Karin turned away from Erin, looking momentarily embarrassed that someone had seen a chink in her armour.
‘So it was a coincidence? Me working for you?’
‘Yes,’ said Karin. ‘Well, in so far as, when I was recruiting for the PA job, I asked for some girls to be sent over from an agency. You were one of them. I recognized your name. Erin Devereux – it’s fairly distinctive. I was old enough to know what happened with that business with your father. I was sorry for what happened. I still am.’
‘So you gave me the job because you thought it would make up for things?’ said Erin sarcastically.
It was dark now and the temperature had dropped. The pool was like a sheet of black ice surrounded by the greyness of the lawns. Karin wrapped her arms around her body to protect herself from the cold. ‘Do you want the truth, Erin? The truth is that giving you the job did make me feel a little better about what my father had done.’
Erin laughed bitterly. ‘Does Adam know he’s marrying Mother Teresa?’
‘I saved you from some shitty little life in Cornwall.’
‘My life wasn’t shitty,’ said Erin, suddenly full of protective pride.
Karin rolled her eyes and began to walk away, but Erin stood in front of her. ‘You used me to make you feel better about having a ruthless crooked shark for a father,’ she said. ‘You are only where you are today because he shafted and murdered people, to make money and give you opportunities.’
Karin’s expression instantly hardened. ‘Erin, darling, I would be up here, and you would be down there, regardless of what our fathers might have done twenty-five years ago. It has nothing to do with where we came from, but who we are.’
‘Well I’d certainly hate to be you,’ said Erin as calmly as she could, her cheeks blazing with humiliation.
‘Really,’ smiled Karin,
lifting one perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at Adam. You expect me to believe you wouldn’t rather be the successful businesswoman about to marry Adam Gold? That you’d rather be the failed writer who answers his phones? I don’t think so, darling. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to the party.’
She turned back to look at Erin. ‘Oh, and Erin? I suggest you stop having little tantrums like this; otherwise you might find it’s the last party you ever go to.’
The pink champagne was flowing, the ice sculpture was melting, the atmosphere fizzed with the chatter and laughter of everyone having a fabulous time at somebody else’s enormous expense. There was dancing in the ballroom, cigar chomping on the terrace and, in the conservatory, transformed into a casino for the evening, Molly and Summer were standing over the blackjack table, wondering when their luck was going to turn.
‘Well? Have you spoken to him yet?’ asked Molly, eyeing her daughter up and down. Even in such glamorous company, surrounded by New York and London’s most gorgeous creatures, Summer Sinclair stood out with her natural beauty. Her face did not need Botox or eye-lifts or any of the other cosmetic procedures on display in the palazzo. Her long thin silk Versace gown, in the palest apricot, made her skin seem to glow; her hair, dyed back to its natural honey blonde, made her look like a pearly goddess who had just stepped out of an oyster.
Summer placed a pile of blue chips in front of her and watched as the croupier dealt the cards. A queen and a seven.
‘Seventeen, signorina?’
Summer bit her lip. ‘Stick,’ she said.
The dealer flipped over his cards. An ace and a jack. Twenty-one.
‘I don’t seem to be having much luck tonight,’ said Summer, pretending to concentrate on the croupier raking up all the losing chips. She didn’t want to talk about Adam. She didn’t want the pressure from her mother. She felt sick enough at the prospect of seeing him tonight, let alone speaking to him.
‘We make our own luck, darling,’ replied Molly, taking Summer by the arm and leading her away from the table. She led her into a corner behind a pillar and fixed Summer with her best ‘displeased’ glare.
‘What are you playing at, Summer?’ she snapped. ‘I’ve counted at least half a dozen opportunities when you could have caught him on his own, but you don’t seem to have taken any of them.’
Summer looked at her mother, who had the confident self-important air of somebody on coke.
‘I want you to go and find him now,’ said Molly, pushing her face up close to Summer’s. ‘Because if you don’t, I will.’
The enormous sweeping marble steps that led from the French windows of the ballroom down to the edge of the lake were like a set from an Audrey Hepburn movie, the perfect place for a heroine to finally kiss her hero to a swelling string quartet and tears from the popcorn-munching audience. Well, there was going to be nothing like that tonight, thought Erin, walking to the final step and sitting down so that her feet almost dangled in the water. Not for me, anyway. She rested her elbows on her knees and listened to the gentle lapping of the lake. If she half closed her eyes it was as if she was back in Cornwall, walking back home from the Golden Lion pub in the village, always taking a minute to pause on the harbour wall and listen to the waves. She looked up at the palazzo behind her, its windows glowing yolky light, illuminating men in tuxedos like tiny penguins. She pulled a face. She wasn’t in Cornwall any more and she had never felt more lonely.
She heard a gentle tapping behind her and Erin looked up. High heels coming down the terrace, then the shape of a woman coming down the stairs towards her. For a second Erin thought it was Jilly. There was the same volume of grey hair piled on top of her head, the same slender figure showing the slight gnarl of age. As she came closer, Erin could see that the woman was a lot more polished than Jilly. The silver hair was brushed and coiffed, her long dress was made of blue silk that screamed Oscar de la Renta and shimmered in the low light. She had a strong face, but the same intelligent, questioning eyes as Erin’s grandmother.
As she got closer, Erin saw that it was Adam’s mother. Erin had only spoken to her briefly at the airport, but Erin knew quite a lot about her. She knew that she lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, that she had been sixty-seven last birthday and had received a walnut Steinway piano from her only son. She knew all this because she had bought it and arranged for it to be delivered at Adam’s request. She also knew that Julia was going to receive a Hockney painting for Christmas, which Adam had just bought from a recent Sotheby’s sale and which he was keeping for her until 20 December, when he would spend two days in Connecticut before flying off to spend Christmas in St Barts with Karin. It was the most important job skill for a PA: you had to know.
‘What are you doing out here all alone?’ asked Julia Gold. ‘Didn’t you know one of Europe’s most glittering social occasions is occurring right behind you as we speak?’ She smiled kindly. ‘… Or so I read on Page Six anyway.’
‘I don’t think I’m here to enjoy myself,’ smiled Erin, immediately warming to her.