Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry

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СКАЧАТЬ be the shot on the front of the tabloids tomorrow morning.

      Reluctantly allowing herself to be ushered inside by Conrad Davies, her agent and escort for the evening, she glanced at her Piguet watch. It was eight forty-five: good. Everyone should be here, she thought. Clinging to Conrad’s arm, she moved through the huge hallway, accepting a rose Martini from a waiter and stopping to kiss an assortment of London society players. It was a glittering turnout, she thought smugly, noticing Sting and Trudie Styler in one corner, Elton John and Elle Macpherson chatting on the stairs and Jade Jagger laughing with Matthew Williamson by the cocktail bar – it seemed the whole of London’s fashionable elite had swung by to say their goodbyes.

      ‘This is just darling of you,’ gushed Serena, embracing Venetia and planting a half kiss on each cheek. ‘Everybody’s here. And all for me.’

      Venetia smiled weakly. Thank goodness for Janey and her Rolodex – Venetia had had no idea who Serena’s friends were. Much like Serena, she smiled.

      Cate and Camilla appeared through the double doors and all four women squealed together, embracing in one huge, glamorous scrum. Ignoring the stars around them, the Balcon girls huddled together and swapped gossip like schoolgirls at a slumber party.

      ‘Where’s Michael?’ asked Cate, disappointed not to see him. ‘I haven’t even met him yet and you’re leaving us for him!’

      ‘I am not leaving you for Michael,’ Serena smiled sweetly, stroking her sister on the arm. ‘I am leaving London for New York. Anyway,’ she continued, helping herself to a tiny carrot shaving from a passing tray, ‘Michael’s on business in Cape Town. So Conrad is my date tonight, aren’t you darling?’ She blew a kiss over at the handsome middle-aged man wearing a crisp white shirt and a cravat.

      ‘Our last night before we embark on our long-distance relationship,’ he shouted over in a deep Richard Burton baritone.

      You wish, thought Serena spitefully, knowing that as soon as there was some distance between them, she was going to fire him. Now she was moving to the US, a London agent was, frankly, surplus to her requirements. Conrad should be grateful she wasn’t telling him tonight and spoiling this fabulous party.

      Serena turned back to the girls. ‘So, anyway, where’s Daddy?’ she asked.

      No party’s going to start properly without me, thought Oswald confidently, rolling up outside Venetia’s front door in the Bentley. He glanced at his watch: nine fifteen. Good. Everybody should be there now, he thought, screwing up Venetia’s handwritten note asking everyone to be at the party for Serena’s arrival at eight thirty. His youngest daughter should be bloody glad he was bothering to turn up at all. He was deeply unhappy about this Sarkis fellow she had hooked up with. An American was bad enough, he reflected, but this Sarkis was half Lebanese. Why on earth should he turn up to a party to celebrate that? He was glad she’d ditched that plebeian poofter Tom, of course – father was a miner or some such, but if Venetia could find someone like Jonathon von Bismarck, surely Serena could have anyone. Someone of good, solid English stock. He wiped his lightly sweating brow with a handkerchief and turned to Maria Dante in the back seat, taking her hand gently. Tonight’s the night, he thought, gleefully taking in her voluptuous body as they stepped out in front of the paparazzi. Tonight’s the night.

      ‘At bloody last,’ whispered Venetia urgently to Jonathon. The man of the house was craning his neck around the room, sure he’d just seen an inept waiter spill cranberry juice on the carpet. He would be taking that off the caterer’s bill.

      ‘What? What the hell’s wrong with you now?’ Jonathon snapped back.

      ‘Daddy’s here,’ said Venetia, nodding towards the front door. ‘He’s only just arrived.’

      ‘And look, he’s brought Maria Dante with him,’ smiled Jonathon, knowing that would impress some clients he had invited to the party. They had no idea who Robbie Williams was, but Maria Dante, now that was classy. She was wearing a vast cyan gown, her breasts spilling over the low-scooped neckline, her black hair piled up on top of her head, looking every inch the opera diva.

      Oswald and Maria moved slowly through the crowd, nodding and accepting compliments graciously like a royal couple on walkabout among their subjects, finally stopping to kiss Serena. Oswald had not seen her since Christmas. It was no secret she was his favourite daughter, a chip off the old block in more ways than one, but his patience had been pushed to the limit when Cate had let slip that she was moving to New York. In Oswald’s eyes, it constituted betrayal.

      ‘You’re making a big mistake going to New York,’ he whispered in her ear, his muted voice dripping with superiority. Serena had not become his favourite child by being submissive. ‘You’re my father, not my travel agent,’ parried Serena smoothly.

      Noticing that several people had started to eavesdrop on their conversation, Oswald instantly changed gear and embraced his daughter.

      ‘So – let’s party,’ he boomed, lifting a gin and tonic from a passing tray. ‘We’ve got Sinatra and Serena, both my favourites. Let’s face the music and dance.’

      Venetia pulled on Serena’s arm to ask her to stay while Oswald drifted off into the crowd. ‘What?’ asked Serena.

      ‘So, what do you think of her?’ smiled Venetia, pointing in the direction of Maria.

      ‘What is she wearing?’ sniffed Serena indignantly. ‘And that big hair! Her head looks like a petrol cloud.’

      ‘Don’t forget you’re making a speech at ten, darling,’ Venetia reminded her sister. ‘We’ve put a microphone over by the grand piano, so, you know, just a few words.’

      ‘Do I have to?’ pouted Serena, secretly relishing any opportunity to be centre stage. ‘In that case I’d better have some more champagne.’

      Venetia began to work the room with Camilla at her side, weaving in and out of the sea of guests, occasionally bumping into one of her own friends. She had felt guilty about inviting them to Serena’s party, but Venetia didn’t want to feel too much of a stranger in her own house. Right now she wanted to feel popular and loved and supported, particularly when Jonathon was being so distant. He was being colder than ever towards her and never seemed to be at home, always providing excuses to her for his absence – client dinners, overseas deals. Her husband was a workaholic, but she knew the truth was that they were drifting apart. And, much as she wanted Serena to have a fabulous last night in London, the party could not have come at a worse time. That morning she had returned to Dr Rhys-Jones’s clinic to get the results from the last round of tests and her worst suspicions had been confirmed. She had hardly any eggs left – having children either naturally or through IVF treatment would be, within a matter of months, impossible. She’d told no one, stoically blocking it out like bad weather or a light headache. A lifetime with her father had taught her how to switch off when all she wanted to do was dissolve into a flood of tears. No, she would deal with it tomorrow, she decided, when Serena’s special night was over and when she and Jonathon could sit down and sort out their future.

      ‘Are you OK?’ asked Camilla, resting a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘You seem a bit, well –’

      ‘What?’ said Venetia defensively.

      ‘I don’t know. A bit sad? Don’t worry, Van, she’s only going to New York, you know,’ said Camilla softly.

      Venetia simply nodded. Let her believe she was sad about Serena. ‘Come on,’ she chirped with forced good humour. СКАЧАТЬ