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.’