Standing in front of the dressing-room mirror in the master bedroom of The Standlings, Marcus Blackwell’s Buckinghamshire farmhouse, Molly was in an whirl of indecision about what to wear for lunch. Adam Gold and Karin Cavendish were coming for the weekend and she wanted every detail to be just right. She had changed outfits half a dozen times, trying to anticipate what Karin would be wearing; Molly’s outfit had to trump her, but only in a very subtle way. With Marcus out at the local golf club, she had tried on the entire contents of the increasingly large wardrobe she kept at the house. She decided on a elegant scooped-necked dove-grey jersey top with bracelet sleeves, perfectly offset by a pair of deep indigo jeans so tight and sexy they made Molly’s long legs look even longer. Her hair was left long and tousled, and she finished off with a handful of gold jangly bangles and some chocolate-brown loafers. It was a look that said modern, off-duty chatelaine.
Walking over to the long windows overlooking the grounds, her eyes were drawn out into the distance, where the Chiltern Hills beckoned and a pale blue sky stretched out, cloudless, above a sweep of russet trees. Even though Molly had only been dating Marcus for a couple of months, she felt quite at home at The Standlings. Their relationship was progressing quickly and, ever since she had been fired from the PR company, she had practically moved in, complaining to Marcus about ‘being cooped up all day in Kensal Rise’. With time on her hands and a need to impress her new boyfriend, Molly had discovered quite a talent for keeping house. Although she had taken to describing The Standlings to friends as ‘the manor’, in reality it was a substantial eighteenth-century red-brick farmhouse with ten acres of grounds. Marcus had bought the place from a wealthy elderly couple three months earlier, and it was badly in need of some TLC. Declaring the farmhouse far too chintzy for the vice president of a luxury property development company, Molly had persuaded Marcus to embark on a programme of renovation and redecoration, which, of course, she would supervise personally. Kitchen planners from Mark Wilkinson had already visited, and they had decided on Tuscan-style units, granite worktops from Germany, and an island in the middle of the room on which Molly fantasized about having sex with a handsome live-in French chef. Still, that was all to come, and the unrenovated Standlings would have to make do for this weekend. Not that Molly had left anything to chance. She had commissioned her favourite West London florist Orlando to create huge centrepiece blooms of red roses and lilac rhododendrons all over the house, which made the house smell as if it had been dipped into a bottle of cologne. A local caterer had just delivered huge bowls of salads, freshly prepared lobster ravioli and tiramisu, all of which she fully intended to pass off as her own, and bottles of Cristal were chilling in the fridge.
She was just sitting down at the farmhouse table, sipping a small tumbler of vodka-tonic to kick-start the day, when she heard the grumble of Marcus’s Maserati on the driveway and stood up to see Adam’s black Aston Martin following close behind.
‘Molly. Good to see you again,’ said Karin, trying to inject some warmth into her voice as she slipped off her jacket and looked around the farmhouse.
‘I thought you weren’t getting here until one,’ smiled Marcus, embarrassed at just beating his guest home.
‘Oh, Adam drives so fast I thought we were going to take off,’ she smiled.
Karin had to admit Molly had done a good job in the lounge; if you liked that English country house sort of thing, of course. Ruby-red velvet curtains and squashy chocolate-brown sofas blended with antique cabinets and beautiful lamps with bronzed sculptured bases. More quaint than luxurious, thought Karin; certainly not the sort of place Karin had in mind for Adam: that would be a very special property indeed. Something Grade I listed, perhaps, in the Cotswold triangle, with an arboretum, trout fishing, possible previous royal occupiers. She would enjoy the search when the time came – if the time came. Karin had felt needled all the way up to Buckinghamshire, unable to shake off the image of Christina parading herself in front of Adam like the Venus di Milo – how dare she? And he didn’t help matters, lapping up the attention. Still, she felt better now, as she eased herself back into the soft leather of the sofa, feeling comfortably superior. Sitting next to Adam, his hand lightly placed on top of hers, she felt like the prom queen with her king. She had never considered Molly a serious player in the social stakes and, watching her sitting beside her latest conquest, Marcus, in her too-tight jeans, only confirmed Karin’s opinion while bolstering her own credentials. Marcus was a decent enough bloke – intelligent, yes, sober, a little dull, but he was an also-ran; one of life’s runners-up. The second tier country house, the vice presidency, his pleasant but nondescript looks. Karin felt a little sorry for him, wondering how long it would be before Molly traded him in for a better model.
‘Is it true you have Christina Levy staying with you?’ asked Molly with faux concern. ‘Awful, what’s happened to her.’
The St Barts story was circulating like wildfire around London – a cautionary tale for anyone getting too comfortable or careless in their relationship.
‘Oh, I thought she looked pretty good for a woman who has just been dumped,’ smiled Adam, taking a sip of chardonnay. Karin’s good mood suddenly evaporated. She felt her back stiffen, removing her hand from his, and darted a look to Molly. Karin was convinced she had just suppressed a smile.
‘Speaking of which, Molly, how are you shaping up after leaving Feldman Jones?’ she asked with equal concern. ‘Lindsey can be such a cow. I’ll spread the word around to avoid using the company.’ Like hell she would.
‘Yes, Marcus told me about this,’ said Adam. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ said Molly, waving a hand. ‘Lindsey and Sophie were getting greedy, that’s all, they didn’t want to split the pot three ways and I was ousted. It happens in business.’ She directed a smile at Adam. ‘And I have a pretty good track record. I’ll find something better.’
‘What about the Midas Group?’ asked Adam casually. ‘I think our PR department could do with being bolstered by someone with an events bias.’
‘Really?’ said Molly, brightening visibly. ‘That would be great.’
‘Is it a good idea to work so closely with Marcus?’ asked Karin tartly.
Adam scoffed. ‘The only thing Marcus has to do with our events is turn up. Even then you’re not too keen, are you?’ he laughed.
Marcus shrugged. ‘I haven’t got a problem with it if Molly hasn’t. And it might stop you spending all my money on the house,’ he said, smiling at Molly.
Karin felt her guts twist. The thought of having Molly working so closely with Adam was intolerable. Events! What was that? Late-night corporate schmoozing with booze and drugs and goodness knows what other aphrodisiacs.
‘But I thought you were more of a figurehead at Lindsey’s company,’ said Karin. ‘Did you actually do any events planning?’
Karin wanted to kick herself. It had come out snippy and ungracious. As Molly turned to smile sweetly at Adam, Karin knew that she had to be careful and clever.
‘I think there’s enormous overlap with what I did at Feldman Jones and could do at the Midas Group. Corporate entertaining has become so competitive and it’s vital to compete if you want to send out the right company message. I’ve worked with the best caterers, planners, florists in London and—’
Adam held a hand up and laughed. ‘Stop! Stop! I’m here for lunch, not to interview you. Let’s hook up in the week to iron out the details. Now, did somebody mention lobster ravioli?’
Karin look a deep swallow of her wine and could taste only bile. Men could be so bloody stupid.
Molly felt dizzy with pleasure. Three glasses of wine had gone to her head, lunch had been a success and even Karin had commended her on the tiramisu.
‘A little something I whipped up this morning,’ Molly had replied. ‘I can give you the recipe.’
But the thing putting her on such a high was the job offer and the look on Karin’s face when Adam had suggested it
. Well, honey, that was just the start of it, thought Molly, as she poured out four espresso coffees into her tiny Wedgwood cups. A few intimate private meetings with Adam and he’ll forget all about you.
‘Oh, bugger,’ said Marcus, slapping his pockets, his eyes looking around the room, ‘I think I left my mobile at the golf club. I’d better go back and get it. Why don’t you all take the horses out for an hour?’
‘Sounds good,’ nodded Adam.
Karin threw an arm round him. ‘You ride? Is there nothing this man can’t do?’
‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’ laughed Marcus. ‘Expert skier, ruthless businessman, and didn’t you row for Yale?’ he grinned.
‘Guilty as charged,’ said Adam immodestly.
‘Do you mind if I give the riding a skip?’ replied Karin. ‘I’ve got a stiff shoulder from a Pilates class. I might go and read in the bedroom. The view is so pretty.’
‘Fine. Let’s all meet back here in an hour.’
The stables at The Standlings had been a pleasant discovery for Molly when she had first visited. She had never suspected that Marcus was a keen rider, but he had proudly explained that his mother had been a national standard eventer who had brought up her children to love all things equestrian. Marcus, however, had spent twenty years living in Manhattan (‘the nearest I got to a horse was the jockey statuettes outside the 21 Club,’ he had joked), so as soon as he arrived in England, he had sought out a property with stabling and horses. Now was her chance to take advantage of it, thought Molly, as she rushed to the master bedroom to pull on her riding boots. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt a rush of anticipation. She felt so horny. Sitting opposite Adam all lunch had almost made her wet. He was without question the sexiest man she had ever met and it was quite incredible that he was absolutely loaded as well. The presence of Karin had only served to heighten her desire, not quash it, firing a competitiveness that was almost a sexual thrill in itself.
She strode to the stables with a spring in her step. There was a small yard, strewn with hay, and she could hear the neighing of Marcus’s chestnut gelding Olympia. Molly walked inside and her face fell. In the stable, tacking up and preparing to mount the horse, was not Adam but Karin.
‘Oh, hello,’ said Molly flatly.
‘Expecting somebody else?’ said Karin archly. ‘Oh, yes. It was Adam wasn’t it?’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ asked Molly, her disappointment turning to anger.
‘Oh, has the strain of making lunch taken the edge off your razor-sharp mind?’ said Karin flatly. ‘You’ll work it out.’
‘I’ll have you know I worked very hard on—’
‘Oh give me a break,’ mocked Karin. ‘I’d be very surprised if you could boil an egg. I’m not entirely sure how long you can keep us this Martha Stewart charade up, but at least Marcus seems taken in by it. By the way, what happened to poor Harry Levin after you got him to pay for all that Mozambique rain-forest?’
‘Leave Harry out of this,’ said Molly thinly.
‘The Standlings was a more attractive proposition than a discount tit job?’
Molly was staring at Karin with undisguised rage. ‘You rude bitch,’ she whispered.
Karin shrugged. ‘Astute rather than rude, I think you’ll find.’
Molly took two steps towards Karin, making her flinch. The horse caught the movement and tossed its head, snorting. ‘Ooh, feeling nervous are we, Karin?’ smiled Molly, taking another step. ‘I don’t think you liked Adam’s suggestion that he and I start working closely together.’
‘Don’t you mean waitressing at a few of the firm’s parties?’ scoffed Karin. ‘No sweetheart, I’m not really worried about that.’
‘You should be,’ said Molly, her eyes narrowing. ‘You really should be.’
The overt challenge made Karin catch her breath and fired up her fury. ‘Don’t even think about threatening me, you opportunitistic whore,’ spat Karin, unable to keep her cool.
‘You’re just a washed-up, gold-digging little coke-head. It might take Adam and Marcus a little while to see it, but we both know what’s under that sweet smile.’ She moved down the stables towards Molly, slapping a riding crop against her thigh.
‘This little setup with Marcus is the very best that an old hag like you is going to ever get, so I’d hang on to it, darling,’ she said. ‘Don’t think that you can trade it up for something shinier, because you can’t. He’s mine.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Molly coolly, putting her hands on her hips and standing her ground, the two women now facing each other, eyes locked. ‘For someone who’s not threatened, you sound awfully rattled.’
‘Rattled?’ laughed Karin smugly. ‘I don’t think so. In the meantime, a word of advice …’ She smiled sweetly and pointed the whip at Molly. ‘Don’t ever think about crossing me, Molly, because, if you do, I will become the biggest bitch you’ve ever seen.’
They stood there, neither woman moving an inch, until suddenly Olympia whinnied and stamped, breaking the deadlock.
‘Coming, sweetie!’ called Karin, still not taking her eyes off Molly. Then she turned on her heel and walked back to the horse, taking the reins to lead him out of the door.
‘Oh, and Molly?’ she said, turning and throwing the riding crop so that it went skittering across the cobbles to land at Molly’s feet. ‘I think you might be needing that more than me.’
22
Adam Gold personally received about 5000 items of post a week. Gifts from clients, promotional items from companies keen to get the Midas Corporation using their goods or services, letters begging for money, letters begging for jobs, even crazed paternity demands from women Adam had never met. It was Erin’s job in her new role as Adam’s executive assistant to sift through this mountain and dig out the possible gold: speculative brochures and particulars of property for sale that Adam might be interested in looking at. In a single day she would come across lighthouses, stately homes, rows of terraces in inner-city slum areas, even billboards and telegraph poles, all up for sale, all wanting Adam Gold’s attention.
It had not taken Erin long to work out the sort of things Adam would be interested in. Acres of wasteland in strategic locations, interesting architecture, hotels with heritage. If it was struggling to gain planning permission, so much the better: Adam had the planners in his pocket. That particular morning, Erin was leafing through a high-end estate-agent’s brochure, flipping past more of the same – Edwardian terraces, new-build faux-farmhouses, bland country estates – when suddenly she stopped. It was gorgeous. A perfectly formed Georgian terrace. It instantly reminded her of Peony House, only a pocket-sized version. She quickly read the particulars. The location was hardly Belgravia: it was in a little pocket in Crystal Palace. Erin felt elated, excited. And slowly an idea began to germinate. She had spent the last four months sitting outside the office of one of the greatest property developers in the Western world. She had listened. She had learned. She had met scores of businessmen and-women who had started with next to nothing and had built up a development fortune. Property. It was the way to make money for people in a hurry. And Erin was starting to get itchy feet.
Jeremy Sergeant, head of auction sales at Rachman Estate Agents, had been having a bad day when Erin had called. His girlfriend of seven months, Miranda Coulston, was having a hissy fit because Jeremy was taking his mother instead of her to the Rachman annual party. This meant that Miranda would not get to meet – and, as she saw it, seduce and possibly marry – George Rachman, the super-loaded, very single owner of the business. Not that Miranda was expressing it in those terms. ‘You can forget about ever seeing that Myla lingerie you bought me,’ was how she put it. And she had already called him three times that morning to remind him. When Erin walked into his office, however, wearing a Marc Jacobs skirt so short that it made him swallow his morning latte rather too quickly, Jeremy’s day began to improve.
He had fixed the appointment immediately when she had called him, introducing
herself as an executive from the Midas Corporation. Sergeant knew all about Adam Gold – who didn’t? Midas was one of the biggest players in London now and, to anyone with an interest in property, Adam Gold was a superstar. Jeremy was actually feeling a little nervous about meeting someone who worked alongside him.
‘Good of you to see me,’ smiled Erin with a confidence she didn’t feel, handing him one of the generic Midas Corporation business cards she kept in her top drawer. ‘Let me get straight to the point,’ she said, after he had shown her into his office. ‘I work very closely with Mr Gold but, as you can imagine, he delegates a lot of the smaller acquisitions.’
Jeremy Sergeant smiled to himself and nodded. She was awfully young, he thought, but terribly pretty. Typical of the Americans to surround themselves with gorgeous little ball-breakers like this one. He offered a cup of tea and then settled back in his Eames chair to admire the view. Erin snapped open her briefcase and took out the auction brochure.
‘So, how can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Will a representative of the Midas Corporation be attending the auction on the fifth? As I’m sure you’ve seen, there’s a lot of fabulous property with bags of potential. Longton Ness, for example …’
Longton Ness was the jewel in the crown of the auction, a Grade I listed, fifty-bedroom Palladian stately home in Oxfordshire. It was the ancestral home of the aristocratic Montague family, but they were being forced to sell it off in lots to meet crippling death duties. Jeremy had been running a sweepstake in the office on who would buy it. Jeremy had £100 on Gupta Roy, the Indian steel magnate said to be shopping around for a country estate. But you could never discount the stately home being bought up by a developer to turn into more luxury apartments.
‘Obviously, I can’t reveal all the Midas Corporation’s plans this early,’ said Erin smoothly, although inside her stomach was churning. ‘But there are certainly a number of lots that have taken Mr Gold’s fancy,’ she continued, taking a delicate sip of tea.
Gold Diggers Page 17
