Gold Diggers

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Sit down, Erin,’ said Adam. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a coffee?’

  Erin looked puzzled. It was the first time ever he had asked her to sit and share a drink.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I’ve just had one.’

  Adam rested his elbows on the desk. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to show his firm, tanned forearms as he sipped the coffee.

  ‘So, did you enjoy the party?’

  It was the first opportunity they’d had to discuss it all day. Erin couldn’t exactly tell him the truth about Karin and her father and how miserable it had made her, so she chose to be vague. ‘It was a wonderful party,’ she smiled.

  ‘Well, I think you did a brilliant job helping us to pull it all together like that in such a short space of time.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ replied Erin, wondering if maybe she should leave the deed until first thing tomorrow morning.

  ‘And, actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Adam. Erin’s attention snapped back to the man sitting in front of her.

  ‘I stopped off at the Lanesborough to see my mother on the way back from the airport today.’

  She quickly averted her eyes away from him. Damn, damn, damn, she thought, suddenly realizing how stupid she had been to divulge her dreams, the details of her novel and, worst of all, how she had an agent to Julia Gold. No matter how kind and supportive Julia had seemed, there was no getting away from the fact that her loyalties were obviously going to be to her son. It was true Erin wanted to leave the Midas Corporation, but the last thing she wanted to do was to get fired.

  ‘Actually, Adam, there’s been something I wanted to talk to you about as well.’

  He held up an imperious finger. ‘Hear me out, Erin. My mother mentioned she’d been speaking to you – she seems quite a fan actually – and she told me you’d begun your writing again. Apparently she’s read your manuscript. Says it’s fantastic.’

  ‘Adam, don’t take that the wrong way. I haven’t been doing it in work time, but it’s been going well and—’

  The finger went up again. ‘You don’t have to make excuses for challenging yourself. How do you think I’ve made so much money? I get bored with one thing and it’s onwards and upwards to the next. You sitting down and writing your novel just makes me remember what I thought when I first met you.’

  ‘Adam, I—’

  ‘That you’re made for bigger and brighter things than being my assistant.’

  Erin was desperate to make him stop, but by now she was too intrigued by what he had to say.

  ‘I’ll cut to the chase; there is a fabulous opportunity for you in Moscow. We’re talking a lot more responsibility, I want to capitalize on all this entrepreneurial spirit you have and, obviously, we’re also talking a lot more money, your own flat, choice of car and so on. Alternatively, if you want to stay in London because of your little development in Crystal Palace, I think we can rustle up something for you in marketing. But either way, I think it’s time we stepped up a gear.’ Adam Gold had a way of talking to people as if everything he said made the most perfect sense in the world.

  ‘But Adam, I came in here to tell you—’

  ‘Erin,’ he interrupted, ‘I don’t expect you to answer me immediately. I hope you’ve enjoyed being my assistant and, if you’re enjoying it too much and you think I’ve jumped the gun, then just tell me. But at least think about it overnight and tell me tomorrow.’

  Erin just sat there, open-mouthed. She couldn’t say a word. Adam Gold was too insistent, too persuasive to turn down, at least at that moment.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, continuing with his air of authority. ‘I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘Umm, okay, what is it?’ asked Erin, busy thinking how she was going to stall Ed Davies and Millennium Publishing.

  ‘I need you to check on Karin.’

  Erin groaned inwardly. If she could just give in her notice right at this second, she need never see that bitch again.

  Adam went on. ‘I haven’t spoken to her since Monday morning when we were all at the villa.’ He looked up, the hint of a wry smile on his lips. ‘I know it might not seem like a long time, but she usually rings. I’ve tried her a few times and there isn’t any reply on her mobile or at home.’

  ‘You want me to go round?’ asked Erin. Adam nodded and fished in his pocket, pulling out a tan crocodile-skin key-holder and unclipping a small gold key.

  ‘I’m sure everything is fine,’ he said, passing it over. ‘We had a bit of a …’ he stopped, not knowing how much information to offer. ‘We had a little disagreement over the weekend, so she’s probably just in a mood. But can you just go round and check she’s okay and get her to ring me? Thanks, Erin. I really couldn’t manage without you.’

  Erin stood up and nodded. If only that were true, she thought.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap. Summer rolled over, not sure if she was dreaming or awake. She opened her eyes and glanced at her alarm clock. Midday. Tap, tap, tap. She could hear it again. She pushed back the duvet and sat up on her elbows. It was coming from the front door – a sharp insistent rapping of the letter box. Molly. It had to be.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ said Molly, charging through the door. Summer had to rub her bleary eyes and do a double take. Molly was wearing no make-up, her skin looked tired and lined, and she was in a pair of skin-tight navy yoga pants and white T-shirt, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother looking anything but immaculate.

  ‘Summer, did you hear me?’ she snapped, ‘I’ve been frantic about you.’

  ‘I’ve been in Milan,’ said Summer. ‘You knew very well where I was.’

  ‘But I thought your plane got back last night. I’ve been sick with worry’.

  Summer raised an eyebrow. ‘I did get back last night, but it was late. You don’t usually send out the search party.’

  Molly tried to look hurt. ‘I thought your plane got in at seven o’clock. I knocked for you a couple of times but there was no reply. I didn’t know what to think,’ she said. There was a pause. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ Sun was blasting in through the flat’s French windows, bouncing off the pale cream walls, lighting the room up with a seaside brightness. It didn’t do Molly any favours, thought Summer. She looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink. Perhaps she really was worried.

  ‘No, no. Nothing wrong. My plane was delayed, that’s all,’ said Summer yawning.

  ‘It was a good party though, wasn’t it?’ said Molly eagerly. ‘I must phone to thank Karin. You haven’t spoken to her yet, have you?’

  Her speech was quick and somehow forced and for a minute Summer thought her mum was high. ‘No. I’ve not spoken to Karin since.’

  Molly began picking at a bowl of grapes on the coffee table. ‘Well, I thought you might have met up with Adam in Milan. Isn’t that where he went after the party?’

  ‘He’s been in Paris,’ said Summer, lowering her eyes.

  ‘So you did speak to him at the party?’

  There was a silence. A charged quiet like the lull before a thunderstorm. Summer walked out of the room into the kitchen, where she got a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge. Molly had got up to follow her, but Summer returned to the lounge and flung open the French windows, feeling the warm morning sun on her face.

  ‘What is this? Twenty questions? Yes, I spoke to him.’ She still had her back to Molly and was staring intently at a little apple tree in the garden, its branches dotted with small, stunted fruit.

  ‘Well, what happened? You looked gorgeous on Saturday. I couldn’t believe it when you just left the party on Sunday when you could have taken the boat out with him that afternoon and spent some time together and—’

  ‘Mother, I’m pregnant.’

  Summer shut the French doors again and turned back inside. Molly’s eyes widened towards an expression that hovered between horror and joy.

 
‘Adam’s?’ she asked.

  Summer nodded and the tears began to roll down her face.

  ‘Well, have you told him?’ Molly walked over and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘You’ve got to tell him, honey. This makes all the difference. A baby makes a difference.’

  ‘It makes no difference to him,’ said Summer flatly. ‘He said he loves Karin. He said he wouldn’t leave her.’

  ‘Karin doesn’t matter now, honey,’ Molly said, stroking her hair. ‘Things change. This has changed things. You’re beautiful. He’ll want you. And now you’re having a baby.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a baby. It’s something growing inside me, a little person. Not a meal ticket.’

  Molly looked at her daughter and saw that her eyes were hollow, her mouth set in a fixed, defeated expression.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Molly blustered. ‘But be practical, darling. You two belong together. If this baby can make that happen then that’s wonderful, and if it can’t, then we can get a lawyer and make it worth your while.’

  Summer pushed away from Molly angrily. ‘Why is it all about the bloody money for you?’ she shouted. ‘Is that all really you care about? Do you give a shit that I might love Adam? Do you care that I want him to be with me because he loves me, not because I missed a pill and got pregnant and won’t get rid of it?’

  ‘I just want what’s best for you, Summer,’ said Molly, her voice cracked and wobbly.

  ‘You want what’s best for you,’ said Summer with uncharacteristic force. ‘You chase money; you crave it. You think that money will be the answer to all your problems, but it’s not and look where it’s got us.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Look where it’s got us”?’

  Summer laughed a hollow laugh. ‘I’m pregnant to a man who doesn’t love me. You’re forty-three and alone, with a fucking reputation, when you could be married and happy and not sponging off rich men and spending your money on drugs and parties!’

  Summer sat down on the edge of the sofa, too exhausted to continue. She thought back to the vicious spat she and Molly had had after the shoot in Norfolk and considered what good it had done. It certainly hadn’t changed Molly’s attitudes or behaviour – so what was the point of raking it all over?

  Outside a blackbird was twittering. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud and, for a second, the air cooled. She looked at her mother, who had a small, pinched look on her face, her jaw tight, her eyes bitter and distant.

  ‘I don’t think we should talk about it any more,’ whispered Molly, lowering her head. At first there was a sniffle, which became louder and louder. When she looked up her eyes were rimmed with pink and her cheeks damp with tears. ‘I had you for love and look where it got me,’ she said, wiping her cheeks.

  Summer didn’t know which surprised her more; the fact that Molly was crying – Molly never cried – or what her mother had just said. Summer knew the story of her father, Jeff Bryant. Molly had met him on the New York club circuit in the early 1980s before the shadow of Aids had stopped the rampant bed-hopping and life was just one long party between modelling assignments. Bryant was old New York money, dabbling in the flourishing world of advertising. When Molly had told him of her pregnancy, she’d been dropped like a hot potato, and he’d refused to see her or take her calls. Molly moved back to London and she had never heard from Jeff again. Summer had never for one moment thought that Molly cared so much about him.

  ‘You never said you loved Jeff,’ said Summer softly. ‘You always told me that he was just a party boy you met on the circuit.’

  Molly took a deep breath and looked up at Summer sadly. ‘Jeff Bryant wasn’t your father.’

  ‘What?’ Summer placed her glass of water on the coffee table, stunned.

  It was several seconds before Molly spoke.

  ‘The summer before I met Jeff, I met an English artist called James Bailey at a gallery party. An artist. I was terribly impressed. Assumed he was a new Basquiat, a Keith Haring, one of those hot new names that were making waves on the New York society circuit at the time. He wasn’t.’ She laughed harshly.

  ‘Lived in a walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen, not backed by any hot dealer, just a struggling artist trying to make his way, doing what he loved best in a city that was the centre of art.’

  ‘He’s my father?’ Summer struggled to say the words.

  ‘He was so handsome,’ said Molly, smiling at the memory. ‘Women would turn and look at him on the street. And he was a good man too. A very good man.’

  ‘You loved him …?’

  Molly gave the smallest of nods.

  ‘So you got pregnant, and you loved him. What the hell happened?’

  ‘We’d been dating maybe three months when I found out I was having you. I remember the night I went round to tell James. It was a baking hot New York night. There was no air-con in his tiny, dirty flat. I’d been on a job for Mademoiselle magazine that afternoon and the other model at the shoot showed me the engagement ring she’d just got from some Wall Street banker.’ Molly looked at her daughter and her eyes were sparkling. ‘Oh, it was beautiful, Summer. I can see it now. A diamond the size of a fingernail, glinting in the studio lights.’

  Summer started shaking her head but Molly pushed on with her story. ‘I looked around his tiny apartment, littered with fucking paint and brushes, and just thought, what the hell am I doing? For about two minutes it had seemed so romantic. A long, hot summer dating this sweet, lovely artist but—’

  ‘But what?’ Summer said sourly.

  ‘But when you’re given this body. This face,’ she said, pointing to herself, ‘I knew I could get more for myself. I knew I could get more for you.’

  ‘So you ended it with James?’

  Molly nodded, her face a mask of defiance. ‘I met Jeff Bryant the following week at The Limelight. He was rich, Summer, really rich. Father owned half of Boston. He was the rebel son but he was still the heir. I told him I was pregnant with his baby a few weeks later.’

  Summer snorted. ‘You thought you could trap him but it backfired. He blew you out and you came back to London?’ said Summer, filling in the gaps. ‘And did you ever tell James about me?’

  ‘No,’ said Molly, ‘it was the only way, honey. James was decent. He would have wanted us to have stayed together and be a family. Well, I wasn’t going to hang around on the bloody breadline as a mother and artist’s muse.’

  ‘But you were making your own money!’ said Summer.

  Molly laughed. ‘Not much. I was modelling just before the money exploded in the fashion industry; when Linda and Christie and Naomi came along you could stick another zero onto your rates. I was successful, sure, but the money wasn’t fantastic. Back then you needed a rich man, darling, to give you a life.’

  ‘And my father still doesn’t know about me?’ asked Summer.

  ‘No. It was for the best,’ said Molly, a note of pleading in her voice. ‘I wanted a better life for you. If I’ve ever pushed you with Adam, it’s because you don’t want to end up like me.’

  ‘But James is my father. I have a right to meet him, to know him.’

  ‘It’s not possible. Not now.’

  ‘Why?’ snapped Summer.

  ‘Because it’s been too bloody long!’ shouted Molly.

  ‘Maybe for you, but not for me,’ said Summer. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Summer, please. Let it go.’

  Summer looked at her mother, dishevelled in her casual clothes, her hair messy, with lines on her face and puffy eyes from crying. She looked more like a stranger than ever before.

  ‘Get out,’ said Summer.

  ‘Summer, please. We need to talk about Adam, about the baby.’

  ‘Please, Molly, just get out. I need to be on my own.’

  And, as Molly shut the door quietly behind her, Summer sank to the floor and began to sob, wondering how everything could have unravelled in her life so quickly.

  64

  There were a few lights on
in Karin’s house, glowing blush-pink behind the curtains as the dusk began to fall. For a few moments Erin sat outside in her car, the engine switched off, listening to the background noises: distant cars on a busier road, a breeze blowing leaves along the pavement. She didn’t get out of the car until she felt calm, knowing another scene with Karin would get her nowhere.

  The house was grand, thought Erin as she walked up the steps, although too prim and pretty to be intimidating. Set a little back from the road, it was a tall, slim, white building with a shiny black door and Georgian windows with flower-filled window boxes. She rapped on the door with the big brass door knocker. Nothing. As much as she wanted to avoid Karin, the last thing she wanted was to let herself in with Adam’s keys. It seemed so intrusive and presumptuous. She could be doing anything in there – with anyone, she thought cynically. She walked round to the side of the house. A side window that looked onto the kitchen was slightly open. She peered through and called Karin’s name. The house remained silent.

  After trying her mobile and land line one more time, Erin resigned herself to letting herself in. The door creaked open. The only sound was the tapping of Erin’s heels on the wooden floorboards. In front of her was a wide staircase lined with thick cream carpet; to the left of the entrance was a formal lounge. It was completely quiet. No hum of a television or bubbling of a pan on the stove, just the quiet of an empty house. She walked through the kitchen, a stunning space with white lacquered units and granite work surfaces. It was a show kitchen, a kitchen to be looked at, not cooked in thought Erin. Erin walked around the central Island; a lone bottle of wine stood on the side.

  ‘Karin. Are you home?’

  Feeling more confident she was alone, Erin walked though into a big open dining space that ran along the back of the house. Erin put her car keys on the glass table; the jangle as they hit the surface unnerved her. Yesterday’s newspaper was on the table, along with some Italian magazines and a packet of chewing gum. She could see that the dining area ran into the lounge. Walking towards it she felt a sudden sense of unease. And then she saw her. Erin held her mouth and felt bile come up her throat. Karin was lying on the floor, dark hair splayed out round her, rivulets of blood spreading from her head like Medusa’s snakes. Oh, the blood. There was so much blood.