After she had said goodbye to Ileana, Karin took a shiny walnut and chrome motor launch over the Grand Canal to the Cipriani to check in. When there had been no message from Adam waiting for her on arrival, she had felt a slight rumble of anxiety. Don’t panic, she reassured herself, He’ll call. Why wouldn’t he? By 4 p.m., however, that confidence had evaporated, to be replaced by an unfamiliar sense of insecurity.
‘Sigñor, can you check again?’ asked Karin, calling down to reception.
‘Sigñora. I assure you il Sigñor Gold has not left a message. I will let you know if he does,’ was the polite but firm reply.
Karin paced around her suite, a sumptuous, spacious room where marble and velvet managed to feel modern rather than dowdy. She couldn’t settle, throwing down a book after just a few lines, flicking the TV on and off. Earlier that week she had requested a local costumier send over a selection of gowns for the party which had been laid out on the bed. She tried to distract herself by pulling them out of their heavy plastic wrappers. There were two glorious period dresses, one scarlet brocade, one a thick jade silk, both with low scooped neckline, a big bustle and layers of lace under a thickly gathered skirt. But even the beautiful clothes couldn’t distract her from Adam and she flung them back on the bed angrily.
Karin looked out of the window; the sky was beginning to darken, low clouds glowing rosy on the Venetian horizon. She would give Adam until 5 p.m., and then that was it. Or maybe 6 p.m.
She ran herself a hot bath, letting herself sink into the suds and willing her anxieties to melt away. Surely she hadn’t misread the situation so badly? After all, he had contacted her to meet in Venice, not the other way around. And yes, it was through his PA, but that was how rich men dated, just another window in a busy diary. Besides, if he wanted some bimbo model, he could have settled down years ago. And yet here she was, successful, sexy and clever, exactly the kind of woman Adam Gold needed – even if he didn’t know it yet. Ah, fuck him, she thought, jumping out of the bath and stomping back into the bedroom. I’ll meet up with Illy. She’ll be more fun, anyway.
She was just w
rapping a bathrobe around her when the suite’s buzzer went. She opened the door to find a bellboy holding an envelope. ‘This have just arrived for you, signora,’ he said in broken English, trying hard not to look at Karin’s curvy wet body.
Back inside, she tore it open and a stiff white invitation peeked out from gold tissue paper.
You are invited to dinner, drinks and dancing at the Palazzo Sasso. 8 p.m. Dress: Masked ball.
She noticed some black inky squiggles on the back. See you later. Adam. Karin jumped on the bed and whooped.
Molly was meeting Marcus at the Ivy. The restaurant was one of Harry’s favourite places for supper and she was half hoping to bump into him, as she still hadn’t quite got round to breaking the news that it was over between them. The morning after the Knightsbridge Heights party, she had given him one last mercy fuck, cleared all his coke from his sock drawer and disappeared. But, instead of getting the hint, Harry had left a dozen increasingly soppy messages on her answerphone, his latest communication informing her that he had booked them into the Paris Ritz for that weekend. While she was tempted to make contact, if only to slip into the fluffy peach robes at her favourite French hotel, she exercised restraint. Overlapping lovers didn’t usually bother Molly; it wasn’t unusual for her to have two or three on the go if they were particularly generous or useful. But Harry and Marcus were friends. She had principles, for God’s sake!
The taxi waiting on the street tooted its horn once more. Molly tutted and painted on a final slash of lip gloss, then stood back to check the black Alaïa dress that clung to every curve in the mirror. Then she grabbed her bag and ran for the stairs. She was just closing the front door when she saw a scruffy young man standing at the bottom of the steps.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
‘I don’t want one, thank you,’ said Molly tartly, double-locking the door.
‘You don’t want what?’ asked the man.
‘A Big Issue,’ said Molly. ‘And this is a residential street, so I’d be grateful if you moved along.’
Molly had walked to her taxi but he was still standing there.
‘No, I just wanted to ask: is this where Summer Sinclair lives?’
‘And who is asking?’ asked Molly, rather perplexed.
‘Charlie McDonald. I’m a … a friend,’ he said cautiously.
Charlie? The name didn’t ring any immediate bells.
‘We arranged a date on Wednesday, but I lost her number,’ Charlie added. ‘I just remembered she said she lived on Basset Road. That lady with the dog thought she lived here,’ he said, pointing vaguely down the street.
Summer arranged a date? thought Molly, confused. Where was she on Wednesday? Then she recalled with a shudder something about a rock gig in Camden. Something to do with a male model from the bridal shoot. She gave him a second glance. Hmm, well, he was certainly good looking enough to model underneath that stubble and dirty leather, she thought. But even so! Had she not taught Summer anything over the years? It was rule number one: no creatives. Not unless you were talking musicians like Rod Stewart. Creative people just didn’t make money. It was so typical of sweet, simple Summer to let her head be turned by some long-haired poet with holes in his jeans.
‘I’m so sorry, Charlie, but you’ve had a wasted journey,’ said Molly sadly. ‘She lives here alright, but she’s hardly ever here. Spends most of the week at her boyfriend’s house in Mayfair.’ She smiled kindly. ‘But I’m her mother, Molly. I can pass a message on if you like.’
Charlie mouth was firm, but his eyes told of his disappointment.
‘It’s okay,’ he replied with a shrug, ‘I was just passing.’
She climbed in the taxi and pulled away. Molly looked through the rear window, watching Charlie McDonald get smaller and smaller until he had disappeared out of sight and out of Summer’s life forever.
The Palazzo Sasso was like some Shakespearian fantasy. An enormous labyrinth of rooms with high painted ceilings, arched windows and ornate plasterwork, all lit by enormous fat lamps hanging from the walls that sent a flickering yellow light around the ballroom. Entering the room alone, Karin was immediately glad Adam had chosen this place to meet. She had been to so many fantastic parties all over the world, but this room looked so sexy, mysterious and theatrical that it was impossible not to be impressed. There were fire-eaters, jugglers and a string quartet that could just be heard above the hum of the crowd, the whole atmosphere pulsing with decadence. All the guests were in full costume for Carnevale; there must have been enough velvet in the room to stretch from Venice to the moon. The men were either in black tie with capes or in authentic period dress of doublet and hose, the woman straining in fitted corsets and flowing skirts. Everybody’s faces were obscured by masks made from papier-mâché or thick brocade, making it impossible to spot Adam, but the sensation of being alone, hidden, was exciting, almost a sexual thrill for Karin. God, she had to find Adam – and quickly. She moved through the crowd, passing from the main ballroom into the tangle of anterooms, soaking up the delicious atmosphere, listening to the babble of different languages. Finally she came across a smaller room, filled with people, crackling with excitement. Walking closer, she understood why she had been given a handful of casino chips on entry; it was a roulette table. She found a place at the table, put all of her chips on red and held her breath as the ball bounced around the wheel.
‘Red, twelve,’ said the croupier and pushed over a pile of chips. With a growing confidence, she moved half of her stash onto zero.