Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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for the party as it is.’
‘I don’t know why I can’t come along. I could pretend not to know you.’
Venetia looked at him mournfully and shook her head adamantly. ‘Because I’m meeting Jonathon. Anyway, it wouldn’t feel right. I can’t lie to my sisters.’
She began towelling herself down vigorously, trying to rub out the smell of sex and guilt before the party.
‘I guess you’re right. I might not be able to keep my hands off you. Then we’d be in all sorts of trouble.’ He smiled wolfishly.
Venetia looked at him intently, taking in the firm tanned body and the open smile. She knew she had to ask a question that had haunted her since that first night in Seville.
‘Jack, what do you see in me?’
He started laughing softly and reached out his hands to gesture her onto the bed. ‘What do I see in you?’ he paused with a faux-puzzled expression. ‘You have a nice nose, I suppose.’
She immediately looked wounded.
‘I’m joking, I’m joking! Although yes, you do have a nice nose. Come here,’ he laughed.
She sat on the edge of the bed and lay back in his arms. He fed her a strawberry, letting his fingers rest on the inside of her bottom lip.
‘Van, you are sexy, you are beautiful, you are talented. You are going to take over the world with your business and I’m going to keep kicking you up that pert, sexy little bum to help you do it.’
Venetia stayed silent for a while. This was all so wrong, but there was something about Jack Kidman that made her feel powerless to stop it. He made her laugh, he made her feel clever, he made her feel interesting. He was creative, clever, spontaneous: the type of man she’d been looking for all her life. But she had simply met him too late. She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of Jonathon. But it was no good, she couldn’t even picture his face. Jack Kidman had got right under her skin and her morals had crumbled. Pandora’s box had been opened.
The party was being held in the penthouse suite of the brand new Monument Hotel in the City, rumoured to be the biggest penthouse suite in London. As it had only been open a week, they had managed to get the use of it for free, in return for some publicity in the magazine. The press officer had been salivating over the proposed guest list: after all, it never did any new establishment any harm to host a glamorous party in the first few days of opening. Cate would have preferred a West End location for the party, but with such a tiny budget, she knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers.
‘Bloody hell, this is nice,’ said Nick, as the lift doors hissed open onto the atrium of the penthouse, where Pete Miller, the art director, had erected a twelve-foot-high blow-up of Sand’s first cover. In fact, the whole place looked really impressive. Handsome members of hotel staff in black Armani suits were floating around the rooms adding the final touches to the party: lighting candles, straightening ashtrays, making sure the two bars were fully stocked.
Cate and Nick wandered from room to room, taking in its luxury. It was striking, if masculine, in design. The walls were lined with Japanese cherry-wood, long black leather sofas filled the huge lounge area, which had floor-to-ceiling windows leading onto an enormous terrace that overlooked the entire city. It was a fabulous entertaining suite, no doubt squarely aimed at male CEOs visiting London on big business.
Nick opened the glass doors and the pair of them slipped out onto the terrace, grinning at each other like kids. The warm June evening air hit their faces as they stepped out. The city stretched out in front of them, lit up like a miniature New York skyline. You could see the strange ‘Gherkin’ building with its impressive lattice of lights, you could even make out the circular shape of the London Eye in the distance, and the shape of Tower Bridge, like two bishop chess pieces facing each other across the Thames.
A middle-aged man in a black suit came bustling over and introduced himself as Willem, the general manager of the hotel. ‘We are so pleased to be accommodating you tonight,’ he gushed in a light Eastern European accent. ‘Just let me know if you need anything. You will find me on extension two-two-five-three. Will your sister Serena be attending tonight?’ he asked Cate expectantly.
‘She will be attending, yes,’ said Cate with a smirk at Willem’s triumphant look before he hurried off to straighten some more ashtrays.
‘So Serena’s coming?’ asked Nick, helping himself to a glass of champagne.
‘Of course she’s coming,’ replied Cate. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘But so’s Tom.’
Cate looked back at him with a start.
‘Well, of course he’s coming,’ said Nick, mimicking her, ‘he’s my best friend. Not to mention an investor. Actually, he’s staying here in the hotel tonight. We thought Serena might be coming so I said I’d ring down to him in his suite when she’s gone.’
‘God, this is all so childish,’ muttered Cate. ‘I can’t believe they haven’t even seen each other yet.’
‘They will in time,’ said Nick. ‘But I guess tonight isn’t quite the right time for a reconciliation, in full view of one hundred and fifty people and the gentlemen of the press.’
‘I can’t tell her he’s coming,’ said Cate, playing distractedly with her earrings. ‘She’s stressed enough at the minute. She’ll just refuse.’
‘Oh Cate, you look fantastic!’ said Vicky, Sand’s fashion editor, who had rushed over and was running her fingers over the fabric of Cate’s Donna Karan dress. Nick mumbled his excuses and moved away to check on the guest list as the first arrivals were starting to trickle into the suite.
‘How many people have you seen?’ asked Cate anxiously. ‘Have any of the VIPs arrived?’ She was secretly worrying again that the City venue might have been a mistake, no matter how economical it had been to stage the party here.
Vicky pulled a face and handed Cate a glass of Moët. ‘It’s an awful lot of champagne to take back to the office if people don’t show.’
There was no need to worry. By eight o’clock, the penthouse was heaving with glamorous bodies. Senior representatives of all the major advertisers had come and were thumbing eagerly through the copies of Sand displayed around the suite. The soft jazz background music had to be turned up to full volume to be heard above the laughing crowd and Cate, a few drinks more relaxed, allowed herself to bask in the attention she was receiving from all quarters.
‘I am so proud of you,’ said Lucy, her old friend from Class magazine, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘You are going to whip the arse off Class,’ she smiled, ‘and I hope you do. That Nicole Valentine has become a big old bitch.’
‘Become?’
They both giggled.
Meanwhile, Camilla and Venetia had arrived, looking stunning in Marni and Prada respectively, and were doing a sterling job helping Cate circulate around the advertisers and showering them with attention. The ad people didn’t seem to mind that the sisters were not actively involved with Sand magazine – they were just happy to talk to one of the Balcon sisters – while a photographer from the Evening Standard snapped away gleefully at the great, the good and the gorgeous.
All the magazine’s investors were out in force, drinking champagne and all looking very pleased with themselves, lapping up the reflected glory. David Goldman had been very clever to know that evenings like this, rubbing shoulders with celebrities in a penthouse suite, was actually what they were investing in, not the magazine itself.
Cate took a minute to stand back in a corner and survey the scene. She had never felt more confident, more alive, more in charge than at this very moment. Across the room she could see Nick standing talking to a group of PRs, with Rebecca hovering by his shoulder. He had undone the button of his jacket and looked handsome and casual. She felt a glimmer of