Gold Diggers. Tasmina Perry
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It had been a remarkable success. Even Anna Wintour, the singular editor of American Vogue, had come backstage to congratulate Karin. It was there she had taken the call from Erin Devereux, inviting her to a drinks launch at Knightsbridge Heights. She had snapped her mobile shut with a smile: finally, Adam was chasing.
‘Honey, you look drop-dead!’ oozed Diana, air-kissing her and handing her a drink. ‘Where did you get it? You must have spies in every boutique in the Western world. I’m so jealous, you must tell me.’
Karin just smiled mysteriously and linked her arm through Diana’s as they joined the main throng of the party.
‘So. Tell me all about Paris,’ said Diana.
‘I don’t think you want to talk about Paris, do you?’ said Karin knowingly.
‘Is it that obvious?’ replied Diana glumly, dropping her happy party girl demeanour. Her shimmering black Versace dress suddenly looked funereal.
‘Very obvious, darling. Very.’
Karin had invited Diana as her plus one because Diana was depressed. Her vulgar husband Martin had just disappeared to Aspen with his ex-wife Tracey and their seven-year-old twin girls Chloe and Emma. He hadn’t even bothered to telephone Diana in the last two days.
‘I shouldn’t have allowed him to go, should I?’ said Diana mournfully.
Karin turned to her friend, her face serious. ‘Of course you shouldn’t have allowed him to go,’ she said. ‘Divorced wives only have two settings: desperate and spiteful, often at the same time. If she was dumped, she’ll do anything – anything – to get him back. If she ended the relationship, she still wants to be number one and will play with him like a fish on a hook. Either way, she definitely wants to screw up your relationship with Martin.’ Diana looked stricken as she considered the implications of Karin’s words.
‘Well, Martin was the one who filed for divorce from Tracey … do you think that means that she’ll …? Oh God …’
Despite her outward dizziness, Diana was a realist at heart. She knew exactly what her husband was like and she had gone into the relationship with her eyes open. Theirs wasn’t so much a marriage as a merger. She was the class, he was the money, and men like that came with a price: infidelity. Diana had trained herself to imagine Martin with other women, so the pain would be less brutal when his adultery was unveiled. But this was worse, much worse. Now when she closed her eyes, Diana imagined him with Tracey, tucked up in the bar at The Little Nell, Aspen’s most glamorous hotel, drinking Bourbon, Tracey’s recently enhanced breasts bursting out of her Chanel ski-wear. Then they would retire to the penthouse for a night of energetic sex. But it wasn’t just sex with Tracey. They had history and they had the children to bond them back together. No, it wasn’t just sex – it was danger.
Karin could see the crushing look of insecurity on Diana’s face and felt a stab of guilt. ‘I’m sorry darling. I was too blunt. But I do worry that Tracey has never been off the scene since Hotbet.com floated.’
Diana nodded. ‘I know, but how can I say anything? She’s the mother of his children.’
‘But they’re not a family any more,’ replied Karin. She held Diana’s hand and looked into her welling eyes. ‘Look, honey, I’ve seen this happen with divorced friends a hundred times over. One minute mum and dad are playing happy families on the ski slopes pretending they don’t hate each other, the next minute they’re back together for the sake of the kids and his bank balance.’
Diana’s regal features twisted in confusion. ‘So what should I do?’ she pleaded.
Karin took a sip of her drink. ‘Remind Martin why he married you. Remind him that, without you, he is nothing. Look around you, at this place, at these people. Tracey might have his kids, but that little scrubber can’t give him this, can she?’
Karin took the glass of champagne out of Diana’s hand and swapped it for a glass of water. ‘Take this. You get so morose when you’re drunk. Don’t worry, honey, we simply need to show Martin just how valuable you can be to him.’
Karin looked across the crowded lobby and had an idea. ‘And I think I know just the man who can help us.’
Even though Summer Sinclair was twenty-four years old, she had never been to a rock concert. She had lived in London and Tokyo, moved among the rich and famous and felt at ease in some of the world’s most exclusive nightclubs and restaurants, but she had never once been to a live gig. Squeezing her way into the upstairs room at the Monarch, she began to understand why. It was horrible. Claustrophobic, head-splittingly loud and so hot that the air felt solid in her lungs. Summer had to literally force her way between lank-haired surly teenagers to get anywhere near the stage. Her carefully chosen Jimmy Choo ankle boots were getting scuffed on discarded plastic glasses and the soles were sticking to the floor. It was hideous; why did people come to these things willingly? But then the music started.
For a second Summer flinched as a wall of sound hit her. A swaggering rock god had walked onstage holding his guitar. A single distorted chord rang around the room and, when he was satisfied he’d got the crowd’s attention, he jumped into the air and The Riots blasted off. Summer could hardly believe it. Charlie was so unrecognizable from the handsome preppy boy at the shoot that she almost wondered if she’d got the right gig. But it was definitely him, his groomed hair replaced by a tousled surfer-boy look and a three-day stubble, the stuffy suits of the wedding shoot replaced jeans, T-shirt and a lorry-load of attitude. He was so sexy! The songs were amazing too – from shouty rock anthems to ballads that pulled at Summer’s heart strings. This was fantastic!
On stage, the drummer yelled at Charlie to slow down. But he wanted to finish and get offstage. Deep in the crowd, through the glaring lights and sea of faces, Summer Sinclair’s face shone out at him. He charged through The Riot’s set list and ran off backstage, ignoring the pretty girls begging the security guard to be let through.
Please don’t let her leave, he thought, rushing out into the crowd to find her.
‘Hey. You came.’
Summer was just zipping up her jacket ready to face the cold night outside. She turned and smiled.
‘Shouldn’t you be backstage taking coke and drinking whisky?’ she asked, her head cocked in mock innocence.
Charlie laughed. ‘Me? I’m really just a square middle-class boy, but don’t tell this lot that,’ he grinned.
They propped themselves up at the bar as Charlie ordered two lagers, at the same time accepting assorted back-slaps from excited fans.
‘I think they loved it,’ whispered Summer as one pimply youth told Charlie he was wicked.
‘But what did you think?’
Summer wanted to tell him that his sexual presence seemed to fill this stage, that his heartfelt lyrics of love and loss had made her want to cry. But she couldn’t. She just didn’t know how to be around Charlie.
‘You were brilliant,’ she said simply.
‘Yeah, well,’ he said, looking at the floor, ‘playing the Monarch is a big step up for us. It’s one of the best places to play in London for an unsigned band because there’s always A&R people hanging about. Plus it’s got this incredible history. Everyone’s played here. Oasis, Coldplay, Chilli Peppers. Playing here is either the beginning or the end of the road for The Riots.’
Summer was still staring at her lager.
‘Are you going to drink that or just look at it?’ smiled Charlie.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never had a pint before.’
‘Good God! Where’ve you’ve been living? Mars?’
Her cheeks flushed with awkwardness. ‘No, in my mother’s universe.’
Charlie