the table beside him, pouring in a splash of ouzo. It was time to sort his life out, he thought, throwing the drink back. The yacht was due to sail to Istanbul in the morning, he reflected. They could get off at the port and enjoy a couple of days together strolling around the exotic bazaars, walking along the Bosphorus, and try and recapture that exquisite feeling of falling madly, addictively in love.
He listened for the hum of the tender again, but the yacht was silent, the only sound the black waves lapping against the hull; a hollow, hypnotic sound, matching his sense of hopelessness.
Suddenly he turned, convinced he had heard something – a soft flurry of footsteps on the deck, perhaps? No, just the same gentle slap of water against the boat. He was becoming paranoid. Even in London he was beginning to feel watched wherever he went. Defiantly he tossed his crystal tumbler overboard and leant right over the railings to hear the satisfying plop as the glass fell into the sea. He didn’t notice that his solid silver Asprey cigar cutter had slipped out of his pocket and landed on the deck with a quiet thud. He never would.
Early next morning, a Turkish fisherman, sailing in the bay on his small wooden gulet, discovered a white naked body, quite dead, floating in the water, and contacted the local police immediately. About the same time, the guests of Zeus, stirring from their party-sleep, were quizzing the captain about the whereabouts of one of their number. Sebastian Cavendish had rightly prophesied that it would be his last holiday on board the magnificent yacht. A Turkish inquest pronounced the incident death by accidental drowning. His wife, Karin, inherited the Holland Park mansion, a spectacular photographic collection and £5 million in life insurance.
Six months later
‘Doesn’t she look fabulous?’
‘And after everything she’s been through. Still a bit pale, though, don’t you think?’
‘No wonder. Apparently she stayed in Kensington for Christmas.’
‘London? I thought I saw her in St Barts?’
‘On a yacht? No way, not after the accident. I heard she never wants to set foot on a yacht ever again.’
Sipping from her flute of pink champagne, Karin Cavendish tried to ignore the whispers coming from every corner of Donna and Daniel Delemere’s Eton Square ballroom. A woman of impeccable manners, she was mortified that her presence at the christening had completely upstaged her new goddaughter’s big day. Her leave of absence from the social scene after the death of her husband Sebastian had only heightened Karin’s considerable allure, and in the last six months she had become the subject of gossip and fascinated speculation.
Still, nothing could detract from a party like this, thought Karin. It really was impressive. The one hundred guests who had attended St Peter’s Church an hour earlier for Evie’s baptism were now circulating around one of the most beautiful ballrooms in London. Forget power christening, thought Karin, popping a caviar blini on her tongue: this was more like a royal wedding. Waiters milled around with trays of bubbling Krug and delicate canapés. Filipino housekeepers were discreetly plumping up silk cushions and taking coats to the cloakroom. The net worth of the guests in this room alone must be over £10 billion, she calculated, looking at Ariel Levy, Martin Birtwell, and Evie’s grandfather, Lord Alexander Delemere. She had not seen such a fine gathering of billionaires since her own wedding to Sebastian six years earlier, at the Cavendish family seat of Hopton Castle. She thought for a moment how Sebastian would have loved it. He had been so handsome and well connected, she sighed.
Back-lit by a long, gilt-framed window, Karin’s elegant figure was attracting discreet admiring glances from the men in the room and she tried not to smile. It had been a difficult six months, during which time Karin had thrown herself into her work and seen only the closest of friends, but now she was back on the circuit, it seemed that her new status of widow was not without its advantages. It gave her a whiff of tragedy, a veneer of respect. It removed the suggestion of predatory desires that so often accompanied a glamorous divorcee or single woman. Suddenly she was available, romantic and loaded. Not a bad place to be, thought Karin, taking in the super-rich lifestyle in front of her. Not bad at all.
‘We can’t tell you how honoured we are that you agreed to be Evie’s godmother,’ said Donna Delemere, approaching Karin, clutching her three-month old daughter Evie.
Karin leant forward and gingerly pulled back the voluminous folds of the Brittany lace gown covering the child with an elegantly manicured finger.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Lovely ceremony. And how is my goddaughter?’
‘A darling,’ smiled Donna with pride. ‘Don’t you think she’s just so pretty? I want to put her in for modelling. I’m thinking Baby Dior; none of those vulgar nappy ads you see on TV. But I don’t think Daniel likes the idea. Says it’s too gosh.’
‘Gauche?’ asked Karin with a small smile.
‘That’s the one,’ she said flushing prettily. ‘Maybe he’s right. Anyway, let’s mingle.’
Karin followed Donna through the crowds, nodding at acquaintances, accepting compliments and flattering looks. While many of the rumours about Karin Cavendish were fanciful or downright scandalous, one thing they all agreed on was that Karin looked fabulous. At thirty-one, in a cherry-red jersey dress which seemed to slide off her slim curves, it would be easy to mistake her for a model. Her long tanned legs, full-lipped pout, and the glossy brown hair which bounced onto her shoulders, all gave her the striking appeal of a sultry yet aloof French actress. And currently there was extra sparkle in Karin’s wolf-green eyes. She had just sold her five-storey home in Holland Park for £12 million to a prominent Iranian businessman, downsized to a de-luxe Georgian townhouse in Kensington, and ploughed the profit into her company, Karenza, the sexiest, chicest swimwear company after Erès. Yes, there were prettier girls, there were richer girls but, looking around the party, where London’s entire beau monde were sipping Krug, she knew that nobody was quite the dynamic package she was.
Donna led her to a corner of the room where society giants Christina Levy and Diana Birtwell were huddled.
‘And is this the gorgeous godmother?’ laughed Christina, a stunning redhead wearing Lanvin, five hundred thousand pounds’ worth of emeralds and a cloud of bespoke scent. ‘Kay’s just the perfect choice for godmother, darling,’ she smirked to Donna. ‘She has a fabulous archive of Chanel, for which Evie will one day be very grateful. Although I hope you’re not seriously looking to her for Evie’s spiritual guidance.’
The wife of Ariel Levy, the biggest British retail tycoon since Philip Green, Christina had only just managed to squeeze the christening in between a post-Christmas stint at Amansala’s Bikini Boot Camp in Tulum and the haute-couture collections in Paris. Sitting next to Christina was Diana Birtwell, a decorous Paltrow blonde and wife of Martin Birtwell, the Internet gambling king. Together they were Karin’s closest female friends. The three woman had shared a house in Chelsea almost a decade earlier, when Christina, a former Californian beauty queen, had come over to London to score a record deal. She had run into Karin and Diana at Hobo’s nightclub, where the two school friends spent night after night drinking cocktails and chasing floppy-haired banking heirs. Hitting it off, the three of them had rented 23b College Mews, a tiny pink terrace in Chelsea, and had painted the international social scene red,
