Barty nodded slowly then, seeming to make a decision, ticked a few boxes on the application form. ‘Congratulations, Ms Devereux,’ he smiled, ‘I’m sure you’ll make a great deal of money on this venture. I look forward to helping you invest in it.’
Erin walked out onto Lombard Street with a sigh of relief. It was amazing how many doors the name Adam Gold opened. At this rate she would be able to buy the real Peony House by the end of the year. A sense of unease rattled around at the back of her mind, but she tried to squash it immediately. Adam had faith in her. He’d told her so, and to be a success in business you needed confidence and front. The rewards were worth it. She smiled and wondered if there was time to pop into Gucci before she headed back to the office.
24
The Midas Corporation had worked a miracle. By giving Molly a purpose, it had turned her into a power-suited, arse-kicking businesswoman. Efficient, driven and no-nonsense, she strode around her office in spiked heels and pencil skirt, barking orders and watching with a satisfied smile as her minions jumped. Midas – or Marcus, to be precise – had put her in charge of organizing Adam’s birthday party on board the 245-foot company yacht The Pledge during the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. It was a huge job and, to the surprise of everyone, not least of Molly herself, she had thrown herself into it with an energy she usually reserved for pursuing men. Even though the cosy catch-ups with Adam she’d envisaged hadn’t quite come off, Molly suddenly felt as if life was full of possibilities – and she was actually enjoying herself, bossing people around and keeping an eye on every last canapé. And Molly knew where every last honey-glazed fig skewer would be at any point, just as she knew exactly how many bowls of Krug would be on every table. Molly had found that her attention to detail was second to none when she knew that Adam would be judging her; she was going to make his party fabulous or she was going to die trying.
‘Adam wants a full rundown of where we’re up to with planning,’ said Molly to Erin, ‘so I want to know which guests have confirmed and who is staying where. I need all the schedules from the limos to the fireworks. I need to know everything, Erin.’
It was Saturday lunchtime, the day before the race, and Molly and Erin had been there since the previous night, checking that every last detail was perfect. Erin Devereux was scribbling into her notebook at high speed, keen not to miss anything that came out of Molly’s mouth. The girl irritated Molly – she was too strait-laced, too eager to please when Adam was around – but she had decided that, as Adam’s executive assistant, Erin could be useful, so she had taken a softer line with her. ‘Do we have final numbers on the confirmations, darling?’ asked Molly with an over-wide smile.
Erin looked in her big leather-bound journal. ‘Sixty-three,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know where they’re all going to stay. Rooms at the big three hotels in Monaco have been booked for months.’
Molly smiled, happy to show off. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, tapping her nose, ‘I have my ways. Twenty people will be at the De Paris – that’s the top tier of friends who aren’t staying on the yacht. The yacht can sleep twenty, tops, but the Hermitage is beautiful too and we have another twenty there. And I’ve got a couple of villas on stand-by in Roquebrune. Adam said it’s not a milestone birthday so he didn’t want to make too much fuss, and I advised we keep it small and exclusive, manageable. I think he’ll prefer it that way,’ she added smugly. ‘Okay, so read me back the schedule.’
Erin cast her eyes down the list. ‘We have the drinks reception which starts seven p.m. Saturday. Sunday, there’s brunch on the yacht from ten-thirty. Two o’clock, watch race. Seven p.m., cocktail party. Midnight, everyone moves to Jimmy’z nightclub.’
Molly walked to the window, nodding her approval and mentally adding the other ‘off-piste’ events she had also scheduled. A table had been booked for lunch at the Moulins de Mougins, the smart restaurant in the tiny gastro village a thirty-minute drive away. Reflexology was available at Les Thermes Marins, the delicious spa whose floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbour. Molly smiled, satisfied the event would be a success.
‘Are we sure we’ll be able to keep everyone to the timetable?’ asked Erin, who was just as keen for this party to go without a hitch.
‘Yes, well, there will be a bunch of other yacht parties,’ said Molly confidentially. ‘But to be honest I think everyone is going to want to come to Adam’s.’
She smiled to herself. She was sure of it.
Down the road in Menton, Summer tried not to feel as if she’d been short-changed. She was only three miles from Monte Carlo, but Menton was a world away from the glitz and glamour of the neighbouring principality. She looked around the dingy hotel room and sighed. She supposed she should have been grateful; after all, she was here to see her friend, not the celebrities. Sarah Simpson, a bubbly blonde party girl who had been Summer’s flatmate in Japan, had just returned to London, where she had landed a job fronting a reality show about the rich and famous called ‘On Heat’. As a way of catching up, Sarah had invited Summer to come along to the first weekend’s filming at the Monaco Grand Prix. Having been brought up on Molly’s glamorous stories of Monte Carlo – Princess Grace, the Red Cross Ball, the De Paris – Summer had jumped at the chance, but the Menton Auberge was not exactly the Hermitage. One room served as bedroom, lounge and kitchen, there was no air-con, and the only window opened onto the eight-lanes and diesel fumes of the Cannes – Milan autoroute. Just then, Sarah wandered in from the bathroom, wearing only bra and knickers.
‘One of us is
going to have to get lucky tonight,’ said Sarah pointing to a very small sofa bed underneath the window. ‘Because two of us are never going to fit on that thing.’
Sarah pulled a Cavalli cocktail dress from her case and hung it on the curtain rail.
‘I can’t believe the production company have put me up in this dump. You wouldn’t get Cat Deeley putting up with this shit,’ she sniffed, pinning up her hair carelessly. She was unkempt, thought Summer, but she was sexy. She was far more suited to TV presenting than modelling: curvy, boobs, full lips and slanting grape-green eyes. Plus Sarah had a definite look – unpinned, sultry sex kitten – rather than the bland chameleon looks that so many of the big models had right now; models were, after all, a blank canvas onto which you could paint the client’s desires. Sarah was the real thing. Maybe a little too real.
‘So, tell me about this party tonight,’ said Sarah, flopping into a chair and lighting a Gauloise.
‘Shouldn’t you be working?’ asked Summer.
‘Nah. The researchers are already scouting out places where we can film, people we can talk to. People like your mum’s friends, in fact. So I suppose I am working really.’
Summer smiled thinly. She was not exactly looking forward to spending another night out with her mother, even if it did mean they would be moving among the richest of the rich. Molly had, of course, been delighted when Summer said she was going to Monte Carlo. Even for someone with Molly’s front, it had been simply too awkward to ask Adam if Summer could join the select number of guests for the birthday weekend, but the drinks reception was more of an open-house invitation and Summer and Sarah were on the list for the soiree on Adam’s yacht that evening.
‘It’s fine for us to go to the party,’ said Summer nervously. ‘But I’m not sure Adam and Karin will be happy about a camera crew coming onto the yacht.’
‘Relax,’ smiled Sarah. ‘Who mentioned anything about a camera? We’re there to mingle, baby.’
Summer looked at Sarah and smiled ruefully. There was a look in her eye that she recognized only too well: social ambition. Sarah didn’t want to go home with a showreel. She wanted to find a boyfriend. A rich boyfriend. Her friend was turning into her mother.
Karin was enjoying Monte Carlo already. She had been several times before, of course: twice to the grand prix, once to the annual music awards and a couple of times to the Red Cross Ball. But today felt special. Today she was here with a powerful connected billionaire, staying in the master suite of one of the sleekest yachts in the harbour. Previously, she had just been a yacht-hopping guest among thousands in Monaco’s packed harbour. Today she felt a special sense of belonging; she felt as if this could become a habit.
Perhaps it was their dramatic entrance that had begun her good mood. Adam’s jet had flown into Nice Airport that morning and they had got a helicopter straight to Monte Carlo’s heliport. A sports car was waiting for them and they had then zipped through the narrow Monegasque streets, the breeze whipping Karin’s hair around. Now, pausing while she dressed for the evening, she looked out of the picture window of their suite at the stern of the yacht and sipped a glass of chilled champagne with a soft smile on her lips. The sun was lowering in the sky, casting Monaco in an apricot light. It looked just perfect.
‘Pretty good weekend to have a birthday, huh?’
Adam had approached Karin from behind, wrapped his arms around her and clinked his own champagne flute against hers. Karin was only wearing her bra and pants and his hand trailed up and down her taut stomach.
‘Did you have to make this a work thing?’ said Karin sulkily. They could hear Adam’s banker clients drunk and guffawing at the bow of the yacht.