Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry
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thinking about it. She’d asked for the meeting, having avoided his calls since Cannes. While a part of her still didn’t want that bastard’s money, if she was brutally honest, she needed it. The Jolie Cosmetics contract had gone, her agent wasn’t exactly coming up with the goods work-wise (he would definitely have to go), and without Tom or Michael around to pick up the tab for her day-to-day things, she couldn’t quite believe how expensive life was, having to fend for herself. It was outrageous! Well, she wasn’t going to start penny-pinching now. A new house, nanny, Portland hospital bills, couture: it all cost. And she was going to make Michael pay.
‘Serena.’
She walked into the reception room and put her clutch bag on the table.
Michael was sitting on a black leather and chrome sofa in a pair of jeans, Hermès belt and a red shirt open at the neck. Serena looked at him and felt an electric shiver fire up her spine. She’d spent hours going over in her mind what she’d first say to him, but hadn’t factored in the helpless lust she felt as she saw him in his den of luxury. Just by walking into the room, her defences weakened, and she knew she was already on the back foot. She tried to gather her thoughts, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him and an unbidden thought crept into her head, a thought she had been trying to quash the last week. Had she been too hasty in cutting him dead? Maybe she should just let him squirm for a few more days and then take him back. Take all this back, she thought, looking at the expensive furnishings in the apartment.
For two individuals who defined confidence, the tension between them was so strong you could almost see it. Michael’s enormous presence seemed to surround her and she immediately regretted agreeing to meet him on his turf. Thank God she had chosen to wear skintight McQueen.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked, walking over to a small bar in the corner of the room. ‘I’m having a Bloody Mary. Do you want a Virgin?’
She raised an eyebrow then shook her head, watching him pour tomato juice into a glass. He relaxed back into the sofa and fixed her with his gaze.
‘I wish I’d found out from you about the baby rather than the papers,’ he said.
Serena crossed her legs, smoothing her long tanned legs with her fingers. ‘You didn’t give me the chance.’
They stared at each other in silence and Serena felt her nipples swell as his coal-black eyes penetrated hers. She remembered the last time they were in this room. After Mustique. Naked on the thick carpet. Michael sliding on top of her, grabbing her hair and thrusting into her. Exploding passion. Togetherness.
With each passing second, Serena felt her anger ebb away, to be replaced by another potent emotion. Longing. She wondered if he was thinking the same, then fought to stay angry, controlled, in charge of her conflicting emotions as Michael continued to watch her.
‘Michael, I just wanted to say …’
Sarkis lifted one finger. ‘Just a moment. We’re waiting for one more, then we can begin.’
‘Begin what?’ asked Serena, bemused.
A buzzer sounded and Michael pressed the intercom beside him. In walked a short, squat man in a dark suit carrying a leather attaché case.
‘Who’s this?’ asked Serena, suddenly feeling edgy.
‘This is Jim Berger, my attorney, who you’ll be dealing with after today.’
‘What the hell is this?’ spluttered Serena. ‘Michael! Tell me what’s going on?’
‘It’s very simple. I want a paternity test,’ replied Michael flatly.
‘What!’ screamed Serena. ‘You humiliate me with those hookers and now you ask for a paternity test?’
He looked at her coolly, relaxed on his sofa, a smirk on his mouth, every inch the ruthless businessman. ‘If it is my child we can talk an allowance and you can thrash that out through Jim. But if it isn’t? Well, of course, I know why you’re here, Serena, and let me assure you, you won’t be seeing a penny.’
It was one of the hottest June weeks on record. The grass had reached its apex of green and each blade had begun to wilt lazily in the heat. The trees surrounding the grounds looked wild, lush and almost tropical, and the lake in the middle of the grounds was beginning to dry up leaving a pale brown rim, as if dirty bathwater had just swirled away.
Oswald sat in the shade on the terrace at Huntsford, having just taken some light lunch. Curls of Parma ham, chunks of lime-coloured avocado, and rocket drizzled with his favourite balsamic vinegar, which he had specially imported from a tiny village outside Modena. He washed it down with a large gin and tonic that had become a little warm in the balmy air. Feeling suddenly tired, he glanced at his watch, deciding to wrap up his lunch meeting as quickly as he could to go and sleep off the draining heat of the day.
‘So, Mr Loftus,’ he said to the man sitting on the other side of the table. ‘If you can leave the samples of your work with me, I can read them and maybe we can talk again early next week. You must appreciate, however, that I am talking to other writers as well.’
David Loftus, a brooding man in his early forties, reached into his bag and slipped a small pile of books and magazines in front of Oswald, which he studiously ignored.
‘I’ll give you my card as well, so call me if you need to know anything else.’ The man peered earnestly at Oswald. ‘I’ve been waiting twenty years to assist with memoirs like yours.’
Oswald smiled thinly. Despite David’s fawning performance over lunch, he had already made up his mind he was going to use Loftus to ghost-write his memoirs. He came highly recommended by his agent, his credentials were decent: Oxbridge, several historical biographies under his belt, a couple of well-received crime novels under a pseudonym. More importantly, he lived locally, plus he was quick – and Oswald needed to strike while the iron was hot.
Oswald had had lukewarm interest from publishers in the past about his memoirs, but, after the recent Serena revelations, there had been a frenzy of interest in the man behind the UK’s most glamorous siblings. His publisher wanted the book completed as quickly as possible, and while Oswald considered himself an eloquent writer, more than capable of penning it himself (not to mention the fact that he’d been looking forward to the opportunity of reclaiming the limelight from his daughters), writing a book was hard work. He needed a mug like Loftus who’d take a small cut of the advance and no royalties in return for doing the bulk of the work.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Oswald, looking at David’s business card and waving him off.
‘I look forward to it,’ replied Loftus. ‘This could be good for both of us.’
As Loftus left, the French doors to the terrace opened and in bustled Zoë Cartwright. Oswald had hired the young woman to be the production coordinator for the Huntsford musical event and she seemed in a dreadful hurry, clutching a pile of brown files to her chest like a mother suckling an infant. Oswald groaned. He had initially got her on board a couple of months ago to make his life easier: he was willing to admit that he hadn’t fully appreciated the workload involved in planning an event on the scale he envisaged. Zoë had an excellent track record, having planned two huge events in Richmond Park the previous summer, and in the early days she had been indispensable. She had just got on with it and let Oswald occupy his time with other, more important things: polo, wooing Maria Dante, taking the cars for a spin.
But now, as the day drew closer, with the Musical Evening only four days away on Saturday, Zoë was like an albatross around his neck. She had moved operations from her flat in Chelsea to the Blue Room at Huntsford, arguing that it was time-and cost-effective to be based close to the site. While Oswald had seen the sense of it, Zoë was now pestering him on an hourly basis, demanding lengthy daily debriefs and annoying him constantly for decisions on the minutiae of the event. She