Scandals. PENNY JORDAN

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      Loud music, a mix of rock and industrial, pounded her eardrums. Waiters and waitresses, dressed in very little other than what looked like tinfoil and sequins, to reveal their perfectly honed bodies, danced and pouted their way through the guests in time to the music, carrying trays of champagne and tiny morsels of food, which Macey Greenberg, Olivia’s friend, had suggested cynically might contain some extra energy-giving or hallucination-inducing ingredients in view of the number of guests, including models, who were well known to have a drug habit.

      ‘That wouldn’t be any good for the models,’ Olivia had pointed out, before Macey had left on a mission to snag an interview with a not-as-yet-out gay singer for the music magazine for whom she freelanced.

      Glamorous parties were supposed to be exciting, and Olivia was prepared to admit that she might have enjoyed this one if she hadn’t just realised that Tait Cabot Forbes was also one of the guests.

      She’d seen him ten minutes or so ago, deep in conversation with the editor of the New York Times, no doubt planning to savage and potentially destroy yet another innocent victim so that he could claim some ego-boosting headlines for himself, Olivia thought bitterly.

      Above the music she could just about hear the affected squeals of the group of very thin and very pretty young models, clustered together several yards away, the air around them blue with cigarette fumes as they smoked to keep their hunger pangs at bay. Poor things, Olivia thought sadly. She didn’t envy them at all. Watching them, she found it odd to think that once her own father had made his living photographing girls like them for fashion magazines.

      Their extreme thinness emphasised Cindy Crawford’s far more sensual curves, the supermodel very much the centre of attention as the press photographers gathered round her.

      One of the current crop of top fashion photographers was talking with an editor from British Vogue, who had flown in for the party. The Fashion Pack, including New York Vogue’s Grace Coddington, were all dressed in black, just as Olivia was herself. Pictures of the party would fill the new copy of Women’s Wear Daily, of course, and be pored over by its dedicated readers.

      Her own Ralph Lauren dress was on loan from her mother, who had insisted that she borrow the sophisticated heavy black jersey tube of fabric that somehow magically became a ravishingly elegant dress once it was on, with a slashed neckline and just the hint of a small sleeve. With it Olivia was wearing a pair of diamond cuff bracelets, also her mother’s, and she had put her hair up, the whole effect, so her friend Macey claimed, very Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

      Olivia was just looking round for Macey when she felt a firm tap on her shoulder. Turning round, she was surprised and annoyed to see Tait Cabot Forbes standing behind her.

      ‘I’ve got a proposition to put to you,’ he told her without preamble, adding, when she stiffened, ‘No, not that kind of proposition. What I’m proposing is that we bury that hatchet you’re carrying around with you. It must be getting heavy and burying it will save you having to look for an opportunity to bury it in me.’

      ‘You mean like you tried to stick a knife into my father’s back?’ Olivia challenged him.

      Tait spread open his hands. He had big hands with long fingers, Olivia noticed, his skin tanned and his nails clean without looking overmanicured in the way favoured by some New York men. His traditional Brooks Brothers shirt allied to law-school-graduate smartness made him stand out in a room in which most of the other men were attached to the fashion world and dressed flamboyantly.

      ‘There was nothing personal about my investigation into your parents’ relationship with Maisie Fischerbaum. That’s what I am – an investigative journalist.’

      ‘Earning your money and making your reputation by trying to destroy my parents.’

      ‘I got it wrong. I admit that. I’ve apologised to your folks.’

      ‘In private, but you never apologised publicly.’

      His expression said that he was beginning to get annoyed with her. Good, Olivia thought. What had he expected? That she’d roll over and be thrilled because he’d attempted to talk her round? It took more than a too-good-looking face and way too much male confidence to do that.

      ‘Because your father asked me not to publish the reasons why he and your mother were appointed as trustees. I respected that, just as I respect your loyalty to your folks, but I’m beginning to get a bit tired of feeling that glower of yours burning through my skin every time you set eyes on me. So, how about we call a truce?’

      ‘You can call whatever you like,’ Olivia told him fiercely. ‘As far as I’m concerned you are still the man who tried to hurt my parents by writing things about them that weren’t true.’

      Olivia turned on her heel and walked away from him. She would have walked past Macey as well, she suspected, she was so wound up and angry, if her friend hadn’t stepped in front of her waving a glass of champagne under her nose.

      Olivia wasn’t going to turn round and see if Tait Cabot Forbes was even still there, never mind looking in her direction. In fact, what she’d like to do more than anything was leave the party early and go home in case Robert telephoned, which he sometimes did just before he went to bed. He hadn’t been able to come over to New York yet, as he’d hoped, but he’d promised he’d be over as soon as he could, and he’d told her that he’d informed his grandmother that Olivia would be accompanying him on his February visit to Lauranto.

      Robert. Thinking of him, hugging the thought of him to herself was so much better than thinking about Tait Cabot Forbes. So very much better.

      

      ‘Katie.’

      ‘Tom.’

      As she saw Tom coming towards her, Katie stopped dead, blocking the way of a group of determined middle-aged county Sloanes up in London to make the most of the final days of Peter Jones’ January sale. With a great deal of tutting, the group reformed with the skill and expertise of campaign-hardened bargain hunters, leaving Katie and Tom to exchange smiles and then swift hugs.

      ‘I missed you in Klosters.’

      ‘I wanted to be there.’

      ‘I told Zoë’ to tell you how sorry I was about your arm.’

      ‘I expect she forgot. You know what she’s like.’

      It was what they were not saying, rather than what they were, that mattered, Katie knew.

      ‘I was going to get in touch but Zoë said that you were staying with your grandparents.’

      ‘I was. I only got back yesterday.’

      ‘You’ll be going back to Oxford soon,’ Tom guessed. ‘Zoë planned to go straight there from visiting her godmother in Cheltenham.’

      ‘I’m going back this weekend,’ Katie confirmed.

      ‘Have you got something else on right now, or would you like to have lunch with me?’

      ‘Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t got anything else to do and I’d love to have lunch with you,’ Katie told him immediately.

      ‘Good.’ СКАЧАТЬ