Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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months at most. If we don’t start trying very hard for a child this month – every month – that’s it! There is no more time, there is no child!’
She was crying now, streams of tears smearing her foundation. She bit her lip to try and staunch the flow.
‘So this is what we have in store for the menopausal years, is it?’ Jonathan snarled cruelly. ‘Violent mood swings? Tears at bedtime?’
He calmly walked back into the dressing room, giving the top of his chest a squirt of Aqua di Palma. ‘So you don’t want to go out for dinner then?’
Venetia just stood with her back to him, staring out onto the street, her shoulders heaving with silent tears.
‘I’ll assume that’s a no then,’ he said tartly, threading his Asprey cufflinks through the holes in his shirt. ‘That’s a shame, because we do have a few business matters to discuss.’
Venetia turned to look at him, her eyes red but indignant. ‘Well you can tell me here. We don’t need to go to a restaurant to do business,’ she said icily.
‘In that case, I might as well outline my future plans,’ he replied briskly, fully the businessman now he was dressed again. ‘I noticed from the diary we have another Venetia Balcon board meeting on Monday afternoon.’
‘That’s right,’ said Venetia, taking a sip of Evian to clear her throat. For the last eighteen months Jonathon had attended all board meetings for her business, including many other smaller but important meetings relating to the Venetia Balcon business. He had been the company’s main commercial adviser. After all, just after their marriage he had injected two million pounds of his own money into her business – the two million pounds that had enabled her to move from a tiny shop in the Fulham Road to the beautiful Georgian Mayfair base that Venetia Balcon now occupied. After Venetia, Jonathon was the largest shareholder with forty-five per cent of the company, her finance director Geoffrey Graham holding three per cent and Caroline, her senior interior designer, with a one per cent share.
‘I’ve decided I can’t afford the time any more,’ said Jonathon, combing his hair in the mirror. ‘Orion Capital is looking after a five-billion-pound fund now, and if we’re going to open a Geneva office by the end of the year, I can’t afford any distractions whatsoever. So I won’t be so involved with your business affairs any more, darling.’
Venetia felt a sense of panic. While she found it hard working with her husband – he could be a demanding, controlling perfectionist, she still valued the business perspective he brought to her company. She wouldn’t have dreamt of expanding so rapidly with her women’s-wear line, or opening the New York shop without Jonathan’s enormous commercial input. Geoffrey was an efficient number cruncher, but he didn’t hold a candle to her husband in terms of business acumen.
‘But what do you expect me to do?’ she stammered. ‘You’re part of the business, it’s your investment!’
‘It’s hardly my primary business concern,’ he laughed coldly, ‘However, you’re right, I do want to protect that investment, which is why I have decided to nominate someone to take my place at the board meetings to make decisions about the company on my behalf. Someone who can make rational, impartial decisions. I know you can be a little too passionate sometimes.’
‘Who?’ she asked, playing with the platinum band around her finger.
‘Your father,’ replied Jonathon coolly.
For a moment she wasn’t sure whether he was mocking her or whether he was actually suggesting it seriously, until she saw the triumphant look in his eye.
‘But how …? What can you be thinking?’ she coughed, moving towards him, rubbing her palms together. ‘Jesus, Jonathon, you know how difficult he is. He’s belligerent, obstructive and a downright pain in the arse at the best of times. I can’t – no, make that I won’t – work with him. You can’t seriously expect me to do it!’
Mirroring Venetia, Jonathon began twirling the gold signet ring around his little finger and smiled confidently. ‘As a forty-five per cent stakeholder in your company, darling, I expect you to do whatever I suggest.’
‘Fruit juice, Earl Grey, or is it just a little early for Martinis?’ said Serena, sitting down next to Roman LeFey on the terrace of Michael’s impressive Upper East Side duplex.
‘Just some mineral water would be great,’ replied her friend, relaxing back in his Adirondack chair to let the sun shine on his face and his eyes wander to enjoy the view. From the terrace, Roman could see all the way from downtown Manhattan across Central Park and up towards the horizon where upstate New York beckoned over twenty miles away. There was probably no better spot to have lunch anywhere in the city and no more glamorous a dining companion.
He turned his critical fashion eye to Serena, whom he had not seen since their dramatic Egyptian cruise. She had certainly slipped into the role of New York power-blonde, he thought, looking at her slim-fit tailored trousers, Proenza Schouler T-shirt and ice-pick-heeled mules dangling off her crimson-painted toes. Serena had, of course, always been his most thoroughbred friend, but there were definite subtle differences he noted, taking a little sip of Pellegrino. Her make-up was a little more dramatic, her hair a paler shade of blonde. And she had certainly lost an awful lot of weight. The slight curve of her hips had been smudged away to squeeze her into a size four. It was a glossy, expensive and highly polished look, but Roman half wondered whether, in her pursuit of the New York make-over, she hadn’t lost a little of the English naturalness he had so loved about her.
A Hispanic maid bustled onto the terrace holding two big bowls of shrimp salad and a jug of iced water with floating wedges of lime. ‘A light lunch,’ smiled Serena, stabbing at a curl of rocket. ‘Sorry we couldn’t have popped down to Da Silvano or somewhere in the Village, but I’m rushed off my feet with appointments today before this damned party. I’ve got a manicure, pedicure and massage at Bergdorfs at two, and I’ve not even been for a run yet,’ she said, a quiver of panic in her voice.
‘But at least you have a gown for this evening,’ smiled Roman proudly. ‘You are going to look beyond fabulous.’
Serena nodded. She knew she was going to have to look her very best if she was going to shine at this evening’s Costume Institute Gala. Held at the Metropolitan Museum, the gala was unique in attracting an A-list mix of New York society, music industry cheeses and Hollywood stars, not forgetting the glamorous fashion pack. Eight hundred of America’s hottest, hippest and most fashionable were about to vie for attention in the hottest party of the year. Serena’s publicist Muffy had told her that if she could make a splash tonight, not only New York but the whole of America would wake up to the charms of Serena Balcon. Of course, she had to make the right kind of splash. The gala usually had a theme and tonight’s was ‘A Night of Burlesque’. It was a delicate balancing act. Too often guests took it too seriously and ended up dressing like some half-clothed gothic tragedy. On the other hand, she appreciated that looking totally glamorous while also entering into the spirit of the evening would certainly get her noticed.
But trust Roman to come up with such a fabulous concoction, she thought, picturing it lying on her bed. A long, strapless gown with acres of fabric billowing out into a sumptuous train, it had been woven from strips of dark chiffon in various shades of black from charcoal to darkest ebony. A boned corset made by Mr Pearl clung to her body like molten metal. Whilst the couture confection had been a present from Roman, he wasn’t doing it entirely without ulterior motives. He knew that once Serena Balcon walked up those steps, all of New York’s big fashion spenders and front-row girls would want to know who had made her incredible gown. He wasn’t going to sit back and let Carolina Herrera and Oscar de la Renta dress American society for ever.
‘Anyway, tell me all about New York,’ said Roman, nibbling daintily on a Honduran prawn.
‘Oh, it’s