Victor led Karin into an enormous drawing room, which was even more impressive than anything in Christina and Ariel’s portfolio of homes. The walls were covered in the softest sand-coloured silk, high ceilings were painted with frescos, and a dramatic oil painting, which Karin recognized as a Caravaggio, hung over the medieval fireplace.
‘Would you like a drink and we can go out onto the terrace?’ asked Victor, gesturing to the open French windows. Karin took a seat at a round marble table at the end of the terrace, with a view of the dark sea and a clustered wooded hillside, and sipped her wine. A cool breeze cut through the balmy air and made the flares around the garden flicker. They made a little small talk, and Karin discovered that Victor was divorced with two children, a fourteen-year-old boy at Eton and a sixteen year-old daughter at school in Switzerland. His age, however, was hard to decipher. She would guess that he was around fifty, but his supple, unlined skin suggested younger.
Two white-uniformed waiters came to serve supper, a plate of finely slicely buffalo mozzarella with asparagus and juicy plum tomatoes glistening with drizzled balsamic vinegar.
‘I hope you had a good time at the cocktail party last night,’ said Karin. ‘What did you think of the range?’
‘I was impressed,’ said Victor seriously. ‘Your swimwear is elegant, timeless; sexy, not trashy. Possibly not the perfect fit with St Tropez,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I expect you are wondering why you are here – while I am sure you will be a delightful dining companion this evening, I have a proposition for you.’
Karin stiffened and Victor caught the movement.
‘I am interested in your company, Mrs Cavendish.’
Karin took a deep breath, feeling slightly giddy. After only seven years in business, she did not imagine that it would be ripe for a takeover by one of the world’s biggest retail conglomerates. In bed at night she would do calculations about how much she considered her company to be worth should the day come when someone made an offer for it. Today had been a big day for Karenza swimwear, but it was shaping up to be momentous.
She inhaled sharply to regain her composure. She had learned to be a shrewd negotiator over the years, and to show emotion was to show weakness. ‘And why do you think I would be interested in your offer?’ she asked. ‘Indeed, in any deal which would involve me sacrificing my control?’
‘Because you are ambitious for your brand,’ said Victor. ‘And at the moment you are standing still.’
He held up his hand to stifle her protests. ‘You are a creative woman, Mrs Cavendish, but your marketing is naïve. Yes, you have had some success, fashioning yourself into a brand ambassadress, going to parties in your pretty dresses to remind everyone of your sexy little swimwear brand, but it is little more than guerrilla marketing.’
She felt her skin prickle. The cheek of the man.
‘Mr Chen, in seven years I have built my business from fabric on a kitchen table to a multimillion-dollar business,’ she said, struggling to control her voice.
Victor laughed low and softly. ‘It is not a criticism, Mrs Cavendish. You are a talented entrepreneur but few entrepreneurs can grow their company beyond a fifty-million-dollar business without outside investment and help. Don’t be afraid of accepting help, or skills that complement your own.’ He paused to let this sink in.
‘You have a luxury product that can be commercialized on a much greater scale. How many women can afford to spend five hundred dollars on a swimsuit?’
Karin shrugged her shoulders. ‘I spent twelve months persuading the best factories in Italy to produce my swimwear. It is the best. That is why women are willing to pay five hundred dollars for a bikini.’
‘But how many super-rich women are there? Hundreds? Thousands? The swimwear market is set to explode in the Middle and Far East. You will have access to hundreds of millions of women.’
Karin’s eyes sparkled. The scale of the business Victor was proposing made her head swim. Victor continued in a low, even voice.
He swirled some champagne around the bottom of his glass and stayed silent so they could hear the crickets in the long grass in front of them. ‘I have had one of my analysts tracking your brand for some time and we feel that in partnership with the right group you can capitalize on that demand and become the leading swimwear brand in the world. We could grow from East to West and finally roll out into America. I understand that you are launching a lingerie line next year, which also interests me. With my help, I think we can turn your brand into the next Victoria’s Secret.’ Victor looked at Karin in the flickering light. ‘It is a billion-dollar brand, Mrs Cavendish.’
A billion-dollar brand. The very thought of it made her struggle to catch her breath. In a rush, she thought of the Big Blue and Christina’s Gulfstream and all that De Beers jewellery she had always promised herself. But what sort of compromises would that sort of expansion entail? Victor was certainly suggesting a move away from the luxury brand she had spent years cultivating. For a second she wished that Adam could have been by her side to debate it. But where was he when she needed him? Off on some ‘business conference’ with Claudia Falcon, or even Christina, no doubt.
‘Obviously it’s a conversation we can potentially take further after I have discussed it with my people,’ said Karin finally.
Victor nodded and watched silently as Karin finished her dessert: poached white peaches steeped in Calvados and honey that melted on her tongue. It was now dark and Victor got up and moved behind her chair to pull it out. His old-fashioned manners were quite endearing, but the stillness of the villa unnerved her.
‘That was a most pleasant dinner,’ he said. ‘How long are you staying in town? Perhaps we could go to dinner at La Cavassona tomorrow to discuss things further?’
‘I’m sorry, I am taking the first flight out of Marseilles tomorrow morning,’ replied Karin.
Again, Victor nodded silently. ‘I am scheduled to be in London a week today. Perhaps we could meet then. Do think about it, Mrs Cavendish,’ he said. ‘Many of the top fashion brands have been a marriage between the very best creative and business talent. Partners in life as well as business,’ he added.
As he spoke, he moved closer, gliding forward like a cat. ‘Do you want my driver to take you home, or do you want to stay a little while?’ he asked smoothly. ‘I probably have the finest wine cellar in the Côte d’Azur.’
Victor brushed his hand against her cheek. She smarted inwardly, but let his finger slide down her neck and over her dress, until his soft fingertips rested momentarily on her nipple hidden under the flimsy fabric.
She pulled away with a small cold smile and Victor nodded respectfully. Karin Cavendish had always been the mistress of her own destiny, she had always prided herself on making the right choices. Now here was one standing right in front of her. A billion-dollar opportunity. And suddenly she knew what she wanted. She wanted Karenza to be the biggest, most luxurious swimwear brand in the world, and it would be soon.
30
‘Get your coat. We’re going straight out.’
Julian Sewell had appeared at Erin’s front door at twelve on an early summer afternoon, then whisked her away on a magical mystery tour in his open-topped car. Erin felt as if she had stepped into a Cary Grant movie, which was quite an improvement considering she had never expected the date to happen. True, they’d had a good time that night in the Piccadilly wine bar. Julian’s friend hadn’t turned up, and Candy had slipped off when Erin wasn’t looking, so Erin and Julian had sat at the bar talking and laughing and getting increasingly drunk until it was gone midnight and the barman had told them it was time to close. She’d desperately wanted him to invite her home, but he hadn’t. He said he’d call, but that was what men said, wasn’t it? Until that very moment, when he was standing in front of her in blue jeans, a white short-sleeved shirt and that smile, Erin hadn’t really expected to see him again.
‘Are you coming, or am I going to have to come and give you a fireman’s lift down to the
car?’ shouted Julian as Erin rushed around finding her shoes and bag and keys. Erin still couldn’t quite believe he had called; men like Julian Sewell, – handsome, successful, sexy men who probably had model girlfriends tucked away in their designer lofts – weren’t interested in her. If they chatted you up it was because they were drunk. If they took you to bed, they didn’t remember your name the next morning. But here he was, as large as life and so handsome that she almost burst out laughing.
‘But where are we going?’ asked Erin as she ran down the steps.
He handed her an A – Z as they walked towards a soft-top vintage Mercedes SL.
‘An alfresco lunch.’
‘Where?’
‘Open the page, any page and decide where,’ he smiled, lighting a cigarette and wedging it between his lips.
Erin closed her eyes, flipped open the A – Z and pointed. Dulwich village.
Julian drove them all the way into southeast London with the roof of the car down, so the sun warmed their faces and the breeze ruffled their hair. They parked the car in the village and walked into the park with a creaky wicker hamper Julian had produced from the boot. They found a spot on the grass, laid out a blanket and spread the picnic out; there were two types of carved ham, three types of pickle, a ludicrously comprehensive selection of cheese, along with crusty bread, ripe strawberries and a bottle of chilled Veuve Clicquot.
‘Sorry, I forgot to bring any glasses,’ said Julian as he popped the cork. ‘D’you mind using straws?’
Erin laughed, feeling more happy than she could remember. ‘Oh, I always use a straw,’ she said, ‘it’s the only way to drink champagne.’
Erin lay back on the rug and looked up at Julian. She wanted to know everything about him: what his favourite music was, who he’d like to be stranded on a desert island with, how many girlfriends he’d had. Particularly the last one. She already knew a lot about him from their night at the bar. He was thirty, which she used to consider old, but working with oldies like Adam, Julian just seemed mature, experienced. A graduate of Manchester University, just like Norman Foster (‘my absolute hero’). Julian had told her, without a hint of irony, that architecture was his life.
‘So is that what you want to be, then: a starchitect?’ she asked, biting into a strawberry.
‘I guess,’ he smiled, breaking off a piece of bread. ‘I mean, it would be amazing to be like Frank Gehry. He turns his hand to everything from jewellery to concert halls, and the really cool thing is, whether it’s a bracelet or a suspension bridge, you can tell it’s his.’
Erin smiled; he had the same passion for his job that she saw in Adam. He had the same magnetism, too, but Julian’s was a different kind of sex appeal – softer, more obtainable perhaps. Julian was definitely more classically handsome. Definitely. In fact, it was all she could do to prevent herself from reaching out to touch him, to run her fingers over the hint of pale brown stubble on his chin, to feel his tanned skin and those long lashes that framed his eyes. She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘… But even if I stay working at our practice forever, I’ll be happy,’ he went on. ‘I just want to design. Both my parents are architects, so I guess I’m doing what I know best.’ Julian plucked a long stem of grass and began to play with it. ‘What do your parents do?’ he asked suddenly.
Erin licked the strawberry juice from her lips and rolled over to look at him, propping herself up on her elbow. She rarely discussed her parents with anyone. She’d barely even told Chris the story, and he was her closest friend in London. But there was something about Julian that made her want to open up to him, mentally and physically. She wanted him to know everything.
‘My dad was in the fashion business, but nothing very glamorous like a designer. His company actually made jeans,’ she said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘My mum worked for him sometimes, doing the books and things, but mainly she was a housewife. Anyway, my dad’s dead. I went to live with my gran when I was six.’
Julian looked confused. ‘Why didn’t you live with your mum?’
‘Because she’s missing.’ She paused, knowing it was a first date and it all seemed completely inappropriate to discuss, but he had put his hand on her head, stroking her hair with his fingertip, and she knew it was okay to talk.
‘Missing?’ asked Julian quietly.
‘My dad committed suicide after his business went under. My mum had always been a bit of a depressive and it just got worse after he’d gone.’
Julian nodded, encouraging her to go on.
‘We lived in London then, but spent a lot of time at my gran’s in Cornwall. One day, the summer after my dad’s death, we were in Port Merryn and my mum said she had to pop back to London for the night. She never came back. Police found her car a week later near Beachy Head but they never found her body.’
She glanced at Julian, wishing she hadn’t told him, but at the same time glad she had.
‘Do you think she’s still alive?’ asked Julian.
Erin shook her head. ‘She’s dead,’ she said categorically. ‘I know it sounds weird but, even before her car was found, I just couldn’t feel her around any more. Anyway, I know if she was alive that she would have come back for me.’
She fell silent for a moment. ‘I know that might make me sound like a bad person. Believing she’s dead, I mean. My gran’s the opposite, she won’t accept that she’s gone. She still keeps a light on in my mum’s old bedroom at night, so she can find her way home, I guess.’
She scrunched up her eyes in the sun and a tear ran down the crease.
‘You have to believe what is right for you,’ said Julian slowly, reaching out to touch her hand.
‘Well, it definitely worked out for the best, me getting a job in London. I had to leave Cornwall to escape the limbo,’ she said softly. ‘Every night I’d see the light and it would make me feel bad.’
Julian began to pack away the hamper and took her hand. ‘Come on. We’re going to cheer you up. Let’s go and hire some bikes from that place by the gate.’
‘Good idea,’ smiled Erin, rubbing her face. ‘Because I want to show you something.’
They put the hamper back in the car and cycled out of the park, out of Dulwich and up the hill towards Crystal Palace. Puffing and grinning, they finally made it to one of the highest points in London and looked down at the sprawling capital spread out like their picnic blanket. Erin could see Canary Wharf and the Swiss Re gherkin, thinking with a sense of pride that two more landmark buildings, currently being built by the Midas Corporation, would soon be rising out of the city’s skyline.
‘Bloody hell, Erin, what have we come all the way up here for?’ asked Julian, braking to take a breather.
‘Come on lazy,’ she laughed, ‘I want to see what you think of a building. A professional opinion, if you like.’
They wheeled the bikes along the pavement for a few minutes, then Erin turned into a leafy side street and stopped at an old white Georgian building set back from the road.
‘This old thing? What about it?’ asked Julian, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed up at it.
‘It’s mine,’ said Erin softly. ‘I just bought it.’
Julian looked at Erin, then back at the house. ‘You’re kidding.’
Erin shook her head. ‘It’s one residence now, but I want to convert it into apartments,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’m on a very tight budget, but I think there’s a real opportunity here. The building is pretty, the area is up and coming. The smart estate agents and the gastro-pubs are moving in, prices are rising.’ She spread her arms. ‘It’s all here.’
‘Wow. Get you; you’re a real little Adam Gold prodigy, aren’t you?’
Julian leant his bike up against the wall and walked up to the house, running his hands over the brickwork like a sculptor feeling clay.
‘I realize it’s a bit shabby now, but I just know I can make this work,’ said Erin, trying to sound more confident than she
felt. Ever since she had completed on the property purchase she’d been wondering whether she’d been too rash. ‘But I have a massive mortgage, so I need to get planning permission straight away. I can’t afford for it to be unoccupied for too long. And I have to get an architect to draw up plans before I can apply for planning permission.’
‘Well, if it’s an architect you need,’ he said, standing back and peering up at the roof, ‘I know a pretty good one.’
‘So do I,’ laughed Erin,’ but I bet he’s expensive.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we can come to some agreement,’ he replied.
He moved closer towards her and put his hands on hers, moving his face in close. ‘Shall we start talking terms and conditions?’ he whispered as sunlight poured through the trees around the house and dappled them with light.
‘Well, I think this is a very good start,’ she smiled, as he moved his lips towards her for the sweetest, most sensual kiss.
Erin pulled away, her head feeling light and dizzy. She looked at the house, then at Julian. ‘Consider yourself hired,’ she said.
31
Molly had just grabbed her jacket from the back of her office chair and was dashing for the lift when her phone rang. It was Adam. ‘Molly, can I just have a word with you upstairs for a minute?’ he asked.
‘Oh Adam,’ she breathed, ‘I have a meeting Mayfair in half an hour, is there any chance it can wait until tomorrow?’ She was due to meet Alex for their fortnightly rendezvous and she knew Lord Delemere well enough by now to know he hated her being late.
‘Now, Molly,’ replied Adam, and the phone clicked dead.
Cursing, Molly slicked some gloss over her lips, undid a button on her blouse and went upstairs. She entered Adam’s office and sat down in the black leather swivel chair opposite him, crossing her legs and giving him a lazy smile.
‘I won’t keep you long,’ said Adam flatly. His stiff back and sober expression immediately put her on her guard.
‘Well, the Christmas party is already looking fantastic,’ said Molly, trying to fill the silence. ‘I’ve had a great quote from a company who want to do something really special. I’m thinking a Bollywood banquet; snake charmers, real elephants, a whole sensuous bazaar feel. We’re just getting some spread sheets and visuals together and, if you approve them, then we can get the ball rolling.’
Gold Diggers Page 23
