Molly wondered who else was paid by Adnan Hashemi for sex? She’d heard many rumours that certain actresses, models and society wives had been escorts in their past.
‘I assumed, of course, that a man of your standing would continue to be loyal to Adnan,’ she smiled, reaching into her handbag and bringing out another handful of twenty-pound notes. ‘But would I also be correct in saying that, now he has passed away, your loyalties may have shifted slightly – to yourself, perhaps?’
‘Very true,’ shrugged Sharif, his eyes glistening once more.
‘Well, I suppose we should talk further about the level of my donation to your chosen charity,’ said Molly, beginning to count the notes out slowly.
‘Oh, I think you’ll find me a reasonable man,’ said Sharif. ‘Very reasonable indeed.’
‘So? What have you discovered?’ asked Alex Delemere briskly. Molly and Alex were sitting in a corner booth in a fish restaurant in Pimlico. Usually he would put his hand over hers as they dined, but today Alex had a steely look reserved for the boardroom not the bedroom. This was business not pleasure.
‘Everything I suspected is true,’ said Molly, taking a sip of mineral water. ‘Donna was a high-class call-girl, commanding five thousand pounds a night. Her clients were mainly Arabs, including the Saudi arms dealer Adnan Hashemi.’
Lord Delemere looked at Molly for a long moment, absorbing this information with an impassive face. ‘No wonder it’s not come out before,’ he said finally. ‘I doubt she runs into any arms dealers among Daniel’s group of friends.’
‘She’s been smart,’ said Molly matter of factly. She idly wondered what Donna had done right. After all, her friend Denise, the one-time madam and longtime lover of Hashemi, was now relegated to being the wife of a Surrey businessman. Donna, the younger, more naïve friend meanwhile makes a fortune, then marries into aristocracy. She must have had a few tricks up her sleeve, thought Molly.
‘It’s disgusting,’ said Alex, ‘I must tell Daniel immediately.’
‘Now don’t be so hasty,’ said Molly, touching his sleeve. ‘I have been giving this some thought and we both know Daniel is no fool. He knows you don’t like Donna, so telling him she was a call girl would just look vindictive. He won’t believe you and you run the risk of him siding with his wife instead of you. No, the information has to come from a third party.’
‘Who were you thinking? You?’
Molly laughed. She had no intention of looking like a troublemaker either. That certainly wouldn’t suit her long-term plan.
‘No, darling. Of course not. I was thinking of a newspaper.’
‘You want a grubby tabloid to expose it?’ said Alex incredulously. A waiter approached him with the wine list and he waved him away. ‘This is my family’s reputation you’re talking about,’ he hissed.
‘Precisely,’ said Molly coolly. ‘Your son’s wife used to be a prostitute and it will come out sooner or later. The wise thing to do is to expose her now, while you can control the situation. You know every newspaper proprietor in the country. The story can be spun to vilify Donna as a money-grabbing fortune-hunter with Daniel as the victim. His reputation might take a blow in the short term, but he will recover quickly with good PR.’
She folded her hands. ‘The priority is to get Donna out of Daniel’s life, Alex. Remember, the longer you leave it, the lengthier the marriage, the bigger the divorce settlement.’
At the mention of the money involved, Alex looked anxious, rubbing his forehead.
‘Yes, I think you’re right, we must act,’ he said, looking at Molly shrewdly. ‘You’ve clearly given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?’
‘Of course I have,’ she smiled, waving the sommelier back over. ‘Now you just leave everything to me.’
49
It was the hottest day of the year and the Guards Polo Club was buzzing. Anyone who mattered was sipping champagne in the Cartier tent in the Smith’s Lawn enclosure.
There was always gossip to dissect when high society, Hollywood and big City money collided, but today there was only one topic of conversation on anyone’s lips: Donna Delemere, society wife, daughter-in-law of one of the richest men in England, had been a hooker! Karin had nearly choked on her wheat-free pancakes when she had opened her paper that morning.
High Infidelity! read the headlines. Delemere wife – Call Girl: Society wife plays high-class escort to arms dealer.
It was a genuine shock and, even now, hours later, as she mingled with the beautiful and the rich in the Cartier enclosure, she still found it hard to take in. After all, there were plenty of women in Karin’s social circle that she would have put money on having been high-class hookers sometime during their ascent to the top flight of society – but quiet, mousy Donna? Karin had read every word of the shocking story, praying that she hadn’t been name-checked as a ‘friend’, and when she was satisfied that her brand name hadn’t been sullied with the scandal, she had called Donna to extend her support. Not surprisingly, she had not been able to reach her. Her mobile was turned off and the Delemere home phone went straight to a terse message on the answerphone.
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ said Celia Chase, Class magazine’s editor-in-chief, sidling up to Karin as she was examining the table plan just inside the Cartier marquee. ‘I don’t think I can remember such a scandalous summer.’
Karin’s first thought was to jump to her friend’s defence and give this stick-thin blonde a piece of her mind, but she needed the press on side at all times, so she smiled politely. ‘I can assure you it’s a pack of lies,’ she said, taking a sip of mineral water to moisten her lips. ‘I haven’t spoken to her yet, but I’m sure she’ll be instructing her solicitors as we speak.’
‘Someone else asking about Donna?’ said Molly, walking over to Karin, her arm protectively around Marcus’s waist.
‘Poor thing,’ said Karin, playing with the little Cartier lunch pass that was pinned onto her cream chiffon dress. ‘The knives are out for her. At least she can count on us, anyway.’
Adam came over and gave Karin a kiss on her bare shoulder. He looked handsome in a cream two-button suit and a pale blue shirt with a high collar. ‘We’ve just been invited into the Chinawhite tent after the match. What’s that?’ he asked, taking a flute of champagne from the outdoor bar.
‘Big club in London. Good DJs,’ said Molly. ‘Kind of a Moroccan vibe. They have a tent here every year.’
‘Moroccan vibe, eh?’ said Marcus, sipping his Pimms. ‘So there’ll be belly dancers and hookahs?’
‘No, Donna’s not here today,’ sniggered Adam.
‘Honey!’ cried Karin, slapping him on his arm, ‘this isn’t funny. Donna is my friend. People will be talking about us.’
‘I thought that’s what you loved,’ he smiled.
‘Not like this,’ she said seriously.
What a wonderful afternoon, thought Molly, sitting down for lunch in the marquee. She loved the Cartier International Day: an amazing social scene plus sexy Argentinian polo players cantering up the pitch in those fabulously tight jodhpurs – what more could you want? Adding to her pleasure was the reaction to the Donna Delemere revelations; it was playing out exactly as she had hoped. People who had never met Donna revelled in the delicious gossip and delighted in speculating on which other well-known names had been high-class escorts to Adnan’s circle. The Sunday newspaper that Alex had chosen had done a brilliant job: in an eight-page special, they had boasted how they had smashed an international vice ring involving top models and personalities who would service the world’s most wealthy men for £10,000 a time. The whole thing, they had claimed, was masterminded by London madam ‘Bettina B’, who they were now calling Europe’s Heidi Fleiss. Molly smiled to herself. In another life she could have been a tabloid reporter.
As for the people who did know Donna, Molly could tell by their embarrassed disquiet that the story had suddenly stirred up all sorts of unwelcome concerns. They all had something to hide somewhere down the line; seeing o
ne of their number sliding back down to the bottom of the heap made them very nervous indeed.
Serves you all right for being such judgemental bastards, she thought, fixing a stare on Karin. Molly knew what women like that said about her. That she was a washed-up nobody. A slut, a whore. Well, look who really is the whore, Molly thought triumphantly. One of their butter-wouldn’t-melt inner circle.
The rest of the day passed in a whirl of socializing. Molly kept bumping into people she hadn’t seen in ages, people to whom she could boast about going out with Marcus Blackwell, about how happy she was, about her fabulous renovations at The Standlings. It was wonderful. Finally, Molly and Marcus left the grounds in Marcus’s convertible, taking a quick exit out of the park to avoid the traffic jams. With the sweet summer evening breeze ruffling through her hair, and Marcus’s hand reassuringly on her knee, Molly was filled with a glorious molten happiness. It had been a perfect day. They were only ten minutes from home when her mobile phone rang. She sighed; there was always something.
She snapped open the phone, but didn’t recognize the voice at the other end. ‘Who is this?’ she said, frowning.
‘It’s Patsy Jones, Donna’s sister,’ said the voice. ‘Forgive me calling, but I needed to speak to you.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Molly, noting the crack in the woman’s voice.
‘It’s Donna. Daniel’s left her and, well, Donna’s taken an overdose.’
50
The following evening, Molly drew up to Delemere Manor in Marcus’s chauffeur-driven car. There was the inevitable pack of paparazzi by the gates, of course, but as the house was buried in a thousand acres of parkland, there was an eerie quiet around the house itself. What Molly found even more disquieting was that she had heard no word from Alex. She had met him on the previous Friday evening in the arrivals lounge at Heathrow to arrange full payment to Sharif Kahlid. Alex was due to fly out to Spain that evening, wisely putting himself beyond the reach of reporters when the story broke, but he hadn’t been in touch since; he clearly hadn’t heard about Donna’s overdose. She had thought about trying to contact him but decided it was better to visit Donna and find what had really happened first.
Donna’s sister Patsy answered the door of Delemere Manor; Molly instantly remembered her from Evie’s christening. In her late thirties, she had dark blonde hair that straggled to her shoulders, and a once-pretty face that looked permanently tired. She looked completely out of place in the hallway of the manor with its marble busts and Old Masters on the walls. Molly idly imagined them in some nineteenth-century period drama, with Patsy cast as the galley cook and Molly the lady of the manor, ruling everyone with her iron fist.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ said Patsy in a small voice, as she led Molly into a small drawing room. ‘It’s been awful. Photographers trying to scale the walls, reporters phoning all morning. I can’t get in touch with Daniel at all and Alex and Vivienne are in Spain. Donna doesn’t want to tell him until she has spoken to Daniel, but when we couldn’t track him down …’ Patsy tailed off, her voice wobbling. ‘… Well, anyway, Donna said you would be the best person to call.’
Molly took off her jacket and threw it over a Hepplewhite chair and nodded sympathetically. ‘I take it she’s back from hospital?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Patsy. ‘It was only an overnight stay. She took paracetamol but not enough to do any real damage. The Delemeres’ family doctor has been wonderful; sorted out for Donna to see a psychiatrist. One of the best, apparently.’
Molly smiled, her face a mask of concern, secretly wondering why she over all of Donna’s other friends had been requested. The least of all evils, she thought; Karin and Christina would scare the bejesus out of the likes of Patsy.
‘Well, let’s go and see her,’ said Molly decisively. ‘I can’t imagine how awful this whole episode has been for her.’
Molly followed Patsy up the sweeping mahogany staircase, down a corridor and into the master bedroom, where Donna was lying like a thin child in a heavily swagged four-poster bed. She was propped up on a thick wedge of white pillows, trying to read a magazine in the early evening light pouring in from the long Georgian windows. Lucky bitch, thought Molly.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said with a weak smile as Molly sat on the bed beside her. ‘Sorry for dragging you all the way out here.’
‘I’m a country girl myself now, remember,’ said Molly, squeezing her hand. ‘It didn’t take long and, anyway, I would have come at whatever time of day or night, you know that.’ She looked around the bedroom. ‘Where’s Evie?’ she asked.
‘With the nanny. She’s fine.’
There was an awkward pause before Molly asked the obvious question. ‘Oh Donna, why? I know you’re in a bad place, but you’ve got a little daughter to think of now.’
Donna turned away and gazed blankly out of the window. There was a long silence before she spoke, her voice even and measured.
‘It doesn’t feel great when everyone you know – and everyone you don’t know – is judging you and talking about you. When you know they are calling you a slut and a slag and a whore.’
She turned back to look at Molly. ‘And yes, when you know that it’s going to haunt your child in the playground for the next fifteen years. And you know that it’s your fault for once being foolish and short-sighted when you should have been old enough to know better.’
Donna shifted uncomfortably on her pillow and reached for a glass of water.
‘Your friends aren’t saying anything of the sort,’ said Molly, not sounding entirely convinced. ‘And people you don’t know will have something better to gossip about tomorrow.’
Donna shrugged. ‘The doctors said I might have had some undiagnosed postnatal depression.’
‘And what do you think?’ asked Molly.
‘I think I should have gone to see a doctor a while ago.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Because postnatal depression is not the sort of thing you are supposed to have in the Delemere family,’ said Donna.
Molly looked at her, pale and fragile between the sheets and silently agreed. Donna was weak. Burying her problems like her precious bloody organic vegetables beneath the soil, only to have them rot and fester. She didn’t belong in a family like the Delemeres’, which had prospered over the generations through strength of character and resilience. It made Molly angry. She was glad Donna hadn’t actually topped herself, of course, but, hearing her sad, pathetic story had only convinced Molly that she was doing the right thing; she was helping the Delemeres.
‘What can I do, Donna?’ she said. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Find Daniel,’ said Donna, her eyes pleading. ‘I don’t even know if he’s heard what has happened because he left his mobile phone here and he’s not answering at the London house.’
‘So when did you last see him?’
‘We were tipped off about the story on Saturday night. Daniel left soon afterwards.’
Molly nodded gravely, but inside she was skipping with glee. She couldn’t have scripted it better if she had been a Hollywood screenwriter.
‘And what do I tell him?’
Finally the tears began to roll down Donna’s pale face. ‘Tell him the truth,’ she gulped. ‘Tell him I love him and that I’m sorry.’
‘I will,’ said Molly. ‘You can trust me.’
51
The cottage in the grounds of Cliveden, one of England’s grandest estates, was everything Chris had said and more. From the main house, that splendid honey-coloured Palladian pile, a driveway snaked away through lush parkland down to the River Thames. A short walk along a private towpath and there it was; a cute little Victorian cottage perched right on the edge of the silent water. It was a remote, peaceful spot, where the only sounds were ducks, insects and the occasional miniature deer scrabbling through the undergrowth on the hillside above the cottage. Erin loved it, and was smitten by the romantic history of the place.
When
she had arrived from London two days earlier, Chris had taken her on a stroll along the river, passing another quaint cottage which, he told her, was where Christine Keeler had stayed in the early 1960s. Erin had vaguely known the story, but Chris had vividly filled in the lurid details: the beautiful high-class call girl who partied with the rich, glamorous aristocratic Astor set and had almost brought down the government when she had become entangled with cabinet minister John Profumo at a party held by Cliveden’s swimming pool. It only added to the glamour of the place for Erin. She found that Chris had already moved a desk for her by the window in the living room, where she could sit and write and watch the sun setting over the river. It was spectacular, thought Erin now, lifting her head from her laptop, a blood-red sky reflecting in the water and staining it pink and gold. She had settled down to do some work after supper but she was restless. It was her first-ever Monday off work since she had started at the Midas Corporation and she just couldn’t relax.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Chris, looking up from a notebook. He was sitting in an armchair wearing gold-rimmed glasses, which Erin thought made him look more vulnerable, cute. She closed her eyes and stubbed the thought out like a cigarette.
‘Nothing,’ she said, still staring out of the window.
‘Erin …’ scolded Chris.
‘I can’t think of anything to write about,’ she said, doodling some circles on a notepad in front of her.
‘Erin, there’s a billion things to write about.’
‘Yes, well, everything I want to write about has been done already,’ she said hopelessly, getting up and flopping onto the sofa.
Chris moved across to sit next to her. ‘Listen, there’re only seven basic plots in the world, so your work is always going to have some similarity to something already written.’
‘Seven storylines?’ she repeated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s true, and Shakespeare used most of them.’
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