continued Harriet, stroking Michael’s cheek. ‘One of my favourite men in the world.’
The truth was, Harriet Fletch was far from delighted to see Serena at Michael’s side. On Monday, when she had heard the delicious rumour at Frederic Fekkai’s salon that Michael and his two-bit model girlfriend had split up, she wasted no time organizing one of her legendary soirées. Ever since her divorce from Daniel Fletch, Harriet had been on the lookout for husband number four, and Michael Sarkis more than filled her long list of requirements. Fabulously wealthy, incredibly sexy and with all those wonderful spa hotels all over the world, she need never spend another penny at the Bergdorf salon again! So she was seething as she read over her citron pressé and wheat-free pancakes that Michael had been seen squiring this wealthy English girl. But seeing Serena in the flesh, Harriet felt she was not defeated quite yet. OK, Serena was good-looking, but that aloof expression, the pompous Princess Diana accent, this Balcon girl was the ice queen incarnate, and Harriet knew from the Upper East Side gossip mill that Michael liked his women exotic, malleable and extremely adventurous in bed. This frosty frigid Brit wouldn’t last two minutes.
Harriet had of course made very sure that Serena was separated from Michael at dinner, placing her amongst people she had been sure would dislike her. Courtney Katz, Harriet’s best friend and ruthless social conspirator, and Gary Becker, plastic surgeon to the stars, who was sure to be turned off by Serena’s fleshy, natural look. However, Harriet had not reckoned on Serena’s social resilience; as a battle-hardened veteran of her father’s soirées, she could squeeze sparkling conversation from a shy Trappist monk. By the time the diners had reached their pistachio soufflés, Serena had steered the chat onto safe dinner party territory: whether the Hamptons were over as the summer weekend destination of choice. Serena let the conversation float over her head and glanced over at Michael, sandwiched between Harriet and an elegant woman in her sixties at the other end of the table. He tipped his head towards her and smiled. She gave him a slow wink back, unaware that Harriet was watching her every move.
‘Anyone who wants to take coffee in the study, feel free,’ announced Harriet suddenly, determined to interrupt this moment of intimacy.
‘Shall we?’ asked Gary Becker, the plastic surgeon sitting to Serena’s left, pulling out her chair. He was keen to spend more time with the English beauty: she was the first woman he had seen in years who had no need for cosmetic enhancement. She was like a precious gem to his artistic eyes, a perfect orchid to a botanist. The guests filed through the double doors of the dining room into the ‘study’. The huge room was crammed with oversized leather sofas and lamps with shades the size of space hoppers; these cast a warm yellow light around the room and onto the walls of neatly lined books.
Keen to shake off Gary, Serena strolled over and ran a finger down the spines of the books. Not quite the Huntsford collection, she thought smugly: more likely put together by an interior designer who had brought in the leather-bound science tomes, the heavy books of art and architecture, even the row of orange and white Penguin classics. Every one of them looked suspiciously unloved and unread. She took a black filter coffee from one of the ever-present gorgeous waiters and wandered through another door, finding herself in another spacious room, this time filled with English and French antiques. Who ever said New York properties were small? thought Serena.
Realizing that the coffee had wiped away her plum lip-gloss, she went to look for the bathroom to freshen up. As all the waiters were attending to the guests with silver coffee pots, she dismissed the idea of asking for directions and drifted upstairs, following the curve of the thick mahogany banister to the second floor. The wide corridors were lined with framed black-and-white photographs and smelt of Tiger lilies, but there was no sign of a bathroom. As she was turning to go back down, Serena distinctly heard a voice say her name. It had come from a room at the end of the corridor; she edged towards the sound of the voices. Through the tiny crack of the open door, she could see a huge mirror surrounded by light bulbs, and just caught the reflection of Harriet Fletch and Courtney Katz reapplying their heavy make-up.
‘I don’t see how she can make a living as a model,’ said Harriet cattily, rubbing a smudge of colour into her lips. ‘Rather big, isn’t she? Must be one hundred twenty pounds at least. She certainly shouldn’t be wearing that white pant suit.’
‘Seemed a little dull, too,’ said Serena’s dinner companion. ‘Lovely skin, though.’
Serena felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Big? Dull? She had never been called big or dull in her life.
‘I mean what is she, other than Tom Archer’s ex?’ asked Harriet, her hard voice muffled by the door.
‘An actress, I think. Can’t tell you anything she’s been in, though,’ said Courtney pointedly.
Serena’s jaw tightened with anger as she heard the two women dismiss her clothes, her career, her family. Only one second ago she’d been saying how fabulous Venetia’s house was: now Harriet Fletch was dismissing it as ‘stuffy’. Quivering with rage, she had to put a finger on the rim of her coffee cup to stop it rattling.
‘Thing about these upper-class Brits is that they still think they’re something special,’ continued Harriet. ‘The Empire is over, honey – it’s the twenty-first century! And most of those so-called grand families have so little money these days. I mean, that woman who writes Harry Potter. I hear she earns more than the queen these days.’
‘I don’t know what you were so worried about,’ laughed Courtney, snapping her compact shut. ‘I pumped as much information out of her at dinner as I could. She’s going back to England tomorrow. She’s only here to do some publicity.’
‘Is that so?’ said Harriet, the glee purring out from between her thin coral lips. ‘Well, I think I’ll give Michael a ring on Monday. Maybe invite him over for a more private supper.’
Hearing the women move from the dresser, Serena darted into another room, waiting until she could hear the sound of their heels clacking on the parquet of the ground floor. She took a deep breath to compose herself. How dare those hideous women talk about her like that? Who exactly did they think they were? If they could trace their lineage back fifty years to some jumped-up soup millionaire, they thought they were social royalty. They were anachronisms, vultures; women who could trap a man into marriage and then pick his carcass clean before moving on to the next poor sap. After a few more moments burning with righteous anger, Serena composed herself and slipped back down the stairs to rejoin the party, studiously ignoring Harriet Fletch who was scolding a waiter for putting a hot coffee-pot directly onto the top of an antique writing desk.
‘There you are, darling,’ said Michael, appearing at her side and slipping a hand around her waist. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ he purred, brushing his warm lips across the top of her ear.
‘What a nice evening,’ she whispered, planting a lingering kiss on Michael’s cheek in direct eyeshot of Harriet.
‘Well, everyone loves you,’ he drawled, leading her through French windows onto a terrace that had a view of Central Park. Michael pulled Serena to him and cupped her face in his hands.
‘How much are you enjoying it?’ he whispered, kissing the top of the nose. ‘A lot or enough?’
‘Enough? What do you mean?’ asked Serena.
Michael paused, a dangerous smile on his lips.
‘Enough to move here? To spend more time with me?’
Serena thought back to her conversation with Stephen Feldman and a flash of excitement lurched in her stomach.
‘Oh,
