Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin

As the show approached, Venetia’s legendary poise vanished. Her skin was sallow and dull, her hair untidy and her clothes creased. She was running on empty, and only the thought of bad reviews for the collection kept her going. Model castings, the fittings, all the frantic preparations for the debut collection were conducted in a fog of numbness and desperate energy. She couldn’t let herself fail at this, not when she had made a mess of everything else.

In the event, the tent at London Fashion Week was packed. Diego’s death was the best possible publicity for the show. The fashion rumour mill went into overdrive about how he died, and Venetia felt a fool. Brix Sanderson scotched much of the scandal, telling everyone that Jonathon and Diego had been together to discuss business. If the truth had got out, that the two men had been meeting for sex, Brix knew that Venetia would completely retreat from the world – and she was not going to let that happen to her friend.

At the start of the catwalk, Flower Productions’ elaborate waterfall effect had been replaced by a huge black-and-white portrait of Diego. Venetia simply nodded when she had seen it, managing to swallow the bile she had felt rising in her throat. But, as the show’s production manager had pointed out, they needed impact. And it worked. Half the people in the front row were crying as the models stalked the catwalk in the beautiful selection of clothes. The show got a standing ovation.

Backstage, Venetia couldn’t move for the number of people piling towards her to offer their words of both condolence and congratulations. Miranda Seymour shuffled backstage in a fitted grey cashmere jacket with a huge silver fox fur collar and kissed her twice on the cheek. ‘If you can continue that vision, you’re ready for New York next season. Call me,’ she added, and disappeared.

Front of house, Oswald held court on the front row, basking in the attention and clear delight of the fashion royalty, whom he didn’t really understand but wanted to. Behind the scenes, hiding behind a huge rack of clothes, Venetia listened to the laughter, the applause and the sounds of delight. She’d never felt more desperate.

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‘To Fierce Temper!’ said Philip Watchorn, raising yet another flute of 1975 Dom Pérignon. Sitting in the presidential suite of the Hôtel de Crillon, six other men, all flushed pink from the effects of all-day drinking, tipped their glasses towards him. Fierce Temper’s trainer, Barry Broadbent, unaccustomed to such luxury, sat back and drained all the liquid in his glass in one large gulp. Reclining back on the silk chaise longue like some feudal lord, jockey Finbar O’Connor, looking too small to hold such copious amounts of alcohol, nodded contentedly at the scene while Philip and Nicholas Charlesworth chatted happily, congratulating each other on a splendid day. Only Oswald seemed more sober, surveying the scene from the doorway, stroking his glass thoughtfully as he reflected on the events of the weekend.

It had indeed been quite a day. He still couldn’t believe that his horse had won the premier flat-racing prize in Europe. Not long ago he had been calling the Arab thoroughbred a donkey. Maybe he had been a little hard on Barry Broadbent after the fifth place at the Newbury Races back in April. Damn, that seemed so long ago! Six months later Fierce Temper had won the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp. That made three Group One wins in a row, two runners-up positions and almost a million pounds in prize money. What a season!

The thrill of seeing Fierce Temper’s long neck pass the finishing post in first place today had been like the kick of a drug. The only black spot was the malevolent little presence of Declan O’Connor, Finbar’s brother and ‘agent’, who had been tagging along all day. Evil-faced little pikey, he thought, watching him sit protectively on the chaise loungue next to Finbar, drinking all their champagne. He had hardly spoken all day, except to talk obliquely about ‘bonuses’ for Finbar. When Oswald had pointed out that BWC Holdings more than generously compensated their jockey, he had smiled his twisted smile. ‘Just looking after my little brother,’ he’d said.

Just looking after my little brother. It was the sly, loaded way he’d said it. And there was something very familiar about his voice. He’d heard it before somewhere. Oswald’s brain made a slow connection: could it have been the voice that had threatened him on the phone on the day of the Two Thousand Guineas? Could that have been Declan? But why would that foul little man care about him? He shook off his suspicions as Nicholas Charlesworth tapped his glass to call the men to order on the other side of the room. ‘What we need now, gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘is to get out of this hotel and enjoy Paris. Dinner is booked at the George V and then I know a marvellous little club in the sixth, which will stay open for us as long as we want. The car is right outside to take us, so get your coats, chaps!’

A strong sense of déjà vu coursed through Oswald’s body. It was just like the sixties again. Here they were, all powerful, successful men with the prospect of more power and success just in front of them for the taking. Back then Oswald would have been the first one to join the group touring the clubs of Mayfair or Paris, but not tonight. He picked up his camel jacket, slipping his arm into the red silk lining. ‘I’m afraid it’s all been a little too exciting for me tonight, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to retire. It’s been a long weekend.’

‘What’s got into you?’ said Philip, clapping his friend on the shoulder in a chummy manner, ‘Still, if you are going to be a killjoy, make sure you are up and ready in the morning. The car is coming for us at eight o’clock. Be ready, eh?’

Oswald offered a small smile to his friends, backed out of the door, and walked down the corridors until he reached his suite on the floor below. After several bad-tempered attempts to force his credit-card key into the door, Oswald finally managed to open it and strode in without turning on the light. His suite was small, but the views were spectacular across the Place de la Concorde. He felt surrounded by darkness; the blank shape of the unlit room behind him with the whole of night-time Paris in front of him, only peppered by saffron streetlights blurred in a damp autumnal Parisian drizzle.

Standing high above the cityscape he felt like the master of some black universe. A thin smile cracked his lips. He was still feeling high on the rush of winning and, although the alcohol had furred his instincts, the future suddenly seemed clear. They were sitting on a gold mine. That fool Watchorn could spout on about the ‘sport of kings’ all he liked – and yes, there had been a definite thrill in seeing Fierce Temper scoop one of racing’s top prizes. But racing wasn’t about the race any more; it was about the marketing. He’d learnt that from the Huntsford Musical Evening debacle and he wouldn’t make the mistake again. The real profits these days lay in the making and marketing of prize stallions for stud. The great yards around the world had been doing it for years: champion horses, horses like Fierce Temper, could charge fifty, a hundred thousand pounds a time to sire a mare. They stood to earn stud fees that would run into millions, making the purses they had won this season look like pocket money.

The almost sexual thrill of expectation coursing through Oswald’s body was delicious. He couldn’t rely on his daughters to maintain the Balcon legacy in the appropriate manner; he knew it was going to be down to him and how shrewdly he played the game. He looked out greedily onto the city below. In the streetlights he could just make out Nicholas Charlesworth, Finbar and Declan disappearing into a Bentley for their frivolous night on the town. They all thought they were so clever, but of course it was Oswald who had all the big ideas around here. And he was having one now. An idea popped into his head that made his body twitch and made him feel sick with anticipation. Yes, it was good. This was going to work. And this was going to be his year.

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Elmore Bryant’s white Bentley weaved through the Oxfordshire countryside, along a labyrinth of thin, twisty-turny rural lanes barely wide enough for the big motor to pass through. It was a gorgeous afternoon for a wedding. Considering it was October, the weather had been much kinder than it ought to have been.

Elmore turned to Serena and squeezed her hand, which was resting on the leather seat alongside him. ‘Can I just tell you again what a darling you are for stepping in as my gorgeous escort for today?’ he smiled, pursing his lips up into a faux-kiss. ‘I can’t believe Horatio blew me out at the last minute. Serves me right for involving myself with fly-by-night Brazilians, I suppose.’

Serena smiled. ‘Well he is awfully handsome,’ she said. ‘You have to make some concessions for that.’

‘Anyway, we’ll have more fun,’ said Elmore, waggling the crisp white invitation in his hand. ‘It’s going to be a right old mix of people there, so it’s going to be fabulous for people-watching.’

They were en route to witness the nuptials of Elmore’s friend Melissa D to her banker boyfriend. Melissa D, the Canadian MAW – model-actress-whatever – and resident of Notting Hill had become firm friends with Elmore Bryant, having met him two years earlier at the Water Meadows Clinic. She had been recovering from a cocaine addiction, leaked to the press as ‘exhaustion’, while Elmore was in there to try and kick a nasty Roederer Cristal habit. Melissa was fairly well known in the British party pages, but like many MAWs, she had very little real steady income of her own, and had decided to tread the well-worn path of pretty It-girls before her and marry well.

She had managed to bag Robert Charles Baker, Old Etonian and successful merchant banker, whom she had met at The Cow gastro-pub in Westbourne Grove twelve months earlier. Robert Charles Baker had led a very grey life up until the point he had met Melissa, and was more than happy to acquiesce to her desire for Hello! to cover the wedding. The couple had been even more delighted when Elmore had told them he was bringing Serena Balcon as his guest, which would substantially increase the celebrity quota of the wedding, and hopefully the money Melissa could demand from the magazine. Serena, on the other hand, had failed to share their enthusiasm when Elmore had first invited her, initially refusing to go on the grounds that celebrity magazine weddings were just tacky.

She hadn’t taken that much persuading, however. All summer, with the exception of the catastrophe that had been the Huntsford Musical Evening, Serena had deliberately kept a low profile. Not only had she enjoyed retreating into her shell to lick her wounds, but her absence from the scene had had the welcome effect of making people more desperate for gossip, pictures and information about her life. But it was now October and, as the weeks had rolled on, media interest had waned. Even more alarmingly, a new batch of girls were being discussed in the press. She had instructed her publicist to turn down so many requests for cover interviews that the magazines had simply stopped calling.

In a strange, twisted way, Serena missed having her mobile phone clogged up with random callers from the tabloids and the long-lens snappers camping outside her home. Serena Balcon would never be forgotten, but there was just the slightest chill of worry blowing through her life right now. Yes, it had been her decision to take a little time out, but she was well aware how this game was played, and the last thing she wanted was her next appearance in the press to be a paparazzi shot of her all pregnant and big-breasted. She wanted to retreat and then emerge, butterfly-like, in January, once she had delivered the baby. But perhaps a little show-stopping publicity wouldn’t hurt in the meantime.

Almost as if reading her thoughts, Elmore gave her a sly sideways glance and grinned. ‘You know, Melissa is a beautiful girl, but I think she may be in danger of being upstaged by you this afternoon. You look utterly ravishing. Even if a tad naughty for wearing white.’

Serena looked down at her wonderful silk dress, so fine you could see a suggestion of her La Perla underwear underneath. Its neckline was deeply scooped, with tiny pearl buttons running all the way down the front, the bottom half of which Serena had left half undone to show a length of creamy leg. Her figure had filled out a little, the curve of her bump evident, so her form filled the dress like a delicious Greek urn, the fabric draping over it. Finishing the look with a pair of bronze high-heeled sandals with straps that wound all the way up her calves, and a thick gold bangle on her wrist, she looked like a ripe Grecian goddess.

‘Anyway, I’m not wearing white, I’m wearing blush.’

‘You’re terrible,’ smiled Elmore. And they both laughed.

The Chateau d’Or was one of the hottest destination restaurant/hotels in England, its marble mantelpiece straining under the weight of the many culinary awards it had scooped in the two years since its revamp. Once a grand old stately home modelled on one of the great Loire Valley chateaux, it had recently been transformed into a deluxe Michelin-starred restaurant. But the chateau’s popularity was as much to do with the sexy, sumptuous suites that peppered the grounds. It was the number one venue for romantic weekenders from all over Europe, and the Melissa and Robert nuptials had taken over the whole place for the day. Lime trees flanked the long gravel drive, while the dove-grey stone chateau had four dreamy turrets pointing into the strong blue autumn sky. The ceremony itself was due to take place in the vast conservatory at the back of the building, which had been decked out with tropical flowers and melting ice sculptures shaped into the initials of the bride and groom.

It was not difficult to work out which side was the bride’s and which was the groom’s, one half being awash with Roberto Cavalli, Dolce & Gabanna leopardskin, plumed Philip Treacy hats and the exotic smell of bespoke scent; the other half traditionally British and sombre, packed with a collection of morning suits in various shades of grey, kilts and old school ties. The Hello! photographers sprang into action when Serena walked through the door, their motors whirring frantically as she expertly posed for the shots. Despite not being a real acquaintance, let alone a close relative, Serena was ushered to the second row where all eyes were upon her, greedily inspecting what she was wearing.

Desperate to have a good look around the room to see who else was there, but knowing she shouldn’t appear too eager, Serena stared at her order of service until the music announced the entrance of the bride. From the corner of her eye, Serena examined Robert Charles Baker with a critical eye. A young, early thirties’ face made older by a serious expression and a country solicitor’s haircut, he had watery eyes and a weak chin. His rugby-player’s physique had run to seed, thanks to too many hours behind a desk. He must have thought his luck was in with Melissa, she smiled to herself. It was a classic case of the W11 compromise, where coltish models with a bog-standard background and no real talent would give good genes to the plain, whey-faced upper-middle classes – men whose public-school-bred arrogance made them believe they deserved gorgeous girls rather than the cosy, Alice-banded Sloanes they were far more suited to. Finally all heads turned as the strains of Paul Weller’s ‘You Do Something To Me’ filled the glass room and Melissa floated down the makeshift aisle.

‘What’s she wearing? What’s she wearing?’ hissed Elmore, straining to look. ‘She told me she was going “boho bride”.’ Melissa’s dress was loose and billowy; yards of snow-white organza falling from a high, Empire-line waistband, the sleeves voluminous and trumpet-shaped in the sheerest voile, like some medieval princess’s robe. Her dark chestnut hair hung loose, parted in the centre and falling in long, Pre-Raphaelite waves down either side of her face, cascading onto her shoulders. Instead of a tiara, she was wearing a fine gold headband. ‘All very Ali McGraw,’ whispered Elmore, his head turned almost 180 degrees.

‘Ali Baba more like,’ giggled Serena, turning to look towards the front again. ‘What on earth is that gold headband all about? Has she come as Flash Gordon?’

Satisfied that she was by far the most beautiful and well-dressed woman in the room, Serena settled back to enjoy the ceremony. Of course, it wasn’t her idea of a dream wedding: she found the notion of getting married in what was essentially a hotel more than a little common. Despite having no religious convictions whatsoever, she still thought that floating down a cathedral aisle with a train the length of an Olympic-sized swimming pool was the way to do it. But even Serena found it hard to remain cynical for very long. She’d tried to snort when the couple recited their homemade vows, but she had secretly felt quite touched when Robert and Melissa had kissed for the first time as man and wife and a warm roar of applause had rippled around the room.

As Robert and Melissa walked hand in hand up the aisle and the crowds filed out of the conservatory amid a swell of good-natured banter, Serena’s hands unconsciously began to stroke the curve of her pregnant belly. Just for a second she felt the hollow of loneliness. Shaking her head, she grabbed Elmore’s hand.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she whispered, aware that people were beginning to look at her. ‘I haven’t had a drink in about three months, but right now I could murder one.’

‘Hello, sister-in-law! Well. Prospective sister-in-law.’

Serena, sitting at her table in the banqueting hall, turned to see David Goldman standing in front of her, holding a glass of champagne, wearing the expression of someone for whom sobriety was soon to be a distant memory. Smiling, she stood, matching him in height in her four-inch Grecian sandals.

‘Sister in law?’ she replied. ‘I know I haven’t seen Cate much recently, but is there something you want to tell me?’

David laughed. ‘Merely a term of endearment,’ he said, taking a long sip of pink Moët.

‘Let me guess,’ said Serena, allowing a passing waiter to half-fill her flute, ‘friend of the groom?’

‘Ouch!’ winced David. ‘Below the belt, Miss Balcon. I am not, you should know, a traditional member of the financial community.’

Taking a moment to look him up and down, Serena had to agree with him. His midnight-blue suit was sharp and tailored, the brightness of his white shirt set off his golden tan, his jet-black hair was fashionably tousled, and his eyes – she noticed for the first time – were a rather startling steel grey, like a stormy night sky. In fact David Goldman had enough glamour to belong to the bride’s side of the room. Not that she was going to tell him that.

‘So where’s Cate?

Cate and David must have been together almost four months now, thought Serena, ever since the night of the Sand launch party. While she had only met David once or twice over the whole summer, she knew the couple didn’t see much of each other. Cate seemed to be constantly working, David doing whatever he did in the City. Still, she was rather surprised not to see her sister with her new boyfriend at this wedding.

‘Ah, you know what she’s like,’ sighed David, ‘always doing something or other with that bloody magazine. This weekend she’s in LA doing a cover shoot. Anyway,’ he smiled slowly, ‘as I’m dateless this evening, I would be delighted to spend it with another beautiful Balcon sister.’ He gave a mock bow.

She smiled, admiring his chutzpah. Serena often found that men were intimidated by women like her.

‘I hope you’re not implying that I’m second best? I never play second fiddle.’ Serena was conscious that her voice had a hint of flirtation in it.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied David with a smirk. ‘Now, can I tempt you with a dance?’

Despite herself, Serena was enjoying herself. Elmore had abandoned her, having disappeared to do a set on the piano, his gift to the happy couple. Thrown into the company of David Goldman, she found she rather liked his style. He was happy to gossip about misguided wedding outfits and to deflect the attentions of drunken investment bankers keen to talk to Serena; he also laughed in all the right places when she spoke, and swirled her around the dance floor making her feel as light as a fairy instead of six months pregnant. He wasn’t her type, of course. David Goldman wasn’t a star like Tom Archer or a billionaire businessman like Michael Sarkis, but she was beginning to see what Cate saw in him. David had eyes that looked as if they were constantly thinking up mischief, and a charm that made flirting seem like an art form. She began to wonder what David Goldman saw in her sister. So Cate was sweet, clever and pretty in her own way, but Serena knew David’s type: men that were turned on by beauty, glamour and women with a profile they could parade like a trophy. Men like that just weren’t turned on by women like Cate.