held his hands up. ‘What can I say? I’m grateful. Thank you.’
As the men shook hands, it crossed Robert’s mind that Bernstein had an ulterior motive–Bernstein always did. He wasn’t getting any younger, wanted his daughter married and fast. He wanted, Robert suspected, to bring him and Elisabeth in on whatever deal he had going with Chicago. Securing his future son-in-law the Sam Lucas premiere was a bold statement, and in doing so Bernstein was applying that necessary bit of pressure.
‘You just bring the money in, kid. An’ you can fix me a drink while you’re at it.’
Robert poured them both one–Scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Thoughts of Lana Falcon threatened to surface, but he forced them down. If he kept focused on the business, he wouldn’t have to think about seeing her again.
Damn! They’d be reunited after ten years apart. He hadn’t seen her or heard from her in all that time. It was too much of a risk for them to know each other any more. Not after what they’d done.
‘So when you gonna make an honest woman of my daughter?’ Bernstein took a hefty swig, served up with a lethal crocodile grin.
Robert let her go. Lana Falcon was nothing but trouble.
‘In my own good time, Bernstein.’
‘It’s the way forward, kid.’ He reached for another Cuban and lit it with a flourish. ‘Elisabeth’s a beautiful girl—’
‘You don’t need to tell me that.’
‘And she ain’t gettin’ any younger neither.’
Robert laughed. ‘She’s thirty-two, Bernstein.’
‘In my day a broad woulda been divorced twice already by now.’ He sat back.
Robert raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a good job times have changed, then, huh?’ He drained his glass and winced as the alcohol blazed a trail down his throat.
Bernstein pointed a fat finger in Robert’s direction and gave him a wink. ‘An’ they’re gonna change again.’ He ground the cigar out in a twist of smoke. ‘Talk to me once you’re married–I’ve got plans for you, St Louis.’
Los Angeles
The Bel Air mansion shared by Kate diLaurentis and Jimmy Hart was a magnificent cream Spanish-style villa lined with bottle-green palms. An enormous, sweeping driveway led up to the circular front, where Kate surveyed all arrivals, including her ex-husband’s, from a huge rounded window that stretched from one side to the other, as big as one of her Egyptian cotton bed sheets.
Lana and Cole’s limousine pulled up alongside a dam of waiting paparazzi. Their shouts filtered through the dark windows, camera lenses pushing against the glass.
‘I like how you look tonight,’ commented Cole, taking his wife’s hand. It wasn’t genuine affection; it was preparation for their performance, like warming up for a well-practised routine.
‘Thank you,’ she said, not looking at him. She would deliver, but not until she had to.
The car door opened to a rage of noise. Lana stepped out carefully, security shielding her from the more persistent photographers who came right up close and snapped and grabbed at her like a piece of meat. The onslaught made her panicked; it brought back too much of the past.
Cole was with her in a flash and, with head up, back straight and eyes ahead, they smiled and charmed their way through to the party.
‘I told you I wanted Beluga caviar on these blinis, Tina,’ said Kate diLaurentis in a scarcely controlled voice, brandishing the tray beneath her caterer’s nose. ‘Would you mind telling me what the hell this is?’
Tina, a harried-looking woman who appeared older than her thirty years, swallowed hard. ‘Ms diLaurentis, I, uh, I must have misunderstood—’
‘Do I pay you tens of thousands of dollars to misunderstand.?’ Kate felt her temper ignite and struggled to retain composure. Her guests were milling outside on the terrace, the hum of conversation drifting into the catering kitchen–it wouldn’t do to blow her load before the canapés had even been served.
Where the hell was her husband? Jimmy had been AWOL since she’d glimpsed him this morning, and even then they had barely uttered a hello.
He had better show up soon, she thought bitterly. Too many stories of Jimmy Hart’s exploits had been leaking in recent weeks. She knew he fucked around, she wasn’t an idiot, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t show the rest of the world a united front; a stable marriage that defied the Hollywood cliché. Didn’t he realise how crucial tonight was?
Kate laid down the tray of smoked salmon, closed her eyes and smoothed her Armani white linen trouser suit. She realised her fingers were trembling. Why could you never rely on anyone else to do a proper job?
‘Tina,’ she hissed, opening her eyes–she was much taller than the other woman and her height added to the general air of intimidation–’this is the last time I hire your company for one of my events. If you do not achieve perfection in every other aspect of this dinner party I will slam your business into the ground. Do you understand me?’
As Tina hurried to prepare the soba noodle starter, she pretended not to notice Kate pulling open a cupboard and grabbing her trusty Xanax. She popped a couple, swallowed them with water, poured herself a large glass of Sancerre and headed out to mingle with her guests.
The terrace looked magical, a Mediterranean-style space with overhead grape vines, sweet-smelling lemon trees and fairy-lights strung up against the purple sky like stars. Kate, all smiles, weaved between her guests, stopping occasionally to chat and enquire after somebody’s husband/children/latest movie with a practised, easy charm.
Yes, thought Kate, satisfied as she looked around at the assembled company sipping on Krug and enjoying her practically homemade (she had chosen it from the menu) green olive tapenade, my parties matter. I matter.
‘Darling, you look divine.’ A fashion editor wearing sharply tailored Valentino drifted over, air-kissing Kate on both cheeks. ‘You’ve had a peel, I can tell.’
When Kate raised a hand to her face in a moment of self-consciousness, the fashionista crowed, ‘Don’t be embarrassed!’ and inadvertently exposed a stain of red lipstick on one of her front teeth. She leaned in closer. ‘We do all we can, Kate.’
Kate made a polite noise about needing to check on the table and moved away. Secretly she was mortified that a woman in her fifties–however glamorous she might be–had lumped her in the same camp. Kate was forty-three. Forty-three! It was hardly old–didn’t everyone go on about it being the new twenty? Somebody ought to tell the casting agents she’d had look down their noses at her in recent weeks. Despite having a wealth of experience to her name, the work had steadily trickled off: as soon as they sniffed out the F word it was game over. Nobody wanted to see a sad pair of tits.
Avoiding the fashion editor’s eye, Kate spotted her ex-husband and gave him a polite wave. Cole Steel. Charming, handsome, dripping with success.
