Gold Diggers

Adam pulled the business card Charles had given him from his pocket and held it in the air. ‘Thanks, Charles. I have your details.’

The managing partner smiled, scenting big new business.

‘And as you know,’ continued Adam, ‘I am looking around for a new law firm for the Midas Group. We farm out a high volume of contract work,’ he said temptingly. ‘We spend a lot of money on our legals. A lot of money.’

Charles was beaming now.

‘Only there seems to be an issue of trust.’ Adam turned to look evenly at Richard whose face suddenly seemed frozen in fear. ‘You see, if my assistant can’t trust your trainee, I’m not sure I can trust White, Geary and Robinson.’

Charles Sullivan had gone a violent shade of pink and was looking at Richard as if he were about to throttle him. ‘But … Adam, Mr Gold, I’m sure I … that is we, can …’ spluttered Charles.

‘Oh, and Richard,’ added Adam in a low voice, ‘I hope you haven’t been billing all that late-night extracurricular work you’ve been doing to a client account? That would be fraud, and I believe that sort of thing is very frowned upon in the legal profession.’

There was a collective silence. Charles Sullivan now had purple spots on his cheeks and Richard looked as if he was about to cry.

As Adam turned and led a smiling Erin towards the revolving doors, he flipped up the collar on his coat and grinned. ‘I’ve got a feeling your ex-boyfriend is about to be debriefed.’

‘Erin, come home, this is ridiculous.’

Jilly Thomas was a placid woman most of the time, but when her granddaughter was in trouble, she was as fierce as a pit bull.

‘Gran, I’m not coming home,’ said Erin down the phone, ‘it’s just a setback.’

‘But where are you going to live?’ It’s just like that terrible Michael McGavey all over again, and look how long it took you to get over him.’

Erin sighed. ‘I’m a big girl now, gran,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be alright; I like it in London.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come home? We’re always here for you, you do know that, don’t you?’

‘I’m sure. And yes, I know that and it makes me very happy.’

Jilly was silent for a long time. ‘Well, you’re missing all the gossip. Did you know that Janet was pregnant? Same age as you and about to have a baby. Isn’t it lovely? Due just before Christmas.’

Erin smiled into the receiver. Suddenly she didn’t want to go home at all.

12

As the British Airways flight from Zurich landed at Heathrow Airport on a clear March Monday morning, Molly turned to Marcus, asleep next to her, and smiled contentedly. Right now, life felt good; really good. She had a rich, generous, well-connected man wrapped around her little finger. He was showering her with gifts and compliments but, more importantly, she felt sure he was going to lead her to the real prize: Adam Gold. Yes, her relationship with Marcus was progressing at speed, but she had never thought of Marcus as the goal; he was merely a stepping stone to the real money. Marcus was wealthy, but Molly’s standards were higher, much higher. In fact, Molly ranked men according to the kind of plane they owned. A Citation or a Challenger would do, but preferably a Learjet or a Gulfstream V or, at the very top of the tree, a custom-built Boeing 737. It was a long time since she had travelled by commercial airline on a romantic weekend, but Marcus was a useful pit stop and, she had been pleased to discover, he was actually quite good company. In the two weeks following the Knightsbridge drinks party there had been three Mr Chow suppers and as many all-night sex sessions at his pied-à-terre in Chelsea or his country house in Buckinghamshire. Finally, Marcus had invited her to St Moritz to ski. Not that they ever made it to the slopes; the closest they got to the snow was dislodging some powder from the roof as they had sex in the penthouse suite at Badrutt’s Palace.

She glanced

at Marcus’s profile, dark against the morning light that was pouring through the aeroplane window. Square patrician forehead, nose, slightly broken, firm chin. Fucking him wasn’t hard work at all. Not like Momo, the overweight oilman from Brunei. Not like Giles, the peanut farmer’s son from Georgia, or Jeff, the gnome-faced Hollywood producer she had met at the BAFTA party who had wanted her to piss all over him. Or even Harry, poor tiny-cocked Harry, who was still calling despite the fact that Molly had not returned any of his phone calls. No, Marcus was definitely a find.

A Midas Corporation car picked them up at the airport and dropped Molly at home, where she deposited her bags and freshened up before she set off for work. Work! The very thought of going in to Feldman Jones Productions made her groan. Although she only went into the events planning company two days a week, they were the longest two days of the week by far. She really didn’t know why she bothered with it sometimes. But rent was expensive, coke was expensive and the prices of ‘it’ bags had shot through the roof. And in return for rolling into Feldman Jones Productions a couple of days a week, she had a ten per cent share in the company. Thank you and good night.

‘Where is everybody?’ Molly sauntered in and sat down at her desk, dropping her Bottega Veneta bag by her chair and rifling through a mountain of post had that accumulated since her last appearance in the office. It was 11.30 and Feldman Jones’ office – on the top floor of a pretty pale blue mews-house in Westbourne Grove – was empty except for a couple of work-experience girls manning the phones.

‘Becca and Jenna are at the venue for tonight’s party,’ said one nervously, ‘and Lindsey and Sophie went to a meeting in the City first thing this morning.’

Molly nodded, enjoying her moment in charge. ‘Great. Well can you get me a strong black coffee? And when you’ve done that, can you go through those files over there? I want you to dig out any pitch documents we’ve done for Filey Walker.’

Molly was surprised just how together and authoritative she sounded. She certainly didn’t feel it. She felt dead on her feet; not enough sleep by a long chalk. Just then, Sophie and Lindsey walked in; the moment they saw Molly their expressions clouded.

‘Ah, Molly, there you are.’ Despite her butter-wouldn’t-melt Home Counties accent, Sophie Edwards-Jones had a core of steel. Feldman Jones Productions was her life. She had grown it from a fax and phone in her kitchen to being one of the top events planners companies in the country.

‘Yes, here I am,’ said Molly brightly, pointedly ignoring the atmosphere. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late but the traffic from Heathrow was a bitch.’

‘So you’ve been away?’