Gold Diggers (7 page)

Erin had only had been at the Midas Corporation a matter of hours but already she felt lost. As Adam’s PA, she needed to know every aspect of his business, and she was quickly finding that the scale of his empire was vast. She knew that he was a property developer, and while real estate did appear the core of the business, that was only the beginning. The property portfolio alone was mind-boggling – from luxury residential developments in Manhattan and Macao to prestige office blocks in nearly all of the world’s financial centres – but on top of that, Midas owned a dozen hotels, a copper mine in Kazakhstan, a ski resort in Maine, two huge retail villages in Connecticut and Florida and a private jet company leasing out executive aircraft to the super-rich. And that was all she’d managed to find since she’d arrived at 7.30 a.m. It was now dark outside and she was still finding new files and reports. The intercom buzzed suddenly.

‘Erin. Can you come in please?’

As it was her first day at work, Erin had tried her damnedest from the moment she had got into the luxurious office block behind Piccadilly, but she still felt as if she was groping about in the dark. Adam already had an executive
assistant, Eleanor Bradley, a fiercely efficient New Yorker who had worked with him for seven years and sat outside his door like a Rottweiler. Erin’s position seemed to be more like a social secretary: taking calls, making appointments, accepting or declining party invitations and arranging for errands that Eleanor was too busy and important to carry out. She had hardly seen Adam all day and had no idea if she had performed her duties to his satisfaction. Padding into his office from her desk as fast as her brand new three-inch heels would carry her, she smoothed down her long-sleeved cotton dress from Debenhams, feeling even more nervous than she had when she’d met Hector Fox at the benefit dinner. Adam’s large corner office was an overwhelming space. With its masculine grey walls, stark architectural photography and dark antique furniture, it reeked of power, money and testosterone.

‘Ah, take a seat, I have a question to ask you.’

She perched on the edge of a padded velvet and mahogany chair, clasping her clammy hands together and hoping she looked efficient.

‘Erin, why are you still here?’ Adam looked up at her from behind his wide wraparound mahogany desk with a straight expression.

Erin’s eyes lowered to the floor with embarrassment. She’d been told she had to be in work for 7.30 a.m., ready for Adam’s arrival at 8 a.m., but she had no idea how late she was expected to stay. For a £70,000 salary, she suspected it was probably a twenty-four-hour job, but when was she supposed to sleep?

‘I wasn’t aware that I should be somewhere else, Mr Gold,’ she stammered. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything in the diary for tonight.’

‘Precisely,’ he smiled, ‘which is exactly why you should go home.’

Erin felt her eyes linger a little too long on his strong tanned hands. She also noticed that his eyes were a rich, intoxicating brown. She wished she could think of something to say, but she found her brain fog and her throat clam up.

Adam let his smile linger, as if he was aware of his young PA watching him and was enjoying the moment. ‘So how was it?’ he asked. ‘I hope it wasn’t too painful a first day.’

Erin smiled. ‘I loved it. Everyone seems really nice.’
You seem really nice
, she wanted to add. ‘Is there anything else you need me to do before I go?’
Please say yes.

Adam leant back in his black leather chair and folded his arms behind his head. ‘I don’t suppose you could dig me out Karin Cavendish’s phone number, could you?’

She thought she saw a flicker of pleasure stretch across his face as he noted her disappointment.

Erin nodded. ‘I’ll bring it through straight away,’ she said, rising.

What did you expect
? she thought, scolding herself. Men like Adam Gold would only consider women like Karin Cavendish. He was hardly going to be interested in her, was he?

‘How was your first day, then?’

Richard Pendleton was already home by the time she got back to the flat, standing in the little kitchen cooking chilli con carne. Not for the first time she wondered why he was back so early. In the four weeks she’d been staying at his flat, Richard had never once worked late, let alone clocking up the two-in-the-morning marathon sessions he’d constantly complained about when she’d been down in Cornwall. Still, she shouldn’t grumble; this week he’d been the most attentive he’d ever been since they first got together eighteen months ago. Not that Richard had ever really been
particularly devoted, especially since he had moved to London the previous autumn. He was always taking about ‘his own space’, even though they lived two hundred miles apart and he had almost blown a gasket when she had asked him if she could stay for a few weeks while she was working for Karin. Now those weeks had become a month, she had been expecting him to start making noises about how his Earl’s Court apartment was too small for two but, ever since she had landed the job at Midas, his mood seemed to have softened. Maybe he was getting used to her. The kitchen was a small gallery kitchen with smart wooden units and a little window that looked out onto a tiny manicured patch of lawn that the estate agents had dared to call a ‘delightful’ and ‘mature’ garden. She went to stand next to him by the oven and he spooned some sauce into her mouth.

‘Mmm, that’s actually edible!’ she teased. ‘Not bad for a pillar of the establishment.’

Richard was still in his pinstriped suit trousers and a white shirt, looking considerably older than his twenty-five years. Erin had noticed that, since he had begun work, he had adopted a rather superior expression, and the arrogant, offhand mannerisms of a man who believes himself to be a cut above.
Leave him alone Erin
, she thought,
you’re just stressed and tired
.

‘So come on,’ urged Richard, ‘what was Gold like?’

‘Oh Richard, I’m knackered,’ she replied, sinking onto a bar stool and kicking her heels off. ‘These early starts are going to kill me.’

‘Well, that’s international business, darling. The man works across several time zones. I bet he was still in the office when you left him, wasn’t he?’

‘How did you guess?’ she said flatly, pouring herself a glass of wine from the open bottle next to the cooker.

Richard ladled the chilli onto two plates and led the way
into the main living area that had a couple of sofas at one end and a table and four chairs at the other. Erin had started eating when she looked up to see Richard was clearly still waiting for answers.

‘Why are you so interested, anyway?’ asked Erin, tearing off some pitta bread and dipping it in the sauce. ‘You’ve never shown this much interest in my writing.’

‘I’m hardly going to be interested in those silly fantasies, am I?’

She raised her eyebrows and Richard backtracked furiously. ‘Sorry, sorry. Out of order. I’m just excited for you now, that’s all. I mean, to be so close to such an important businessman. I bet you’re going to hear all sorts. Hey, maybe you could get us a few share tips,’ he winked.

‘That sounds illegal, Richard,’ she scolded. ‘I’m sure your senior partner won’t like you saying things like that.’ Richard’s cheeks flushed.

‘Actually, speaking of our senior partner, I was telling him today about your new job and he was very impressed indeed. He called Gold a genius. I mean how much do you know about the company?’ But, before Erin could reply, Richard ploughed on, keen to show his recently acquired knowledge.

‘Well, apparently the Midas Corporation isn’t just a property development company at all,’ he gushed, clearly pleased with his research. ‘In fact it’s a pyramid of companies.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Erin.

‘One small company at the top of the pyramid owns or has controlling stakes in a massive number of other companies, and whoever controls the parent company effectively controls everything beneath it. In this case, Adam Gold owns a hundred per cent of Midas Investment Group, the parent company, which makes him very rich and very, very powerful indeed.’

‘Well, I could have told you that without the economics lecture,’ said Erin.

‘Ah, but one of the guys at work was saying Gold’s got to be really, really fishy to be worth over a billion in such a short space of time …’

‘Maybe he just has the Midas touch,’ said Erin sarcastically, suddenly feeling a need to jump to Adam’s defence.

Richard shrugged. ‘Maybe. Anyway, the important thing is that Charles, our senior partner, was asking who does the Midas Corporation’s legals in London. I mean, White, Geary and Robinson offer a very comprehensive service across corporate, property, tax and litigation requirements, you know.’

‘Richard,’ said Erin crossly, putting down her fork. ‘You sound like a used-car salesman.’

Her boyfriend stiffened at the suggestion. ‘Come on, Erin, you know how much I want to be taken on in the CoCo department when I qualify. If I can bring in some of Adam’s Gold’s business, I’ll be home and dry.’

She looked at her boyfriend, really quite baby-faced underneath it all. A little boy dressed up as a City hotshot, wanting to please the big boys. She almost felt sorry for him. ‘Listen, Richard, I’ve only been there a day, but I’ll try and find out who the company uses and whether they’re happy with them. That’s all I can do.’

Richard pushed a kidney bean around his plate and looked a little sheepish. ‘Well … actually, there
is
one other thing you could do,’ he said, looking up at her with pleading eyes. ‘The firm are having an end-of-financial-year party in a few weeks and …’

‘What, Richard?’

‘Well, I told my boss that you’d bring Adam.’

‘Are you still in bed?’

Molly muttered a silent curse. She was indeed still in Harry’s emperor-sized bed and, lifting a corner of her black silk sleep mask, she saw it was 11 a.m. Reluctantly, she uncoiled herself and stretched. She knew the day was out there waiting, if only she could crawl from under this lovely cosy goose-down duvet. In fact, Molly had barely left Harry’s Hampstead home since the night of the benefit a week ago, only venturing into the outside world to pick up some essentials from her apartment – and for Harry to take her out to dinner every night.
Naturally.

‘Oh darling, of course I’m not in bed,’ lied Molly, swinging out of the bed, her toes sinking into the thick double cream carpet. ‘Although I know you like to think of me in bed every minute of the day, don’t you lover?’

Harry gave a low chuckle down the phone. ‘Well, I was just calling to say that I’ve been invited to a very old friend’s party tonight,’ he said, ‘and I want you to come with me.’

‘How do you know I’ve got nothing better in my diary?’ teased Molly, standing in front of the full-length mirror and patting her pancake-flat stomach.

‘Well, how about I make it worth your while?’ he asked. ‘Why don’t you go shopping this morning and pick out something nice to wear for the party? We can meet in Bond Street at one-ish to go and collect it.’

‘Dress, bag and shoes?’ smiled Molly.

‘I didn’t think you’d be a cheap date,’ he said, his tone playful.

Molly grinned. ‘I’ll be in Gucci.’

She showered quickly to shake off her grogginess, throwing on some jeans, a white shirt and her cowboy boots and pulling her hair back in a ponytail. She inspected herself in the mirror: pretty hot, even if she did say so herself, but still she didn’t feel quite ready for the hustle and bustle of spending someone else’s money.
I wonder
… she thought, and walked over to Harry’s walnut chest of drawers. Harry was super-neat, with everything in its own place. She rummaged around among his neatly rolled-up silk socks until she found what she was looking for: a small plastic bag containing about an ounce of cocaine. Molly’s eyes lit up. She pulled the seal open and dipped a long fingernail inside. The powder was fine and translucent like ground pearls; it looked as expensive as the rest of Harry’s possessions. Expertly, Molly tipped a small amount on the bedside table, lined it up with her credit card and snorted, feeling the crackle of coke taking hold. Oh yes, that was good. She pulled on her leather biker jacket, her body twinkling. Now she was ready to go shopping.

‘So who is this mysterious friend we’re meeting?’ asked Molly as they flew down Park Lane in Harry’s forest-green Ferrari. ‘I like to know whose party I’m going to before I get there.’

‘Marcus Blackwell, vice president of Midas,’ said Harry, gunning the engine and changing lanes to dodge a Bentley.

‘Midas? Adam Gold’s company?’ said Molly in surprise.

‘That’s right,’ said Harry smugly, ‘we were at university together. I was a med student, he was doing maths, if I remember rightly.’ He glanced sideways to drink in Molly’s figure, barely concealed by the tiny gold lamé shift dress he’d bought her earlier that afternoon.

‘I haven’t seen Marcus properly for years though,’ he continued. ‘He’s British, but he went to work on Wall Street fairly soon after he graduated. He hooked up with Gold and has been his right-hand man ever since. He’s done very well for himself.’

‘Hey, you didn’t do too badly either,’ smiled Molly, expertly massaging both his ego and his cock, her right hand stretched over the gearstick into Harry’s lap.

‘I guess not,’ gasped Harry, trying to keep the Ferrari on the road.

The Midas Corporation drinks party was to celebrate the launch of their flagship London development ‘Knightsbridge Heights’. Molly had read about the luxury apartments in the
Evening Standard
. Apparently, everyone from celebrities to oil sheiks had been clamouring to buy into one of the capital’s most desirable slices of real estate, and the party was being held in the building’s stunning black marble lobby. By the time Harry and Molly walked in through the black and gold revolving doors, it was already throbbing with the cream of society.

‘So how much does one of these apartments go for?’ asked Molly, looking around enviously. It was really a spectacular place in which to live. The centrepiece of the lobby was a vast black marble fountain that spewed out water as from a whale’s blowhole. The atrium stretched all the way to the glass ceiling hundreds of feet above. Along the back of the building was a bank of sliding doors that opened out onto a lush garden, stocked with exotic plants and lit for the evening with guttering torches.

‘I think they start about three million pounds and then go skywards,’ said Harry knowingly. ‘And I hear ninety-five per cent of them have been sold already. That’s the beauty of Midas’s residential business. They target the very top of the market. It’s pretty much recession-proof up there.’

They eventually found Marcus Blackwell at the entrance of the Winter Garden. He wasn’t a particularly good-looking man, thought Molly, his closely cropped dark hair had receded and his eyes, although brown and twinkly, were too close together, giving his face a pinched expression like a vole’s. That said, he was considerably more attractive than Harry, thought Molly. Considerably.

‘Harry,’ said Marcus, ‘how are you? It’s been too long.’

‘Ten years at least,’ grinned Harry. ‘But now you’re back in London maybe it won’t be another decade. What about lunch in the next couple of weeks?’ he added.

‘Sure, sure,’ nodded Marcus with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

‘Get your secretary to call mine and we’ll sort something out.’

‘Fantastic, I’ll do that.’

‘Marcus, this is my girlfriend, Molly Sinclair,’ Harry said.

Molly reached out to shake his hand, holding on to it just a little longer than necessary.

‘This place is amazing,’ she gushed. ‘You must introduce me to Adam. I’ve heard so many good things about him.’

‘Everyone seems to want to meet Adam tonight,’ replied Marcus. Molly thought she detected a grain of irritation behind the cordial smile. Interesting, she thought, filing it away for future use.

‘He’s just out here, showing one of our investors how many flowers half a million pounds can buy.’

Outside, in a courtyard surrounded by trees and flower-beds, there was a raised pond with another fountain
cascading foaming water. Standing with his back to it was Adam Gold, surrounded by admirers, holding court. He was wearing a dark suit with a pale blue shirt – ordinary, conservative. But from her first glance, Molly knew he was the sexiest rich man she had ever seen – and she had seen many. She felt an immediate flutter of lust and excitement as they approached. She was wearing stilettos but he was still at least two inches taller than her; he possessed a natural confidence that matched her own and, although he didn’t have Molly’s cheekbones or poise, she knew instantly that they would make the most beautiful couple in town.

‘I think we were both at the Stop Global Warming benefit dinner the other night,’ said Molly, flashing her best cover-girl smile. She searched Adam’s face for a flicker of recognition as he moved forward to shake her hand. Surely he had noticed her?

‘I don’t think we met,’ said Adam in a polite but distracted manner that made her cheeks smart. He touched her arm to indicate that he had other people to talk to. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he smiled before leaving their group to go and air-kiss a glamorous blonde, leaving Molly’s mouth hanging open. The
bastard
.

Karin threaded her way through the lobby of Knightsbridge Heights with the confidence of someone who knew she looked fantastic. For a party this important, Karin had pulled out all the stops, paying a visit to Après Mode, her favourite boutique in Paris. Après Mode was a treasure-trove of 1960s Balenciaga, YSL and other classic labels and she had selected, with the help of the boutique’s owner Madam Vervier, a former couture directrice, a primrose-yellow Ossie Clark chiffon dress. But choosing a dress had only been a minor distraction; Karin’s life had gone into overdrive in the ten days following the benefit dinner. The papers had splashed
the event’s red carpet pictures all over their front pages, her phone had rung off the hook with interview requests and the three Karenza stores had reported a fifteen per cent uplift in sales. Karin, however, had barely had time to breathe, let alone bathe in the glory. Instead she had dashed to Paris Fashion Week and a suite at the Plaza Athénée where she had shown her label’s autumn/winter collection to press and buyers. It had been a remarkable success. Even Anna Wintour, the singular editor of American
Vogue
, had come backstage to congratulate Karin. It was there she had taken the call from Erin Devereux, inviting her to a drinks launch at Knightsbridge Heights. She had snapped her mobile shut with a smile: finally, Adam was chasing.

‘Honey, you look drop-dead!’ oozed Diana, air-kissing her and handing her a drink. ‘Where did you get it? You must have spies in every boutique in the Western world. I’m so jealous, you must tell me.’

Karin just smiled mysteriously and linked her arm through Diana’s as they joined the main throng of the party.

‘So. Tell me all about Paris,’ said Diana.

‘I don’t think you want to talk about Paris, do you?’ said Karin knowingly.

‘Is it that obvious?’ replied Diana glumly, dropping her happy party girl demeanour. Her shimmering black Versace dress suddenly looked funereal.

‘Very obvious, darling. Very.’

Karin had invited Diana as her
plus one
because Diana was depressed. Her vulgar husband Martin had just disappeared to Aspen with his ex-wife Tracey and their seven-year-old twin girls Chloe and Emma. He hadn’t even bothered to telephone Diana in the last two days.

‘I shouldn’t have allowed him to go, should I?’ said Diana mournfully.

Karin turned to her friend, her face serious. ‘Of course
you shouldn’t have allowed him to go,’ she said. ‘Divorced wives only have two settings: desperate and spiteful, often at the same time. If she was dumped, she’ll do anything –
anything
– to get him back. If
she
ended the relationship, she still wants to be number one and will play with him like a fish on a hook. Either way, she definitely wants to screw up your relationship with Martin.’ Diana looked stricken as she considered the implications of Karin’s words.

‘Well, Martin was the one who filed for divorce from Tracey … do you think that means that she’ll …? Oh God …’

Despite her outward dizziness, Diana was a realist at heart. She knew exactly what her husband was like and she had gone into the relationship with her eyes open. Theirs wasn’t so much a marriage as a merger. She was the class, he was the money, and men like that came with a price: infidelity. Diana had trained herself to imagine Martin with other women, so the pain would be less brutal when his adultery was unveiled. But this was worse, much worse. Now when she closed her eyes, Diana imagined him with Tracey, tucked up in the bar at The Little Nell, Aspen’s most glamorous hotel, drinking Bourbon, Tracey’s recently enhanced breasts bursting out of her Chanel ski-wear. Then they would retire to the penthouse for a night of energetic sex. But it wasn’t just sex with Tracey. They had history and they had the children to bond them back together. No, it wasn’t just sex – it was danger.

Karin could see the crushing look of insecurity on Diana’s face and felt a stab of guilt. ‘I’m sorry darling. I was too blunt. But I do worry that Tracey has never been off the scene since Hotbet.com floated.’

Diana nodded. ‘I know, but how can I say anything? She’s the mother of his children.’

‘But they’re not a family any more,’ replied Karin. She held Diana’s hand and looked into her welling eyes. ‘Look,
honey, I’ve seen this happen with divorced friends a hundred times over. One minute mum and dad are playing happy families on the ski slopes pretending they don’t hate each other, the next minute they’re back together for the sake of the kids and his bank balance.’

Diana’s regal features twisted in confusion. ‘So what should I do?’ she pleaded.

Karin took a sip of her drink. ‘Remind Martin why he married you. Remind him that, without you, he is nothing. Look around you, at this place, at these people. Tracey might have his kids, but that little scrubber can’t give him this, can she?’

Karin took the glass of champagne out of Diana’s hand and swapped it for a glass of water. ‘Take this. You get so morose when you’re drunk. Don’t worry, honey, we simply need to show Martin just how valuable you can be to him.’

Karin looked across the crowded lobby and had an idea. ‘And I think I know just the man who can help us.’

Even though Summer Sinclair was twenty-four years old, she had never been to a rock concert. She had lived in London and Tokyo, moved among the rich and famous and felt at ease in some of the world’s most exclusive nightclubs and restaurants, but she had never once been to a live gig. Squeezing her way into the upstairs room at the Monarch, she began to understand why. It was horrible. Claustrophobic, head-splittingly loud and so hot that the air felt solid in her lungs. Summer had to literally force her way between lank-haired surly teenagers to get anywhere near the stage. Her carefully chosen Jimmy Choo ankle boots were getting scuffed on discarded plastic glasses and the soles were sticking to the floor. It was hideous; why did people come to these things willingly? But then the music started.