Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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just raised his eyebrows and looked at her. Serena met his gaze for a moment, then just nodded. Pleased, Feldman carried on with his vision. She would sign up with Greg Bloomberg, former whizz kid at the huge talent agency CAA, who had recently formed the SPK super-agency with some other talent from William Morris and CAA out in LA. He wanted her to be personally looked after by one of the top publicists, not one of their underlings – Pat Kingsley in LA, Lesley Dart or Muffy Beagle in New York. Most importantly, she would have to move to LA.
‘LA,’ she stuttered, instantly balking. She cast her mind back to several years earlier, shortly after she had been expelled from St Mary’s school, when she had flown out to LA to ‘make it’. It had been the only time she had met serious opposition from her father and the only time she had failed at anything. Six months, hundreds of auditions, and a bit-part in a mobile phone commercial later, she had returned to Britain with the stale taste of America’s West Coast in her mouth.
‘But I hate LA,’ she said, ‘the whole city is one big car park!’
Stephen laughed. He had been right about Serena: the girl was a diva already. ‘Sure, and that’s why I spend half my time in New York.’
‘Well, why couldn’t I then?’ asked Serena, pulling her best little-girl face.
Feldman thought for a moment. ‘I guess you could. Liv Tyler, Uma, Julianne Moore, lots of the big girls are based here. You’d still have to go out regularly to build up your profile on the West Coast, but I guess you could do it. The main thing is that you gotta forget about London and come to where the action is, baby!’
‘Well then,’ said Serena, lifting her flute, ‘I guess we’re in business.’
‘Damn straight!’ replied Stephen, clinking his glass against hers. ‘By the time we’ve finished, you’re not going to be just an actress, you’re going to be an international business brand – clothing lines, perfumes, real estate. J-Lo’s gonna shit when she sees you coming. We’re gonna be rich, baby, real rich!’
As she left the hotel and stood by the steps waiting for Michael Sarkis’s car, Serena looked into her compact mirror. She was pleased with the reflection. Her cream Stella McCartney trouser suit, left tantalizingly bare under the jacket, was the right side of casual but with enough chic to impress the Upper East Side ladies she was about to meet.
‘Just a low-key supper,’ Michael had said, insisting she come and meet some of his friends. Serena had been cautious, but flattered by the invitation. Since their passionate night in Mustique, Serena and Michael had been on as many dates as his hectic schedule would allow. There had been a night in Michael’s Mayfair apartment when he had been over in London on business, a dinner at the Voltaire in Paris when she had been doing the European junket and then there had been the weekend in New York. They had stayed in, eaten Chinese from little white cartons, and had had great sex in every room of Michael’s Fifth Avenue duplex; in the Jacuzzi, on the Philippe Starck coffee table, over the white leather couch. She’d been left exhilarated but uneasy. She had no idea whether their relationship was just fabulous, frenzied sex or whether they were edging towards something more. This invitation to meet Michael’s friends suggested it might just be the latter. And, to her surprise, she found herself hoping that might be the case.
‘Serena, baby. You look good enough to eat.’ She stepped into the back of the black Lincoln in which Michael was waiting, sinking into the deep leather seat. He motioned to his driver to close the privacy window. As the glass hissed upwards he slipped a hand under her jacket, brushing his thumb across her nipple.
‘Remind me who these friends are again?’ she mumbled softly, running her hands inside his cashmere overcoat. ‘Couldn’t we just turn around and go back up to my suite?’
‘Later, baby, there’re some people who want to meet you,’ smiled Michael.
Serena sat bolt upright in the black leather. ‘What do you mean, want to meet me?’
‘Relax. It’s just that word about us is getting around, darling,’ he laughed gently. ‘Apparently Liz Smith wrote a diary piece about us yesterday. I didn’t see it.’
Serena was shocked, but not surprised. On the one hand, it was surely good news that the big gossip columnists were writing about her, but on the other hand, she had only wanted word to get out about her and Michael after she was sure about their relationship. Tom was fading from her mind so swiftly that she sometimes had to ask herself if she had really spent five years of her life with him. But, as they pulled up to the dignified townhouse on East Seventieth Street, she wondered whether she really wanted to go public with Michael.
‘Michael, sweetheart. So good to see you!’ A platinum blonde in her mid-forties stepped forward as Serena and Michael entered the chandelier-lit drawing room. Harriet Fletch, ex-wife of millionaire restaurateur Daniel Fletch, was dressed in a powder-grey Tuleh chiffon dress with enormous diamond earrings drooping from her lobes. She smiled wanly at Serena, her eyes showing both curiosity and distaste.
Low-key supper, my foot, thought Serena, glancing quickly around the room. It was a cavernous space for Manhattan – all marble and oak panelling with gilt fittings and framed oil paintings. All rather vulgar, Serena judged absently, before her attention was distracted by a handsome Hispanic waiter in black tails who was presenting a platter of caviar blinis to other prototype blondes, all dressed in identical expensive designer clothes and jewellery and all with that same hungry, ruthless look in their eyes.
Thank goodness I wore the trouser suit, she thought as another gorgeous waiter handed her a glass of Krug. Whatever happened to the dress code for supper being a pair of Seven jeans, some heels and a pretty little Diane von Furstenberg top? That was how it worked in Chelsea, after all.
‘So this is Serena Balcon, I’ve heard so much about you. Welcome to my home,’ said Harriet, extending a thin, bony hand. ‘I loved seeing your sister’s place in Vogue the other day. Venetia is such a talented interior designer. I can’t wait until she opens her little store over here.’
Serena smiled graciously, but bristled underneath. She certainly didn’t need reminding of that little embarrassment; she was still smarting from Venetia’s appearance in her favourite magazine. Serena had reassured herself that Venetia’s Kensington home had been the star of the feature, but still, Vogue was her turf, and she didn’t like her sisters muscling in.
‘And how lovely to see you here with Michael,’ continued Harriet, stroking Michael’s cheek. ‘One of my favourite men in the world.’
The truth was, Harriet Fletch was far from delighted to see Serena at Michael’s side. On Monday, when she had heard the delicious rumour at Frederic Fekkai’s salon that Michael and his two-bit model girlfriend had split up, she wasted no time organizing one of her legendary soirées. Ever since her divorce from Daniel Fletch, Harriet had been on the lookout for husband number four, and Michael Sarkis more than filled her long list of requirements. Fabulously wealthy, incredibly sexy and with all those wonderful spa hotels all over the world, she need never spend another penny at the Bergdorf salon again! So she was seething as she read over her citron pressé and wheat-free pancakes that Michael had been seen squiring this wealthy English girl. But seeing Serena in the flesh, Harriet felt she was not defeated quite yet. OK, Serena was good-looking, but that aloof expression, the pompous Princess Diana accent, this Balcon girl was the ice queen incarnate, and Harriet knew from the Upper East Side gossip mill that Michael liked his women exotic, malleable and extremely adventurous in bed. This frosty frigid Brit wouldn’t last two minutes.
Harriet had of course made very sure that Serena was separated from Michael at dinner, placing her amongst people she had been sure would dislike her. Courtney Katz, Harriet’s best friend and ruthless social conspirator, and Gary Becker, plastic surgeon to the stars, who was sure to be turned off by Serena’s fleshy, natural look. However, Harriet had not reckoned on Serena’s social resilience; as a battle-hardened veteran of her father’s soirées, she could squeeze sparkling conversation from a shy Trappist monk. By the time the diners had reached their pistachio soufflés, Serena had steered the chat onto safe dinner party territory: whether