Gold Diggers

When she left Briarton at eighteen, Karin had a handful of GCSEs, a couple of middle-grade A levels and the steely glint of ambition in her eyes. Her school friends had given her a taste of a rich, jet-set lifestyle that she was unwilling to give up, so she sold her eighteenth birthday present, a cherry-red Alpha Romeo Spider, to fund a gap year of travel, during which she mined her school contacts ruthlessly. She spent winter in the attic of a beautiful townhouse on Paris’s Ile St-Louis, which belonged to the aunt of a French friend, Natalie. Aunt Cecile had divorced well and had impeccable manners, wore couture and had impressed upon Karin the importance of grooming and social ammunition.

‘Cherie, you are so beautiful,’ Aunt Cecile had told her, ‘but you must take care of yourself.’ She had then shown Karin her exquisite collection of jewellery, spread out on her Louis XV bed. ‘Remember this: men like to fix things. So when a man sees a pretty thing, they want to make it even prettier. You be as pretty as these jewels, cherie, and men will never stop giving them to you.’

So Karin was initiated into the habit of weekly facials at Carita, polished nails, waxing, and daily exercises to keep the neck firm and youthful. At chic Left Bank cocktail parties, she acquired the art of polite conversation and etiquette that would stay with her for life. She learnt to play bridge and baccarat and appreciate classical music and jazz.

The following summer, Karin moved to New York after her father, pulling strings in the industry, landed her an internship at Donna Karan. Her weekends were spent in The Hamptons, where she was surprised to find that friends’ ‘cottages’, in English-sounding places like Southampton, were actually vast coastal mansions straight out of The Great Gatsby, with shingle drives and white verandas that looked straight out onto the ocean.

She rarely saw her parents but they didn’t mind. They fully approved of Karin’s ‘grand tour’ and were glad their daughter was capitalizing on Terry’s success. In Karin’s absence, however, Terry’s fortunes were fading. He had sunk his money into a new venture manufacturing cheap jeans for the high street just as the designer denim market was exploding. Terry’s instincts had been correct, but the punters wanted branded jeans, not cheap imitations, and he had been forced to close his factories. Karin was oblivious to this until the day her mother called her in Palm Beach to say that her father had wrapped his Rolls Royce around a lamppost.

She had returned to Surrey immediately, but was an hour too late. She attended the funeral wearing Dior, sandwiched between her aunties and uncles in their East End market suits, and vowed that her destiny would be much bigger and better than this.

‘Darling! This place is just A-mazing,’ said Christina, kissing Karin on the cheek. ‘Ariel wants to know if it’s for sale.’

‘Actually, my wife is the one with the English country house obsession,’ corrected the chubby middle-aged man at Christina’s side.

‘Ariel, sweetie,’ said Karin, air-kissing him. ‘You already have an amazing English country house.’ The Levys had recently purchased a vast shooting estate in Yorkshire.

‘It’s too far and too draughty,’ said Christina, prompting her husband to turn purple. ‘But this is perfect. I could be in Harvey Nicks in thirty minutes and it’s got one of those Rapunzel towers. I wonder if there are bears in the grounds?’

‘Karin, can’t you do something about this bloody table plan?’ interrupted Martin Birtwell, Diana’s husband. Karin forced a smile. Of all her friends’ husbands, Martin was Karin’s least favourite. He was a loud, pompous, new-money bully: the complete opposite of elegant, refined Diana. When they had first married, their circle had considered it to be a good match. Diana was from a upper-crust family that had buckets of class but no money, while Martin had hustled his way onto the Rich List from an inner-city start. But Martin’s increasingly obvious drinking and Diana’s growing timidity made Karin suspect that, if not violent, Martin was certainly difficult to live with behind closed doors.

He sidled up to Karin and slid his hand around her waist. ‘Sort it out, sweetheart,’ he said, patting her on her bottom. ‘Pop us on the top table with you, eh? Our table is full of Diana’s New Age freaks from her colonics clinic. What if they want to examine our shit after the meal?’

‘I asked Martin to invite some of his friends, but I don’t think he was listening to me, as usual,’ said Diana.

Martin flashed her a threatening look and Karin was disturbed to see Diana flinch. It was such a shame she had picked so badly, she thought, because she looked so gorgeous in that white Grecian gown with an ivory mink stole across her shoulders.

‘But good luck with your table,’ whispered Diana with a knowing smile. ‘I’ve seen him, and he’s a dish.’

Karin smiled. ‘Talking of which, I really must fly.’

As the guests began to settle down into their seats, Karin moved regally through the sea of bodies, greeting as many people as she could, finally sitting down at a table at the end of the catwalk. She picked up a place setting between her manicured fingertip and turned to the gentleman on her left.

‘I believe I am next to you,’ she smiled.

Adam Gold turned and took Karin’s hand.

What a fox! she thought, slightly surprised. Short salt-and-pepper hair, a handsome, lightly tanned face with a firm jaw and a wide smiling mouth. His round, intelligent eyes were dark, like liquid chocolate, framed with thick black lashes.

How the hell has Adam Gold not been snapped up before now?

‘Great party,’ he smiled, eyes darting up and down her long jade gown.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Of course, you do know it’s all for you, don’t you?’ She instantly regretted her flirtation.

When Karin had telephoned Adam’s office to invite him personally to the party, she had only been able to get as far as his assistant. She had decided then and there that if Adam Gold did deign to attend, she was not going to treat him like anything special. Seeing how sexy he was, feeling his eyes undress her, she knew that was the correct approach. Men like Adam Gold would have had women flirting, simpering, flaunting themselves all their lives. It wouldn’t do any harm to make him work a bit.

Adam was laughing. ‘Well, thank you,’ he grinned. ‘But I’m sure you say that to all your guests.’

Karin smiled coolly. ‘Only the ones with the big cheque-books and a love of the environment.’

Adam laughed again. ‘Well, it’s good to know you’re not after me for my sparkling personality,’ he said. ‘Still, thanks for asking me. It’s been pretty crazy since I moved. There hasn’t been much time for socializing but apparently you’re the girl to know. Guess I got lucky sitting next to you.’

Luck didn’t have anything to do with it, thought Karin.

‘We’ll see, Mr Gold,’ she said. ‘The night is still young.’

The benefit was buzzing and so was Erin. She had spent the first half of the evening with her mouth hanging open as a throng of socialites and stars poured along the red carpet. She had met Daniel Craig and Ewan McGregor and felt woefully underdressed in her Next shift, surrounded as she was by the acres of silk and chiffon worn by all the glamorous female guests. She had been running on adrenaline since eight o’clock. As Karin had predicted, Erin had received literally hundreds of phone calls about everything from Strawberry Hill’s Ordnance Survey coordinates for a helicopter landing, to whether there was a fruitarian option on the menu. Talk about in at the deep end: three weeks ago the only event Erin had ever organized had been Richard’s twenty-first party in the upstairs of a pub in Exeter; now she was having to run a dinner for 800. She was exhausted, but it had barely got under way. The guests were tucking into their desserts – well, the men were, she smiled, watching the twiglet-slim wives play with the chocolate on their spoons. And if coffee was being served, that meant that the catwalk show was about to begin. At least that was one part of the night’s schedule that Erin didn’t have to worry about. Madeline Barker, Karin’s head of production, was in charge of supervising and coordinating the runway, so Erin knew she could take a five-minute breather.

She crept backstage which, in contrast to the sedate dining area, was a riot of bodies in motion. Tall, skinny models, pouring themselves into primary-coloured bikinis, dressers flapping around with tit-tape, high heels and jewellery. Hairdressers fussing with gels and clips and sprays, make-up artists in a cloud of bronzing powder, their fingers black with kohl. In the corner, seemingly oblivious to all this chaos, reading a dog-eared novel, was Alexia Dark, the supermodel Erin recognized from the cover of this month’s Vogue. In the centre of the action was Madeline Barker, wearing an expensive midnight-blue Lanvin dress. She pulled on her cigarette in between gesticulating wildly at the models.

‘Hi Maddie, how’s it going back here?’ asked Erin, clutching her clipboard to her chest and feeling about four stone too fat.

‘Oh, hi honey,’ said Madeline. ‘Chaos, chaos, chaos, as always.’ She broke off to grab a stunning redhead who was naked except for her tiny pair of white bikini bottoms. ‘Not that one, Jemma! You’re in the forest-green tankini, darling.’

Madeline dropped her cigarette into a half-full flute of champagne and turned back to Erin.

‘Have you seen Karin anywhere?’ she asked. ‘It’s not like her not to be taking total control. We’re on in five minutes and I want her to check she’s happy with everything.’

‘I passed her a couple of minutes ago,’ replied Erin. ‘She seems to be engrossed in conversation at her table.’

‘Engrossed in Adam Gold, more like,’ smiled Madeline.

‘Who’s he?’ asked Erin.

‘Ah, the latest victim,’ chuckled Madeline, then glared at another model. ‘No Alana! You’re behind Mischa, get in line. And what is that necklace supposed to be? A Hoover hose?’

Sensing she was getting in the way, Erin headed back into the main room and went to stand by the side of the stage where she was in shadow. From there she could stand and watch both the catwalk show and the glamorous guests in front of her. She felt like Alice in Wonderland, tiny and confused surrounded by beauty and colour in the magic garden.

Suddenly the lights came down and a loud disco beat started pulsating around the room. Everybody put down their coffee cups and looked intently at the stage, which had erupted in a sea of flashing bulbs and colour. The red-haired model in a deep green bikini strutted onto the catwalk, her hips swaying seductively in time with the music. She paused at the end of the runway, flashed a brilliant smile as the audience erupted in applause. Behind her another goddess emerged, her buttocks peeking cheekily out of a pair of metallic lamé boy-shorts, her breasts barely covered by a strip of mesh fabric. A lone wolf whistle from the crowd said what every man in the room was thinking. The music kept pounding, the girls kept coming. And then finally Alexia Dark stalked onto the catwalk, her black hair flying behind her like a banner, the shimmering lights bouncing off her jewelled bikini and showering her bronzed body in iridescent light. What a finale! thought Erin. What a party!

‘Oi!’ shouted a voice as Alexia Dark was making her final strut back to the stage. ‘Oi you!’

Erin located the voice. It was coming from table twelve, a collection of footballers and their wives ten feet away from where Erin was standing. A girl, no more than eighteen, in a plunging scarlet dress and elaborately coiffed blonde hairdo was waving at Erin and clicking her fingers in the air like a flamenco dancer. Erin recognized her as Natasha Berry, glamour-model girlfriend of Ian Adams, the new Manchester United striker.

‘You! I need a drink,’ slurred the girl, shaking an empty glass.

Erin left the comfort of her shadow and scuttled to the table in a crouch, not wanting to block anyone’s view of the catwalk show as the models all came down the catwalk one last time.

‘I’m not taking drinks orders, I’m afraid,’ yelled Erin over the music. ‘You’ll have to ask the waiter over there.’ She pointed to a handsome dark-haired boy who was distributing coffee and petits-fours on the next table.

‘I want a kir royale,’ said Natasha, who appeared not to have heard. Erin rolled her eyes, knowing it was pointless to argue, and went over to the waiter, a handsome student called Carlo she had met earlier.

‘Sorry Carlo, but I think the lady over there wants a cocktail. Can you get her a kir royale before she takes off with all that finger clicking?’ The waiter smiled and nodded, quickly turning in the direction of the bar. As he went, a shrewish-looking blonde from his table shouted, ‘Hey! You forgot my latte!’

‘Sorry madam,’ said Carlo, ‘I’ll bring you one straight away.’

The music was now reaching a crescendo and Karin Cavendish had risen from her chair to take a modest bow in the spotlight.

What happened next, Erin could see unfolding as if in slow motion. Carlo was making his way back through the sea of tables, his outstretched arm carrying a tray balanced with a flute of kir and a tall coffee, when a man pulled out his chair to stand just as Carlo was walking past. For a second Erin thought that Carlo might be able to sidestep the man, but he was concentrating so hard on keeping the hot coffee from falling that the glass of kir tipped over, falling in an arc onto the next table. Erin heard an enraged cry. An elegant blonde now had kir royale all the way down the front of her white dress, like some vast unsightly birthmark. She cursed and Erin immediately recognized the word – a Russian obscenity – and grimaced. It was Karin’s precious table of high-spending Russian wives. Karin hadn’t missed the commotion; she leapt from her chair and was racing over. Erin got there at the same time. The blonde was now speaking in a fast stream of angry Russian. Erin could understand every word, but it didn’t take a Russian degree to tell what was happening as she snatched up her jewel-encrusted clutch bag. She was about to leave and take all her friends with her. Karin put a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder, but she was clearly in no mood to be pacified by somebody she could not communicate with.

‘Let me speak to her,’ Erin whispered to Karin.

‘What?’ snapped Karin, glaring at her. ‘Speak to her? What do you mean …’

Karin tailed off in surprise as Erin started speaking in fluent Russian.

‘It would be such a shame if you have to leave now,’ she said quietly in the Russian’s ear. ‘You are the most important woman here; without you we really don’t have a party.’

The woman looked bemused, then pleased to hear one of the organizers speaking to her in her mother tongue.

‘Why don’t you come with me?’ coaxed Erin. ‘We have another outfit backstage and you will look fabulous. Look, nobody has seen what’s happened. Everybody is watching the show.’

She led the blonde, who had now introduced herself as Irina Engelov, backstage, leaving Karin looking completely dumbfounded.

Shit, shit shit, thought Erin, desperately looking round at the racks of bikinis. Of course there were no spare outfits – it was a bloody swimwear show! She could hardly send Irina back out in a hot pink swimsuit. She spotted Madeline talking to a group of models.

‘Quick, Maddie, you’ve got to take off your dress,’ said Erin urgently.

‘What?’ said Madeline. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment, Erin. The show’s still on.’

‘Do as I say and I’ll explain later,’ pleaded Erin, handing Madeline a towelling robe.

Madeline looked at Erin, and, seeing the desperation in her eyes, quickly nodded.

‘Okay, but I’d better bloody see it again,’ she grumbled, wriggling out of the blue dress. ‘It’s Lanvin, you know.’

‘Maddie, you’ve just saved the day,’ said Erin, grabbing the dress.

She squirted it with some perfume she found on a dressing table and slipped it onto a coat hanger, then sprinted around to where Irina was waiting.

‘Size eight, this season, you’ll look amazing!’ said Erin in Russian, breathing a sigh of relief as Irina pulled on the dress. Irina looked down at herself, simply nodded and walked back to her table as if nothing had happened.

Erin grabbed a glass of champagne and drank it in one.

Molly had gate-crashing down to a fine art. She instructed their taxi driver to drop her and Summer behind a long row of Bentleys and Aston Martins a hundred metres away from the entrance of Strawberry Hill House, then let the car vanish into the cold night before they began to walk down the drive. Their breath made white clouds in the dark air, and Molly’s exposed skin prickled in goosebumps, but she had learned years ago to dispense with a coat for a night on the tiles; acres of visible flesh for popping paparazzi were worth far more than keeping warm. She glanced at Summer who looked like some sexed-up Little Red Riding Hood in a white woollen cape floating over a long, deep burgundy dress, her creamy round breasts spilling over its corset. For so many years, Summer had seemed like baggage. Having a daughter aged her, so from a young age Molly had urged her daughter to call her by her name rather than ‘mother’ so that people wouldn’t suspect she was her child. But ever since Summer had blossomed into such a gorgeous young woman, she had become a definite asset. She could take her daughter to any party in town and men would be buzzing around them like wasps at a picnic. But Summer was more than bait to attract the big fish. Since Japan, she had a new confidence, a new glow that could potentially catch her a really big prize, maybe even a prince – and if she did, that would open doors for Molly. Because where there’s a prince, there’s gotta be a king, she thought with a sly smile.

‘We do have tickets, don’t we?’ asked Summer, feeling nervous as she saw the two burly bouncers at the door.

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ smiled Molly, adjusting her dress to show a little more cleavage. Not having a ticket had never presented a problem to Molly in twenty-five years of partying. A confident swagger and a generous flash of skin counted far more than any bit of embossed card.

‘Time to come back inside,’ smiled Molly to the older guard, stroking his lapel as if it was made out of the softest silk. ‘I just needed to step outside for a moment.’

And they were in, gliding across the threshold without so much as a grunt. Molly still frowned, however. She had been expecting to be met by a swell of people milling around the communal areas, but there was quiet all around the entrance hall, just a few black-tied waiters clearing glasses in the flickering candlelight.

‘Mum, I think people are still eating,’ hissed Summer. ‘What do we do now?’

A little annoyed at having misjudged the time that dinner was to finish, Molly grabbed her daughter’s hand and pulled her towards the large French double doors that led to the main hall.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘we’ll slip in at the back and find a seat.’ Summer stood hovering at the door, cursing her mother for getting her into yet another embarrassing situation. She knew everyone at the dinner tables would be with their friends and that interlopers would be spotted immediately.

‘Come on, I think the auction is about to begin,’ hissed Molly, scanning the tables for empty spaces. They crept to the back of the room until they found two seats. Table eighty-three. The eight other faces at the table turned to look at them with quizzical expressions. Molly turned to the gentleman on her right. He was portly, around sixty with a ruddy complexion and a sweep of white hair pulled over like a 1940s comedian.

‘I hope you don’t mind us taking a pew for a moment,’ she said softly, flashing her cover-girl smile. ‘We’re with the charity. We’ve been rushed off our feet backstage and wanted to pop out and see the auction – do you mind?’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ the man blustered. ‘You must be parched,’ he added, reaching for a bottle of red.

Molly took a sip of the fruity wine and smirked at her daughter.

Summer looked up as applause rippled down the room. Tom Archer, Britain’s sexiest Oscar-winning actor, was walking to a podium that had been set up at the end of the catwalk.

‘The theme of tonight is compassion,’ said Tom, when the cheering had died down. ‘Not partying or dinner or catching up with old friends, or even the wine, although I must say it is rather splendid.’ The crowd chuckled appreciatively as he lifted his glass. Behind the actor, images of climate change flickered onto huge projection screens: melting glaciers, incinerated rainforest, chimneys pumping out black smoke. Molly used the moment to glance around the room. She recognized a least a quarter of the faces. There was the Cipriani crowd, the White Cube crowd, the San Lorenzo crowd, the Russians, the WAGS; it was an impressive turn-out – not even the Serpentine Gallery party had this sort of pull. How the hell had that cow Karin Cavendish managed it?

Tom Archer kicked off the auction with the first lot – a week on Necker Island, with the bids beginning at £25,000. It quickly climbed to £50,000, then £100,000.

‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen,’ shouted Tom Archer, his hands stretched into the air. ‘It’s gorgeous out there!’

Molly knew how gorgeous Necker Island was. She had been five years ago, in with a group of friends who were staying as guests of Gunter Strauss, a wealthy German industrialist she had met in Annabel’s. She had fucked him on a pedalo while his wife had been playing tennis. She remembered his greedy lips kissing her inner thigh as the Caribbean sun had burnt down on her bare breasts. He had told her she had the best body he had ever seen as his fingers touched every inch of her hot flesh. As she remembered, Molly’s hand stretched up unconsciously to stroke her neck. But that was fine for a bit of fun and a free holiday when you were young and carefree, she thought, looking around at the tables. But what happens when you get older?

She looked at all the men sitting at the tables with their wives – wives not mistresses. These were women who had passed the finishing line, women who had closed the deal. No wonder they all sat there with self-satisfied smiles as they sipped their wine, flaunted their diamonds and discussed which villa to visit that summer. The younger wives were the worst. The old birds might have more jewels, but the smiles on the young ones were brighter, smarter. They knew that the law was now on their side and if their husband fucked the secretary, they could slam him for half his assets and move on to the next poor sap while their breasts were still pert. Molly looked down and sighed. At forty-three, she was determined not to stay single for a moment longer, especially with men like Adam Gold in the room.

Tom Archer had now auctioned off a week in the Goldsmiths’ Mexican retreat, a fortnight at Michael Sarkis’s de luxe Mustique home and a weekend in Tuscany for a private yoga session with Sting.

‘Okay, now we’ve got rid of all you flash bastards who have just come to book another holiday,’ said Tom to laughter. ‘It’s time to dig deep for some real charity.’ A montage of medical equipment, ambulances and water pumps flashed up on the screen behind him, and the auction sprang to life. The bidding was so frantic, the room sounded like a trading floor on Wall Street. ‘I do prefer the charitable lots to those holidays in exotic places. Less vulgar,’ whispered an elderly neighbour who had been introduced to Molly as Judith Portman, wife of a retired Lazard’s banker.

‘Totally agree,’ smiled Molly. ‘Why buy a fortnight at Michael Sarkis’s house when, if you know him, you can go there for free?’

Summer saw the old lady’s face cloud and quickly jumped in. ‘She’s joking, of course. Obviously charity is our life – and those ambulances really do save lives.’

A loud cheer went up.

‘Two Red Cross ambulances sold to Adam Gold for a hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds!’ said Tom, bringing down the gavel. ‘Thank you very, very much.’