‘I can’t believe Summer has left already,’ grumbled Molly, sitting on her balcony and reading the message her daughter had pushed under her door. Marcus looked up from his newspaper and took the glass of fresh, sweet orange juice off his breakfast tray.
‘I thought she had a job in Milan?’
‘Not until tomorrow. I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to hang around the house’.
Marcus lifted an eyebrow at the casual way Molly had said ‘house,’ as if she was talking about a three-bedroom semi in London, not a magnificent, twenty-bedroom palazzo.
‘She’s a big girl,’ smiled Marcus, wondering why his girlfriend seemed so agitated. ‘Anyway, there’s not much happening today. I think there’s a boat going over to Bellagio, if you fancy it.’
Molly pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes dramatically. ‘It was a big night yesterday, baby, I’m not sure I can face bobbing on any water today. I might just hang about the pool.’
The truth was, Molly wanted time alone to fume. How dare Summer just swan off and leave the party? Hadn’t she warned her that this was her last opportunity to close the deal with Adam? After this weekend, Karin’s claws would be well and truly into him. She had already heard her boasting about how she was moving into Adam’s home as soon as they got back to London. Molly refused to believe that Adam was off the market until he was walking down the aisle but, with Karin Cavendish shacked up in his Knightsbridge duplex, any manoeuvres were going to be far more difficult. She knew she should have gone after Adam herself rather than hand him to Summer on a plate. Summer lacked the killer instinct required to land a man like Adam Gold. She, on the other hand …
Karin lay back on the sun-lounger by the pool and accepted a copy of Italian Vogue from Christina, who had grown weary of looking at the pictures and instead was now peering through a pair of opera glasses at the villa’s Riva boat putting across the lake.
‘Diana is so antisocial sometimes,’ said Christina, squinting at the bright sun glinting off the water. ‘Why on earth did she want to go on that Bellagio trip instead of making wedding plans with us?’
She rolled over to look at Karin. ‘I mean, there’s so much to discuss. Who’s going to do your wedding dress? And I insist you have a trousseau. I suggest maybe ten or twelve couture pieces by Lacroix.’
‘I don’t think Diana’s in the mood to talk about weddings,’ said Karin, flicking through the magazine to see if she could see any Karenza credits. ‘I asked why Martin wasn’t here this weekend and she burst into tears and said she hadn’t invited him.’
‘Well, at least she finally showed some backbone,’ said Karin.
‘Although that has to mean the marriage is in trouble.’
Christina shrugged. ‘Maybe so, but she can’t go leaving him now. Twelve months of marriage? She’ll get next to nothing in a settlement. She has to hang in there at least three years, or have a baby.’
‘But that’s the problem,’ said Karin, sipping her peach iced tea.
‘Anyway, back to the happy day,’ said Christina, tiring of Diana’s problems. ‘May I ask if you’ve discussed a pre-nup? If he’s insisting on one, I have a great lawyer that can make it work for you.’
Karin smiled. ‘We discussed it briefly, yesterday. And it’s sent him into a sulk.’
She and Adam had hardly spoken all day. They had had incredible sex the night before – one of Karin’s heels had gone though a Lalique bedside lamp when things were getting particularly frisky, but in the cold light of day, she could tell that he was brooding about her demands for a share in the company. She felt he was being ridiculous. They only had to look at Diana and Christina to know how precarious the institution of marriage could be. Surely he could understand her wanting to safeguard her position, especially given his cavalier attitude to fidelity.
Karin squeezed her nails into her palm. Summer Sinclair. Ever since she’d discovered that she was the one Adam had been messing around with, Karin had taken it on the chin, vowing to deal with it as soon as the celebrations were over and she was back in London. But what had unsettled her the most was not that Adam was obvious enough to pick someone as flagrantly beautiful as Summer, but that he was arrogant enough to think he would not be found out.
She pulled her sunglasses over her face and shut her eyes, wanting to think. There was a right way to handle this situation, to manipulate Adam into getting exactly what she wanted; she just had to think about what it was. And when she did, Adam would regret the moment he had laid eyes on Summer Sinclair.
Molly was drunk. And high. Coke in the afternoon never agreed with her, but, she needed a little pick-me-up to get through the day.
Marcus had gone into Bellagio with about ten others. There were masseurs on call by the pool who were pummelling guests and, as the sun sank in the sky, sunbathing became a bit redundant. Molly was a little bored and restless. She’d flicked through a Jackie Collins novel and painted her nails hot pink
, lost in thought. She decided to take a walk in the grounds, and pulled a short, sheer kaftan over her bikini top before she set off to explore, wondering how she could get Marcus to invest in a property of this size.
The grounds were vast, and it took Molly over half an hour to walk round the perimeter. In a far corner of the grounds, looking down over the palazzo, was a small marble temple almost obscured by a line of cypress trees. She was alone out here; somehow the birds seemed louder, the air more sweetly fragrant with the scent of frangipani and lilies. She was about to turn to leave when she saw a solitary figure sitting on the little marble bench reading a book. It was Adam, dressed in a pair of shorts, a thin cashmere sweater and some deck shoes. There was a bottle of red wine beside him that Molly noticed was almost empty. She almost shuddered at the perfect serendipity of the moment.
‘So you’ve found my little hiding place.’ He put down his book and poured what was left of the bottle into a goblet that was sitting on the floor.
‘I didn’t think I’d find anyone out here.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind sharing a glass, this is an excellent wine.’ Molly read the label. Petrus.
‘Ooh, my favourite,’ she smiled, taking the glass from him and sitting down on the bench opposite him, the cold pinching the back of her thighs.
‘Feeling antisocial?’ she asked, raising the glass to her lips. He shrugged.
‘I know how you feel,’ added Molly.