Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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last night before we embark on our long-distance relationship,’ he shouted over in a deep Richard Burton baritone.
You wish, thought Serena spitefully, knowing that as soon as there was some distance between them, she was going to fire him. Now she was moving to the US, a London agent was, frankly, surplus to her requirements. Conrad should be grateful she wasn’t telling him tonight and spoiling this fabulous party.
Serena turned back to the girls. ‘So, anyway, where’s Daddy?’ she asked.
No party’s going to start properly without me, thought Oswald confidently, rolling up outside Venetia’s front door in the Bentley. He glanced at his watch: nine fifteen. Good. Everybody should be there now, he thought, screwing up Venetia’s handwritten note asking everyone to be at the party for Serena’s arrival at eight thirty. His youngest daughter should be bloody glad he was bothering to turn up at all. He was deeply unhappy about this Sarkis fellow she had hooked up with. An American was bad enough, he reflected, but this Sarkis was half Lebanese. Why on earth should he turn up to a party to celebrate that? He was glad she’d ditched that plebeian poofter Tom, of course – father was a miner or some such, but if Venetia could find someone like Jonathon von Bismarck, surely Serena could have anyone. Someone of good, solid English stock. He wiped his lightly sweating brow with a handkerchief and turned to Maria Dante in the back seat, taking her hand gently. Tonight’s the night, he thought, gleefully taking in her voluptuous body as they stepped out in front of the paparazzi. Tonight’s the night.
‘At bloody last,’ whispered Venetia urgently to Jonathon. The man of the house was craning his neck around the room, sure he’d just seen an inept waiter spill cranberry juice on the carpet. He would be taking that off the caterer’s bill.
‘What? What the hell’s wrong with you now?’ Jonathon snapped back.
‘Daddy’s here,’ said Venetia, nodding towards the front door. ‘He’s only just arrived.’
‘And look, he’s brought Maria Dante with him,’ smiled Jonathon, knowing that would impress some clients he had invited to the party. They had no idea who Robbie Williams was, but Maria Dante, now that was classy. She was wearing a vast cyan gown, her breasts spilling over the low-scooped neckline, her black hair piled up on top of her head, looking every inch the opera diva.
Oswald and Maria moved slowly through the crowd, nodding and accepting compliments graciously like a royal couple on walkabout among their subjects, finally stopping to kiss Serena. Oswald had not seen her since Christmas. It was no secret she was his favourite daughter, a chip off the old block in more ways than one, but his patience had been pushed to the limit when Cate had let slip that she was moving to New York. In Oswald’s eyes, it constituted betrayal.
‘You’re making a big mistake going to New York,’ he whispered in her ear, his muted voice dripping with superiority. Serena had not become his favourite child by being submissive. ‘You’re my father, not my travel agent,’ parried Serena smoothly.
Noticing that several people had started to eavesdrop on their conversation, Oswald instantly changed gear and embraced his daughter.
‘So – let’s party,’ he boomed, lifting a gin and tonic from a passing tray. ‘We’ve got Sinatra and Serena, both my favourites. Let’s face the music and dance.’
Venetia pulled on Serena’s arm to ask her to stay while Oswald drifted off into the crowd. ‘What?’ asked Serena.
‘So, what do you think of her?’ smiled Venetia, pointing in the direction of Maria.
‘What is she wearing?’ sniffed Serena indignantly. ‘And that big hair! Her head looks like a petrol cloud.’
‘Don’t forget you’re making a speech at ten, darling,’ Venetia reminded her sister. ‘We’ve put a microphone over by the grand piano, so, you know, just a few words.’
‘Do I have to?’ pouted Serena, secretly relishing any opportunity to be centre stage. ‘In that case I’d better have some more champagne.’
Venetia began to work the room with Camilla at her side, weaving in and out of the sea of guests, occasionally bumping into one of her own friends. She had felt guilty about inviting them to Serena’s party, but Venetia didn’t want to feel too much of a stranger in her own house. Right now she wanted to feel popular and loved and supported, particularly when Jonathon was being so distant. He was being colder than ever towards her and never seemed to be at home, always providing excuses to her for his absence – client dinners, overseas deals. Her husband was a workaholic, but she knew the truth was that they were drifting apart. And, much as she wanted Serena to have a fabulous last night in London, the party could not have come at a worse time. That morning she had returned to Dr Rhys-Jones’s clinic to get the results from the last round of tests and her worst suspicions had been confirmed. She had hardly any eggs left – having children either naturally or through IVF treatment would be, within a matter of months, impossible. She’d told no one, stoically blocking it out like bad weather or a light headache. A lifetime with her father had taught her how to switch off when all she wanted to do was dissolve into a flood of tears. No, she would deal with it tomorrow, she decided, when Serena’s special night was over and when she and Jonathon could sit down and sort out their future.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Camilla, resting a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘You seem a bit, well –’
‘What?’ said Venetia defensively.
‘I don’t know. A bit sad? Don’t worry, Van, she’s only going to New York, you know,’ said Camilla softly.
Venetia simply nodded. Let her believe she was sad about Serena. ‘Come on,’ she chirped with forced good humour. ‘Come and Meet Diego Bono, the fabulous designer I was telling you about. Graduated from the Royal College last year. I hear that Calvin Klein and Burberry both want him, but I think I’ve persuaded him to come and join Venetia Balcon as our new women’s-wear designer.’
‘You’re going into women’s-wear?’ asked Camilla, surprised.
‘Logical brand development for us,’ said Venetia, her eyes beginning to sparkle once more. ‘I’m so excited about this, Cam. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’
Camilla hadn’t seen her sister so animated in ages: she was glowing with enthusiasm. She wanted to hear more, but suddenly they were interrupted by two handsome men brandishing flutes of champagne in front of them. ‘Ladies, ladies, ladies. The drinks are on us!’ said one. Cate walked over, laughing at her sisters’ bemused expressions.
‘Don’t worry, girls. They’re not intruders. Venetia, Camilla, meet my partners in crime, Nick Douglas and Dave Goldman.’
Nick immediately threw an arm around Venetia and Camilla, promising in a slightly tipsy voice to tell them ‘secrets’ about Cate, while David moved in close to Cate, his sharp black suit brushing up against her.
‘So, what do you think?’ asked Cate, unnerved by his closeness, but hiding it by gesturing at the decor.
‘Is it always this floral?’ asked David with a smile.
‘Only for birthdays and special occasions,’ answered Cate, popping a mini-strawberry tartlet into her mouth.
‘You know you’ve made it if you live in a place like this,’ said David with a hint of envy. ‘But I do hear Jonathon’s hedge fund is doing fantastically. Mind if we go for a snoop?’
‘Where did you have in mind?’ asked Cate. ‘Have you seen the kitchen? It’s incredible.’
‘I was thinking of somewhere a little less noisy,’ said David, moving close to her ear and picking up a bottle of champagne from a table. ‘Let’s go and explore.’
David took Cate’s hand and led her through the crowds towards the back of the house. David wanted her all for himself. Cate Balcon was his kind of woman. Bright and beautiful, she also had that something special. Breeding. Polish. Whatever.