Killer Diamonds

by Rebecca Chance

  The groin, he thought instantly. That was easy – make it cancer of a lymph node in his groin. He would just have to limp a bit, press his hand into his crotch and wince when he sat down or stood up . . .

  But why not go the whole way – make it somewhere she couldn’t possibly ever see it?

  ‘It’s testicular cancer, I’m afraid,’ he told Vivienne even more gravely, gloating secretly at his own brilliance. ‘They’re going to have to operate in the next couple of days. That’s why I turned up here so late. I had to come and tell you immediately. It’s stage three, I’m afraid. The expert says they don’t have effective statistics on the survival rates to give me, as very few men present with their cancer this advanced. But the prognosis –’ he took a long breath – ‘isn’t good.’

  ‘Oh, Angel!’

  Vivienne’s body sagged. He was quick to jump up and take a seat next to her on the sofa, collecting her torso gently into his arms, her tears dampening his shoulder.

  ‘I can’t bear it!’ she sobbed into his jacket. ‘This isn’t supposed to happen! First your mother gone so young, and now you getting sick! Grandmothers aren’t supposed to survive their grandchildren!’

  Angel stiffened at the mention of Pearl. He could barely tolerate hearing Vivienne speak his beloved mother’s name; some of the worst fights between him and Vivienne had been provoked by his hyper-sensitivity to any reference to his mother that might present her as not the perfect plaster saint of his imaginings. Vivienne felt his reaction and looked up, clinging to his lapels, her face wet, her eye pencil smudged.

  ‘We have to put the past behind us,’ she said, catching her breath, gradually regaining control of herself. ‘We can’t hold onto old grievances now, Angel. We’re all each other has!’

  Pearl had never told Angel who his father was, for the simple reason that she didn’t know herself. All she had said, when he had asked her why he didn’t have a daddy, was that he was enough for her, and she ought to be enough for him. And then she had either cried or got angry – which had taught Angel early on never to raise the subject.

  Brent, Pearl’s father, had died several years ago, and Vivienne had naturally attended the funeral. It would certainly still have been newsworthy to find out that the baby Vivienne had had out of wedlock had been fathered by a married man; but Brent was long retired, and there had been no press coverage that might have raised suspicions. It had been a quiet ceremony at a cemetery in La Jolla, California, attended by his widow (his fourth wife, thirty years younger than him), various ex-wives and children, extended family – and a small group of sobbing, black-clad women who were long-term fans of Brent’s work as a heroic neurosurgeon with an identical, criminal mastermind twin on the daily soap opera The Beautiful World Turns.

  What Vivienne said was quite true: if she had any distant relatives still alive, she had no contact with any of them. It had never bothered her. She had always believed that one made one’s own family in life, and had gathered around her a tribe of gay men with whom she felt infinitely more at ease than she did with her boring straight relatives – or, in fact, any of the straight men she had been involved with.

  Apart, of course, from Randon Cliffe. But Randon was long dead, having crashed the Cessna he was flying, drunk out of his mind, on New Year’s Eve, impulsively racing to see her in the wake of their second divorce. She had always hated him flying; she knew how reckless a driver he was, and she would never get in a plane if he was at the controls. She had always thought, wryly, after the first terrible waves of grief and loss had begun to abate, that it was typical of Randon to die in the way that would annoy her the most.

  ‘We’re all the family each other has,’ she repeated, sitting up straight again and dabbing at her eyes with Angel’s handkerchief. She said the words without a hint of self-pity; they were simply a statement of the facts. ‘I want to support you in any way I can. Is your insurance—’

  ‘So far it seems fine,’ Angel said cautiously. It hadn’t occurred to him until this moment, but if Vivienne were going to offer him money for non-existent medical treatments, that would be a welcome side benefit of this plan.

  ‘Any extra bills for things that aren’t covered, send them straight to Gregory,’ Vivienne said, crushing this hope. ‘He’ll make sure they’re taken care of immediately.’

  Damn, Angel thought. Wait, I wonder how hard it would be to fake some bills and set up a bank account with a medical-sounding name? I bet, with her tech skills, Nicole would be able to do that if I cut her in for a share . . .

  ‘Thank you so much,’ he said gratefully. ‘I have one of the best specialists in the world taking care of me, but there may well be extras that insurance doesn’t cover. I must confess, Grandma, though, it’s a very personal area – literally. It’s going to make me feel awkward to discuss, err, the details with you –’

  I’m a genius, he thought smugly, watching understanding flicker across his grandmother’s face. I’m an absolute bloody genius. No way can she press me to tell her whether I’m having a ball cut off, for instance. This covers me from ever getting caught out.

  ‘Oh my God! What about your fertility?’ Vivienne said, her eyes widening in horror as the thought hit her. The handkerchief fluttered down to her lap; all her attention focused on the fact that Angel might become sterile as a result of the treatments he would have to receive.

  This caught him off guard. He paused, swiftly reviewing the various options available to him, considering which would unlock his grandmother’s goodwill most effectively.

  ‘I didn’t ask,’ he said eventually, deciding that the best strategy was to keep his options open. ‘It all happened so fast – I only found the swelling two days ago, I had the Harley Street appointment this morning and went straight home to pack a bag and come to find you. I didn’t even think of asking that question. God.’

  He fell silent, as if letting this huge new potential issue sink in.

  ‘I never thought about having children,’ he said, watching his grandmother’s face intently, ‘but this kind of news . . . it changes everything. It makes you think about mortality, time running out . . . leaving something behind you on this earth . . . someone to carry on the Winter name . . .’

  With every clichéd phrase, he saw Vivienne nod more and more intently. Her lips were pressed together, her throat working as she tried to fight back a new wave of tears. With each swallow, the huge diamonds in her ears trembled and flashed brilliant light, their platinum setting designed to display the perfectly colourless stones, the highest grade possible. She reached out and took Angel’s hands, the diamonds in the bracelets on both wrists equally luminous, set off by her lightly tanned skin and the white robe.

  ‘You’re only thirty-two!’ she said, her tone piteous. ‘I thought there was so much time! And maybe there still is – but I’ve always hoped you’d settle down one day, raise a family . . .’

  For fuck’s sake, do you have any idea who I am? Angel thought, but his expression, if anything, became even more serious: he might have been contemplating the meaning of existence.

  ‘Can they . . .’ Vivienne was clearly choosing her words carefully, trying to convey her meaning without embarrassing her grandson with too much personal detail in her questions. She was by no means shy or modest, but she and Angel did not have the kind of close, loving bond established over decades that meant they could talk easily about such intimate physical issues. ‘I mean, I’m sure there are procedures that can be done . . . precautions that can be taken before you have to have any chemotherapy . . .’ she continued.

  ‘Just radiotherapy, thank God,’ Angel said swiftly. ‘That’s a piece of good luck.’

  ‘Wonderful! Wonderful! But still, in that area . . .’ Vivienne swallowed again. ‘Before that starts, couldn’t they . . . I’m sure they can . . . well, in any case, please, please bring the fertility issue up with the doctor immediately, darling. Please. No matter what it costs. You must have the best, most cutting-edge treatment.’ />
  ‘I will, Grandma,’ he promised. ‘I have the operation scheduled for two days’ time. I’ll make sure it all gets discussed thoroughly before then, and we’ll do everything possible.’

  ‘And you’re having it in London?’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘At the Wellington?’ Vivienne asked, naming the famous private hospital in St John’s Wood that hosted royalty from all around the world for surgical procedures. Nicknamed ‘The Dorchester’, after the Park Lane hotel owned by the Sultan of Brunei, for the amount of rich, titled Arabs it hosted, with its room-service menus, flat-screen TVs and etiquette-trained staff, it was the closest thing to a five-star hotel experience that one could have while undergoing surgery.

  Angel had prepared for this question. If he said he was having surgery at somewhere like the Wellington, or the St John and St Elizabeth, also in St John’s Wood, Vivienne would insist on visiting; even if he told her that he didn’t want her to come and see him, she would doubtless ring up, or send flowers, and would find out immediately from the hospital reception that he was not listed as a patient.

  ‘It’s being done in Harley Street,’ he said smoothly. ‘As an outpatient. They’re taking the lump out under local anaesthetic. If that goes as planned and there aren’t unforeseen complications – if it hasn’t spread further than they anticipate – then I’ll move on to radiotherapy very quickly.’

  God, I’m good, he reflected smugly. That sounded incredibly plausible.

  ‘I’ll come back to London with you,’ Vivienne said instantly.

  She lived most of the year in Montreux, on Lake Geneva, Swiss residency being by far the most advantageous way to lower her tax bill. Wealthy foreigners were attracted to Switzerland by its fiscal deal permits, which effectively meant that as long as they did not earn income in the country, they not only paid significantly lower taxes than Swiss citizens, but were not required to declare their non-Swiss income and assets to the tax authorities. Although the Swiss government might not make money by taxing the holders of such permits, the presence of vast amounts of celebrity residents naturally meant a large revenue stream for the local economy; and, of course, the property market flourished as foreigners paid ever-increasing sums for their homes.

  Naturally, however, Vivienne maintained a place in London too, an apartment in a mansion block on Park Lane; she could be in the country for up to three months a year without incurring British taxes on her income. This was a serious consideration, as with her thriving lines of perfume, skincare, cosmetics and jewellery, Vivienne was earning more now than she had ever done in her heyday as an actress.

  ‘I’ll stay in London as long as you need,’ she assured Angel, squeezing his hands passionately. ‘As long as you’re in treatment. This is more important to me than anything else. Anything at all.’

  Angel knew exactly what she was saying, and he was deeply impressed with the success of his strategy. The cancer story had been intended as a way to get close to his grandmother again, an excuse for making contact with her so close to news of her jewellery auction leaking out. It was only now that he was seeing its effect on her – including Vivienne’s concerns for the possibility of his being able to father her great-grandchildren – that he was realizing that this was a huge opportunity in itself. Vivienne relinquishing her cherished non-resident British tax status for a year would be a huge financial sacrifice. If she was willing to do that for Angel, what else might she be prepared to offer?

  ‘Thank you, Grandma,’ he said in his best heartfelt voice. ‘I know we haven’t been close. But this can be a fresh start for both of us.’

  ‘Yes, Angel,’ his grandmother said firmly, her confidence returning, her chin raising. ‘A fresh start. That’s what we need. You’ll be fine, darling. I know you will. You’ll come through this. Honestly, I see it as a wake-up call to both of us in all sorts of ways.’

  Her eyes flashed as she confronted the future, determining to make the best of it, as she had always done.

  ‘And Angel,’ she said, fixing those magnificent eyes on her grandson. ‘Tell me, darling – are you seeing anyone?’

  Chapter Nine

  Tylösand – the next day

  ‘So, tell me about yourself, Christine!’ Vivienne said with a smile so friendly that Christine felt as if she had been wrapped in a mink blanket. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

  This line of questioning was so unexpected that Christine choked on the foam of the cappuccino she was drinking. To her great surprise, Vivienne had rung her room at eight o’clock that morning, inviting her to breakfast; Christine had thrown herself out of bed, into the shower and then into her best smart-casual outfit with lightning speed, brewing herself a pot of coffee to make sure she was alert for the rendezvous.

  She had definitely needed the coffee. The night before, she and Tor had returned to the hotel bar for dinner, Christine a bundle of nerves at having been so close to making her pitch to Vivienne and then frustrated at the last moment. Tor had been eager to reassure Christine that Vivienne would definitely set up another meeting, while Vivienne herself had been the soul of politeness on saying goodnight to Christine. Still, it had been hard for Christine to put aside her anxiety, and she wished now that she had known Vivienne would be calling so soon. As it was, she had drowned her worries in red wine and stayed up much later than she would otherwise have done.

  Christine’s head had been spinning the whole time; not just with anxiety, but with the unbelievable fact that she had not only met Vivienne Winter, but found her open and friendly – even amused that Christine had practically stalked her by following her to Sweden. Tor, naturally, had been pumped up by his success in helping her, and their conversation had been wild, silly, delightful and giggly: banter about Russian sailors, Tor improvising a silly song about a beautiful woman who, like Christine, had blue eyes, freckles and light brown hair, which had caused fellow diners to look over indulgently as she blushed. One particularly jolly chap actually joined in the chorus.

  There had been lots of toasts and clinking glasses, and a second bottle of red wine with dinner; when Tor finally settled the bill and they stood up to leave, Christine had realized instantly that she was very drunk. Her knees had buckled, and she’d grabbed the back of her armchair for support, wobbling so visibly that Tor had practically jumped over to help her, taking her arm.

  She had been mortified, but Tor had just laughed.

  ‘Hey,’ he said easily, ‘you had a big day! You met Vivienne Winter and me! I know, who cares about Vivienne when you have me to talk to, right? No wonder you needed to let off steam!’

  This made her giggle even as she gratefully leaned on his arm, like a Victorian heroine out for a walk in the park with an admirer. Propping her up effortlessly with one strong forearm, Tor had reached into the jug of water on the table and extracted an ice cube. Holding it to the back of her neck, he laughed again at the shocked expression on her face as the freezing ice cube touched her skin.

  ‘Keep it there till we get you back to your room,’ he had said comfortably. ‘It’ll help.’

  Although he had indeed escorted her to her hotel room, there had been no kiss at the door. Christine had been too busy just concentrating on standing up straight and pressing the ice cube to the back of her neck; it did help, but she was still mortified. She usually held her drink better than this. Tor was too sensible and well mannered to pressure a clearly drunk woman for a kiss goodnight, though she did remember his lips pressing briefly to her forehead before he held the door wide for her and told her that he’d ring her tomorrow . . .

  The sound of the phone shrilling like a mynah bird so early had been a nasty shock, but Christine was young and resilient: a lukewarm shower and two Solpadeine had worked wonders. Adrenalin was surging through her at the anticipation of the Herculean task ahead. She wasn’t foolish or naive enough to think that she could convince Vivienne in just one conversation to agree to use Berkeley as her auctioneers; her goal today was to pull off a successfu
l first pitch, which would open the door to a full series of meetings with the whole Fine Jewellery department, plus the Berkeley partners.

  Christine felt like a sprinter ducked and ready with her feet on the blocks, a race car revving up at the starting line. She had been ready for this for days, was champing at the bit to get started with the business meeting; so Vivienne’s question about her relationship status took her completely aback.

  ‘I’m not, actually,’ she answered, wiping the cappuccino foam from her lips as tidily as she could. ‘Seeing anyone, that is.’

  ‘But you must have plenty of admirers,’ Vivienne said, and, if anything, her smile grew even warmer. The extraordinary violet eyes sparkled reminiscently and the lips, less full than they once had been, but still beautifully shaped, quirked up at the corners. ‘Oh, the fun of being your age! I had the most wonderful times . . . How old are you, my dear?’

  ‘Twenty-six,’ Christine said, and saw Vivienne’s eyebrows quirk upwards in such a familiar expression that it gave Christine a little shiver of delight; she had seen Vivienne make that same gesture in so many iconic films.

  The eyebrows were dyed brown and pencilled in deftly to fill the gaps, Vivienne’s eye make-up done with equal expertise. Not even the loyal Gregory was allowed to see her without her make-up and one of her many wigs or turbans. She had been so prudent over the years with skincare and surgeries, having the minimum possible performed: the wattles around her neck removed, and the bags under her eyes and the sag in her eyelids whisked away with blepharoplasty. She knew very well that if her eyes were as astonishingly vivid and almond-shaped as ever, people would barely notice the crow’s feet around them.