by Karen Swan
Emily stood, naked, on the balcony and watched him go. She was something of a pin-up to the local boatmen now, and would saucily wave back when they called up to her appreciatively. Harry kept joking that rents on the houseboats opposite had quadrupled since she’d moved in.
She saw the sun glisten on his hair, trying to match the gold that gleamed from him. He was a rare catch, an incredible lover. She knew she was a lucky girl.
But not lucky enough.
She turned back into the apartment and wondered where to try next. The bookshelves had yielded nothing, there was no safe on the walls, in the wardrobe or inside the desk. There was no loft hatch into the ceiling. She’d even looked for trapdoors beneath the rugs. All she’d found in the bedside cupboards was some coke and a stash of porn mags, plus an interesting collection of home-made sex videos. She’d watched most of them, but although she’d seen two major Hollywood actresses, a clutch of socialites, some schoolgirls still in their Knightsbridge uniforms – and now knew his entire sexual repertoire – she appeared to have gone unrecorded. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or not.
She sat on the corner of the bed and sighed. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. He had homes all over the world – it could be in New York, Gstaad, the Bahamas. Or what if he had a safety deposit box? With his wealth, he probably had all manner of . . .
Absent-mindedly admiring her taut reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror opposite, her eye caught sight of the letter peeking out from beneath the bed, next to her foot. She bent down and picked it up. She read it slowly, word for word, and then read it again.
‘Oxford Union . . . debate . . . celebrity . . . new religion . . . November 18th . . .’
And then she saw it. What she’d been looking for.
It was addressed to him personally. But not here. The address was Langdale Gardens, Kensington.
And suddenly the personal vacuum in this impressive, awe-inspiring bachelor pad made sense: the impersonal starry photos, the absence of family mementoes, the matchy-matchy trophy antiques chosen for him by a personal shopper – this wasn’t where he lived. It was where he partied – his shag pile, she thought wryly.
She smiled and tossed herself back on to the rumpled silky sheets, the letter wafting dreamily back to the floor.
She was on to him.
Kate was reading the Mirror at an outside table at Oriel in Sloane Square when she heard Harry pull up. She didn’t need to look up to know it was him. She knew perfectly well that he revved the V8s just that little bit harder when he saw her.
She kept reading, knowing it would wind him up to arrive unnoticed (well, by her anyway). There was a minute’s pause as he gathered his jacket and sunglasses, and surreptitiously checked his appearance. Then she could tell by the clamour of teenagers and Chelsea blondes suddenly teetering along the pavement for autographs that he had got out of the car. She kept reading. It was eight minutes before he made the ten-yard swagger to the table.
‘Would you prefer to go inside?’ she said, looking at the shiny tips of his oxblood brogues. Slowly she raised her eyes to meet his. He was grinning at her.
He enjoyed their games immensely.
‘I think we’d better. It might be a Health and Safety issue if we don’t.’
Kate rolled her eyes as she picked up her bag.
‘Gosh, how dreadful it must be to know that you’re risking the very lives of your fans, every time you pop out for lunch,’ she said deadpan, motioning to the Maitre d’ for a table at the back.
The restaurant went quiet as they glided through, and Kate couldn’t help but feel a thrill at being so envied by every woman in there for lunching with Harry Hunter. She shimmied into the chair he held out for her, putting her briefcase on the floor next to her feet and picking up a copy of the menu.
‘She’ll have the chicken risotto. I’ll have the fillet steak, rare. And bring up a bottle of Pétrus,’ he said, all before he’d sat down.
He looked over at Kate, whose eyebrows were up on the ceiling.
‘Actually, I feel like the snapper today,’ she said contrarily. She didn’t want the fish at all, but she’d be damned if she’d let him predict her.
He looked at her, his eyes dancing with amusement.
‘No you don’t.’
‘Yes I do. I’ll have the snapper,’ she said smugly to the waiter.
Harry reached into his pocket and took out a fifty.
‘That’s for bringing my partner the risotto.’ He was not a man used to being contradicted.
The waiter inclined his head and left them together. Kate closed her mouth, aware she looked like she was catching flies.
‘Partner?’ she inquired, changing tack. ‘What? As in business?’
‘As in crime,’ he smiled winningly.
‘You’re the only criminal here,’ she retorted.
‘Not necessarily. I’d say it’s a crime you won’t let me pay for lunch.’
‘This is a business meeting. We pay.’
‘But I’d like to buy you lunch. Let’s make it social.’
‘Let’s not,’ she said witheringly. ‘And don’t worry. We’ll bill the cost back to you somewhere down the line,’ she smirked.
‘You can’t blame me for wanting to get to know you a bit better. We work so closely together. And anyway – I’ve been thinking about you a lot since Cress’s kid’s party.’
‘Her name’s Lucy,’ Kate said, trying to change the focus of his point. She was shocked that he’d brought it up. Now that there were chinks in her armour – Monty, hiding from the exhaustive IVF arguments, had practically moved into the office – she had to be on her guard. She couldn’t afford to get into a situation where she shared genuine intimacy with Harry.
‘. . . And I’m fine, thank you. A random moment of weakness. But you were very sweet. It shan’t be forgotten,’ she smiled patronizingly. ‘I shall be sure to put in extra hours being cruel to the Sun on your behalf this week.’
He couldn’t help but smile. She was expert at deflection.
‘Is Monty coming to the cricket this weekend?’ he asked, sitting back in his chair, watching her reaction. A charity cricket match – an annual event – was being played at a schoolfriend’s estate in Cornwall. The Old Etonian team played the locals, followed by a lavish party that night. Harry was underwriting this year’s do, and had brought Tatler on board, ostensibly to promote the chosen charity but in reality they’d promised him the cover, an eight-page spread and gratuitous references to his new book.
Kate looked at him. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t he? He’s looking forward to it enormously.’
Harry gave a tight smile. ‘Good. I’d like to get to know him better. Maybe he can give me some tips on handling you.’
He smiled boyishly.
Kate rolled her eyes and tried not think about him handling her.
‘D’you want me to pick you up? I’m choppering down.’
‘We’re good, thanks. Shall we get down to business?’
Harry leaned in. ‘I thought you’d never ––’ He was cut short by her stern look. ‘Absolutely.’
‘What’s up with Emily?’ she asked. ‘I have yet to see a single picture of her with you.’
Harry shook his head.
‘I know. I can’t get her to go out with me.’
Kate tilted her head to the side.
‘Aaah, what millions teenage boys would pay to hear those words coming from you.’
‘What I mean is – I can’t get her out of bed. She just wants to stay in the whole time.’
Kate nodded sarcastically.
‘It must be terrible,’ she said.
The waiter arrived with their bottle, just as Harry narrowed his eyes at her. He inspected it, swilled it around his glass and took in the bouquet. ‘That’s fine,’ he nodded to the waiter.
They waited for him to leave.
‘Well, you need to get her out of the house soon. It can’t be that difficult, surely? Has she
said anything else about money or courts recently?’
Harry shook his head.
‘No. It’s all gone very quiet on that front. She wants to shag, not sue. She seems very satisfied with what she’s got.’
‘I’m sure she does. But the trick is keeping her satisfied, Hunter. Are you sure you can do that? Or are you running out of tricks? You don’t usually play a long game. And for as long as you don’t have any public evidence of a legitimate relationship between the two of you, she can still take you to court. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I actually want to see you in the redtops.’
Harry watched her. He found her intensity, her focus, absorbing. He realized she was waiting for him to respond.
‘She keeps banging on about her parents not knowing.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘But the Oxford Union have invited me to address them in a couple of months. At the very least, she’s said she’ll go with me to that.’ He looked for signs that she was impressed by this honour.
There were none.
‘Well, I hope so, Hunter. Because otherwise your only saving grace is going to be playing that sex tape to a jury. And you’d better be as impressive between the sheets as all your kiss-and-tells say you are.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t you believe everything you read?’
‘Never.’ She caught the waiter’s eye and he came back to the table. ‘Waiter, let’s be clear. I’m paying. And I’m having the snapper.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Watching from the window, Cress bet that the curvy brunette wearing the sunray-pleated skirt wished she’d chosen her white jeans instead, as the rotor blades from their landing helicopter whirled the air around her and whipped her skirt over her pretty head.
There was a roar of appreciation for her pert brown bottom and skimpy pink thong from inside the clubhouse, and ten seconds later Cress burst out laughing as she watched the girl’s amorous boyfriend dash out of the pavilion and start chasing her across the square.
It was 1.20 p.m. and she and Tor were late. Unexpected fog had delayed their departure, but Harry – who had come down the day before and sent the chopper back for them – had ensured that their party started early in the VIP lounge with a couple of bottles of Cristal.
The co-pilot jumped out athletically, long before the blades came to a stop, and helped Tor and Cress down, just as a welcoming party rushed over the grass to greet them.
Tor looked around her. The cricket pitch was immaculate – even after choppers had been landing on it all day long – and bordered on all sides by a deer park. She searched for a sixteen-point stag to complete the vision of perfection, but none was forthcoming. Given the noise, though, she supposed she couldn’t blame them for hiding.
She went to grab her bag, but someone picked it up for her.
‘Tor! You’re looking as lovely as ever.’
She looked up. Guy Latham.
She felt herself stiffen. Though she didn’t know whether or not he knew about Hugh and Julia’s affair, he’d introduced them. He’d started it all off.
‘How are you, Guy?’ she shouted over the din. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be here.’
‘Ah, you know me,’ he smiled. ‘Hang around everywhere – like a bad smell.’
Don’t you just, she thought.
He walked her up to the clubhouse. Glazed double doors led into a large open-plan room with a kitchen and two dressing rooms leading off it. A veranda ran the length of the building and it had been freshly painted white – no doubt in anticipation of the photographers this weekend. Tatler was covering the match for its November issue.
There must have been over eighty people gathered there, but she couldn’t see the trees for the wood and no individual faces jumped out at her.
‘Here. Let me.’ Guy dropped her bag and barged through the scrum, getting her an iced and very minty Pimm’s from the trestle table. She sipped it gratefully. It was baking today. It might be the first weekend in September, but it was a scorcher.
‘Is Laetitia here?’ she asked politely, hoping she wasn’t.
‘Over there,’ he nodded. ‘Tish!’ he called.
Laetitia turned, hitting just the right WASP note in khaki linen, her face falling ever so slightly, though the smile stayed on, when she saw Tor. She nodded her head in greeting and gave a little wave from across the room, but she made no effort to move. Tor realized instantly that she wasn’t important or impressive enough to warrant that.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up into a blazing halo.
‘You probably don’t remember me,’ Harry smiled assuredly. ‘I’m Harry Hunter. We met at Cress’s party earlier in the summer.’
Tor didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh at the supreme irony of Harry Hunter being remotely forgettable; or cry at the fact that the night she’d first met him – exactly seventy-eight days ago – was the night her husband had died. Not that he knew that.
‘Hello again, Harry,’ she smiled, offering a hand. ‘I’m Tor Summershill. I’m your ––’
‘I know exactly who you are. Cress has told me everything. You’re the woman who’s going to bring taste into my life.’
Tor smiled at him, quizzically.
‘Well, I guess so, yes.’
‘And I believe her. I must say you do look very, very tasty,’ he smiled wickedly.
Oh. My. God, Tor thought. Harry Hunter’s flirting with me.
‘Jesus, mate.’ Guy jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. ‘Do you ever turn it off? You’re like a leaky tap with that stuff.’
Harry laughed. ‘Just playing to type,’ he grinned. ‘I don’t want to let anyone down. They have such deliciously low expectations of me.’
‘Anyway,’ he said more seriously, looking back to Tor, ‘we shall definitely have to get together and spank – I mean, thrash – out the finer details of the project before tomorrow.’
‘Harry,’ Cress said, joining the group and kissing him on both cheeks. ‘You’re behaving yourself, I trust.’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ he smiled.
Cress rolled her eyes and looked at Tor.
‘Shall we go and find our rooms?’
Tor nodded quickly, eager to get away.
‘See you later,’ she smiled.
‘You can be sure of it,’ Harry said, watching her go, his eyes travelling down her slender back and toned rump. He had a good feeling about this weekend.
A golf cart took them up the lane from the pavilion, winding around the glorious grounds, before turning into a clearing and pulling up outside the Lodge. The building was humble compared to the grand scale of the main house, which Tor had googled online the day before. That came with Doric columns, Adam fireplaces and a Capability Brown landscape. But still, the hunting lodge was larger than your average country house. It had an oversized roof with eaves cut in, and was rendered with a dark brown clapboarding that, had it been painted pale blue, would have looked perfectly at home on the Hamptons coastline.
The front door sat centrally in the building, with gigantic stone hunting dogs on either side. They walked in. Despite the late summer heat, it was cool and dark. The floor was laid with stone flags and an impressive fireplace took pride of place in the hall. The sixteen-pointers Tor had looked for earlier in the park were clearly all here and not frolicking in the grass, their heads lined along the wall and up the staircase, which divided like a candelabra.
To the left of the hall were rows upon rows of welly sticks, hooded with pairs of dark green Hunters in every size. Off to the right was a large partner’s desk with a Lalique vase of garden roses and a red leather visitors’ book open on it.
Cress signed it first with a flourishing hand, then Tor, her signature looking tremulous and shaky by comparison. She couldn’t help but feel intimidated by all the shabby grandeur.
‘Come on,’ Cress said, consulting the paperwork Harry had given her. ‘We’re sharing. Our room’s this way.’
They bounded up the stairs
and down the corridor, which was lined with a dark green damask, passing five or six doors before Cress stopped.
‘This is ours,’ she said.
A brass plaque on the door read ‘Turlington’.
Cress unlocked the door with a heavy-looking key and they stepped in. The floor was covered with a rust and grey tartan rug, mainly obscured by the double bed on the other side of the room, and two wing chairs were arranged around a fireplace. A door on the same wall as the bed led through to an en-suite.
‘Home sweet home,’ Cress sighed.
‘Is Kate here yet?’ Tor asked, lugging her bag on to the bed.
‘No. She and Monty are coming down after lunch. She had to go into the office first.’
‘They’ll be ages if they’re driving down after lunch.’
‘They’re not driving,’ Cress said lightly. ‘Harry’s sent his helicopter back for them.’
‘Gosh. He’s very . . . generous with it, isn’t he?’ Tor said. She’d never been in a helicopter before today, and had been thrilled and terrified at the prospect in equal measure.
‘Oh yes, he’s quite the benevolent billionaire. Anyway, he can afford it,’ Cress said.
‘I guess.’ Tor flopped on the bed, arms outstretched. ‘There seem to be lots of families and wives here. I should have brought the children. Why didn’t you bring Mark and the kids?’
Cress was bending over a handsome set of Georgian drawers, putting away her clothes.
‘Ugh, what a hideous thought. This is work, Tor. I can’t have the kids running around everywhere. And Mark wouldn’t come down without them, you know what he’s like. The weekend’s the only time he really gets to be with them. But that’s fine.’ She stood up and shrugged. ‘It’s only twenty-four hours. They’ll survive without me.’
Tor worried that was probably precisely the problem.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Cress said.
It was the porter who’d driven them up.
‘The match is starting in twenty minutes. Would you like me to drive you back?’ he inquired.
‘Oh, yes please. Can you wait for ten while we quickly freshen up?’
