Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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tossed a sheaf of hair over her shoulder. This was the sort of question she enjoyed. ‘Well, of course I’m rather well known in London,’ she smiled, trying to sound modest. ‘And because of that my sisters have some degree of popularity …’
Having warmed her up, the journalist decided to change tack.
‘You went on a cruise on Roman LeFey’s boat. Did you enjoy it?’
Serena’s eyes instantly narrowed.
‘Yes, Roman is a very good friend of mine and we often travel together.’ She instantly knew where this was going and she wasn’t going to let this sallow hack get any sensational headline out of her.
‘Egypt is a beautiful country. I had a wonderful time,’ she said obliquely.
‘And I understand Roman introduced you to the billionaire hotelier Michael Sarkis?’
Serena gave up, a cloud of disapproval evident on her face. ‘I’m here to talk about the movie,’ she snapped, so ferociously that even the thick-skinned writer drew back in shock.
‘Of course,’ he stammered, ‘I just thought one quote about …’
Serena picked up the telephone beside her. ‘Clara, darling, we need you in here one moment.’
Clara bustled back into the room, her clipboard held tightly against her chest and a fixed smile on her face. She was one of the best publicists in the business and could get rid of unwanted attention in an instant. Serena pointed at the journalist haughtily. ‘Personal questions, darling,’ she said, shivering with distaste.
Clara beamed at the journalist and thrust a press pack into his hands. ‘I think that’s it for today. Any other information you might need should be in there. Goodbye!’
The journalist looked at her, deflated, pushed the papers into his bag and scurried out of the door, leaving the two women alone in the grandeur of the suite. ‘How was that? Not too awful?’ asked Clara kindly, topping up Serena’s mineral water.
Serena flopped back into the luscious feather down of the sofa, resting one stiletto boot heel on the coffee table, rubbing her toes through the leather.
‘I’m bloody exhausted,’ she pouted. ‘Journalists. They’re such a headache. Speaking of which, those lilies are making me feel sick,’ she said, flapping a hand at an enormous vase of trumpet flowers. ‘Can you move them and then get me some aspirin? I’ve got to leave this room before I get cabin fever.’
Clara was both professional and experienced, and over the years had dealt with more divas than she cared to remember. She merely smiled sweetly and phoned the concierge. ‘Aspirin’s on the way,’ she replied, busily tidying up the coffee cups as Serena tutted from the sofa.
‘You do remember,’ added Clara gently, ‘that the cast and crew screening of To Catch a Thief begins at eight p.m.?’
Serena flashed her a look of undisguised boredom. She had no intention of sitting in the dark with the third assistant director and the costume mistress. And besides, she had much bigger fish than To Catch a Thief to fry.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to make that, darling,’ she replied airily, lighting up a cigarette.
‘I have a very busy evening tonight and I want to be fresh for tomorrow. By the way,’ she continued casually, ‘can you make sure we have San Pellegrino instead of Badoit in the room tomorrow? Badoit is just a tad too salty.’
Upstairs in the Four Seasons’ presidential suite, Serena took a shower then paced around the room nervously. She walked over to the suite’s dining area, that jutted out fifty-one floors above Madison Avenue, making you feel as if you were floating in space over the pulsating heart of Manhattan. Perching on the edge of the dining table, she looked out at the panorama of New York spread out in front of her. Central Park had become a thick black gulf in the growing dark while yellow taxis darted around it like hornets. She took another drag of her cigarette. New York. She looked at it twinkling in front of her like a golden opportunity made physical, and shivered. Never before had she felt quite so exhilarated, yet quite so apprehensive. In London she had been the queen of the social scene; it was safe and cosy. But here, in front of the Manhattan skyline, London just seemed insignificant.
Serena didn’t want to be London’s hottest star; she wanted to be the world’s hottest star. And that was why she was about to meet Stephen Feldman in the Four Seasons’ bar. Feldman was chairman of Feldman Artist Management, one of the hottest, most ruthless and best-connected artist managers in America. Bicoastal, bisexual and brilliant, even a two-bit waitress was one Feldman strategy away from being a Hollywood superstar. And now he wanted to meet Serena Balcon. She glanced at her watch, then looked at herself reflected in the darkening window. She looked good, and if she played her cards right, New York – America – would soon be hers.
‘Two words. Grace Kelly,’ said Stephen Feldman in his camp New York drawl. ‘In fact, you’re gonna be bigger than Kelly. Sure, she was classy, but she was the daughter of a bum. Serena Balcon is the genuine article. I just know we’re gonna do something very special together.’ Stephen downed his glass of claret and waved the bar’s wine waiter over for a refill. Serena sat back in her banquette and basked. She was loving the attention that Feldman was lavishing on her, eyeing her up like a trainer inspecting a prized stallion.
‘That said, honey, you’ve got a lotta problems,’ he said picking a speck of dust from his camel Brioni cashmere jacket.
Serena looked at him, startled. ‘Problems?’ she spluttered, almost spilling her cocktail. ‘You’ve just been telling me how wonderful I am!’
‘Sweetie, just hear me out,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘If we’re going to get you up there with Julia, Catherine and Gwyneth, we’re gonna have to make some changes, which starts with getting a proper support system around you. I can’t believe you haven’t already got a manager!’ he said incredulously. ‘Honey, even waitresses in LA have a manager.’
‘I have an agent in LA and London and a publicist in London and it’s worked for me so far,’ she replied, trying to contain her annoyance. If Feldman didn’t have such a fearsome reputation, if he hadn’t worked wonders with the careers of Hollywood legends like David Sanders and Michael Montgomery, she would have been long gone.
‘It’s worked in London, honey. You’re playing with the big boys now,’ smiled Feldman, running his hand through his highlighted blond hair. ‘Plus, you don’t have Tom Archer by your side any more. Sure, he was cute, he was going places – he’s even got Oscar buzz around him now, but he’s gone. Now you have to get noticed by yourself.’ Feldman started stroking his chin, thinking up an angle. ‘Hooking you up with Hollywood royalty wouldn’t hurt. Look how Zeta-Jones skyrocketed after she met Douglas. Or what about the real thing? Hey, why not have a discreet affair with Prince William? You must know him, right?’
They ordered another round of drinks and Feldman took her through his plan. It was both dizzyingly exciting about the future and brutally critical of her past. Serena, he pointed out brusquely, had spent the last five years working on her celebrity not her career. Did she think Julia Roberts or Tom Cruise had made it without a carefully considered strategy? Yes, Feldman had watched some of Serena’s tapes, he said, but they had been mediocre movies with mediocre performances. However, there was some good news. Within five minutes of meeting her, Feldman said, he had known that Serena Balcon could be a good actress and, more importantly, a big, big star. She had a fabulous voice; a little plummy, sure, but rich and sexy, and there was charisma and expression in every little gesture she made. And her physical beauty was awesome.
‘So we’re going to get you to some acting classes,’ he told her bluntly. ‘I know a great woman, Ellen Barber, worked at Lee Strasberg for years, now she does a lot of stuff for me.’
Serena squirmed, caught between anger and embarrassment and still thinking about this so-called ‘Oscar buzz’ around Tom. Where did that come from? Not that poky little arthouse