Gold Diggers

She glanced at Marcus’s profile, dark against the morning light that was pouring through the aeroplane window. Square patrician forehead, nose, slightly broken, firm chin. Fucking him wasn’t hard work at all. Not like Momo, the overweight oilman from Brunei. Not like Giles, the peanut farmer’s son from Georgia, or Jeff, the gnome-faced Hollywood producer she had met at the BAFTA party who had wanted her to piss all over him. Or even Harry, poor tiny-cocked Harry, who was still calling despite the fact that Molly had not returned any of his phone calls. No, Marcus was definitely a find.

A Midas Corporation car picked them up at the airport and dropped Molly at home, where she deposited her bags and freshened up before she set off for work. Work! The very thought of going in to Feldman Jones Productions made her groan. Although she only went into the events planning company two days a week, they were the longest two days of the week by far. She really didn’t know why she bothered with it sometimes. But rent was expensive, coke was expensive and the prices of ‘it’ bags had shot through the roof. And in return for rolling into Feldman Jones Productions a couple of days a week, she had a ten per cent share in the company. Thank you and good night.

‘Where is everybody?’ Molly sauntered in and sat down at her desk, dropping her Bottega Veneta bag by her chair and rifling through a mountain of post had that accumulated since her last appearance in the office. It was 11.30 and Feldman Jones’ office – on the top floor of a pretty pale blue mews-house in Westbourne Grove – was empty except for a couple of work-experience girls manning the phones.

‘Becca and Jenna are at the venue for tonight’s party,’ said one nervously, ‘and Lindsey and Sophie went to a meeting in the City first thing this morning.’

Molly nodded, enjoying her moment in charge. ‘Great. Well can you get me a strong black coffee? And when you’ve done that, can you go through those files over there? I want you to dig out any pitch documents we’ve done for Filey Walker.’

Molly was surprised just how together and authoritative she sounded. She certainly didn’t feel it. She felt dead on her feet; not enough sleep by a long chalk. Just then, Sophie and Lindsey walked in; the moment they saw Molly their expressions clouded.

‘Ah, Molly, there you are.’ Despite her butter-wouldn’t-melt Home Counties accent, Sophie Edwards-Jones had a core of steel. Feldman Jones Productions was her life. She had grown it from a fax and phone in her kitchen to being one of the top events planners companies in the country.

‘Yes, here I am,’ said Molly brightly, pointedly ignoring the atmosphere. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late but the traffic from Heathrow was a bitch.’

‘So you’ve been away?’

‘Yes,’ said Molly, flicking a sheaf of hair over her shoulder. ‘Back to Badrutt’s Palace. Gorgeous as ever. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘No, you didn’t tell us actually,’ Lindsey Feldman’s voice was harsh. She was a five-foot-two-inch dynamo who didn’t take any shit and was the perfect foil to Sophie’s silver-spoon polish. ‘If you had told us, we might have had something to say about it, seeing as we had a pitch with a client this morning that we needed you to be at.’

Molly looked bemused. ‘We had a meeting? With who?’

‘Callanders, the stockbrokers, remember?’ said Lindsey with a hint of sarcasm. ‘Want us to do their Christmas corporate event? Two thousand guests? We did discuss this, Molly. It was rather embarrassing when you didn’t turn up.’

‘Callanders. Oh shit. Yes. I completely forgot. As I said, my flight didn’t get in until nine-thirty. Then I had to pop home to freshen up.’

Sophie stared at Molly for a long moment. ‘Can we just have a chat in the meeting room, Molly?’

Molly pushed her chair back and walked after the women, seething. How dare they talk to her like that in front of the workies? Making her feel as if she was a teenager caught smoking behind the bike sheds. The nerve! Molly sat down truculently and Lindsey got straight to the point.

‘This can’t go on, Molly,’ she snapped.

‘Jesus, Lindsey. I miss a meeting. I’m sorry,’ said Molly, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. ‘I can take the client out again if it means that much to you.’

‘It might well be too late for that.’

‘Oh don’t worry, we’ll get the pitch,’ said Molly. ‘We always get the pitch.’

‘If we do it will be no thanks to you, Molly,’ said Lindsey abruptly.

Sophie held up a hand, stopping the argument mid-flow. ‘Molly. We might as well cut to the chase,’ she said. ‘This arrangement just isn’t working. You’re hardly in the office, you don’t come to pitches, and when we hold an event you spend the whole time socializing.’

‘Socializing! Isn’t that what you want me to do?’

Sophie nodded. ‘It was what we wanted you to do when we started, but things have changed.’

It was true Molly Sinclair had been a definite asset when Feldman Jones had launched – she had high-class contacts and clients were flattered to see a supermodel at pitches. She certainly added an undeniable sheen of glamour to a party too. But she was simply not doing what they had brought her on to do – attend pitches, charm the CEOs, bring in new clients. Put simply, she was baggage.

‘Molly, we want you out of the partnership.’

Molly felt her blood run cold. She didn’t exactly enjoy working at Feldman Jones, but being a partner in a company gave her credibility. It also gave her a salary. Okay, it wasn’t much, but she relied on it. A woman like Molly could expect swish nights out and holidays to be paid for by some rich guy in return for a blowjob in the shower, but even she had overheads to pay. She hated to admit it, but she needed this job.

‘You can’t do that,’ said Molly, struggling to appear calm and confident, ‘I’m a director of this company.’

Sophie smiled. ‘Yes we can. We’ve already had a lawyer look into it. Don’t worry, you won’t be out of pocket, we’ll get a valuation and buy out your shareholding for a fair price.’

‘But you need me,’ said Molly, a waver of panic in her voice now. ‘You need me to bring in the business.’

Lindsey couldn’t suppress her smirk. ‘Molly, you haven’t brought in any business for over a year, and Feldman Jones Productions generates its own business now. We have a fantastic reputation and we need everyone to be pulling their weight.’

‘I do pull my bloody weight!’ said Molly indignantly.

Lindsey couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘The only thing you pull, Molly, is the clients.’

Molly jumped to her feet and strode to the door. ‘I will enjoy watching this tinpot company crash to its knees when word gets around that I have resigned,’ she said haughtily.

Sophie smiled. ‘I think we’ll manage,’ she said.

‘Oh and Molly?’ Lindsey called after her. ‘Could you clear out your desk? We don’t want the drug squad round again.’

13

‘Don’t we have any more girls to see?’ sighed Karin, snapping the portfolio shut and dismissing the fifteen-year-old Estonian blonde with a regal wave. As the skinny model shuffled out of the Karenza office, Karin looked at the pile of model cards in front of her and rubbed her eyes. Karin and her head of merchandise Kirsty Baker had been casting for the Karenza spring/summer advertising campaign all afternoon, and not one girl had been even remotely right.

‘What about Gisele?’ said Kirsty, flicking through a copy of American Elle.

‘Can’t afford her.’

‘Kate?’

‘She’s everywhere. Plus we can’t afford her.’

‘Daria?’

Karin threw down the pile of model cards in irritation. ‘We’re not fucking Gucci, Kirsty. The commercial rates for the very top girls are fifty grand plus a day. This is a three-day shoot, plus travel days, plus agency fees. Then you’ve got the photographer and crew, location costs, the advertising agency’s bill plus the cost of running the ads in the magazines. Christ, we’re talking upwards of a million pounds.’

In fact, Karin was beginning to think that was the only answer, although her instincts were totally against it. Despite the prohibitive costs, she was wary about using a well-known face for the first Karenza campaign. She wanted the ads to showcase the product, not the model. Yes, they needed a girl who oozed glamour and beauty, but they also needed the girl to make it seem as though it was the Karenza swimwear that was giving her those magical attributes, not the other way around. Put simply, they needed show-stopping cinematic visuals and an exotic siren smouldering on a Caribbean beach, not some emaciated teenager in a photographic studio in Hoxton.

Karin stood up and stalked around the office impatiently, twisting her spiked heels into the cream carpet. She had come a long way in seven years since she had started the company from her old Chelsea apartment, but she wanted more, much more. She didn’t want to own a tiny niche of the fashion world, she wanted the whole thing – and she had a plan. While all her friends from Briarton had gone to Florence to take art history courses to equip them for dinner party conversation, Karin had headed straight for the Polimoda, Italy’s famous fashion college. Karin had lapped up every lesson and had quickly formed a strategy. Her decision to go into swimwear had been considered and calculated. Womenswear was too competitive, too brutal, too much of an uphill struggle. Shoes were a closed shop with Blahnik, Choo and Louboutin dominating the top of the market, and accessories were the golden goose of fashion – the mark-up on a designer handbag was huge and more importantly one size fits all. No wonder accessories was where the luxury goods companies LVMH, Gucci group and Club21 made their mouth-watering profits. Instead, Karin had spotted a gap. Society was getting richer and people were getting more greedy. They didn’t just want luxury goods – the bags, the shoes, the cars – they wanted the full luxury lifestyle. Karin had watched as her friends took a dozen holidays a year in an ever-growing list of exotic locations but, despite the constant talk of holiday wardrobes in the glossy magazines, these women rarely dressed at all during the day, staying in a swimsuit from dawn till dusk. Swimwear was sexy, it was glamorous, it was her.

‘Dammit, why are all these silly little girls so skinny and pale?’ said Karin impatiently, flipping through the model cards once again. ‘They just look like children.’

‘That will be because they are children,’ said Kirsty with a smile. ‘Models start at twelve these days, you know.’

‘But we’re not selling clothes to children,’ snapped Karin. ‘Our customers are women, real-life women with hips and tits, not these broom-handle freaks!’

Karin knew what women wanted. They didn’t want revealing wisps of lycra, they wanted to feel like Ursula Andress emerging out of the sea in Dr No, they wanted to feel like Sophia Loren wearing a turban in Arabesque. Classy, sexy, in control. So she created a collection of classic pieces that made great bodies look even hotter. She then carefully drip-fed them into the market, only allowing Karenza to be stocked in exclusive corners of the market like Harrods and Harvey Nichols. She wooed important fashion editors, sending them top-of-the-range bikinis every season and was rewarded by flattering articles about the hot new jet-set swimwear label that everyone was wearing. But it was Sebastian who had encouraged Karin to open her first shop. She had met him two years after her first collection had debuted, and they were engaged six months later. She didn’t need anyone to help her think big, but Sebastian was supportive – and, more importantly, he was connected. A school friend of Seb’s from Eton had offered her the lease on a small shop on Walton Street and, not being able to afford an expensive interior designer, Karin copied the look of a pal’s Cape Cod beach house, all fabulously pared-down with white floorboards and white walls. It was low-key luxe for people who didn’t want to shout about their wealth. It was perfect. Now she had three shops and a £20-million-pound annual turnover and Karenza was Europe’s fastest-growing swimwear company, but for Karin’s fierce ambitions it was not growing fast enough. It needed more visibility as a major luxury. She needed a print campaign in the major glossy magazines. She smiled a small, sad smile. She knew Sebastian would have approved.

Kirsty was waving a black-and-white photograph of a skinny brunette with long legs in Karin’s face.

‘She’s hot. What about her?’

‘Too thin. Looks cocky,’ she said, tossing the photo on the pile dismissively.

‘Or her?’ asked Kirsty, pointing at a toothy blonde.

‘No way! Check out that mouth. She looks like a rabbit.’

‘She did do the Prada show last season,’ offered Kirsty weakly.

‘Kirsty! The girl fronting this campaign represents our brand,’ snapped Karin. ‘She is our face and body. I want our potential customers to look at our campaign and think, “I can be that sexy and chic and gorgeous”. Even if she’s fat, I still want her to think that three hundred pounds is money well spent if she can be magically transformed into the gorgeous creature in our campaign.’

‘I thought you didn’t want any fat and frumpy housewives wearing Karenza designs,’ said Kirsty sulkily.

‘That’s not the point,’ replied Karin briskly. ‘We need someone hot. Someone who can fill a bikini like she’s been poured into it, not some six-foot stringy teenager. We want a woman.’

She spun round her Eames chair so it faced the window overlooking the street. ‘She’s got to be out there somewhere.’

Dan Stevens, one of Europe’s hottest fashion designers, was crossing Regent Street when he saw her. He was already late for his next appointment – his last meeting at Vogue House had gone on forever – but something about this girl, standing on the other side of the road, made him stop and look. Even from fifty feet away he could see her right-angle cheekbones, her poker-straight pale blonde hair and her dancer’s posture. Dan frowned; why didn’t he know this girl? He worked with top models and actresses every day; he thought he knew all the beautiful women in London, but he had never seen this one before. Surely she must work in fashion? He thought, she was too stunning, too stylish to be a civilian. He quickened his pace to catch up with her and, drawing level, tapped her on the shoulder. She was dazzling. How many hours had he spent retouching photographs of stars with bad skin, all those smoker’s lines around the mouth, or the eyes deadened from drugs and parties. This girl, though: wow. Those enormous, slightly startled lavender-blue eyes, her incredible bone structure: she was a knockout. Not for the first time in his career, he wished he was single.

‘Hi! I, ah, I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Dan Stevens, I’m a photographer. Are you a model by any chance?’

Dan Stevens. Holy shit! Summer’s mouth dropped open. She’d only come shopping to cheer herself up because she hadn’t had a go-see in a week and here she was being stopped by one of the world’s hottest photographers. You couldn’t open W or US Vogue these days without seeing his name on a cover story. Molly would be really impressed.

‘Oh, I know who you are,’ she smiled, butterflies fluttering round her tummy. ‘And yes, I’m a model, although you won’t have heard of me.’

‘Good,’ said Dan. ‘Are you busy for the next hour?’

‘Just spending money I haven’t got,’ smiled Summer.

‘In that case, could you come with me to my next meeting? There’s someone I really think you should meet.’

Dan Stevens walked through the door grinning from ear to ear. Karin, however, did not think he had much to smile about. He was two hours late for the casting – she couldn’t abide lateness – and she met his grin with a stony face. Dan knew he was getting off lightly: Karin Cavendish in hell-hath-no-fury mode was a fate you wouldn’t wish on an enemy. But she was in no position to make a point; she was very, very lucky to have secured Dan’s services for the campaign. If she hadn’t given Dan his first break, setting him up an appointment to see her fashion editor friend at Elle when he was a struggling nobody, she would never had the kudos to book him. But Karin’s irritation immediately melted away when she spotted the petite blonde girl trailing in nervously behind Dan. The girl was exquisite. Long pale blonde hair hung at either side of a perfectly oval face with a cute upturned nose, full lips and lovely almond-shaped eyes.

‘You’re a little late for the casting,’ said Karin, holding out a hand. ‘Can I see your card?’

Summer stood in the doorway, nervously playing with the strap of her handbag. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have one with me,’ Summer replied politely, a little intimidated to be face to face with Karin.

‘She wasn’t sent for the casting,’ said Dan quickly. ‘I found her shopping on Regent Street. I’ve taken some quick Polaroids and – here – I really think you should take a look.’

Karin quickly studied the Polaroids, a crucial tool for casting. Pictures in a model’s portfolio were so retouched that it was often impossible to tell whether she photographed well or not. But these Polaroids were amazing. She really was beautiful; in the flesh and on film.

‘How tall are you?’ asked Karin, still looking at the photographs.

‘Five eight,’ lied Summer.

‘Five seven,’ said Karin coolly, scribbling it on the bottom of the Polaroid.

She looked up at the girl again; she looked familiar but she couldn’t place where she had seen her before.

‘Have I met you before?’ she asked.

Summer felt uncomfortable. She didn’t want to mention her mother. It always sounded as if she was cashing in on Molly’s fame.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Suddenly the penny dropped: seeing that long hair swishing about was a dead giveaway. Now Karin saw it – the nose, that wide, luscious mouth, that long curtain of platinum hair. She felt herself stiffen with displeasure. The platinum hair suddenly looked a little too brassy, her generous breasts just a little too large.

‘You’re Molly Sinclair’s daughter, aren’t you? You came to my benefit dinner.’

‘Really?’ asked Dan, congratulating himself for spotting talent.

‘Really,’ smiled Summer, flushing.

‘Well, thanks for coming in. Goodbye,’ Karin said quickly, gesturing towards the door with her eyes.

Summer’s heart plummeted and she slowly turned and left. She was gutted: Dan Stevens hadn’t even spoken out for her.

‘Are you not even going to get her to try a swimsuit on?’ said Kirsty after Summer had left. ‘She was lovely.’

‘A pretty girl, yes,’ offered Karin brusquely. ‘But she’s too small and too curvy.’

‘Karin, she’s fantastic!’ laughed Dan incredulously.

‘She belongs on a Sports Illustrated cover!’ snapped Karin.

‘I thought you wanted the campaign to be sexy?’

‘If the girl is too obvious it’ll look tacky.’

‘Well I can’t believe she hasn’t fronted a big campaign before. The second I take to her into Vogue, every magazine and fashion company is going to want her. Her day rate will skyrocket.’

‘You’re going to take her to Vogue?’ asked Karin, her eyes narrowing.

‘US Vogue. I see them on Monday.’

Karin’s mind went into business mode, thinking three moves ahead.

‘What agency did she say she was with?’

‘La Mode agency,’ said Dan.

‘Never heard of them,’ sniffed Karin, but she was secretly pleased. A small, unknown agency would give her Summer for peanuts, just to ingratiate themselves with a fashion house. It could save Karin thousands and, if Dan was going to champion her as he was suggesting, this girl could be the next big face – and Karenza would have her first.

‘I wonder what she’d be like brunette?’

Karin snatched up her phone. ‘Jane? Can you send the model back up?’ she asked the receptionist. As they waited for Summer to come back up, Karin opened her desk drawer, removing a pair of scissors which she gave to Kirsty.

‘Can you just cut me some of your hair?’

‘What?’ replied Kirsty, startled.

‘Your hair. I need it,’ said Karin tartly, her eyes locking with Kirsty’s. ‘Come on, it’s important. Just two or three inches will be fine. It will grow back, for goodness’ sake.’

Kirsty gingerly snipped at the bottom of her brown bob and handed the segment of hair to Karin.

As Summer came back into the room, Karin walked purposefully towards her. ‘I want you to go to Joel at Real Hairdressing,’ said Karin, handing Summer the brunette locks. ‘Tell him I sent you and tell him to make your hair that colour. When he’s done it – and not before – come back here and maybe we can start trying on some swimsuits.’

Kirsty and Dan looked at each other and smiled.

14

Jilly was worried. After that snake Richard had gone off with the office floozie and Erin had moved out of his apartment, Jilly had fully expected her granddaughter to return to Cornwall immediately. After all, she had no home, no boyfriend, some job answering telephones twelve hours a day; what on earth could be keeping her in London?

‘I just don’t understand it, lovey,’ she said down the phone line. ‘London’s expensive, it’s lonely. Why don’t you come home?’

Erin had to admit Jilly had a point. She’d been in London six weeks and here she was, living in a single room in a Bayswater hotel costing her a hundred pounds a night. She hadn’t any friends to stay with after she’d left Richard’s – she could hardly have asked Adam to put her up for a few days while she found somewhere new to live – and working so hard at the Midas Corporation, there seemed neither the time nor the opportunity to make any new friends. It wasn’t quite the glamorous life either of them had imagined for her; then again, there was something about Midas that made her fizz with excitement, and it wasn’t just her £70,000 pay-packet. She wasn’t quite ready to leave just yet.

‘When you spent four years at university getting a Russian degree, it wasn’t to spend your life making somebody else’s travel arrangements, was it?’ said Jilly. ‘Come home. Finish your novel. That’s you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?’

Erin felt an enormous rush of guilt at the mention of her novel. Jilly could almost read her mind; Erin hadn’t written a word since she had been in London. But she’d started another career now and she couldn’t very well admit defeat so soon and go running home just because Richard was such a rat.

‘Let me give it a week,’ said Erin. ‘This hotel arrangement is purely temporary. If I haven’t got settled in a week, we can talk again.’ She put down the receiver and resolved that she had to find somewhere immediately, if not sooner.

‘Now the next property I’m going to show you is really special,’ said the estate agent with an encouraging smile. Erin groaned inwardly. It was the fourth flat in as many days that this estate agent had shown her. He had kept phoning her up at work, promising her he could find her something amazing, but everything he had shown her so far seemed decidedly overpriced or poky.

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