Gold Diggers

by Tasmina Perry

  Summer wasn’t sure if he was blatantly lying or if he genuinely believed this to be the truth. Like hell Dita will send them all home. She is the one that invites them in the first place.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Ric, but I must go,’ she stressed as the Bentley had pulled up at the kerb and Samuel had come round to open the rear door.

  ‘Five minutes,’ smiled Ricardo. There was something unsettling about Ricardo, but somehow that made him more attractive. She knew she was a little tipsy, but she felt powerless to resist. Summer doubted that anyone ever said no to Ricardo unless he wanted them to.

  She got into the back seat, telling herself she would stay twenty minutes and then request that Samuel take her home.

  ‘You don’t like clubs.’ It wasn’t a question.

  She smiled weakly. ‘I think I’ve just had enough of them.’

  ‘Not like your mother. Now she can party.’

  When Ricardo mentioned Molly, there was a definite tone of affection. ‘How about next week, we’ll do something quiet, yes? I’m sorry again for tonight,’ he said, resting his hand lightly on hers. ‘Sometimes you just need to let your hair down, have a few drinks, see some friends. I thought that would be okay with you too, but I was thoughtless.’

  ‘Let your hair down, that’s what Tasha said you wanted.’

  ‘She’s knows me well, that one. She’s an old friend. A very talented designer.’

  They pulled up outside the house. A couple of lights were on; Summer wondered if Dita was still up. In fact she wondered whether Dita actually lived there. The taxi pulled up simultaneously and five girls piled out, laughing and shouting.

  ‘Hey, come with us!’ said Tasha, grabbing Summer by the hand and pulling her inside the house, following the other girls up a marble staircase in a clatter of heels to an enormous bathroom

  Peering inside, Summer was startled to see that the girls were all in various states of undress. Rachel was in just her bra and knickers and was turning on the jacuzzi, so the sound of gushing water echoed round the room.

  ‘Ricardo, do you mind if we use the sauna?’ shouted Becki, running in wrapped in a teeny white fluffy robe.

  Ricardo walked to the doorway of an adjoining room. He had kicked off his shoes, undone a couple of buttons on his shirt and was holding a tumbler of amber-coloured liquid. ‘Cognac?’ he said to Summer, beckoning her into the room. He handed her a glass and walked into a large closet. Summer sipped the drink cautiously, feeling very uncomfortable standing in what was obviously Ricardo’s bedroom. What the hell am I doing? she thought.

  ‘Shall we go and join the girls? It’s playtime,’ purred Ricardo, returning wearing a white towelling robe.

  ‘Ricardo, I think … I think I …’ she said, putting a hand on a wall to steady herself. Suddenly she felt dizzy and the room was beginning to swim. She could feel his hands on her arm, leading her towards the spa room. Three girls were now in the jacuzzi. Tasha was naked and Becki was kissing her mouth and breasts, while Rachel was perched on the side of the jacuzzi, snorting a line of cocaine.

  It was becoming a nightmare.

  ‘Ricardo, I need to go home,’ mumbled Summer, finding it difficult to get the words out.

  ‘Relax, Summer! You might just enjoy yourself,’ laughed Ricardo, rubbing her shoulders.

  ‘I want to GO!’ she said more forcefully, shrugging off his hand.

  He stepped towards her, a smile still plastered on his face, but it was somehow cruel and mean.

  ‘Well, you know where the door is,’ he spat.

  Summer jolted backwards, stumbling on a towel and slamming into the door. She scrambled sideways and made for the stairs, slipping on the marble and twisting her knee, but fear pushed her on through the pain.

  ‘I never had this problem with your mother,’ yelled Ricardo after her, as Summer opened the front door and gulped in the night air.

  Head pounding, vision blurred, she felt a huge weariness – she just wanted to lie down and rest, but panic was driving her, telling her to get away from the house. She zigzagged down the street, bumping into railings and cars, unable to coordinate her movements. Finally she could see the Berkeley Hotel ahead of her. Surely she could wave down a taxi from there, she thought. A doorman in a grey suit and bowler hat noticed her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Madam, are you alright? Can I do anything to help?’

  Summer was summoning the energy to speak, when the hotel’s doors opened and she heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Summer? What’s wrong? What’s going on?’

  She could barely focus now, but she heard the voice again.

  ‘Okay, Robert, she’s a friend. I’ll take it from here,’ and she felt firm, reassuring hands on her back and she allowed herself to be helped into the expensive leather seat of a large car.

  ‘Thanks, Adam,’ she managed weakly. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me. But I’ve just had the evening from hell.’

  When Summer woke up, it was dark and still. For a moment she thought she was dead, until she realized she was lying under a soft blanket on a black leather sofa.

  ‘Easy does it,’ said Adam softly, handing her a glass of water as she tried to sit up. He was dressed in sweat-pants and a T-shirt and had a bleary, pink-eyed look, as if he’d just woken up himself.

  ‘Where am I? Have I been asleep?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’re at my apartment. I was going to take you straight home but you passed out in the car after a few minutes. You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours.’

  Summer felt a rush of emotions: relief, fear, shame. ‘Urgh, I feel dreadful.’

  ‘I’m not surprised after spending the evening in the company of that jerk. I think he might have given you Rohypnol.’

  Summer sat up suddenly, sending stars across her vision. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No,’ said Adam gravely. ‘And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard about Ricardo trying it on with that shit. People call his house “The Brothel”. He certainly seems to have one hell of a merry-go-round of women in that place.’

  ‘I feel such a bloody idiot,’ said Summer, nervously reaching up to smooth her hair, thinking she must look like a scarecrow.

  ‘We should go to the police,’ said Adam firmly. ‘If he’s drugged you they can arrest him.’

  Summer felt a rush of panic. The last thing she wanted was to involve the police. After all, Ricardo was Molly’s friend and it was her who had set them up on a date.

  ‘I just want to forget about it,’ she replied.

  ‘Listen, if you’re worried, I can go with you …’

  ‘Please Adam. No. I really, really don’t want to.’

  He nodded, not wanting to push it. ‘Well, are you hungry? My chef doesn’t arrive for an hour or so, but if you want to take your chances with my cooking I make a mean pancake.’

  ‘Urr, Adam, the way I feel …’ She glanced at his eager expression and laughed. ‘You’re not going to let me say no, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he smiled.

  Feeling a little better now, she followed him through to the kitchen, an impressive open-plan oak and granite design filled with shiny chrome appliances. As he opened the fridge, she could see, the firm muscles of his back through his thin white T-shirt and, blushing slightly, she forced herself to look away. Out of the window, the night sky was turning grey and gold and birds were beginning to sing in Hyde Park. She was glad dawn was breaking; it felt too intimate being in Adam’s apartment at night. He was too good looking, too damn sexy to feel comfortable with, remembering the last time they’d been together – alone at the beach party in Anguilla. She’d tried to deny the chemistry between them then. But here, alone, only yards from his bed …Oh God, Summer, stop thinking that way, she groaned to herself. She took a sip of water which was ice cold against her lips and looked out at the dawn sky again.

  ‘It’s going to be a gorgeous day,’ she said absently. ‘A heatwave, apparently. I really want to do something.’


  Adam turned back from the stove. ‘What do you mean “do something”?’ he asked. There was a definite flirtation in his voice, and something filled the air between them.

  ‘Oh, you know, take advantage of the sunshine. Something where you can feel nature, like a paddle in the sea or flying a kite.’

  Adam smiled again. ‘You make it sound good.’

  ‘The simple things often are.’

  ‘So, do you fancy doing something together?’ he asked.

  She glanced away, feeling a flutter of illicit excitement and guilt. She thought of Karin, and tried to shake it away.

  ‘So?’ asked Adam, trying to catch her gaze.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly.

  He touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘I think you need some fun after what you’ve just been through.’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘I guess. So what did you have in mind?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ he smiled. ‘But we might have to drop by your flat for some jeans and sneakers.’

  He’s only being friendly, thought Summer, he’s just looking after me. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Nothing wrong at all.

  ‘Okay, I’m all yours,’ she said.

  33

  Erin was annoyed. It was her first morning off since she’d been at Midas and she’d wanted nothing more than to stay in bed with Julian, eating croissants and making love. But Julian had left her flat at 7 a.m. to get to Bath for a mid-morning business meeting and Erin had her own appointment; she’d been summoned to see Ed Davies, her agent, who she had not seen or heard from since Christmas. It was the last thing Erin wanted to do on a fine spring morning.

  Davies and Partners occupied a small mews house in a leafy, blossom-filled street in Bloomsbury. The reception was full of shiny pristine books, all lined up in display cases; fat bestsellers next to slick political biographies and fiercely clever literary authors she recognized from the Sunday Times lists. For a moment, Erin felt a rush of excitement she had not experienced since the first time she walked into the Midas Corporation building. But, as she walked up the stairs to the agent’s office, it was quickly replaced by a feeling of guilt and frustration that she hadn’t had time to do anything on her book since she’d been in London.

  ‘Erin. So good to see you again,’ said Ed Davies warmly, getting up from behind his big mahogany desk. The room was stuffed with books and manuscripts, reminding Erin of her tutor’s study at university. She shook his hand and took a seat opposite him.

  ‘I would have suggested lunch, but I know how busy you are with your new job and so on,’ he said with a knowing look.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ smiled Erin.

  ‘Now, then,’ said Ed distractedly, turning round to his coffee machine. ‘Let’s talk about the book.’

  Erin had a sudden flashback to school, feeling as if the headmaster was about to tell her off for something she had not done.

  ‘I assume you haven’t got any more for me to have a look at today?’ he said, taking a sip of espresso.

  ‘I don’t suppose you want to hear about how busy I’ve been?’ she said weakly. ‘I’ve just been snowed under.’

  She felt herself blush: it was a half-truth. She had been busy with her crazy, ninety-hour working weeks, but she’d certainly found time for Julian; plenty of time. Since their first date in Dulwich Park they’d been out for dinner twice, to a late-night cinema preview, and rowing in Hyde Park. Plus writing a book seemed so much less urgent and important now she had bought Belvedere Road.

  Ed nodded as if he’d heard it all before. ‘Erin, about fifty per cent of my authors also have full-time jobs,’ he said flatly, steepling his fingers in front of his face. ‘And I don’t hear excuses from them because, do you know what? There are no excuses. Nobody is forcing you write a book. You do it, even if it means juggling another career, family, friends, because you really, really want to. You don’t write books for the money because, believe me, for every John Grisham or JK Rowling there are thousands of really brilliant, talented authors out there writing books for less than ten thousand pounds a time.’

  Erin winced. ‘If this is a motivational speech, it isn’t working,’ she said sulkily.

  ‘You write books, Erin, because you have a story burning inside you that you want to share,’ continued Ed, his voice soft and assured. ‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s still around in a hundred years, lauded as a classic, or whether it brought pleasure to just one person, the idea is to write a book and see it printed and bound and think, “I did that”.’

  Ed smiled kindly. ‘And I know that’s how you feel. Or rather how you did feel, because I saw it in your face and I read it in your words when you sent me your manuscript almost a year ago.’

  Erin nodded weakly, knowing he was right, but also knowing that, if there had ever been a burning desire to write a story, it had now been dulled by a nice salary, a lovely flat, a wardrobe of beautiful clothes and a gorgeous house that was going to make her fortune.

  As if he were reading her mind, Ed put down his cup and looked at her. ‘In life, Erin, some people do things for love and some people do things for money. Take it from an old man, the people who do things for love tend to be the ones who end up happiest,’ he said with a crinkled smile. ‘Did I tell you that thirty years ago I worked for an investment bank? It seemed to be the thing to do when you were fresh out of Cambridge.’

  Erin was amazed. Sitting here surrounded by books and paper, she couldn’t imagine Ed having ever been anywhere or anything else.

  ‘So what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘An epiphany.’

  ‘And do you regret it?’

  Ed shook his head vigorously. ‘Friends I worked with then are now partners in the big banks, buying second and third homes in Tuscany with their very large bonuses. They’re rich, and stressed, and for the most part unhappy, because there is always someone richer than them, more successful than them, and it doesn’t make them feel good.’

  ‘But you’re successful anyway,’ said Erin swiftly, knowing that with a roster of big-name authors on the books, Ed Davies was hardly on the breadline.

  ‘The difference is, I would do what I do for free.’

  Ed leaned forward on his desk and patted the top of a large pile of manuscripts. ‘There are fifty wannabe authors here, all desperate for me to read their scripts, take them on my list, help them live their dream. But I can’t, because I already have too many authors who are taking up too much of my time, and that is why I only take on one or two very exceptional writers a year.’

  Erin had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘Are you saying that you don’t want to represent me any more?’ she stammered.

  ‘I’m saying I want to see something from you by the end of the summer. Because if you can’t find it inside yourself to find the time, I want to find another young writer who can.’

  ‘Can you believe he said that?’ said Erin grumpily, biting into a club sandwich. She had arranged to meet Chris for lunch in Green Park and was giving him a blow-by-blow account of her meeting with Ed. ‘And I thought you might show a bit more concern for my predicament.’

  Chris was lying on the grass with a newspaper over his face to protect him from the sun. ‘Well, what do you expect?’ said Chris in a muffled voice. ‘He’s right, isn’t he? You haven’t done a thing and you’re holding back real talents like myself.’

  She threw a crust at him, but it just bounced off the paper. She sighed and looked around the bustling park. Cabbage White butterflies danced in the air, children were running around with ice-cream cones. It was like high summer in Cornwall, she thought, immediately trying to blot the notion out. She hadn’t been home in months, and that seemed like just another thing to feel guilty about.

  ‘Anyway, I want to start afresh with a new idea, but I can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Worse excuse in the world,’ said Chris, lifting an edge of the paper and squinting at her. ‘You’ll be telling me you
’re too busy next.’

  ‘Oh, stop nagging me,’ she frowned. ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ he said, sitting up to look at her properly. ‘And what secrets are we keeping, Miss Devereux?’

  She avoided his gaze. She didn’t want to tell Chris about either Julian or her fledgling property development quite yet. Julian felt too good to be real and she was scared that if she said his name out loud he would cease to exist. And she didn’t even want to think about the Belvedere Road site, let alone talk about it. Everything seemed to be taking so long. She hadn’t even made the planning permission submission yet and already one mortgage payment had left her bank account. Worried that she had bitten off more than she could chew, she didn’t want to mention it to anyone until she knew the project was going to succeed.

  ‘No secrets,’ she said, blushing. ‘But I am busy.’

  ‘In that case I have a proposition,’ he said, reaching across and swiping Erin’s orange juice.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ smiled Erin. ‘Going to ask me on a date now? I didn’t think you’d got that far down your list.’

  ‘Not yet, sweetheart,’ he said with a smile. ‘But seriously, I have a week off work in about a month and I’ve booked a cottage in the grounds of the Cliveden estate in Berkshire to write my book. I’ve been there to write before; it’s National Trust land, really beautiful, really inspiring, right by the river. I always gets loads done. If you fancy it, there’s a spare bedroom …’

  ‘It sounds good,’ said Erin cautiously. It did sound good, but then who could predict what might happen in a month’s time? Maybe Julian would want to go on a mini-break or something, and Midas being an American company, she only had two weeks’ annual leave.