by Lesley Lokko
But what if the baby came out differently? What then? Julian had never met Tariq. There was no reason to suppose anyone would suspect him, or anyone else. But she would know. And then what? Hard as it was to believe, she had no idea who the father might be.
She opened the bedroom door and padded carefully into the hallway. She walked slowly down the corridor to the kitchen, her hand holding her dressing gown over her enormous belly. She made herself a cup of tea, carrying it through into the living room, and sat down in front of the sliding doors to watch dawn break over the city. The prayer call had faded away. Now all she could hear was traffic.
Suddenly a blue light began to flash at her feet. She looked down at the ground. Julian’s phone was lying face down; it must have fallen out of his pocket. She picked it up, idly glancing at the screen. Miranda (mobile). Missed calls (7). Miranda (home/Dubai). Missed calls (2). You have two new voicemails. Please dial 121. Last call: Miranda (mobile). She frowned. What the hell did Miranda want? She couldn’t stand the woman. Her fingers hovered over the screen. If she opened up one of the messages, Julian would know. She hesitated for a moment, then put it back down. Hell, who was she to question him? She was carrying a child that might not be his!
She looked over at the home phone sitting on the console next to the television. There were moments when she longed to pick up the phone and tell Tash, Annick . . . anyone. But it was no time to burden anyone, least of all Tash. With less than a fortnight to go to her wedding, hearing about someone else’s marital woes was the last thing on her mind. She gave a small, rather unhappy little smile. Who’d have thought it? After all this time, Tash was finally getting married. She had it all, now – everything within her grasp. Of the three of them, she’d started out with the least, and had made the most. And it was all hers. No one else’s.
‘What’re you doing up so early?’ Julian’s voice broke the silence. She jumped.
‘Oh . . . nothing. I was just . . . I couldn’t sleep so I made myself a cup of tea.’
‘And didn’t drink it,’ Julian said, looking at her cup. He looked down at the blinking blue phone. ‘Oh, there it is. I’ve been looking everywhere for the damned thing.’ He bent down and picked it up, scrolling through the messages. His expression changed suddenly.
‘Everything okay?’ Rebecca looked up at him.
He nodded distractedly and hurriedly left the room. Rebecca looked down at her hands. Yes, she envied Tash, in more ways than one.
105
TASH
London
‘To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.’ Her voice was steady but her hands were not. Her fingers, underneath Adam’s, were trembling.
‘You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. That God has joined, man must not divide. Amen.’
‘Amen.’ The congregation gathered in St James’s Church in Holland Park murmured reverentially. There was a sudden commotion at the front. Lyudmila had fainted.
‘She just keeled over!’ Annick laughed, holding Didier on her hip. ‘Like a light.’
‘Well, she’s been waiting for this day for thirty-six years,’ Tash said drily. ‘No bloody wonder.’
‘Is she all right?’
Tash waved a hand. ‘She’s fine. Needed an excuse to have a drink, if you ask me.’ She looked over to where Lyudmila was sitting surrounded by concerned strangers, absolutely in her element. As soon as Tash broke the news of their engagement, Lyudmila quickly reacquainted herself with the ladies-that-lunch of Tash’s childhood, Ladies Soames and Davenport chief amongst them.
‘Natasha, darling . . . I just knew you’d go far,’ Lady Soames trilled when she stepped forward to offer her congratulations.
‘It’s Tatiana, actually. And how’s that son of yours? Robert, was it?’
‘Er, Rupert. Splendid, splendid. Yes, just splendid.’
‘Any grandchildren?’
‘Er, no. He’s . . . well, he’s . . . um, he’s—’
‘Queer, or so I hear.’ Tash swiftly moved down the line.
‘Bitch,’ Adam whispered in her ear, grinning. ‘You are such a bitch!’
‘She deserves it. And so does he. Oh, you shouldn’t have . . . why, thank you. That’s so kind of you.’
And all around them, flashbulbs went off. It was quite some wedding.
JULIAN
‘She looks ready to pop,’ Miranda murmured, looking at Rebecca from behind the honey-toned safety of her champagne glass. ‘Poor thing.’
‘Yes, well, can we forget about Rebecca and concentrate on the matter at hand?’ Julian said tetchily.
‘There’s nothing you can do.’ Miranda’s plum-coloured fingernails were wrapped around her glass. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘I can’t just bloody “wait and see”,’ he snapped.
‘Why not? What’s the rush?’
‘Miranda, for Christ’s sake, there’s a lot at stake here. If Tash . . . look, never mind. Just get an agreement signed, will you? I’ll feel a heck of a lot happier once there’s something in writing.’
‘But that’s not the way they work, darling. You know that. They’ll come through, I promise. It’s a minor delay. The old man probably wants to check the property out himself. I’ve got it all under control.’
‘You said that a month ago. I don’t know how long I can keep this up!’ Julian stopped abruptly. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Get me something on paper,’ he hissed angrily. ‘Just do it!’
‘Don’t you snap at me,’ Miranda glared at him. ‘And don’t you dare try and order me around. I’m not your wife, you know.’
‘I’m hardly about to make that mistake,’ Julian glowered at her.
Miranda smiled, that lethal smile of hers that he’d seen reserved for others, a combination of sarcasm and seduction. He’d never seen it directed at him, until now. Underneath his elegant suit, he was sweating. It had been a hellish day. In his wildest dreams he couldn’t have predicted the outcome of Adam’s arrival at Brockhurst Hall . . . marriage? He’d expected him to make a pass at her – he was Adam Goldsmith after all – but when Rebecca told him he’d proposed – on one knee too, the prick – he’d almost swallowed his fork. ‘He wants to marry her?’ he’d choked.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Rebecca looked at him across the breakfast table.
‘N-nothing,’ he said hastily, swallowing a mouthful of orange juice. ‘I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all.’
‘I know you don’t think she’s much to look at,’ Rebecca said crossly, ‘but Tash is a fucking exceptional woman.’
He’d stared at her, for once unable to think of anything to say. For one thing, it was so unlike Rebecca to swear. He’d finished off his breakfast in silence.
That was three months ago and now here they were, watching the happy couple move regally down the line of invited guests, invited and not-quite-invited journalists and personalities from Tash’s world, and the odd figure or two from Adam’s. He had no idea how intertwined Tash and Adam already were or if Adam was privy to Tash’s business affairs but if he were . . . he began to sweat again, profusely.
‘Excuse me,’ he muttered abruptly, pushing past a surprised Miranda and heading for the toilets. He had to calm down. Once inside, he peeled off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and splashed some cold water on his face. He grabbed a wad of tissue paper and quickly patted himself dry under the arms and down his chest. He caught sight of his own face in the mirror and quickly looked away.
TASH
The day passed in a blur of good wishes and high drama – the highest point of which was her mother passing out, of course – punctuated every so often by moments of serene detachment. She’d tried to keep the numbers reasonable. There were two hundred invited guests and some two hundred-odd journalists, photographers and hangers-on, most of
whom were camped on the other side of the road opposite the beautiful church with its magnificent rose garden and forecourt, lenses trained on the wedding party. She still couldn’t get over how much interest her nuptials had generated. Who cared? It was good for business, her partners kept telling her. ‘Everyone loves a happy ending,’ James said firmly. And hers was one of the happiest around, or so everyone seemed to think. Edith was somewhere in the church, beaming with as much pride as if it had been her own daughter. It was almost comical. There she was, a successful, hard-working and ambitious businesswoman and the only thing people were interested in was how much her plastic surgery had cost and whether or not she’d snagged her man before or after she’d had it done. Snagged? She’d looked at the hapless journalist who’d asked the question and only just managed to turn away before she slapped her. Snagged?
She looked over at where Adam was standing talking to Julian and that awful woman, Miranda Grayling. She’d insisted on an invitation and since she and Julian were partners in a whole host of other ventures, she’d found it impossible to say ‘no’. Miranda stood to one side, immaculate blonde hair carefully swept up into a chignon, wearing an Issa poppy-red, silk wrap dress, a pair of strappy navy-blue suede sandals that Tash recognised immediately as Miu-Miu and a navy-and-snakeskin clutch purse. Her entire ensemble was on the third page of that week’s On Trend, [email protected]’s weekly magazine. Tash smiled quietly to herself. She looked at Julian. Why was he behaving so oddly? He had dark patches of sweat under his arms – most unlike him – and the colour was up in his face. He’d been avoiding her all afternoon, she’d noticed. Rebecca too was acting strangely, though that might be to do with the fact that she was about to give birth. Possibly even here, in the church grounds.
She drained the last of her champagne, picked up another glass and a glass of sparkling water and made her way across the gravel path towards her. ‘Here, darling,’ she said, handing her the water. ‘You look as though you could do with a glass.’
‘Thanks,’ Rebecca said wanly. ‘I’d forgotten how miserable the last few weeks are.’
‘When’s the due date again?’
‘First week of July. Hottest week of the year.’
‘Same place?’
Rebecca nodded. ‘Next to some celebrity who’s too posh to push,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘And with paparazzi all around. Though you must be used to it,’ she adding, looking across the road.
‘Oh, they’re not here for me,’ Tash shrugged. ‘They’re just hoping for a glimpse of some of our customers.’
‘Don’t bet on it. You look lovely, by the way. I feel like an absolute whale. I can’t wait for it to be over.’
‘It’ll be over soon,’ Tash said soothingly. ‘Have you decided on a name, yet?’
‘Maryam,’ Rebecca said softly, a smile suddenly breaking out across her face. ‘Julian thinks it should be Miriam, not Maryam, but . . . I like it. It was the name of a . . . a childhood friend of mine.’ She stopped abruptly, her face clouding over.
‘What’s wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘N-nothing. I . . . I’d better go. I need the loo.’
‘Over there.’ Tash pointed in the direction from which she’d just come. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine. Just . . . just tired.’
‘I’ll tell Julian you ought to be taken home.’
‘No, don’t . . . I’m fine, honestly. I’ll be back in a sec.’ She moved away, walking slowly across the path to the toilets. Tash watched her go. There was something definitely wrong. All afternoon she’d been aware of a streak of strain in Rebecca’s face, which rose to the surface whenever the chatter around her flagged, as though she’d just heard something that other people’s conversations had drowned. There was a look in her eyes that she hadn’t seen since . . . well, since that silly affair with her university lecturer, all those years ago. What the hell was his name? She couldn’t remember.
She looked across to where Julian stood, still chatting to Adam and Miranda. He’d clearly caught sight of Rebecca moving slowly towards the church but made no move towards her. Most odd, Tash thought to herself. Just then, Adam turned his head and caught her eye. He smiled and winked at her and Tash felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. How lucky I am, she thought to herself wonderingly. How fucking lucky. Then she saw his attention wander and she followed the direction of his glance. A young woman crossed in front of the three of them – it was Suzanne Gibson, one of the assistant style directors. In a lemon-yellow, knee-length dress and glossy, ridiculously high-heeled patent pumps that showed off her tanned and toned bare legs, she looked good enough to eat. Tash glanced back at Adam. He clearly thought so too. She felt a thin needle of fear rise within her. She quickly crossed over to them, hoping that the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach wasn’t written all over her face. She quickly downed the rest of her champagne and signalled to a passing waiter. Another, please.
106
JULIAN
Dubai
He stood at the bar, taking in the scene, one hand lying slackly on the cool marble surface, the other holding a sweating glass of beer. It was six o’clock and the evening was beginning to take shape. In the corner of the long, low-ceilinged room, Miranda sat with His Excellency Sheikh Mahmoud bin Talal Al-Soueif, one of the senior crown princes, and his three advisors, who accompanied him everywhere. He took a long hard swig of beer. He would move towards them in a minute. He was willing to be sociable but first he needed to steady his nerves. Fortunately, they were in an international hotel and alcohol was on hand. He took another mouthful. What happened next would depend on a number of things, not least his own ability to muster up the required charm. It all came down to the small matter of a clause, except that the clause in question was no small matter. His clients were in trouble: they needed cash and they needed it fast. The sheikhs had the cash and were willing to invest it, but on one condition. In return for the cash, the sheikh wanted the option to buy more shares, but at a fraction of their current value. If, at some point, he reasoned smoothly, Julian’s clients might require more money, then he ought to be amply rewarded. Cheaper share options seemed fair enough compensation all round.
In the scheme of things, it was a small request. The sheikh was about to buy a twenty per cent stake in a bank that was valued at 4 billion pounds. It was one of the biggest deals of its kind. Julian and Miranda stood to make 50 million pounds each on the transaction, more than either had ever made in a single deal. The problem was, Julian had already spent it. Or, more accurately, Tash had already spent it, not that Tash knew a damn thing about it. The opportunity on which he’d staked most of Tash’s spare cash had come via a tip from Miranda. A twenty per cent stake in Two Hyde Park, a new residential tower just going up on Hyde Park Corner.
‘Hyde Park, darling,’ Miranda had said to him over a drink at the Lanesborough one evening. ‘It doesn’t get better than that. This isn’t just prime real estate, Jules, it’s premium. Everyone’s in on it.’
‘Are you?’
‘D’you think for a second I’d put you onto something I wasn’t about to make money on?’
He’d thought about it for twenty-four hours, panicked when he realised he didn’t have enough himself to invest and then did something he’d never done before. He put up the capital using Tash’s money as collateral. It was preferable to asking Rebecca. He was amazed at how easy it was. Everyone knew he was Tash Bryce-Brudenell’s go-to man, her right-hander. He knew Tash’s signature almost as well as he knew his own. No one checked in any case. It was only temporary, he reasoned. He’d leverage just enough capital to stump up his share. When the Arabs bought their stake in FIB, he’d walk away with a cool 50 million, 30 million of which would replace Tash’s ‘loan’ to prop up his required twenty per cent share of Two Hyde Park. He’d shred paperwork as soon as it was done and no one would be any the wiser. He’d be holding onto forged papers for no more than a month, a fortnight if he were lucky.
W
ell, he hadn’t been lucky. What was that goddamn saying? If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans. He hadn’t, but God sure as hell was laughing now. It had been three months since the deal was first mooted – three months in which he’d scarcely been able to meet Tash’s eye. It was only a matter of time before she, her accountants and lawyer and/or Adam found out. He was running out of options. FIB had to accept the clause the Arabs wanted. There was no question of the deal going south. He, Julian Lovell, had staked everything he had on it. His reputation, his cash, his future earnings . . . hell, his life. If Tash ever found out what he’d done, he’d be finished. If Rebecca ever found out . . . it didn’t bear thinking about. He felt the sudden weight of Lionel’s gaze. It made him feel nauseous, and old. He drained his beer, dabbed at his lips with a napkin and squared his shoulders. He moved through the now-crowded bar towards Miranda and the sheikh. It was time to turn on the charm.