheap,’ muttered Serena, fanning herself with a newspaper. ‘Look, Cate, please don’t bother, we’re not at boarding school now. I’ll go and see my gyno back in New York when I’m ready.’

But Cate had already slipped on her jacket and grabbed her car keys. ‘I’m going. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’

‘Cate, no …’

As the door clicked shut, Serena put her face in her hands and let the sobs come, tears streaming down her face, plastering her six-hundred-dollar Sally Hershberger haircut to her cheeks. Finally, she blew her nose and took a deep breath. She didn’t know whether to be annoyed, angry, or simply relieved that Cate had winkled the truth from her. Maybe it was for the best, she thought, wiping her eyes and sniffing. She hadn’t ‘just’ missed her period: she was now almost four weeks late. When she had discovered it, she had been terrified and alone. Michael was the only person in New York she knew well enough to talk about it, and she could hardly tell him. How would he react? Would he be pleased or furious? Would he welcome fatherhood or, God forbid, run away from it? What if he dumped her? His lifestyle wasn’t exactly child-friendly – and while they were happy now, the hedonistic social life they both enjoyed might not be quite so fabulous with a toddler in tow.

She shuddered and knocked over a wine glass on the floor with her foot, not noticing the stream of liquid trickling over Cate’s carpet. It seemed so unfair. Why couldn’t someone like Venetia be having the baby? Venetia so wanted to have a little brat, whereas it was the last thing Serena needed in her life right now. But then Serena Balcon always got what other people wanted, she thought, a slow smile appearing on her lips.

The door slammed. ‘That was quick!’ said Serena as Cate came back in, baseball cap pulled low over her eyes.

‘Quick? I had to go all the way up to Kensal Rise in disguise. Didn’t want anyone to see a Balcon girl buying a pregnancy kit – oh, the scandal!’ she added with a weak laugh.

‘I can’t believe you talked me into this,’ said Serena, taking the package and reading the back. ‘I mean, it’s all so primitive, weeing onto those little sticks. I have the most expensive medical care in New York, you know.’

‘Well you can’t put a price on peace of mind,’ said Cate, going over to switch on the Dualit kettle.

‘If you are pregnant,’ she ventured cautiously, ‘would it be Michael’s or Tom’s?’

‘Jesus,’ said Serena, choking, ‘it’s bad enough as it is without you trying to make me out as some sort of slut!’

‘Come on, hardly,’ said Cate awkwardly. ‘But you did get into a relationship with Michael pretty quickly after you split with Tom, didn’t you?’

Serena threw Cate a withering look, snatched up the box and stalked up the stairs to Cate’s small white and wood bathroom. Perching on the side of Cate’s claw-foot bath, she sat silently for a moment, gripping the box tightly. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been in this situation before. She remembered crouching in the gloomy bathroom at Huntsford, cold and alone, terrified that her father would come barging in and catch her. Then the test had been negative, but in many ways she would rather it had been positive then than now. After all, there was something rather decadent and careless about a teenage pregnancy. Jade Jagger had had her children young and she now was deliciously boho with her family trailing after her from London to New York and Ibiza. But not now, not when her career was on the verge of exploding into what she had always wanted it to be. Not now, God, please not now.

On the other side of the door, Cate sat on the top step leading to the bathroom, waiting for her sister and trying to prepare herself for either result, not knowing which would be best. Finally, Serena crept from behind the door and sat beside her, staring straight ahead. Cate put her hand on Serena’s and squeezed tightly; the superstar and the glossy magazine editor, just two confused and anxious girls sitting on the stairs. Serena slowly uncurled her fingers to reveal the white plastic stick. ‘There’s a line,’ she whispered. Cate reached out and pulled her sister close.

‘How accurate are these things?’ asked Serena weakly, passing the stick to Cate.

Cate looked down at the thick pink line. ‘Pretty accurate, I think, but you never know,’ she replied not too convincingly. ‘It will be OK, you know.’

‘I’ll get fat,’ said Serena weakly. ‘Tits like balloons and everything.’

‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Cate. ‘Chanel make clothes up to a size twenty.’

They almost laughed.

‘Catey, what should I do?’ sighed Serena, resting her head on her sister’s shoulder, all the bluster and confidence of the movie star gone now.

‘Let’s get an early night,’ said Cate. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

Serena couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning on the lumpy bed in Cate’s spare room, her dilemma would simply not go away. In the rare minutes she did close her eyes and fall into slumber, her dreams were full of crocodiles and helterskelters and other things that Serena recognized from women’s magazines as pure anxiety dreams.

Serena gave up. Sitting up in the bed, she lit a cigarette, then immediately stubbed it out. She had to find a way out of this mess. There was no question that now was the wrong time to have a baby: it was professional suicide. But the thought of an abortion; she didn’t even want the word in her head. She was surprised how strongly she felt. She’d always regarded abortion as just another one of those handy surgical procedures that a modern woman could keep in her arsenal, just like Botox or lipo. But now … she shook her head. Maybe it was something to do with losing her mother so young that made the prospect of termination seem so wrong. But there was another reason.

She stroked her stomach, the taut, bronzed skin still flat, still smooth, and a smile began to form on her lips. Serena’s baby was Michael’s baby. As Michael had no children, that made the baby Michael’s first-born and therefore heir to a billion-dollar fortune. If they had a son, it would also mean he was directly in line for the Huntsford house and title. Their baby would have wealth, position and status. So would she. So would Michael. It was a win-win situation, definitely worth taking a year off from film sets and photo-shoots. She snuggled back down in the pillows, still hugging her belly, a sleepy fog pulling her eyelids closed. There were no more anxiety dreams that night.

Jack Kidman was already in the British Airways executive lounge by the time Venetia had got to Heathrow, sipping a bottle of mineral water and flicking distractedly through his Financial Times. As Venetia approached, he looked up and smiled, a gesture Venetia found somehow disconcerting. She had been abroad on countless occasions on design jobs for clients: hotels in Dubai, country clubs in Florida, second homes in Tuscany; but this felt different, more intimate. Jonathon never looked so casual, so relaxed, she thought, her eyes slowly appraising Jack. In a marl-grey polo shirt, dark blue jeans, brown leather loafers, a suggestion of stubble on his jaw, he looked like a wealthy businessman about to take a holiday. Damn, he was good-looking, she thought, and going over to meet him with her small overnight bag felt illicit.

Stop it, she chided herself. This was not a dirty weekend. It was an overnight business trip. It hadn’t, however, stopped her lying to Jonathon when he had quizzed her about it the previous evening.

‘So who’s going?’ her husband had asked coolly over supper.

‘Myself, the client, and Nina one of our stylists.’

Even though his interest had seemed decidedly feigned and Jonathon’s question had been made without any trace of suspicion, why had she lied about Nina coming on the trip? What had possessed her? It was a harmless visit to discuss the project. She shook her head to dismiss it from her mind and strode over to say hello.

‘Good morning. I see you’re travelling lighter than I am,’ smiled Jack, looking down to a small brown holdall by his foot.

‘I’ve checked my four cases and my shoe trunks in already,’ she deadpanned.

‘Shoe trunk?’

‘It’s a joke.’

‘Ah, the ice queen melteth,’ he grinned.

‘Are you saying I don’t have a sense of humour?’ It came out in a slightly peevish tone that Venetia instantly regretted. Jack was, after all, a client.

‘I don’t know you well enough. Yet …’ he smiled.

She could feel herself flush, just as she had ever since she was a child, when the slightest embarrassment would set off a scarlet rash that crawled from her cleavage all the way up to her neck.

‘Anyway. This is all my work stuff,’ she smiled, holding up a black leather case. ‘I’ve got some things for you to look at already.’

‘I look forward to it,’ he grinned flirtatiously. The corners of his dark green eyes creased up, sparkling mischievously, ‘but there’ll be plenty of time for that later at the hotel. I’ve checked us into the Casa Della Flora.’

There it goes again, she thought, feeling the flush flare up once more. She twisted the band on her wedding finger nervously. She was completely on edge. She’d hardly exchanged a hundred words with the man, so why did it feel as if they were having an affair?

Seven hours later – as long as it’d take to get to New York, grumbled Venetia – the silver four-by-four that Jack had hired from the airport pulled up outside his finca in Andalusia. A huge dilapidated farmhouse hanging on the side of a sun-blasted hill, with a small Andalusian village, nestling like tiny white cubes of sugar beneath them, Venetia hadn’t seen a more splendidly isolated spot in years. The main house had old shutters creaking off arched windows, framed by clouds of wisteria vines climbing its whitewashed walls. The terracotta tiled roof rippled in the sun like tide marks on the sand, and outbuildings surrounded a vast courtyard overrun by wild lavender and lined with huge, cracked earthenware pots. It was breathtaking in its raw simplicity and, from Venetia’s point of view, bubbling over with potential.

‘So, this is it,’ said Jack with undisguised pride. ‘I know you’re probably knackered, but did you mind coming here first, rather than to the hotel? It’s just that it’s four o’clock already. I wanted you to see it before the sun started to go down.’

She clambered out of the car, her Tod’s loafers scuffing on the dirt track that rose up in a cloud of saffron dust. The sun beat so hard on her forehead that she had to take her neck scarf off to mop up beads of sweat.

‘No. It’s fine. I want to see it in as much natural light as possible,’ she said, striding towards the building, her eye absorbing every detail as she proceeded. A lot of the structural work had already been done, but it was still a shell. The walls were roughly plastered, the floors were just a series of boards, but the old tower, complete with ancient bell had been saved, much of the original woodwork salvaged, and the brick walls re-pointed back to old glories. Even the air smelt sweetly of jasmine.

She got out her Nikon digital camera and began snapping away, taking in the ceilings where mahogany rustic beams stretched across the soaring roof. A huge olive press loomed impressively in the atrium. Venetia walked out of a pair of unrestored French windows onto a vast terrace that overlooked the sun-scorched valley. Daunting, beautiful, timeless. Looking at that view she could have been a Spaghetti-western heroine or an Andalusian gypsy. This was the kind of place in which you could reinvent yourself, she thought, letting her imagination run wild. Jonathon would never decamp to somewhere like this, she decided suddenly, sadly. But moving to somewhere like this wasn’t about money – it was about spirit, it was about adventure.

Hearing the slow advance of footsteps behind her, she turned round.

‘So what do you think?’

‘I love it,’ she said softly, her eyes fixed on the digital camera screen.

She walked back into the house, her mind full of thoughts about how to breathe new life into this stunning house.

‘Follow me.’

As they walked from room to room, Venetia’s eyes focused on the building, the floor, the light; talking to Jack but not looking at him.

‘How often do you intend to be here?’ she asked when they reached a huge space she knew immediately should be the main reception room.

‘I don’t know yet. Maybe up to nine months of the year.’

‘What will you do? Work, relax, entertain?’

‘A bit of all three,’ he smiled. ‘What I really want to do eventually is open an art school where a handful of people can come and paint and enjoy the farm. An arty B&B, I guess.’

‘A far cry from advertising,’ she said, wondering if it had come out cynically.

‘That’s the plan. Always was. To work my arse off for twenty years and then retire.’

Venetia moved her hands across the walls like a sculptor, feeling every bump and crack, tapping on the plasterwork as if she was trying to detect life.

‘Married?’ she said, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

‘Separated. Should get the decree nisi through when we’ve sorted out the financials. As you can imagine, that gets complicated when you’ve just sold your company.’

Venetia was sure she felt a thrill pump through her body as he said the words ‘separated’. She immediately tried to quash the feeling. ‘So it’s not amicable?’

‘She ran off with her personal trainer,’ he said slowly. ‘The cliché.’

‘Kids?’

‘Three girls.’

‘How old?’

‘Seven, nine and twelve.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘Hey, what is this, twenty questions?’

Venetia sat down on a stack of boards in the corner of the room, smoothing down her jeans as she tried to adopt the facial expression of someone completely unbothered by what they had just been told. The truth was, she had already known the answers to Jack’s questions. Before the trip, she hadn’t been able to resist doing a Google search on him, reading all the recent interviews in the trade press. She was embarrassed by the amount of information she had managed to accumulate, but it had certainly given her a clearer picture of the man before her. She knew his preferred public image of an ordinary bloke made good – the Mockney accent, casual clothes, the cheeky-chappie bravado – was just a façade. So he’d started his agency from nothing, but he was cut from a similar cloth to her. His father was a wealthy Shropshire landowner, he’d had a troubled childhood – been expelled from a public school for smoking cannabis and lost his mother as a teenager. He had, she guessed, been driven to succeed for similar reasons, too.

‘Jack, I wouldn’t normally be interested in your private life. But this is how I work,’ she replied as professionally as she could. ‘I need to know how you want to live in this place and I need to know your lifestyle if we are going to do the job this house deserves.’

His eyes toyed with hers. ‘So the fact that I have a seven-year-old means no to glass, chrome and Jacuzzis in every room?’

She was troubled by the flirtation in his voice. ‘Something like that, Jack. I’m not sure piles of glass and hard edges would work well here, anyway.’

‘So what would work? Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?’

Forcing herself to switch back into full-on professional mode, she turned her head to look at him. ‘This place has the most incredibly understated charm.’

‘A little bit like its owner?’ asked Jack.

She studiously ignored him. ‘The place has charm and I want to work with that.’

‘Jonathon! I didn’t expect you to call.’ Venetia felt rattled as she picked up the phone in her hotel bedroom, while simultaneously trying to apply a slick of gloss across her lips.

‘Am I now not allowed to call my wife?’ He was trying to chide her, but she could hear his displeasure.

‘Of course.’

‘What are you doing? Off on the town?’

She laughed nervously. ‘It’s hardly Soho around here.’ She looked at her watch, anxiously realizing she should have met Jack in the lobby more than twenty minutes ago.

‘Anyway, Nina and I were just going out to get some dinner.’

Instantly she felt blood rush to her cheeks. What if he had popped into the office or seen Nina on the street?

‘What I was actually ringing to tell you was that it looks as if I’m going to be in Geneva this weekend,’ said Jonathon. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘But we’re booked into Babington House.’

‘Your little spa fix will have to wait,’ he said coolly. ‘I have to work too, you know.’

There was a knock at the door. She ignored it but it persisted. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go …’

‘Nina?’

Was he mocking her? she thought anxiously, the stab of paranoia returning.

‘Yes,’ she mumbled quietly into the receiver. ‘I have to go. I’ll be back tomorrow by the time you get home for dinner.’

Jack was standing in the frame of the doorway when she opened it. He had changed into a pair of cream trousers and a black T-shirt and, although they had only seen a couple of hours of sun that day, she could see a smattering of latte-coloured freckles across his nose. She was embarrassed to feel a stir in her groin.

‘Thought you’d blown me out,’ said Jack, ‘now come on. You can’t come to this part of the world and not have a real Andalusian night out.’

They got into the four-by-four, which Jack drove higher and higher into the hills. As the sky turned dark and the night closed in, Venetia felt a strange rush of freedom. She was having a good time; a really good time. Jack was great company; banter swelled between them, and she found herself laughing, making jokes. Conversation with Jonathon was so sombre she often doubted whether she had a sense of humour at all. But tonight she felt clever, funny and interesting; she felt worth listening to. Tonight she felt the centre of attention. She wondered if this was how Serena felt every moment of her life.

Glancing over at Jack’s handsome profile as he concentrated on the twists and turns of the road, she caught herself thinking why she was not feeling a stronger sense of guilt. It was as if the deeper they went into rural Spain, the more detached she felt from her life in London. She felt free.

Finally they stopped outside a compact stone building, wrapped in the darkness of the hillside. Coloured bulbs hung in strings at the windows and at least forty cars – beaten-up trucks, old jalopies, even a tractor – were parked on a patch of land alongside it.

‘Where are we?’

‘The best place to see flamenco in about a hundred miles.’

Jack guided her inside confidently, his nods and smiles showing that he already knew half the locals, who were knocking back beers at the bar. They sat at a table near a small raised stage, where plates of tapas were placed in front of them: chorizo in hot pepper sauce, mushrooms swimming in garlic oil, frittatas oozing with red and green peppers.

They were just washing it all down with a big jug of Sangria when a slender man in tight trousers took to the stage with a guitar. His short black hair shone like a crown of patent leather as he watched an exotic, tawny-skinned young woman weave through the crowd towards the stage. She had thick raven hair, her ripe, wasp-waisted body was poured into a black and scarlet satin dress and she walked like a tiger. The music started slowly at first, just long, clear plucks of the guitar strings; the dancer swayed her hips to the slow, sensual beat.

‘This woman is fantastic,’ whispered Jack, touching the top of Venetia’s knee. As the sound swelled around the room, the flamenco dancer’s body began moving more dramatically – at once balletic and graceful but almost animal-like in its power. The music was frenzied now, the dancer, as if hypnotized, gliding across the wooden floor of the stage, the curves and lines of her body captivating the entire audience.

When it was over, Venetia felt her whole body pulsate with raw energy. ‘I think I need some fresh air after that,’ she laughed.

Just then, an old man with a bushy white moustache approached their table to greet Jack. Not wanting to interrupt, Venetia made her way out of the smoky room. The silence of the outside air almost made her head rattle, and she walked away from the bar until she was at the outer perimeter of cars. She looked up into the sky. She had never seen it look so dark, like the pure black of printers’ ink. She tried to make patterns with the constellations: a dog, a bear, Jack’s face …

‘Venetia!’

She turned round quickly just in time to see Jack jumping forward and grabbing the sleeve of her dress.

‘Be careful,’ he said softly. ‘Watch you don’t step off the edge of the cliff. I’d hate to lose you.’

Even in the dark she could see his eyes glisten. Sangria and the beat of the music still filling her head, she allowed herself to move close to him. She tried to tell herself she was just very drunk, but the sensation of her nipples ripening told her she was experiencing the very unfamiliar sensation of pure lust.

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘Are you OK? I turned my back for a second and you were gone.’

She smiled. ‘Don’t panic. I’m still here.’

Her eyes looked out into the pitch-black valley as Jack moved closer to her side. ‘Listen. Can you hear it?’ she said. ‘The silence.’

‘I love the fact you can hear silence,’ smiled Jack.

‘It would just be fantastic to live somewhere like this. No noise, no problems. Oh dear,’ she smiled. ‘Listen to me rambling. I’m a bit drunk.’

‘A beautifully mannered drunk,’ replied Jack.

Despite the calm, she began to feel restless, disturbed by Jack’s presence at her shoulder.

‘I think we should go home,’ said Venetia huskily.

He stared her straight in the eye. ‘If that’s what you really want.’

Her inner voice was warning her she was being charmed. The guy was an adman! A professional seducer. Get the interior designer out to your Spanish retreat and get all the added services thrown in for free. He took a step towards her and rested two fingers underneath her chin. ‘Is this what you want?’ he whispered.

But her resistance weakened to practically nothing. The air was so charged she felt sure it would light up the whole of the valley. Her eyelids instinctively closed as his lips moved towards her.

‘No, I don’t want to go home,’ she whispered.

Jack grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her in closer, his hands weaving through her hair.

‘Don’t stop,’ she pleaded, feeling every sexual instinct in her body being activated from its dormant state. Jack manoeuvred her gently against the bumper of a battered truck, unknowing or uncaring whether its owner was anywhere nearby. His hands slid higher and higher up her leg, under her dress, until his fingertips reached the inside of her thigh. Hearing her gasp, his thumbs flipped inside her panties, pulling at the soft cotton until they slid over her hips towards the ground.

Still vaguely aware that she should stop, Venetia nevertheless felt powerless to make herself do anything but pull him towards her. She unzipped him and, totally aroused, guided his throbbing cock towards her. Jack licked the top of his fingers before they went to stroke the soft folds inside her, but she needed no help in getting wet. After months of Jonathon’s coldness, and endless sessions of perfunctory sex in the name of conception which had left her feeling empty and worthless, she finally felt like a ripe, sexual woman ready to explode.

‘Please, now,’ she moaned into the curve of his neck, and Jack cupped her buttocks in his firm hands and lifted her onto the bonnet of the truck. She felt a cool breeze on her exposed pubic hair as she straddled her legs, resting her feet on the bumper.

Jack relaxed the full weight of his body on top of her, inching his shaft into her warmth, so slowly, so sweetly, she had to bite her lip to stop herself screaming out. They moved together, slowly, intensely. Venetia felt the bonnet of the car creak gently under the rhythmic thrust of their bodies. She felt the beginnings of spasms deep inside her as Jack quickened his pace. Every sensation was heightened: her stomach knotted, her skin prickled, her clitoris felt so swelled with pleasure, she thought she’d pass out.

She came powerfully as Jack exploded inside her, collapsing immediately on the warm metal of the bonnet as his hot juice trickled down the inside of her thigh. They said nothing. Jack rested his head on the mound of her breasts as she waited for the guilt to rush over her. It never came.

‘Bloody hell, you’re up early. It’s only half past seven,’ grumbled Cate, sloping into the kitchen with bed-head hair and a sleepy scowl. Serena was sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping a glass of grapefruit juice and nibbling on a toasted bagel slathered in honey. Dressed in tailored black Dolce trousers, a crisp white shirt and ballet flats, it was a look that Cate had rarely seen on Serena. Any traces of the soft side of Serena that she had seen last night were gone; now she looked as if she meant business. Serena fished around in her tan Birkin bag and pulled out a notebook in which she scribbled a series of numbers.

‘This is where I’ll be over the next few days,’ she said officiously. ‘The studio have got me booked in at the Du Cap but I’ll probably be at Michael’s villa. You can try both.’

She glanced at her watch and discarded the bagel. ‘Now my car ought to be here any moment,’ she said, wandering over to the window and peeking through the blinds. ‘Not sure where Farnborough Airfield is, but my friend Elmore said he’d give me a lift to Nice in his jet if I get to him by nine o’clock. He has a house out there.’

Cate poured herself a coffee from the cafetiere and rubbed her sleepy eyes.

‘I thought you weren’t due in Cannes until Wednesday?’

‘Silly,’ sighed Serena. ‘In case you’ve forgotten last night’s revelations, I have a few things to sort out. No point hanging around in London shopping.’

‘But what about your meetings …?’

‘Everything else can wait,’ she snapped with a brusque, ‘let’s-get-on-with-it’ efficiency that Cate didn’t recognize. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

‘But Serena …’

‘Ah, the car’s here,’ she chirped, already at the door. ‘Now let’s go and sort out my life.’

Elmore Bryant, ageing rock star, screaming queen, and Serena’s New Best Friend after relations with Roman LeFey had soured, was humorous, distracting company for the eighty-minute journey to Nice. His in-flight menu was luxurious, but a hazard for a pregnant woman, thought Serena, declining the shrimp puffs and steady flow of Cosmopolitans from the beautiful, chiselled male steward. Besides, with the ripples of nausea she was feeling, particularly once they were airborne, the last thing she felt like was snacking.

Generous to a fault, Elmore had arranged for a white Bentley to pick her up from the runway and take her to wherever she wanted to go on the Côte d’Azur. Flipping down his diamond-encrusted sunglasses when they reached the terminal, Elmore gave her a penetrating look as he said his goodbyes.

‘Short but sweet, my love, but always a pleasure to see you. Now remember,’ he added ominously, ‘if anything happens and you need somewhere to stay while you’re out here … Someone to talk to?’

Serena wondered if telepathy was one of Elmore’s many talents. She kissed him on both cheeks and got in the car. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

The traffic was foul and they moved at a snail’s pace down the busy coastal road towards Cannes. Above her head, the helicopters doing the Nice – Cannes shuttle buzzed about like red wasps. She sank back in the cream leather seat and wondered how to break the news to Michael. There was no easy way to tell him; she just had to come straight out with it. To her surprise, she found her mind wandering to wedding dresses. Caroline Herrera could concoct something wonderful: elegant, timeless, beautiful. Then again, John Galliano had the magician’s touch. She wouldn’t have had the pink flourishes on the wedding gown he’d made for Gwen Stefani, but still, a wonderful Dior fantasy in tulle and duchess silk could be the dress of the decade …

Cannes was absolutely heaving, observed Serena, pressing her nose against the smoked glass of the window. Crash barriers lined the Croisette, nosy tourists poked their cameras at every crowd of people, and the entrances to all the major hotels – the Carlton, Majestic, Martinez – were guarded by burly security guards, their sole task to prevent the riffraff from infiltrating their glamorous lobbies. Thank God she was staying somewhere more civilized, thought Serena, giving her driver the directions to Michael’s villa.

The harbour, by Cannes Old Town, was also busier than she had ever seen it, packed with luxurious yachts, row after row of cream and walnut hulls glinting in the strong sun. Driving past, she wondered whether Michael would be on board his hundred-foot cruiser, Pandora. She checked the time: 11.45. No, too early. He usually made it on board around one-ish, to take lunch, have the odd business meeting and watch the Croisette circus from the safety of the sea. So the car wound up the steep hills that backed Cannes town, the streets getting quieter and quieter as they went.

For once the villa they were approaching wasn’t actually Michael’s: he was merely renting it for the season. The Sarkis real-estate empire hadn’t yet got as far as the Côte d’Azur, although that was one of the reasons he was having an extended stay in the area. Yes, Michael loved the glitz, glamour and parties of both the film festival and the grand prix meeting, due to take place the following weekend in Monaco, but Michael was really here on business. To make money. He had heard that a vast belle-époque villa belonging to some grand old dame was up for sale after her recent – and, it was whispered, suspicious – death, and Michael wanted it. He wanted a Côte d’Azur Sarkis hotel to rival the south of France legends the Du Cap and the Grand Cap Ferrat. And by the end of that fortnight, he had boasted to Serena, it was going to be his.

Big wrought-iron gates and a three-metre wall covered in climbing bougainvillea surrounded Michael’s temporary home. Serena had been given the security code, a gesture that Serena had been touched by, and she punched the number into the panel on the gate. Wanting to make an entrance, she waved off the Bentley and walked through the gates, past the line of palm trees and towards the house, admiring its huge sloping terracotta roof, pink Mediterranean brickwork and balconies filled with tubs of pretty flowers. She felt a small flurry of excitement. The front door was ajar. An old man with a weather-beaten face and messy grey hair was silently sweeping the entrance hall, brushing the dust out into the warm air. He glanced casually at Serena and carried on with his chores as if in a trance. Her heels tapped against the marble as she strode in, dropping her case on the floor with a thud. The whole house had the quiet, abandoned air of the morning after.

‘Michael! I’m here!’ she shouted up the stairs, unbuttoning her shirt and kicking off her shoes. Nothing. Just the hum of a Hoover somewhere at the back of the house. A maid popped her head over the banister and simply nodded, as if she was used to strange women wandering around Michael’s villa. ‘I – am – looking – for …’ spelt out Serena in slow, deliberate English, but the woman was gone.

Serena slowly climbed the stairs, craning her neck for any hint of life. She breathed in deeply and, despite the balmy, summer air, she was sure she could smell the pungent whiff of smoke and stale alcohol. Intuitively she felt something was wrong. She padded down one long corridor towards the back of the house and, hearing muffled noise coming from behind a large oak door, pushed it gently, craning her neck to see into the dark room.

It was a huge bedroom. Despite being midday, the long shutters were still closed, a narrow crack of sunlight cutting down the centre of the floor, but there was enough light to make Serena catch her breath. In front of her was a huge round bed with three bodies writhing around on the crumpled silk sheets.

Michael’s body was naked except for a thin sheen of sweat. His lips were clamped around the right nipple of a slim redhead, whose firm breasts were pushed into his face. Astride him, a curvy blonde bent over his cock, her mouth going down hungrily over his wide shaft while Michael’s fingers played with her clitoris. It was a tangle of limbs, a mass of tanned flesh, the moans were feverish and passionate – but Serena’s gasp was still audible. Suddenly the blonde sat up, her head spinning round with a swoosh of hair. Michael looked up and his mouth dropped open. There was a moment when his eyes locked with Serena’s across the walnut floor, before he began to smirk, instantly composed again.

She felt a thud of sickness, her brain light-headed. ‘You disgusting, you cheating …’ Serena’s voice was thick with rage as she took slow steps towards the bed.

Michael lay back on the stack of pillows, one leg flung over the chocolate silk sheets, his hairy brown hand still lazily stroking up and down the leg of the blonde. His face was now a mask of sheer arrogance.

‘Serena. Perfect timing. Why don’t you come and join us?’ he grinned.

The redhead, buck-naked except for a nipple ring, smiled seductively, stroking her own breasts as she beckoned Serena over. ‘Three’s company.’

‘And four’s an orgy,’ hissed Serena, her lips curling into a snarl. ‘Now, if you filthy sluts will get the hell out of my boyfriend’s bed …’

Michael was still casually reclined, as if this scene was routine to him.

‘Come on, darling. It’s Cannes. Party time.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘Well, why don’t you all carry on having a wonderful time then?’

She turned to the door, shooting Michael with a pitiful gaze as she went. He began to get off the bed, walking towards her with his still hard cock leading the way like a knight’s lance.

‘Serena, please. It’s just a bit of fun,’ he said, his hand stretching out in a placatory gesture.

She turned and pointed a finger at him viciously. ‘Save it for your whores!’ she spat.

And she slammed the door shut.