took a smoked-salmon roulade off a passing tray and waved it at his friend. ‘Go on,’ he urged.
‘Well, she obviously didn’t know that we were friends or that I was an investor in Sand, so there was probably no reason for her to lie.’ Tom paused and took a nervous sip of his second drink, finally looking Nick in the eye. ‘Look, I think you should have a word with your girlfriend,’ he said seriously.
Nick stuffed the canapé into his gaping mouth. ‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’
Tom looked away.
‘Go on, what? Tell me!’
‘According to Marion, you were supposed to be having Sybil Down – you know, the supermodel?– as your first cover. She’s one of Marion’s girls, right?’
‘Yes, that’s right, she pulled out at the last minute. That’s why Rebecca had to draft in Rachel Barnaby. All worked out for the best, as it happened.’
Tom looked at his friend awkwardly. ‘According to Marion, Rebecca phoned her, telling her that Sybil shouldn’t be working for Sand. Said that you were a tinpot organization and that you were going to fold as quickly as you launched. Made some veiled threat that, if Sybil did the job, she wouldn’t get an important job with one of her clients. Apparently now Marion’s seen the first issue, she thinks Sand is wonderful, but for a few weeks there, you were persona non grata at ILF, mate.’
Nick looked at Tom incredulously. ‘Why the hell would Rebecca do that?’
He let his eyes drift out towards the London skyline. It didn’t make sense. Why would Rebecca sabotage the Sand cover, only to dig it out of a hole immediately afterwards? Cate had set up the Sybil Down shoot and had been distraught when it all fell through. Suddenly he remembered ignoring a remark from Cate, a remark he had thought uncharitable at the time, telling him she had felt awkward about Rebecca drafting in Rachel Barnaby and saving Sand’s first cover shoot.
‘She just wants to undermine Cate,’ said Nick quietly to Tom, as if he was thinking it for the first time.
‘Cate and Rebecca not get on then?’ said Tom, raising one eyebrow quizzically.
‘Fucking Rebecca,’ muttered Nick under his breath. He caught sight of her platinum-blonde hair in the corner of the room and left Tom’s side, moving towards her.
‘Rebecca.’
Rebecca spun round and flung her arm around Nick’s neck, pressing her plunging neckline against his chest. She looked stunning, her curves poured into a backless metallic-coloured dress, cut to mid-thigh. Her breath smelt of whisky, her eyes were wide from cocaine. The longer he looked at her the less he could see a beautiful woman and the more he realized she had an ugly soul. Had Rebecca always been this way or had it taken him this long to wise up to it? He was an idiot.
‘Fabulous party,’ she breathed into his neck. ‘Although I took two goody-bags and there isn’t anything decent in any of them.’
He pushed her away forcefully. ‘I know what you said to Marion Doherty.’
‘About what, darling?’ she giggled, dragging him onto the terrace.
‘Advising her that Sybil Down shouldn’t do our cover.’ He stopped to look at her contemptuously. ‘How fucking dare you?’
Rebecca threaded her hands behind his neck and tried to pull him close to her. ‘Who’s been telling porky-pies? I haven’t done anything of the sort,’ she slurred, brushing her lips around the curve of his neck.
‘Someone I trust,’ Nick replied impassively, shaking her arms away from him. ‘Someone I trust more than you.’
‘Nick, I haven’t said anything,’ she replied, pouting.
‘Really?’ he said sarcastically.
Knowing she’d been caught out, she stepped back away from him and rested her hands on her slim hips. ‘It all worked out for the best though, didn’t it?’ she hissed defensively. ‘When you leave things to me rather than Cate Balcon, things get done. Properly.’
‘Leave Cate out of this,’ snapped Nick. ‘Anyway, she had everything under control. You might have made things right, Rebecca, but you created the fucking problem in the first place.’
‘Listen to you,’ she sneered, tossing her hair back. ‘You’re pathetic. Always defending her. Go on. Surprise me. Tell me you’re sleeping with her. You are, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You’re fucking sleeping with her,’ she screamed, pointing a long finger against his chest.
‘This isn’t about Cate, Rebecca. It’s about you. Why did you do it? Are you really that insecure?
He looked at her, her face twisted with such venom it negated her beauty.
‘No, don’t insult me with an answer. I’m out of here,’ he whispered.
‘Go on,’ she shouted, downing a shot of vodka as he walked off the terrace. ‘Go and find your lapdog. And don’t bother coming home tonight.’
His fists clenched in fury as he walked away from her, feeling ridiculous that he had wasted so much of his time with her; foolish that he’d allowed himself to be taken in by her shallow good looks and mistaken her love of good times for being simply good fun. Still, Rebecca was right about one thing. He wanted to find Cate.
Scanning the room once again, he caught movement as the small bedroom door opened slightly and Cate looked around nervously. He sighed with relief and found himself beginning to smile as she began to walk out of the room. He had to get to her, tell her about Rebecca, Marion, Sybil. But the crowd was thick now. He pushed past a group of guests, knocking a glass of champagne from someone’s hand. He looked down, mumbling an apology, and when he looked up again, he froze. David Goldman was coming out of the room, inches behind Cate, his hand proprietorially around her waist. They were heading in the direction of the lift. They were leaving. Together. Nick inhaled sharply through his nostrils, grabbing a cocktail from a passing waiter. He downed it in one, and slammed the glass back onto the tray.
Compared to his Mustique villa, his New York duplex and his Hamptons beach house, Michael Sarkis’s London base was a smaller, more discreet pied-à-terre tucked away in a quiet pocket of Mayfair. However, it was still a sumptuous place. A white stucco façade, a marble atrium, a sweep of stairs leading to a mezzanine floor.
Serena parked her Aston Martin outside and looked around for paparazzi, knowing full well that they’d love this story. Serena arrives at Sarkis’s hideaway to talk cash! Well, for once they’d be right, she thought. Almost right. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted from Michael, and had spent a sleepless night before today’s meeting thinking about it. She’d asked for the meeting, having avoided his calls since Cannes. While a part of her still didn’t want that bastard’s money, if she was brutally honest, she needed it. The Jolie Cosmetics contract had gone, her agent wasn’t exactly coming up with the
