by Joanna Rees
‘My God. There’s that awful wanker off that TV show. Why is he here?’ Cosmo asked.
‘Laurie is a friend from way back,’ Emma started, then stopped herself. She didn’t have to justify any of her guests to Cosmo. ‘There’s no need to be so judgemental. Just . . . please. Please make an effort, darling. Don’t ruin this for your father. It’s his birthday. And it’s lovely finally to be able to throw a proper party here.’
‘It’s only a fucking house, Mother.’
‘Cosmo!’
‘Do you know if you Google Wrentham Hall, you get directed to this poncy survey that names Wrentham as one of the top fifty most desirable places to live in the whole of England?’ Cosmo sniped, adding under his breath, ‘I mean, what wank. If only they knew the reality.’
‘No, actually I didn’t.’
Despite his criticism, she couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction. Those features in Country Life and Homes & Gardens had paid off after all.
But it made sense. Wrentham was part of the Lechley Park estate that had been in her family for seven generations. Her brother, the Earl, known to everyone as Pim, had inherited the estate and the family seat, Lechley Hall. He’d signed over the dower house, Wrentham, to Emma after their mother had died two years ago, along with a cash fund which their mother had secretly squirrelled away for the restoration of her beloved Hall.
So Emma had embarked on her mother’s dying wish, lovingly reinstating every period detail of the dilapidated, almost derelict house. She’d trawled the country to find the most skilled workmen to recreate the original décor in the huge library, billiard room and ballroom.
Every step of the way, Emma had resisted the temptation to modernize at the expense of losing the feel that only the antiquity of the place could bring. Even the kitchens had been kept mostly in their original splendour, with a working range and miles of cast-iron pipes.
And when her mother’s money had run out, Emma had used her considerable initiative to raise more finance to work on the historic grounds with their rare trees, Elizabethan maze and carp lake. She hadn’t stopped until the annexe, with its real tennis court and heated indoor pool, had been restored, finishing with her prize-winning white-flowering kitchen garden.
So yes, given its prime location and the sheer magic of the place, Emma could see why Wrentham would end up in such a survey.
‘It’s nothing to gloat about,’ Cosmo said, as if reading her mind. ‘Being so ostentatious. And so wasteful.’
Emma rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Cosmo. Lighten up. Those surveys aren’t to be taken seriously.’
‘But it makes people jealous. And avaricious.’
‘So what? Wrentham isn’t for sale, and will never be for sale. I don’t see why it’s bothering you, darling.’
‘But just look at all this?’ Cosmo threw out his hand, gesturing to the crowd below. ‘It’s like the last days of the Roman fucking Empire.’
‘What?’ she asked, trying to be understanding. All she could see was a room full of successful, beautiful people, eating sumptuous food in her home. Her beautiful, amazing home. She’d never felt this proud of it before. During the most nerve-racking moments of the restoration, Emma had fantasized about holding parties just like this. How could Cosmo possibly understand how much tonight meant to her?
‘You don’t get it, do you? The penny hasn’t dropped,’ he said, tapping his head, as if to indicate her stupidity. ‘Did it never occur to you that for every pound you spend, someone else doesn’t have a pound? For every foie gras canapé your guests stuff down their rich throats, some kid somewhere has food denied to them . . . ’
Emma had heard Cosmo’s anti-capitalist rants plenty of times before. She’d had enough of him trying to make her feel guilty all the time. Why should she feel guilty? She’d raised nearly fifty thousand pounds for her cancer charity so far this year. If Cosmo had his way, they’d sell this place and give all the money to one of his ridiculous schemes to save the planet. He didn’t seem to understand the bigger picture. It made Emma furious that he didn’t see all this took hard work.
Bloody hard work.
The kind of hard work that had put him through the best public schools, so that he could have the luxury of such educated opinions. But she was determined not to lose her temper. Victoria, her best friend, had often told her that Cosmo would grow out of this angry phase and would eventually see the common ground between his upbringing and the person he wanted to become. And then, hopefully, he’d become man enough to inherit his title and the estate that had been in Emma’s family for over six hundred years. But when? That was what Emma wanted to know.
‘Stop it, Cosmo,’ she hissed under her breath. ‘If you make a scene tonight, so help me I’ll . . .’ She searched around for a suitable threat. The problem was if she threatened to cut Cosmo off, he’d be delighted. It would be the proof that he was looking for that their differences were irreconcilable after all.
Cosmo seemed amused by her outburst. Emma tried to control herself. The last thing she wanted was a fight. Tatler would love photographs of that: Lady Emma Harvey slapping her delinquent son. Everyone wanted to know what had happened to Cosmo. A year ago, he’d been in the tabloids every week, papped staggering out of the latest London nightclub in the early hours with a drunk blonde on each arm. But suddenly, in a typically contrary move, Cosmo had dumped his society chums and entirely dropped out of the limelight.
‘Save it, Mother. I’m not going to embarrass you,’ Cosmo said.
Emma let out a pent-up breath and nodded.
He was infuriating. They’d been on the brink of yet another row, and then it was gone, just like that. Emma should feel grateful to him, but instead she hated him for making her feel so out of control.
‘So what’s with the mafia? And the hooker?’ Cosmo said, conversationally.
She followed his gaze as he nodded to the library, where an unfamiliar couple had just emerged, flanked on either side by two huge men in black suits – clearly bodyguards. Cosmo had a point. The couple themselves looked entirely out of place. He was wearing a ghastly navy blue DJ, and she . . . well, she looked like something the cat had dragged in.
Emma flushed, caught off guard. She’d personally overseen the guest list and had made an effort to memorize photos of all the guests she’d never met, and a few personal facts about them, so that she could greet each and every one of them. So who were these people?
Were they something to do with the lawyers that had set up in the library? Julian had mentioned earlier that he was going to sign some papers for the final financing for Platinum Holdings, since Pim was attending the party, and it would be a good time to pin him down to sign on the dotted line. Julian had promised it would take no more than a few moments.
Emma watched as Pim followed Julian out of the library and Julian patted her brother’s arm, smiling.
‘Look at them,’ Cosmo continued. ‘They both look so smug. I tell you, Dad’s platinum mine better work out. Otherwise they’re fucked.’
‘Cosmo, please don’t use that language. And take your boot off the wall. You know it’s just been painted.’
Emma smoothed her short hair behind her ears and walked back down the steps. It took a while before she could get through the guests to Julian again.
‘I see you’ve had a word with our son,’ Julian said.
‘He’s promised to behave.’
‘That’s something at least.’
‘Darling, who are they?’ Emma gestured discreetly with her champagne glass to the couple who were now picking canapés off a tray and looking uneasily around the room.
‘Dimitry Sergeyokov. You know . . .’ He looked at Emma, confused. ‘I’ve talked about him enough. He’s the one who set up the whole deal. Dimitry’s the one I bought the development block from. He’s our main man.’
Emma was shocked. ‘That’s Dimitry? But I thought. I just . . . I hadn’t imagined he’d be like that.’ Emma thought back to Cosmo’s comment
. ‘He’s legit, isn’t he?’
Julian put his arm around her and laughed. ‘Ems, don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been reading too many thrillers. Of course he’s legit.’
‘I didn’t realize he was coming tonight. You could have said . . .’
‘Well, he was only meant to be popping in to sign the paperwork. But now he says he’d like to stay. And I told him we’d be delighted if he did.’ He smiled at her.
‘Oh. And what about her?’
‘His wife . . . so he says.’
Emma looked around the shoulder of Julian’s dinner jacket and glanced suspiciously at the woman. She rather stood out amid the show of elegance around her. She had shaggy dyed blond hair, a huge shiny pink pout and an obscene amount of cleavage showing above her low-cut white lace mini-dress. But the thing that annoyed Emma the most was that she was wearing red patent stilettos with the ghastly outfit. An absolute fashion no-no.
Cosmo was right. She looked like a hooker. And if there was one thing that Emma absolutely hated, it was hookers, prostitutes, call them what you will. It was manipulative sluts like that who had ruined her parents’ marriage and turned her mother into an insecure, alcoholic mess. And it was hookers who stole men like Julian away from good women like her.
Julian glanced over his shoulder too. ‘Try and be nice to her. She doesn’t speak any English.’
‘I wish I’d known. It rather mucks up the seating plan.’
Her mind was already racing. Several of the more sophisticated Russian society ladies Emma knew from her fundraising network were here tonight. Should she sit Dimitry and his companion next to one of them? It would be a hell of a risk. They certainly didn’t look as if they had much in common.
‘Don’t worry. They can have Hugo and Victoria’s places.’
Emma stiffened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Now don’t get all upset. I forgot to tell you—’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Hugo called earlier. Something’s come up and they can’t make it.’
Emma stared at her husband, reeling from this news and the way he’d delivered it, all thoughts of Russians, dodgy or otherwise, forgotten.
Hugo McCorquodale was their oldest friend, Cosmo’s godfather and Julian’s first-ever business partner. It had been through Hugo’s investment bank, McCorquodale & Co, that Julian had been introduced to Dimitry in the first place. It was unthinkable that Hugo and Victoria would miss tonight. Or that Victoria hadn’t spoken to Emma about it. She knew how much tonight meant to Emma.
‘What’s happened? Are they all right?’ Emma’s heart was racing with panic.
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ Julian said, clocking Emma’s expression. ‘They did apologize. Profusely. Don’t worry. We’ll have just as much of a good time without them.’
Before Emma could say any more, Damien appeared at the lectern outside the library and banged his gavel. It was time to get this party started.
CHAPTER FOUR
Peaches stepped out of the lift and into the hotel lobby, her Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals clicking across the chequered marble. As her red silk Gucci dress slid tantalizingly across her voluptuous yet taut curves, the slit at the front gaped intermittently, offering charged glimpses of the top of her tanned thighs.
She kept her head erect, her stride relaxed and yet purposeful, enjoying the sexual tension she left in her wake. Walk in slow motion. That’s what Madam Suze had told her all those years ago. Walk like you’re being filmed. Like you know everyone is looking at you and wants a piece of your ass.
By the revolving door, the young man in perfect grey livery and a top hat had his hands crossed across his crotch. ‘Have a nice day, ma’am,’ he said.
‘I shall try, thank you, Maurice,’ Peaches said, discreetly slipping a few fifty-dollar bills into his top pocket and patting it. She happened to know that Maurice was Hal Randolf’s nephew. Peaches believed in looking after future investments.
Hal Randolf, the famous hotelier, owned Boulevard 19 and had an archaic, unrealistic moral issue with women of Peaches’ profession. Having courted every newspaper since the hotel opened, he loved nothing more than boasting in print that, unlike some of the more famous LA hotels, his hotel’s reputation was squeaky clean. What he hadn’t worked out (unlike Maurice, his more streetwise nephew) was that thanks to his ridiculous bragging, Peaches happily charged extra if the clients wanted to meet her or any of her girls here. They always did.
It amazed Peaches that some people never realized the most fundamental rule of life: it all came down to sex. You could dress it up all you wanted, or pretend that it wasn’t happening, but sex was everywhere. You couldn’t stop it. It would find a way in, sure as water.
Peaches stepped out on to the front steps of the hotel, shading her eyes to look past the giant fountain in the centre of the circular, palm-tree-lined drive with its attendant queue of limousines. Taking her Marc Jacobs shades out of her vintage leather tote, she basked for a moment in the sun. It was such a goddamned shame that UV rays were so bad for you – she missed the old days of tanning to a deep brown.
A family was getting out of a yellow taxi, the father paying quickly and catching up with his two small girls. Peaches smiled at the elder one, in the blue and white dress, who was now holding her father’s hand and walking past her into the hotel.
‘That lady smells lovely, Daddy,’ she heard her whisper.
Peaches felt a sudden pang. She couldn’t have been much older than the girl herself when Albert Rockbine, the man she’d thought was her father, had made the first of his sustained assaults on her.
It had been the moment that Peaches had learnt the most important lesson of her life: she was completely on her own.
She remembered the first time. It had been one of those lazy Louisiana afternoons. Peaches had been reading an Archie comic on the porch, sucking an ice-pop, her legs dangling over the side of the swing, when Albert had come for her. She remembered that he’d grabbed her ankles.
At first she’d thought he was joking, that he was initiating some kind of weird game, as he’d pulled her on to the rotten porch boards. But in a second he’d rolled on top of her, squeezing the air out of her lungs. She’d struggled to push him away, but he’d grabbed her wrists, banging them down on the board above her head, laughing at her lack of strength against him.
He’d been drinking. More than usual for the time of day, and he’d stunk of whiskey and tacos. He’d lifted up her T-shirt.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got for me up here.’
Peaches hadn’t cried out. She’d been too shocked. ‘No. Don’t, Daddy,’ she’d whispered.
He’d slapped her face then. It had been the first time he’d ever hit her. ‘You stupid bitch. Don’t you get it yet? I ain’t your daddy.’
She’d felt hot tears running into her hair. ‘Don’t say that.’
He’d leant in close, clearly enjoying his ability to shatter her innocence. ‘You know your real mommy and daddy didn’t want you no more? You know that?’
Peaches had shaken her head, unable to comprehend what he’d been saying.
‘ ’Cos when you were three years old, your mommy and your daddy sold you to me. Just like you was a dog.’ He’d stroked her hair, his breath vile against her face. ‘And since I paid for you, I can do what I like with you. I been waiting for you to ripen up and now I got me thinking you’re ready.’
Peaches had cried out then, frantically trying to wriggle out of his grasp, as he unbuttoned his fly. She’d been aware of the net curtain moving in the window, and had twisted her neck to see Jean Rockbine, the woman she’d thought was her mother, staring blankly out in a medicated haze.
‘Have a nice day, ma’am.’ A smartly dressed and very pretty concierge came out of the hotel doors towards Peaches and smiled, interrupting Peaches’ painful memory and snapping her back to a much more pleasant reality.
Peaches hadn’t thought about Albert Rockbine for years.
&nbs
p; She hadn’t let herself.
She didn’t believe Albert Rockbine’s cooked-up story about her being ‘sold’ for one second. He’d just been trying to hurt her. But even if no one had ever told her the truth about where she was from, at least it was some comfort she wasn’t genetically related to that scumbag.
Some people would have spent thousands of dollars in therapy getting over an abusive childhood like hers, but not Peaches. She was more interested in the future than the past. She’d shed her tears about it back then and she’d never cried since. Over anything. And she was determined never to again.
Instead, she’d turned her lack of family into a positive advantage. She ran away from Louisiana to LA when she was fourteen, changing her name from Stacey-Louise Rockbine to Peaches Gold along the way. Peaches and Gold. Her two favourite things. And she’d vowed then that her life would only be filled with her favourite things. The best clothes, the fanciest cars and lots and lots of money.
And who cared how she did it? The way Peaches had seen it, having no family was a blessing. She had no one to hold her back or pass judgement on her. No one to challenge her philosophy that life was for living and for sampling as many of the finer things available to womankind as possible. In Peaches’ view, then, as now, as long as you kept learning along the way you might as well reach for the stars.
She walked down the few steps to the black limo, which was now waiting for her, its back door open.
‘Don’t waste the air-con,’ Peaches said, climbing inside and sliding back on the leather seat.
Tommy Liebermann leant across her and pulled the door shut. Tommy had been sitting here awaiting her return for exactly an hour. He’d bill her for his time too. But after what Valentin had just paid her, she’d still come out way ahead.
Peaches could tell her attorney was annoyed that she’d interrupted their meeting for the appointment with Valentin. But Tommy couldn’t complain. A fabulous tax lawyer, he’d fallen on hard times when his drink problem and shady dealings with a Mafia-connected outfit had finished his career with one of the top city firms. Fortunately for him, Peaches was on very close terms with the CEO, who’d recommended Tommy, whose nickname was Loophole Liebermann. And Peaches couldn’t be happier with the has-been hot shot being in charge of her affairs. So far, he’d saved her a fortune.