His eyes flirted with hers. ‘Why don’t we fly down this weekend at least and have a look at it?’
‘Adam, slow down, please,’ said Karin, excited but still wary. She stood up and took her wine to the window, staring out into the dark night. She was tempted, really tempted. Business wasn’t about remaining static, it was about moving forward – and now was the time. Worldwide sales were brisk; her financial director Ed Sassoon had been urging her to find other sites while turnover in both Karenza UK stores was so healthy. Not that Karin was afraid of the expansion, either. She wanted Karenza to grow from a niche swimwear line into the ultimate jet-set brand as soon as possible but, for that, she needed serious investment. Jimmy Choo had pulled it off, while Erès had been bought out by Chanel after thirty years. Well, Karin Cavendish wasn’t going to wait thirty years. She looked into Adam’s eyes. ‘I really must look into the company’s financial position before we continue this conversation,’ she said, suddenly the in-control businesswoman. ‘Karenza is wholly owned by myself and I want it to remain that way for the foreseeable future.’
‘In that case, don’t you want to hear me out?’
Karin eyed him suspiciously. ‘What are you proposing?’
‘That I take a small percentage of the business in return for the St Tropez outlet. I can get Marcus and our team to work out a fair shareholding …’
‘You have got to be kidding!’ she said fiercely. ‘You could be potentially getting something as valuable as Gucci – and for what? The price of the rent on a beach boutique? I really don’t think so!’
She saw that Adam was chuckling. He beckoned her back to the table. When she was close, he curled his hand around her waist and pulled her onto his knee. She tried to move away, but he was strong, nuzzled his lips into her neck. ‘This isn’t always how I conduct my business negotiations,’ he murmured into her neck.
‘Well, I have made my position clear,’ she said, trying to remain firm, but a small smile beginning to curl on her lips.
‘You’re no pushover, are you?’ he said, releasing her.
‘I thought you’d have worked that out by now,’ said Karin, holding her head high as she sat down opposite him and poured herself another glass of wine.
‘So we’ll leave it that I’m turning down your proposition, shall we?’ she said, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
‘It was worth a try,’ he smiled. ‘However, the offer still stands.’
She tilted her head in question. ‘I want you to take the unit,’ he said.
‘Adam, I am not giving you a share in the company,’ she responded tartly. He held up his hands in surrender.
‘Look, take the unit. Have it rent-free for the year. It will do the development good to have the Karenza brand on the site. And, if you ever bring out a men’s range, just remember to keep me in shorts,’ he grinned.
Karin almost burst out laughing, but knew she had to contain herself. She subtly pulled at her top to give a flash of cleavage and flicked a curtain of raven hair over her shoulder.
‘It’s a very generous offer,’ she said finally, ‘but one I can’t accept. You may remember telling me when we first met that you never mix business with pleasure.’
Adam stood up and walked round behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders, letting his fingers slide under the thin jersey of her jumper. ‘So you see yourself as pleasure, do you?’ he breathed huskily into her ear.
She let Adam’s hands glide deeper and deeper under the sheer fabric while maintaining a cool, professional voice. ‘I’ll consider the St Tropez store carefully but, if I accept, I insist that we pay you the full market value.’
‘How about we look a bit more into that pleasure you were just talking about?’ he purred. ‘And then maybe we’ll see if we can’t come to some arrangement. Full market value is an awfully high price to pay.’
She turned to face him, pushing her fingers between the buttons of his shirt. As they kissed, Karin opened her eyes and smiled. She knew that she had played it perfectly.
20
They were going to Nobu Berkeley for lunch. For a second, Erin had felt nervous when Adam had suggested it, but she was sure she hadn’t done anything wrong; and anyway, would he really take her to a swish eatery if he was planning to fire her? Think positive, she told herself, as she applied her make-up with extra care that morning; he probably just wants to dictate a letter. But she had worn her new Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress all the same.
As they walked into the restaurant, all heads turned. Erin was getting used to the reaction; the presence of a New York billionaire still set tongues wagging six months after his arrival in London. The difference today was that she wasn’t trailing six feet behind him, carrying an armful of papers and folders, mobile locked to her ear, harassed and stressed. Today, Erin was by his side. And it felt good.
‘Would you like me to order for you?’ asked Adam as they settled into the banquette seat. ‘The yellowtail sashimi is particularly good.’
The only Japanese food Erin had ever had was Prêt à Manger sushi, although her tastes had been on a definite upward curve since the truffles in Chris’s flat. She could now tell her cosmopolitans from her caipirinhas but, looking at the menu, she still had no idea what sashimi was. Or yaki for that matter. She wanted to tell Adam that she didn’t want anything raw, but she knew that wouldn’t exactly give the idea of sophistication she was striving for. ‘Yellowtail it is then,’ she smiled, hoping it wouldn’t make her sick.
‘I really should have taken you out for lunch before,’ said Adam, summoning the wine waiter, ‘but I don’t need to tell you how busy we are.’
Erin willed herself to say something funny or witty or clever, but instead all she could do was sit there.
‘I don’t know what your career plan was before you started at Midas,’ he continued, ‘Something about interpreting or translating, wasn’t it?’ Erin nodded. She hadn’t told him about her novel. While Adam was always banging on about the importance of using the best creatives – by which he meant interior designers or architects – she doubted he would hold much truck with authors. Writing a novel was hardly Wall Street.
‘I know working for Midas fell into your lap, but I really think you have a long-term future with the company – if you want it, that is.’
Erin blushed at the praise.
‘You’re bright, resourceful and you have a good eye.’ He pointed a finger in the air to emphasize a point. ‘That building in Battersea you brought to me was a gem. It will make a nice acquisition for Midas’s senior apartment division. There’s a growing demand from the over-fifty-fives who want design-led properties in city centres.’
Erin thought of Jilly and her group of friends living in trendy apartments opposite the Thames and giggled. ‘The retired people I know live in cottages and make Cornish pasties. I can’t see them popping out for cappuccinos.’
‘Rule number one, Erin,’ Adam said seriously. ‘Don’t think about what people want or need now. You have to be predictive. Remember that the new generation of pensioners grew up listening to the Beatles. Old people are pretty cool now. You’ve always got to guess what people are going to want in five years, even ten years.’
She’d read enough about Adam by now to know that was exactly how he had made his money. People had laughed at him after the 1992 crash for going into property, buying up skyscrapers and developing disused warehouses in unfashionable parts of town like Tribeca, but he’d been able to cash them in as they became trendy.
‘I want to learn from you, Adam,’ said Erin, hoping she didn’t sound too gushy. ‘I’d love to get more involved.’
‘What do you like about property?’ he smiled, taking a tuna roll between chopsticks. ‘What do you like about our business?’
She had come out for lunch, not an interview, but she couldn’t choke now. She took a sip of green tea and thought back to the moment when she had found the Battersea building and the adrenaline rush it had given he
r.
‘It’s creative,’ she said, her face flushing slightly, ‘and kind of romantic too. You come across a building. Maybe it’s neglected, or no one wants it, or maybe everybody wants it and you have to head the competition off at the pass. You develop it, nurture it, and then, just as you’ve got it how you want it, you have to let it go.’
Adam was smiling to himself and nodding. ‘I’ve always thought the process was a little like a love affair, too.’
His green gaze met hers and Erin felt a flutter of excitement. ‘You won’t know this,’ said Adam, ‘but Eleanor handed her notice in to me this morning. She’s going back to New York.’
‘Eleanor leaving!’ said Erin. ‘But I thought she was devoted to you.’
‘Well, it seems “was” is the word,’ he smiled. ‘Apparently I worked her so hard she didn’t socialize, never went to parties or bars and consequently she never met anyone. But then a couple of weeks before she was due to come to England, she fell in love with some guy who works for FedEx who kept coming into the office to pick up my packages.’
‘You can’t begrudge her that,’ laughed Erin.
‘Of course, I’m happy for her. Anyway, that leaves a vacancy as my executive assistant.’ He paused and stared at her while Erin felt her heart stop.
‘Me?’ she asked quietly.
‘Erin. This is a considerable step up from what you’re doing now. This isn’t just diary dates and RSVPing to parties. You have to be my eyes and ears. You’ll be making decisions that affect the company. You know that some CEO’s exec assistants have MBAs from Harvard? Well, you’ve got my faith.’
Erin’s head whirled. Adam made it sound like an honour. He made her feel special. He made her feel wanted. Erin looked at Adam and she wanted him right back.
‘I won’t let you down,’ she said.
21
Clutching a handful of retouched photographs from the Anguilla shoot, Karin took her freshly squeezed raspberry juice out onto her bedroom’s roof terrace to decide which of the glorious images of Summer Sinclair she was going to use for the Karenza swimwear campaign. For the first week of April it was unusually warm. The air smelt fresh, of grass, spring flowers and promise. It was the perfect morning to plot, plan and think, if only there wasn’t that terrible clatter coming from the guest bedroom.
This is the last time I play Good Samaritan, thought Karin crossly, swatting the photographs down on the wrought-iron table. Out of the goodness of her heart, Karin had allowed Christina to move in. It was only a temporary arrangement, she had made that clear – or at least she thought she had. Karin tutted and tried to read her copy of Vanity Fair, but she just knew she was about to get summoned at any moment.
‘Kay! Kay!’ Christina’s shrill voice cut through the peace. Used to a maid, chef, butler and masseur at her beck and call, Christina was seemingly unable to grasp the fact that Karin was not hired help. She was constantly bombarded with requests, demands and criticisms of her lifestyle: ‘What do you mean you don’t have a chauffeur? You drive yourself?’ ‘What’s the thread count on these sheets?’
‘Karin,’ said the voice, more irritable now.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need you.’
Sighing, Karin got up and stalked back through her bedroom and onto the landing, where Christina was standing in a pair of ivory silk pyjamas, one sleeve rolled up. She looked pathetic and helpless and Karin instantly regretted her irritation; after all, Christina had been through a lot since they had returned from St Barts. Ariel was petitioning for divorce on the grounds of adultery, and Jamie Bacon, their new organic gardener, had been cited in the papers. Christina was stunned – it was the only time in the seven-year marriage she had been unfaithful and she’d been caught out royally first time. She knew that British divorce law was not apportioned on blame, but she didn’t want to take any chance with the settlement.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Karin. ‘Do you want to borrow a dressing gown? I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with La Perla.’
‘I don’t want a dressing gown,’ said Christina tartly, ‘I want you to go and get a camera.’
‘A camera, whatever for?’ asked Karin, following Christina into the guest bedroom, which was crowded with Goyard trunks and shoe boxes, couture dresses spilling over every surface. She grimaced at the mess. She hated mess.
‘I want you to take a photograph of this!’ said Christina dramatically, rolling up the sleeve of her ivory silk pyjama top to expose a slim, tanned arm. Just below the shoulder was an ugly lilac and blue bruise.
‘Urgh! What’s that?’ asked Karin.
‘A huge fucking bruise! What does it look like?’ snapped Christina, pushing it in front of Karin’s nose. ‘Go on, get the camera out. I need a picture.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Karin, examining her friend’s skin more closely.
‘Evidence,’ replied Christina flatly.
‘Did Ariel do this?’ whispered Karin, frowning. ‘He didn’t hit you, did he?’
For a moment Christina refused to meet her friend’s eye. ‘Not exactly,’ she replied.
‘What do you mean, “not exactly”?’
Christina sat down on the bed, crushing a number of expensive silk gowns as she did. She looked up at Karin and pouted. ‘He didn’t exactly hit me, no. But he could have!’
Christina saw her friend’s disapproving look and shrugged. ‘Look, I went round to the house yesterday to pick up some more things. I mean, everything is still there. My riding boots, my Norma Kamali vintage jump suit, that pretty little yellow diamond Graff necklace I wanted to wear to dinner tonight. Everything!’
Karin pursed her lips. Her home wasn’t a hotel.
‘Anyway, I get there and he has only changed the fucking locks! Consuela wouldn’t let me in either. Said Ariel had strictly forbidden it. Can you believe the nerve of the woman? I sorted out her visas, for Chrissakes. She would still be in Manila sweeping shit off the street if it wasn’t for me.’
‘But why’s he changed the locks? Has it turned nasty already?’
‘Not half as nasty as it’s going to get,’ snapped Christina. ‘I think it’s because I sent all his suits to the Salvation Army. If you know any men with a forty-four-inch chest and a thirty-inch leg you should tell them to get down there.’
‘Yes, but what’s all this got to do with the bruise?’ said Karin glancing at her Cartier Tank. It was 10.30 a.m. Adam was due in thirty minutes and she still hadn’t put on her make-up.
‘I was forced to enter through a window,’ said Christina grandly, as if she was giving evidence in court. ‘Consuela always leaves one open when she is cleaning. I mean, imagine the humiliation of it. Anyway, as I was climbing in, I banged my arm on the ice machine. But, as far as my lawyers are concerned, Ariel did it when I was trying to collect some belongings. He assaulted me.’
‘But he didn’t,’ replied Karin. ‘I’d be an accessory!’ She understood Christina’s tactics but was making her sweat a little in return for all the jibes about her chauffeur and sheets.
‘He could have done,’ repeated Christina. ‘Oh, you’ve got to help me Kay, I can’t take chances. We have a pre-nup. The courts might not take any notice of it but, if they do, I’m fucked. One million for every year we’ve been married? Jesus! That’ll buy me a three-bedroom maisonette in South Ken if I’m lucky. I’ll have to have the prix fixe at San Lorenzo,’ she added, shuddering.
‘So what’s the bruise got to do with anything?’
‘Everything,’ she whispered. ‘My lawyer told me that a recent case has revived the concept of blame in divorce. It can affect the payout. At the moment it’s my word against his, and I’ve got photos to prove it.’
Karin scooped her hair up into a ponytail, shaking her head. ‘There’s a Polaroid camera in the dressing room for the shoes; do it yourself if you must. Listen, I’m going to Adam’s friend’s house tonight. Will you be here?’
‘I’m tempted to give Jamie a call. I feel so uptig
ht, I could do with a release, but I had better keep my nose clean,’ she said with a wink.
Karin laughed and Christina wandered off in the direction of the dressing room.
Karin sat at her carved mother-of-pearl dressing table. She rubbed some tinted moisturiser onto her face, added a little blusher on the apples of her cheeks and a slick of lip gloss. She wondered idly how Christina’s life would change. One minute she was in a detached house in Mayfair with a staff of seven, a private jet at her disposal and nothing to do except plan the next extravagant party. The next minute she was in Karin’s spare room, forging criminal injury, and sneaking around after a twenty-two-year-old labourer. She was sure that Christina would land on her feet, although she also suspected that Ariel would play dirty to hold on to his fortune.
The doorbell ding-donged. She slipped on a pair of Tod’s loafers, picked up her holdall, carefully packed for a weekend in the country – trainers, jodhpurs, silk dress, and a tiny coffee-coloured lace teddy she had picked up in Paris – and ran down the stairs. Adam was standing at the door holding the car keys to his Aston Martin. He smelt of pomegranate cologne, soap and shaving foam.
‘Are you ready, honey?’ he asked. ‘I said we’d be there in time for lunch.’
‘I just have to get my coat,’ she said, running to the concealed closet in the hall for an acid-yellow leather jacket, perfect for the bright, fresh morning. As she turned back towards the front door, she saw Christina coming down the curving staircase. Her dark, wet hair was scraped back off her face, her damp body glistening like diamond dew, covered only by a minuscule white towel that stopped at the top of her thighs. She tiptoed over to Adam to give him a light kiss on the cheek.
‘You two have a fabulous time,’ she smiled, before springing back up the stairs, sending a coquettish smile over one shoulder.
Adam was grinning like a Cheshire cat while Karin picked up her holdall and walked to the car without another word, vowing that she’d have that bitch out of the house as soon as she got back to London.
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