Gold Diggers (31 page)

Karin was sure she was being followed. At first she thought it was just paranoia brought on by stress and overwork, but it was happening too frequently to be just her imagination. At first it was nothing more than an eerie sense of being watched, the feeling of unseen eyes on her back or an involuntary shiver, even though it was seventy-five degrees outside. She had never been one to get easily spooked, but at the same time she had always possessed a sharp sense of knowing when something was wrong and it was making her jumpy. It made her close the curtains as soon as it went dark. It made her request the use of Adam’s driver more frequently, although she did not tell him her suspicions – he would have laughed, especially as she often mocked his Manhattan security consciousness with his ex-SAS driver and his friends who had bodyguards and submarines that circled their yachts when they were on holiday.

She first saw him late on a hot, sunny afternoon in July. An apricot sun was sitting low in the hazy, pale blue sky and Karin had finished work early to enjoy the evening. Adam was in New York and she wanted some downtime to relax, perhaps sort out some paperwork. Swim Show Miami,
the industry’s most important trade fair, was only two weeks away and she needed to make sure they were prepared. Her house was just round the corner from a fabulous Italian deli and she strolled down there to get some beef tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella for an early supper on the roof terrace. Coming back, she cut through the South Kensington back-streets of tall white townhouses and hidden parks feeling relaxed and happy. Then she saw him. He was sitting on a wall at the end of her street reading a music magazine. His hair was lank and brown, pushed back over his ears, and his long face had a sullen expression. At first she thought he was just another teenager, but the way he had looked so directly, so intensely at her had made her feel deeply unsettled. As she passed, he began to follow her, the clop of his heavy trainers clearly audible behind her. She climbed up the stone steps of her house without looking back and slammed the door shut. Peering through the peephole she could see his distorted image standing outside and she quickly double-bolted the front door.
Don’t be so silly, Karin
, she scolded herself.
He’s only a kid
. She even managed a small laugh as she climbed the stairs to run a warm, oily bath.
He’s only a silly little kid. What harm could he do?

The only problem with living out in Buckinghamshire was the journey home, thought Molly, pressing her foot down on the accelerator. Marcus had given her his Maserati two weeks ago after he had bought a brand-new silver Jaguar XS. She loved the way it ate up the road. Even though she had not officially moved into The Standlings, she was fast beginning to think of ‘the manor’ as home. Her interior decorations were almost complete, most importantly the conversion of a bedroom into a climate-controlled ‘his and hers’ dressing room into which Molly had moved all of her extensive wardrobe. She was also delighted with the new Smallbone kitchen with its racks of shiny Global knives she would never touch and the brand-new panelled library designed to look 300 years old. The
pièce de résistance
, however, was the ten-man indoor hot tub, modelled on the grotto at the Playboy mansion. Molly had been itching to have one of those since she had been to a party there in the 1980s – now that was a great night out, she smiled. Marcus, however, had almost had a meltdown at the expenditure Molly was racking up, but even he had to admit the place looked amazing.

If she could have picked up The Standlings and dropped it in the middle of Kensington, it would have been perfect, but it wasn’t. It was fifty miles outside of sodding London, which felt ten times longer after the two cocktails and the line of coke she had taken a couple of hours ago when she met some friends in Notting Hill for lunch.

She pushed her foot down even harder, wanting to get home for 4.30. She had discovered a wonderful woman in the village, a former beauty therapist at Dorchester spa who had downshifted to Buckinghamshire and came round to Molly’s once a week to do a very respectable manicure and pedicure. As she hit sixty mph on a B-road, her mobile rang and she reached across the passenger seat to grab it. She hadn’t seen the slight bend in the road, and the car jerked as it mounted a roadside kerb. Molly dropped the mobile phone and tightened her grip on the steering wheel as she tried to control the vehicle. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she muttered as the front left wheel bumped back on the tarmac. ‘Shit, shit,
shit!’
she yelled, banging her palm against the dashboard as the sound of a police siren wailed behind her.

She’d been whisked through the court process. Molly had actually considered herself lucky to get away with a £2000 fine and a twelve-month ban on her licence after she had seen the three po-faced country bumpkins on the magistrates’ bench. No amount of Chanel or pearls was going to sway those inbreds, she thought. She was entirely correct. Molly was convicted of drink-driving when the bench completely rejected her mitigating plea that she had needed to drink vodka cranberry to sort out a nasty bout of cystitis. Still, at least she hadn’t received a sentence of community service – imagine! Scraping chewing gum off railway bridges with her nails? – and hopefully her driving ban would mean that Marcus would finally sort them out with a Midas Corporation driver.

‘Now we really have it to get this sorted,’ said, Marcus seriously, sitting on one of the slate-grey sofas in The Standlings’ drawing room with the cold, efficient manner of somebody who was dealing with a business problem. ‘I have phoned Alcoholics Anonymous but apparently they don’t take bookings. They say you need to initiate it yourself by going to a meeting. I think that would be a good first step, Molly.’

Molly sat back with the sulky, truculent expression of a grounded teenager. Marcus had spent too many years in America, she thought; he was beginning to sound like Oprah.

‘I am not going to Alcoholics Anonymous because I am not an alcoholic,’ she said, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze. ‘And before you ask, I’m not checking into the bloody Priory either.’

‘Well, what about another rehabilitation programme then?’ he continued soberly. ‘I have a friend who has recommended a very discreet place in Wiltshire. It’s tough, but apparently they have incredible results in three or four weeks.’

‘Marcus!’ Molly slapped her hand against the George Smith velvet sofa with a thud. ‘You aren’t listening! I am not an alcoholic or a coke-head. There is no problem to solve apart from finding the two-thousand-pound fine you’re too stingy to pay for me.’

Molly got up and started pacing around the drawing room, while Marcus watched her closely, as if she was going to do something foolish at any time.

‘Well, what are you going to do Molly? We cannot let the matter just rest here. You know I love you, but I do think you have a problem and we need to get it sorted.’

Molly knew that there was no wriggling out of this situation. Marcus had been like a dog with a bone since the offence; he’d got some crazy notion that this was all for her
own good.
As if
, she thought. She had no intention of sitting on a plastic chair talking about her terrible childhood with a bunch of losers at AA, or disappearing off the circuit for four weeks to go cold turkey in the middle of nowhere. But it was clear from Marcus’s belligerent expression that she had to do something. With an offer to move in to The Standlings full time surely just around the corner, she wasn’t going to take any chances.

‘I do have one idea,’ said Molly, going to Marcus’s chair and sitting on the floor, her chin on his knee. ‘I know how much this means to you – to us – so I am going to stop drinking and I know of a fabulous way to start.’

‘Molly, this is more serious than—’

Molly ignored Marcus’ protests and pressed on regardless. ‘My friend Donna runs a detox retreat at Delemere Manor. I know it’s nothing official like rehab,’ she said, trying to look as penitent as possible. ‘But it’s pretty much the same thing. Really rigorous, totally healthy. Organic menu, meditation and yoga, emphasis on spiritual and mental wellbeing …’ She smiled up at him hopefully, creeping her fingers up to his crotch for good measure.

‘It sounds more like a holiday,’ said Marcus.

‘It will be bloody hard work,’ said Molly indignantly.

Marcus looked at her, seeming to weigh it up. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘It’s a start, at least.’

‘Wonderful. I’ll phone Donna and tell her to squeeze me in and then I think I’ll pop into London to buy some new gym kit. And maybe get that pedicure. Can’t have shiatsu with hangnails, can you?’

Couture.
The very word made the hairs on the back of Karin’s neck stand up. Couture reeked of class and exclusivity, excepting all but the very thinnest slice of society, and it was exactly where Karin wanted to be. She took her place on a dainty gilt chair on the front row of the catwalk and looked around. De Bouvier was one of the oldest ateliers in Paris, a small fusty, dusty brand heading for fashion obscurity until it had been bought by luxury goods conglomerate Raine-Laurent five years ago. Raine-Laurent promptly hired Coln Lindemann, one of the world’s most exciting new designers, who had caused a sensation by breathing life into De Bouvier’s ready-to-wear collection three seasons ago. Now Lindemann was poised to do the same for the couture division of the brand. The show was certainly playing up its old school heritage by showing in the Salle Imperiale at the Hotel Westin right by the Tuilieries rather than some marquee in the Bois de Bologne like some of the other big fashion houses. This was an old-fashioned gilded salon, with high painted ceilings, long crimson drapes and huge gold chandeliers with hundreds of bulbs, like teardrops, casting a flattering glow. Handsome assistants with fine bone structure and even finer sharp suits
ushered the world’s most powerful magazine editors, of American
Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, WWD
, celebrities and, most importantly, the atelier’s clients to their seats.

‘Isn’t that Vivienne Delemere?’ hissed Christina into Karin’s ear. ‘How does she manage to look so chic? She must be seventy if she’s a day.’

Christina was dressed immaculately in a Balmain short skirt and silk ruffled shirt. She had told Karin she was in the mood to spend, spend, spend, and who could blame her? Her divorce from Ariel was looking as if it was about to settle out of court. Fifty million pounds, said her lawyers, and that was before they started carving up the property.

Karin looked down at the show’s running order on Christina’s lap: her shopping list, she thought enviously. One sweep of the pen beside number twelve and that was £100,000 gone; £100K on one dress that would be worn once and then archived. Karin was beginning to wish she’d never agreed to come. But then how could she refuse when her boyfriend was encouraging her to spend, spend, spend too?

‘Of course you should go,’ Adam had said after she had told him of Christina’s invitation. ‘And I hope you will order something for yourself while you are there. Get them to invoice it directly to me. I know the directrice very well.’ It was exactly the sort of gesture Karin was hoping for. Ever since the Capri trip on board
The Pledge
, she had been nursing a nagging suspicion about Adam’s behaviour. Not that anyone else would have spotted anything; on the yacht Adam had been loving and attentive, in fact it had been quite the perfect weekend. Then, on the final evening, Karin had been tidying in their stateroom and found a matchbook from the Porto Ercole hotel Il Pellicano next to Adam’s cigars. It looked new, unused. Hadn’t Adam said he’d had lunch at the Splendido in Portofino? It was a tiny thing, but it had unnerved her.

The audience at the Salle was divided into three very distinct parts. The fashion editors who were lacking in millions but bristling with power, the celebrities who added a sprinkle of youth and glamour and then, finally, the actual customers. The haute-couture circuit had traditionally been a very small, very incestuous club of super-rich old-money women. The discovery of oil in Texas and the Middle East had added a dash of the exotic – the waste of those Arab women who bought couture to go
under
their burkas! thought Karin with a shudder; but it had been the post-
glasnost
explosion of Russian money which had almost single-handedly revived the art of couture. Still, it wasn’t a young sport, thought Karin: most of the front row were over forty; couture dressing was as much an essential part of their look as a face-lift.

Loud classical music suddenly filled the Salle and a cone of light hit the runway as the first of the reed-thin models skated past them with the grace of a swan. Karin spotted a fabulous taupe dress made of the finest tulle with a train of ostrich feathers. It was beautiful, thought Karin, but …

Her critical eye was sizing it up, making mental adjustments. The beauty of couture, of course, was that the designer could adapt it whichever way the client desired. Karin would want the neck more scooped, the train of feathers less lavish. She knew her vision would be better than that of the designer himself.

‘What do you like?’ whispered Karin to Christina, who was busy scribbling notes on her running order. ‘I want everything,’ she purred. After the show Christina rushed off to an appointment at Chanel while Karin, never missing a business opportunity, remained behind to make small talk with the magazine editors.

‘Karin, my darling. How on earth are you?’

Karin turned to face Lysette Parker, one of couture’s
highest-spending clients. Her husband Sidney was head of Jolie Cosmetics, which made him, with the likes of Leonard Lauder, one of the most powerful men in the cosmetics industry. Only Lysette’s heavily lined hands gave away that she was nearer to fifty-five than forty. An ash-blonde bob bounced around her tight Portofino-tanned face, her sharp grey tailored trouser suit, a georgette blouse and a string of creamy pearls were the epitome of timeless style. Lysette was so elegant and refined and such a powerful player on the international social circuit that no one dared mention her roots, although everyone with an ear to the ground knew them. In the 1970s, Lysette had been working as a cocktail waitress in a Mayfair casino when she had met the young Sidney who, with family money, had taken over fading cosmetics company Jolie. Over the next thirty years, with Lysette as his hostess and trusted advisor, he had transformed Jolie into a vast empire.

‘Karin, it’s such a delight to see you in Paris.’

Lysette was far too elegant to mention that she had never before seen Karin at couture and that her presence was something of a surprise.

‘It can get a little tedious, don’t you find?’

Karin wondered if Lysette was being ironic or whether the allure of having the finest fashion artists create bespoke gowns had actually lost its charge.

‘What are you doing now? How’s the business?’ gushed Lysette. ‘I’ve so many questions; I insist you come to the house for tea.’

Accepting gladly, Karin followed Lysette into her Bentley waiting on the Rue de Rivoli, which sped them to an elegant townhouse on Ile St-Louis. Lysette led Karin into a drawing room with a huge window that overlooked the Seine, dazzling in the summer sun. A maid in a grey uniform served them tea and sugar-dusted madeleines.

‘So how are you getting along?’ asked Lysette. ‘Do you have a man in your life?’

Straight to the point as usual, thought Karin with a wry smile. Lysette was not a close friend, but ever since they had met at Ascot almost ten years ago, the older woman had treated Karin like a favourite niece, always encouraging her to eat more and to get herself married off to a nice billionaire.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Sebastian – you did get my card? – it must have been such a blow.’

Karin was momentarily thrown by the mention of her late husband and she stared out at the river. Lysette put her hand on Karin’s knee. ‘Sebastian was an angel, my dear, and we shall all miss him, but life goes on. A woman simply cannot stand still.’

Karin smiled at Lysette’s legendary pragmatism. ‘Well, I have been seeing someone …’ she began.

‘Oh good!’ said Lysette, tucking a sheaf of pale blonde hair around her ear. ‘And does he have good provenance?’

‘Well, he’s not a prince, if that’s what you mean,’ said Karin. ‘But he is on the
Forbes
list. His name is Adam Gold, he’s the CEO of the Midas Corporation.’

‘Do you think you will marry him?’

Karin felt the porcelain teacup rattle in her hand. ‘I … I don’t know,’ said Karin truthfully. ‘He’s reached his forties without ever having taken the plunge, and you do have to ask yourself if he is ever going to.’

‘Now, now, Karin, all men are the marrying kind, it’s just that you have to give some a little more encouragement than others. Are there any other obstacles? Religion? A disapproving mother?’

‘I am sure he is seeing someone else, Lysette.’

She had finally said it. She hadn’t told Diana or Christina, her closest friends. She had told Lysette Parker. She did not
know the woman well enough to know whether she was discreet or a gossip, although there was something elegant and knowing about Lysette that made her want to unburden herself.

‘Have you any idea who it is?’

Karin sighed. ‘Possibly. There is a woman who he works with, although he always made it clear, even before we were together, that he would never involve himself with someone in the company.’

‘Then how do you know it’s her?’

‘I don’t,’ said Karin flatly. ‘But there have been a few incidents lately to make me suspect there is someone else.’

She told Lysette about their trip to Capri and finding the matchbook from Il Pellicano. As she unburdened her story, she could feel herself becoming more angry at the injustice, the betrayal. When Karin had finished, Lysette nodded and put down her cup and saucer.

‘Now I’m going to tell you something that you may find shocking, my dear, but take it from someone who knows a thing or two about affairs of the heart. Adam Gold is very serious about you.’

Karin looked perplexed. ‘How do you know?’

‘Your relationship is such that it has created the desire for a mistress.’

‘And that’s a good thing?’ said Karin, amazed.

‘In my day, powerful, successful men did not want women who were successful in their own right. We had to stay at home, be the good wife, host dinner parties, perhaps produce children. That was it.’

‘But everyone knows how important you were in building up the Jolie brand.’

‘I have had the honour of being Sidney’s muse, yes,’ she said with a small smile. ‘I have advised him about the desires of the woman on the street and the commercial triggers
they respond to, but I have never been the alpha female. I have always known my position in our marriage. It’s a supporting role,’ she said, taking a sip of tea.

‘Things have changed in business, that’s true. There are women in the boardroom, running companies, they’re even in the cabinet. But the nature of the alpha male has not changed a jot, my dear. He always wants a bigger car, a bigger boat, a bigger house, and he wants to win every game.’

Lysette paused to play with the pearls around her neck. ‘Let me give you a piece of advice,’ she said, dabbing her lips. ‘If you think Adam is having an affair, accept it. If he
is
having an affair, accept it. Sidney and I love each other dearly and I consider our marriage successful, but don’t you think I know that Sidney has slept with dozens of women over the years? Every time he gets another secretary, I get another diamond necklace. Sidney is getting the excitement he craves, which is bound to fade after thirty years of marriage; I get more beautiful things. And I get to keep all this,’ she said, opening her palm to indicate their magnificent house. ‘In return, Sidney loves me even more for being for so tolerant, so understanding. And, most importantly, he isn’t going to leave me for any of those tarts.’ There was a sudden hardness to her voice that hinted at her roots. Then she smiled knowingly. ‘And, as you say, it doesn’t hurt that I have helped him build up one of the world’s most successful businesses.’

Karin was silent, mulling over Lysette’s words. ‘But I haven’t helped Adam build up his business,’ said Karin.

‘Ah, but you are an asset, Karin. Never underestimate the alpha male, my dear. He might wine and dine you and give you diamonds, but he’ll make his decisions strictly on a cold, hard business basis: he’ll ask himself, “How much is she worth?” And you, Karin, are successful, beautiful and
rich. As long as you don’t try to play him at his own game, as long as you let him think he’s in charge, you’ll always be an asset. And men like Adam Gold want to hang onto their assets.’