Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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a fully converted New Yorker, are we? Or still hankering after London life?’
Serena snorted. ‘You’ve got to be kidding! I don’t know why I didn’t move here years ago. That whole Chelsea thing just seems so parochial now. I have met so many amazing people – artists, directors, and I mean really big directors, not just someone who’s been to film school and owns a camera,’ she gushed, almost knocking over her glass with excitement.
The fact that she was lonely in New York was something Serena tried to push to the back of her mind. Everyone in the city took everything so seriously and, while there was always something fabulous to go to – a party, a benefit, a gallery opening, she missed someone she was close to, to talk to, to share in her triumphs. She missed her sisters. She’d also realized too late that Michael was too much of a workaholic to be the Manhattan sidekick she craved. The vast scale of his business empire had only become clear once Serena had moved to New York – three hundred hotels under numerous divisions, two casinos, as well as a raft of prime real estate.
His life had a routine that Serena’s day had to be fitted into. He worked from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. each day. Serena was expected to meet him for dinner at the New York Sarkis hotel at 7.30 p.m. Only then – and if he wished – would they hit the social scene together. He disliked Serena going to parties without him and he made his displeasure evident. Normally Serena wouldn’t have put up with such behaviour from any man: she was used to calling the shots in her relationships. But in New York she didn’t have her support network of friends and family to fall back on, so for the time being she wasn’t going to rock the boat. And especially not with the summer season – the Hamptons house, the weekends on his yacht – so close. At least I’m practical, she thought smugly to herself.
‘Anyway,’ continued Serena, stretching her legs out and toying with the lime floating in her drink. ‘It’s not as if I can go back to London now, is it?’
‘Oh? How come?’ asked Roman, a bemused expression on his face.
‘Well,’ replied Serena, tossing back her hair, a dazzling white in the midday sun. ‘A few weeks ago we put the Cheyne Walk house on the market. I thought it was about time – everything’s being done through the lawyers, of course. It’s only been on a week and we’ve already had an offer over the asking price. Not surprisingly, of course, you can’t put a price on it being Serena Balcon’s old place, can you? The buyers want an early completion and I guess there’s nothing stopping us, is there? I’m out here now and Tom’s apparently enjoying being a country bumpkin.’
‘But is that wise?’ asked Roman, taking tiny sips of water. ‘I mean, shouldn’t you try to keep a base in London?’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Serena, appearing totally surprised, ‘This is my life now. If I want to go back for a holiday, I can stay with one of my sisters – preferably Venetia, at least she has quite a nice house. But really,’ she sighed, pulling the aqua-tinted sunglasses off the top of her head and peering at the fabulous view, ‘I have no intention of going back any time soon.’
Freshly blow-dried, massaged, manicured, tweezered and made-up, Serena decided to blend herself a frozen margarita before attempting to squeeze herself into her Roman LeFey original. Michael was due any moment, cutting it fine as usual, she noted, looking at the clock. Dressed in nothing but a scrap of lacy underwear, a pair of sky-high Manolos and brandishing an enormous cocktail glass, Serena felt like some villainous Bond girl as she walked across Michael’s living room towards the CD player. In fact, Michael’s whole apartment lent itself to the high-tech assassin ambience. There was a bank of plasma televisions across one wall, a glass Christian Liagre coffee table in the centre, and cream pop-art furniture on either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which were hidden by curtains made from long threads of tiny pearls. The whole look was maddeningly seductive and expensive and made the Cheyne Walk townhouse she shared with Tom seem, well, a little parochial.
Serena picked up a remote no larger than one of Michael’s Cohiba cigars. She pressed a button and ambient jazz oozed through the room. Gulping back the rest of her margarita, she felt sexy and alive. Her eyes closed, she swayed to the music, beginning to move her arms up over her head like an exotic snake charmer hypnotizing her prey. Swinging her hips to the rhythm, she drew her fingers down from the top of her neck down over her breasts to her navel in her erotic private dance. Then she heard the lounge door close. She whirled around to find Michael standing there. He flung his copy of Fortune magazine on the coffee table and began loosening his tie. ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ he smiled, looking her bronzed body up and down.
‘You can’t say I don’t ever give you a royal welcome,’ replied Serena, dancing over to him and kissing him gently on the neck. Michael growled and reached for her, but she playfully pushed him away and moved towards the dressing room.
‘No time for play,’ she smiled saucily. ‘I have to go and beautify myself.’
Michael spread his hands in appeal and ran after her. ‘Well, why don’t we take a shower together then?’ he called, a hungry tone in his voice.
‘No, no, no!’ squealed Serena, running away from him and pulling the bedroom door closed behind her. ‘I’m going to get dressed,’ she called. ‘Just wait until you see my dress! It’s perfect!’
Michael shrugged and padded to the marble and limestone bathroom, sliding his clothes off as he approached, while Serena stood gazing down at the delicate fabric of her gown before she began to pull it up and over her body, careful not to touch her hair. Orlando Pita had teased her mane into a sleek ponytail and she fastened a black orchid into the nape of her neck for effect. She turned to look at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and almost gasped at the elegant beauty staring back at her. ‘Eat your heart out, Nicole Kidman,’ she smiled, gazing at herself until she heard the sound of bare feet padding across thick carpet.
She turned around to see Michael, naked except for a small white towel, the hair all over his forearms, shoulders and chest glistening with moisture from the shower. She stood there, posing for a second, ready for Michael’s gushing praise for her breathtaking beauty. ‘Jesus, Serena!’ he said finally.
She smiled seductively, pulling her ponytail around onto her bare shoulder like a python. ‘Isn’t it fabulous?’ she purred. ‘It’s a present from Roman.’
‘It’s awful!’ said Michael flatly.
Serena’s smile disappeared as she smoothed her hands across the chiffon. ‘But it’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Serena, it’s fucking awful,’ said Michael forcefully, dropping the towel to the floor. ‘You look like you’re going to a funeral! This is supposed to be a glamorous event tonight. Take it off!’
The cold menace in his voice slapped Serena in the face. She had never been told she was anything short of sensational. Even her father, who had been quick to call Cate fat or Venetia a string-bean, had always treated her like the family’s Helen of Troy.
‘What do you mean you don’t like it?’ she gasped. ‘Just because it’s shades of black doesn’t mean I look like a bloody widow,’ she said, biting the top layer of her lip.
Michael’s response was cutting, impassive. ‘Take it off,’ he said.
He walked over to the mirror and started towel-drying his hair. ‘Wear that red Valentino I bought you,’ he sniffed without turning to face her. ‘And take the funeral wreath out of your hair. Is it supposed to be sexy?’
‘Fuck you!’ said Serena, stalking on her heels into the bathroom where she slammed the door shut, a little strip of chiffon catching on the door as she went. She sank down onto the cold limestone floor and sat there, shocked. She had never once doubted her appearance. She had thought she looked incredible tonight. She wanted to be the girl in the beautiful Roman LeFey gown that every magazine from W to Vanity Fair would photograph and run as the lead picture on their society pages.
She knew she looked fabulous, and she also knew she didn’t have to listen to Michael. She could walk out of the bathroom,