‘Let’s go back into the house.’
Tom led Cate into the study, a snug space with just enough room for a desk and a big leather-backed chair. He picked up his big black Smythson diary and flipped it open.
‘I think you should phone a friend of mine,’ he mumbled, scribbling down a phone number on a pink Post-it note. ‘Do you know Nick Douglas?’
Cate shook her head, looking at the number as he passed it over. ‘I know the name,’ she fibbed.
‘I’ve known Nick since school. He’s a really good friend of mine. You’ll like him. He’s been publisher of some sports magazine in America for a couple of years and he’s just come back wanting to do the same as you, to publish his own stuff. I’ve no idea how far he’s got raising finance or even if he’s got an idea for a magazine, but it won’t hurt to talk to him.’
‘OK, thanks. I’ll do that this week,’ she said, putting the number in her bag. She knew she needed to work with a publisher to get her idea off the ground, but had already started making phone calls to contacts she knew. She was seeing Cecil Bradley on Tuesday to see if she could get him involved in some way. The old man had more than enough time on his hands. With a bit of luck, she wouldn’t need Tom’s charity.
‘In fact, let’s give him a ring now.’ Tom pulled his silver mobile out of his jeans pocket, flipped open its lid and started dialling.
‘No – you don’t have to. I’ll call him –’
Tom held up a finger. ‘He only lives in Highgate and you’re still in Notting Hill, right?’ he whispered, walking out into the hall. ‘Bloody crap reception around here. Can only get a signal in certain parts of the house.’
He disappeared and Cate perched on the edge of Tom’s desk, leafing through the property section of the Sunday Times, occasionally hearing the sound of laughing and banter.
Tom popped his head back into the room. ‘You free next Sunday?’
She nodded.
‘Is meeting in Highgate good for you?’
She nodded again. ‘Don’t make it too late,’ she whispered.
Tom winked at her. ‘Cinderella will be in bed by midnight.’
Of the many fashionable and exclusive restaurants in London, San Paulo was – right now – the most exclusive and the most fashionable. Oswald usually detested these fly-by-night destination eateries, feeling much more at home in one of the private clubs that peppered the SW1 district in tiny pockets of old-school exclusivity. Still, it was good for crumpet, he thought, looking around at the lunchtime crowd, a throng of well-groomed Euro-Sloanes en route to a Mandarin Oriental spa treatment or a Neville hair appointment. There were bankers’ wives, Russian wives, footballers’ wives: the whole place smelt of husbands’ money, he reflected with disapproval, looking at the Jimmy Choo carrier bags and Hermès Birkins that lined the floor around the tables.
‘The doctor’s, eh? What’s wrong with you this time, Venetia?’ Oswald asked his eldest daughter, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of a waiter.
‘Not sure yet,’ said Venetia, keeping her head down. This was only her second day back in London after returning from Mustique, but she’d spent the entire time worrying about her test results. This morning the doctor had told her nothing, only taken more blood ‘for further investigation’. But however anxious Venetia was, she certainly didn’t want to suggest to Daddy that something was wrong.
‘It’s always something with you, isn’t it?’ Oswald paused and looked at her shrewdly, ‘Not women’s things, is it? It’s about time you and Jonathon started dropping a few sprogs.’
Venetia began studying the San Paulo wine list intently. ‘As I say, we’re not sure what the problem is,’ she replied stoically, her heart racing.
‘Well, it’s about time one of you gave this family an heir. Still, at least we know you can have children, don’t we?’ he leered, fixing Venetia with a cruel smile.
The memory she had been deliberately suppressing for weeks now came flooding back with a force that was frightening. She’d been seventeen years old. She’d had a summer fling with a boy in the village that ended three months later in a Marie Stopes clinic in London. Her father had insisted on literally dragging her to the door. It was not her age he had objected to, but the father. ‘Do you want a retarded ape for a child?’ he had taunted her. ‘Well, not under my roof!’ She wondered if the abortion had had anything to do with her infertility now, but she couldn’t mention it to Dr Rhys-Jones, not with Jonathon’s disapproving face watching her every move.
Her painful thoughts were brought to a halt as a voluptuous dark-haired woman approached the table. In her late thirties, Maria Dante wore heavy make-up over her handsome features, her curvy body wrapped in a sharply tailored corset dress and jacket.
‘Hi Maria,’ smiled Venetia, trying to regain her composure. ‘Good to see you again.’
Maria Dante nodded graciously and allowed the waiter to pull back her chair for her to sit down.
‘How were rehearsals?’ asked Oswald, stretching over to kiss her powdered cheek.
‘Going well,’ replied the singer, in an accent that was a cocktail of Italian and American. ‘The opening night is on the twenty-third, so you can see for yourself how well. That is, if you would still like to come?’
Venetia looked at the two of them, puzzled by the familiarity between her father and the singer.
‘Oh, have you two met?’ she asked.
‘Only on the telephone,’ laughed Maria, looking at Oswald appreciatively. He had surpassed her expectations.
Oswald took a sip of wine, and smiled smugly at his daughter.
‘After you mentioned the possibility of a musical evening at Huntsford, I took the liberty of phoning Miss Dante.’ He looked over at her like an antiques dealer sizing up his latest sideboard. ‘We were surprised that we had so many friends in common, weren’t we, Maria?’
The singer giggled girlishly. ‘Oh, too many people.’
Venetia smiled weakly. She had set up the lunch as a business meeting to introduce them, in the hope that Maria might charm Oswald into holding the event at Huntsford. Now she felt as if she were gate-crashing a first date.
‘Let’s cut to the chase so we can get on with a civilized lunch,’ said Oswald, swilling his wine around the glass. ‘I’m up for the event in principle. But if we are going to stage it at Huntsford, I want it done properly. Something on a grand scale. Something elegant. Something spectacular. I mean, bloody hell! anybody with access to the bloody Internet goes down to Glyndebourne these days. I’m not having that. Don’t want it to be like a ruddy singsong in someone’s back garden. The Balcon family have a reputation to protect.’
He paused to rub his stomach, which hung over the waistband of his trousers.
