Gold Diggers (28 page)

Sitting in the first-class carriage of the 10.45 to Newcastle, Molly rested her head against the glass, seeing the blur of embankments, tunnels, hedges and ponds, but taking in nothing in particular. She closed her eyes and tried to work out how long it had been since she had been home. She snorted. Home? That place had never been home. Besides, it was all so long ago that it was as if that life had belonged to somebody else. But, over the past few days, that old life had begun to leak back into her thoughts. Since her conversation with Janet, at night her mind would drift to their tiny terraced house; the small living room that came straight off the street and smelt of chip fat and furniture polish, the bathroom with its pink suite and crocheted doilies over the toilet rolls, the beds covered with candlewick eiderdowns.
Some home
, thought Molly with derision, but still she felt its pull. At night, staring into the darkness, it was all she saw.

Guilt was not usually a sentiment in Molly’s emotional spectrum, but now it was choking her. Guilt at never having told Summer she had a grandfather. Guilt at all the stories she had told about Kenneth Sinclair being a work-shy, bullying monster, about her stepmother ignoring her and
demeaning her, day after day. Yes, Molly had painted a vivid picture, of a poor, dirty, violent past she had clawed her way out of, becoming strong and successful against the odds. Molly, the survivor.

But Molly’s stories were a long way from the truth. Kenneth Sinclair was not a wife-beater; he had never hit Molly or deprived her of what little he could afford. No, Kenneth Sinclair’s crime was that he was poor. Poor and proud. He was nothing more than a painter and decorator, a family man, a regular in the Crown, a decent working man. Nothing more, nothing less. And Molly had hated him for it.

Newcastle was bright and sunny, the water glinting in slivers as the train crossed the Tyne. Molly strode up the platform and fought for a taxi at the front of the station, asking the driver to take her to Newcastle Infirmary. The hospital was a soulless building, despite the warm weather and a cheerful banner announcing a summer fair the following Saturday. She had last been there when she was thirteen and she had fallen off a wall outside the off-licence, cracking her head. Molly had been hysterical, inconsolable. Not from the pain of the fall but from the fear of the stitches leaving a scar.

She climbed out of the taxi, tipping heavily, and walked into the reception, looking completely out of place in her silk T-shirt, white jeans and Gucci sunglasses. Glancing at a big information board she found that that the Cardiac Unit was in the Orange Zone, wherever that might be. She walked down the long peach-painted corridor, hearing the sound of her heels tapping on the lino. Her steps got slower and slower as she got closer, dreading the moment. She had no idea what she was going to say; over the past few hours she had tried to think of something, but nothing had come. Finally, a sign above a pair of tatty double doors announced that she had reached the Cardiac Unit. She noticed a few
private rooms and hoped her father was in one of those. It was bad enough meeting your family again after twenty-odd years; it would be worse if you had to do it in front of dozens of other ill people.

What would he look like now, she thought as she put a hand on the door. Thinner? Greyer? Maybe his hair would be white. Would there be tubes coming out of his chest? One of those air pumps? She shivered.

‘Can I help you?’

A nurse no more than Summer’s age was standing in front of her with a serious expression.

‘I’m looking for Kenneth Sinclair. I’m his daughter.’

She saw a look of awkwardness and sympathy on the young woman’s face, as she put a hand on Molly’s shoulder and ushered her into a small room off the main ward.

‘I’m so sorry. I thought you might have heard. Mr Sinclair – your dad – passed away about two hours ago. There were severe complications after the operation. The doctors did their best, but he was a very ill man. But I’m sure you knew that.’

Passed away? Molly tried to take a breath but her lungs seemed to suddenly shrink and close.

‘He’s dead?’ she whispered.

‘Can I get you a drink. A tea?’ asked the nurse.

‘He’s dead, he’s dead.’ She repeated it over and over again and again, trying to understand the words.

‘We do have a bereavement counsellor on site,’ said the nurse kindly.

‘He never met my daughter,’ said Molly, her eyes staring vacantly at a notice board pinned with posters on flu jabs and leaflets on healthy eating.

‘Your family left about an hour ago, I think. I can arrange for a taxi to take you home, as I’m sure you’ll all want to be together,’ said the nurse patiently.

‘A taxi?’ Molly looked at the woman blankly, then suddenly jumped to her feet, picking up her handbag and slinging it over her shoulder. ‘Yes, a taxi. That would be very kind of you,’ said Molly. ‘I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time.’

The car dropped her off outside the Metropole Hotel in the city centre. She checked into a suite, and phoned room service to bring her a club sandwich and two bottles of their best red wine. Plundering the minibar, she poured four miniatures of Scotch into a tumbler and drank it in two gulps.

She ran a bath, removed her clothes and answered the door naked to a startled waiter, taking the wine and a glass from him without a word. Sinking into the hot suddy water, the claret slipping down her throat like warm honey, images of her past and present whirled and merged, echoing around her head like an empty hospital corridor. As she drifted into semiconsciousness, her eyelids growing leaden, she didn’t notice her shoulders sliding slowly down the curve of the bath, the cooling water edging up towards her ears, her head lolling onto her shoulder as exhaustion and alcohol washed over her. She just didn’t notice.

If Summer had ever harboured any ambitions to be an actress, she had not realized it until she was at the Serpentine Gallery party and had overheard a delicious piece of gossip. ‘Darling, haven’t you heard?’ gushed Daria Vincenzi, a gorgeous Italian model with a plummier voice than the Queen. ‘Luc Balzac – you know, the maverick French film director? He’s making an action movie at Pinewood Studios for like a hundred million dollars and they want to cast a complete unknown for the female lead. Isn’t it just the best?’

Summer sidled up to Allegra Fox, the aristocratic face of
numerous fashion brands. Allegra was the best connected and least discreet model she knew. If anyone knew the full skinny, she would.

‘Oh yes, I had a meeting with Imogen Sanders, the casting director, only yesterday,’ she boasted. ‘Officially it’s open auditions, but Imogen is calling in all the top girls from the big agencies.’ Allegra gave Summer a dismissive look to suggest she wasn’t in the same league. ‘Although, apparently the script is terrible, so it might not be the right move for me right now.’

As Molly had thankfully lost interest in ‘managing’ Summer’s career, she decided to take matters into her own hands, and the next day went into her agency, IMP, as early as she dared. Just off Regent Street, IMP was London’s most powerful agency, with some of modelling’s biggest names on their books. The office was a slick, open-plan affair, with one big circular table in the centre at which sat the agency’s bookers, yelling into their headsets like a fashionable version of King Arthur’s knights. Summer’s agent, Michael Tantino, had an office of his own. He had just been promoted to head booker – signing the Karenza girl hadn’t done his cause any harm at all – and he was delighted to see Summer.

‘Summer!’ he cried, throwing his arms in the air as she walked in to his sparse chrome and glass office. ‘My favourite model in all the world!’

A flamboyant half-Tunisian, half-Spaniard, Michael had skin the colour of butterscotch. His black fitted shirt was left open to give Summer an eyeful of his freshly waxed chest. ‘Although I do say that to everyone. How can I help you, honey?’

‘Do you have any dealings with Imogen Sanders?’ asked Summer, sitting on a orange sofa.

Michael gave a half-shrug. ‘Sometimes, darling. Why do you ask?’

Michael winced inwardly. He knew exactly what Summer was referring to, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Imogen Sanders was one of his oldest friends and had called him for recommendations on beautiful girls who could act. He had not put Summer’s name forward. As head booker, he was fiercely protective of the agency’s reputation and had only sent his biggest girls to see Imogen Sanders. The girls who could command $50,000 a day, and the ones who had the seven-figure contracts with the giant cosmetic houses. The cream of the cream. Summer Sinclair was beginning to bring in good money for the agency, sure. And she was hot, no question of that;
GQ
was on the phone every week wanting her to do a cover. But he didn’t think she was ready for Hollywood.

‘… Only I was talking to Daria last night,’ continued Summer, ‘and she said you’d sent her to see Imogen.’

Michael pulled a face. Summer was such a modest, timid little thing. She might have landed that TV show, but she didn’t have the big bubbly personality like Cameron Diaz or the celebrity boyfriend like Jude Law who had sent Sienna Miller’s career into overdrive.

‘Yes, honey, that’s true, but I really don’t think the time’s quite right for you right now. How about we start you off on this music video I’ve heard about …’

Summer took a deep breath, imagining what Molly would do in this situation. She certainly wouldn’t allow him to fob her off. She might not be a ‘top girl’, but she wanted it. She wanted it badly. And if she was going to be an actress, now would be a good time to start.

‘Listen, Michael,’ said Summer, mimicking Molly expertly, ‘I know they’re having open auditions; there was even an advert in
The Stage
, for goodness’ sake. This job is not a secret.’

She leant forward and tapped her nail on Michael’s desk
for emphasis. ‘I’ll contact Imogen myself if I have to. But if I get the gig I might just be looking for a new agency. I’m sure Models 1 would be very welcoming if I—’

‘Okay. Okay,’ interrupted Michael, holding up hands. ‘I’ll call Imogen. In the meantime, there’s a casting tomorrow for some pop video for some James Blunt kind of guy. Apparently he’s hot. The record company are seeing people tomorrow. They’ve seen your book already.’

‘Okay, give me the details,’ said Summer, allowing herself an inward sigh of relief. ‘And you won’t forget to call Imogen, will you?’

‘I won’t forget,’ teased Michael. He looked at her and felt a little sad. She had big dreams that were getting bigger. She was a good kid. He didn’t want her to get chewed up and spat out. She was too good for that.

Erin hadn’t heard from Julian for nearly a week. She had tried to call him and had left at least a dozen messages with both his assistant and on his answering machine. But so far, all she was hearing back was a yawning silence, which wasn’t good news however she looked at it. If he’d been in an accident, surely his secretary would have mentioned it, ditto if he’d been out of the country, which only left her staring down the barrel of rejection. The previous night she had cried until her eyes were sore, wondering what she could have possibly done or said that made him lose such rapid interest. But her broken heart was just the half of it. Not only had Julian disappeared, but with him had vanished his drawings for Belvedere Road. She badly needed those plans to secure planning permission and, the longer she left it, the more of Erin’s very limited supply of money was pouring down the drain. Money she had inherited from her father. Her nest egg. At this rate she was going to have to sell the property on again without having done an iota of work on it. She knew her father wouldn’t have wanted that.

‘Erin! Get Marcus.’ Adam usually used the telephone to
speak to her, but right now she could hear his booming voice coming all the way from his desk. Marcus came up straight away and there was a heated exchange that Erin couldn’t help but overhear.

‘Fucking Dreamscape Construction have undercut us on the London Gallery,’ said Adam.

Erin’s ears immediately pricked up. The London Gallery was perhaps the biggest contract that Midas Construction had been pitching for this year. A major art gallery, to rival the National Portrait, it was part of a vote-winning initiative for the current government, who were playing the caring-sharing ‘spaces for the people’ card. The project had taken them months of planning, presenting and schmoozing of ministers and advisors.

‘How could this happen?’ snapped Marcus, pacing around the room. ‘Our proposal was fantastic. I’d be fucking amazed if anyone had a design as good or could cost it so low. What the hell’s going on?’

Adam pushed his hair back in a gesture of irritation. ‘Apparently, the Minister for Culture and Art’s office has heard that Midas are doing a very similar, even bigger, project in Paris. They’ve said – off the record of course – that they’d prefer the company that won the London Gallery tender to make it their number one priority. Basically the Paris development has scuppered our chances.’

‘But the Paris thing hasn’t even been announced yet,’ said Marcus. ‘How could they possibly know?’

‘Fuck knows,’ growled Adam. ‘Someone has talked somewhere. Maybe the architect?’

‘Sergio? No way. His whole reputation’s on the line here.’

Erin could see why they were angry. She knew the architects’ fees alone for the London Gallery pitch were in the hundreds of thousands – Sergio Vinchely, a Spanish architect from Seville, was the best in the world. He only
took on a handful of major commissions every year and he had done an incredible job.

Erin was as mystified as Marcus and Adam – there had obviously been a leak, but who would do such a thing? Erin stared at her computer screen and scrolled through her documents, running through the possibilities, hoping she could help. And slowly, ever so slowly, she began to get a horrible sinking feeling.