So she had moved on, spending that fatal New Year’s Eve with a lover, not a bottle of brandy. Vivienne was aware that Randon had made that last, drunken flight out of desperation, because he knew that for her, the break-up was final this time. He had never meant to kill himself, she was sure of that. But the recklessness that made him so dangerously attractive, his love for the impulsive, dramatic gesture, had been fatally exacerbated by a sense that this time, he had nothing left to lose.
New Year’s Eve had never, since then, been a date of celebration for Vivienne. She could only see it as an end, never a beginning. As she entered her villa, Gregory knew not to help her off with her furs. Instead, he moved ahead of her to open one of the French windows that led onto the terrace, with its magnificent view of Montreux and Lake Geneva below. Normally, Vivienne would have kicked off her shoes on entering the house, but tonight, still swaddled in her sables, she followed Gregory across the huge living room, stepping outside as he poured her a Calvados in a snifter glass and brought it out to where she stood on the terrace.
Vivienne did not drink it, however. Taking the glass with a nod of thanks, she set it on the wide stone balcony and stood, elbows propped on the balcony, as Gregory retired to the kitchen to foam milk for her bedtime drink, to which he would add a few drops of amaretto. Below her shone the bright white headlights of cars descending the hill road to join the midnight party in Montreux, their red tail lights flashing in and out of the curves like traces of fire. Villas set into the hillside gleamed softly, their windows curtained against the cold night air.
There were very few stars tonight. She had never stood here with Randon, but they had both been night owls, had often gazed at the midnight sky together. He knew most of the constellations, and after pointing them out to her with an air of triumph, he was prone to quote Keats:
‘And when I see upon the night’s starred face
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance . . .’
But Randon never continued the sonnet to its finish. Beautiful as its last couplet was, its words were quite opposed to how Vivienne and Randon had chosen to live their lives.
‘. . . I stand alone and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.’
To the two of them, love and fame were everything; and not all kinds of love, either. They had loved each other and themselves with equal intensity. For Vivienne, the love of a mother for her daughter, or a grandmother for her grandson, had been lesser things. Randon and she had never been more than children themselves, she knew – selfish, spoilt children who had never grown up, reaching for their objects of passion, ignoring anything that stood in their way.
At her age, Vivienne was brutally honest with herself about who she was and the choices she had made. She had pushed Pearl aside for Randon, and she had never looked after Angel the way she should have done. She remembered a line from that film she had shot decades ago, In Love and War, playing the Spanish peasant girl, with Randon as the heroic British rifleman: ‘Take what you want, and pay for it, says God.’ It was a Spanish proverb; she had delivered that line over his dying body, tears pouring from her magnificent eyes. Even in her unconvincing accent, she had reduced audiences around the world to tears.
It was exactly what she and Randon had done: taken what they wanted, and paid the price. Looking back, she could acknowledge that Pearl and Angel had been part of that price.
But only to a degree. They were adults. They had made their own choices, and in their turn had chosen the consequences. It was so painful, still, to remember Angel as a little boy, that adorable child, so beautiful, so innocent, forced by Pearl that terrible day in Paris to hide the jewels that she had stolen . . . Thierry’s body on the floor, blood pouring from his smashed face . . . and then Angel himself lying in her boudoir, his face broken and bloody in a horrible echo of Thierry. Oh, those cries of Angel’s when Baxter led him from the room all those years ago, when Vivienne had forced Pearl to give her custody of him, his little heart breaking at being separated from his mother . . .
Had Angel been doomed from that moment? Vivienne had asked herself that question many times. After that scene – after seeing his mother murder a man to cover up her own crime – would Angel ever have had a chance to be normal? Even if Vivienne had spent more time with him, would that have helped? After all, what did she, a film star from childhood, know about being normal? She had failed, signally, with Pearl. For Angel, she had tried to find the best nannies and schools that money could buy, and that hadn’t worked either.
Vivienne had been a great lover, but a terrible mother and grandmother. That was the truth, and Vivienne faced the truth squarely. She had chosen her two great loves, fame and romance, over her daughter and her grandson, and she would almost certainly make the same decisions if she had it to do over again.
Vivienne knew that she wasn’t crying. And yet her face felt damp, she realized; damp and icy cold.
She looked up to the black sky. The long-forecast snow was here, falling so softly that she hadn’t noticed it at first. It was time to finish the ritual. Time to go inside to her cosy bed, her warm, foamy milk and her memories. She never took a sleeping pill on New Year’s Eve. She liked to lie in bed, tucked up and snug, indulging herself in a rhapsody of wonderful memories of Randon in his heyday, when he had been at the height of his beauty. The glory they had lived together, the sheer, overwhelming delight of being the king and queen of the world for those wonderful years . . .
Ah well, nothing lasted forever. Snow was falling into the glass of Calvados; if she left it much longer, it would dilute, and Randon would have hated that. Vivienne raised the glass, icy now and frosted with snow, and poured the brandy in a long, slow trail of tawny liquid over the edge of the balcony.
Gregory, who had been with her for years, was familiar with her New Year’s Eve ritual. He would never disturb her, just as Dieter, too, had been tactful enough to leave her alone for as long as she needed. But Gregory was concerned at Vivienne staying out for long in the cold midnight air, and by now the snow was falling fast. He allowed himself the faintest tap on the open French window, the tiniest creak as it moved on its hinges, an infinitesimal signal that it was time for her to come in.
He was quite right. It was freezing, and it was very late. Pulling her sables closer around her, Vivienne turned back to the house. Gregory was waiting to help her over the threshold and take the furs; Vivienne made her way to the lift that would carry her up to her room, the bedtime drink waiting for her on her bedside table in its insulated mug, the silk pyjamas folded for her on the coverlet, the cashmere bedjacket, and Louison curled up by the pillows, purring softly.
Gregory began to pull the heavy velvet curtains closed, moving more slowly than usual. It had been a long day for him, too, and he was tired. Outside, the snow was falling more and more heavily, settling in a thick layer, muffling everything in a pall of white until, in only a few minutes, the brandy that Vivienne had poured out in memory of the love of her life was no longer visible.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to:
The amazing team at Pan Macmillan, who continue to be the most fantastic publishers – smart, loyal and brilliant. My editor Wayne Brookes is not only superb but a hilarious correspondent! I will miss the lovely and efficient Louise Buckley and Eloise Wood, but the charming Alex Saunders is already tasked with giving me information about how to do my hair for future events . . . Kate Green is a great publicist and Jeremy Trevathan a wonderful and very amusing publisher! Stuart Dwyer does a terrific job with my UK sales and I’m so grateful to James Annal for his fantastic cover designs.
Dan Evans at Plan 9, who does such a superb job with my website and business cards; you should all use him for yours.
Matt B, my reading twin, as always, for all his help, support and loans of Eleanor Burford/Philippa Carr/Jean Plaidy/Kathleen Kello
w/Anna Percival/Elbur Ford books!
Sarah Weinman, who fell over while walking and reading Mile High and subsequently raved about it so much a publisher promptly emailed me to ask about US rights!
The team of Facebookers who suggested names of ‘Songs to Push People off the Mountain to’: Dawn Turnbull for ‘Free Falling’, Tony Wood for ‘Slip Sliding Away’, Alison Gaylin for ‘Push It’, Franco Milazzo for ‘He’ll Be Coming Down the Mountain’, Sally Quilford for ‘Come Fly With Me’, Nikki Bywater for ‘Skyfall’, and Britin Haller for ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’.
Lee Clatworthy for suggesting ‘libertine’ as a perfect, non-sexist way to describe Grace Kelly’s wild ways with men!
The gorgeous team of McKenna Jordan and John Kwiatkowski and everyone at Murder by the Book, for bringing my smut to Texas.
I couldn’t have written this book without the Rebecca Chance fanfriends on Facebook and Twitter cheering me up with delightful banter! My thanks goes to Angela Collings, Dawn Hamblett, Tim Hughes, Lauren O’Brien, Jason Ellis, Tony Wood, Melanie Hearse, Jen Sheehan, Helen Smith, Ilana Bergsagel, Katherine Everett, Julian Corkle, Robin Greene, Diane Jolly, Adam Pietrowski, John Soper, Gary Jordan, Louise Bell, Lisa Respers France, Stella Duffy, Shelley Silas, Rowan Coleman, Serena Mackesy, Tim Daly, Joy T. Chance, Lori Smith Jennaway, Alex Marwood, Sallie Dorsett, Alice Taylor, Joanne Wade, Marjorie Tucker, Teresa Wilson, Ashley James Cardwell, Margery Flax, Clinton Reed, Valerie Laws, Kelly Butterworth, Kirsty Maclennan, Amanda Marie Fulton, Marie Causey, Shana Mehtaab, Tracy Hanson, Beverley Ann Hopper, Nancy Pace Koffman, Katrina Smith, Helen Lusher, Russ Fry, Gavin Robinson, Laura Ford, Mary Mulkeen, Eileen McAninly, Pamela Cardone, Barb McNaughton, Shannon Mitchell, Claire Chiswell, Paula Louise Standen, Dawn Turnbull, Fiona Morris, Michelle Heneghan and Bryan Quertermous, Derek Jones and Colin Butts, the very exclusive (i.e. tiny) club of my straight male readers. Plus, of course, Paul Burston and the loyal Polari crew – Alex Hopkins, Ange Chan, Sian Pepper, Enda Guinan, Belinda Davies, John Southgate, Paul Brown, James Watts, Ian Sinclair Romanis and Jon Clarke. And the handful of beloved relatives brave enough to read my books – Dalia Hartman Bergsagel, Ilana Bergsagel, Sandy Makarwicz and Jean Polito. If I’ve left anyone out, please do send me a message and I will correct it in the next book!
As always – thanks to the Board.
And love to the FLs of FB, who are all diamonds with a few killers mixed in!
Praise for Rebecca Chance
‘If you’re a fan of Jilly Cooper, you’ll LOVE Rebecca Chance’
Vina Jackson
‘Sizzles with glamour, romance and revenge. Unputdownable. A glittering page-turner . . . had me hooked from the first page’
Louise Bagshawe
‘This is a romp of a read . . . a sort of Jackie Collins-light’
Daily Mail
‘Sizzling sex scenes and plenty of steamy encounters make for a very naughty but nice read’
Sun
‘This one will have you glued to the sun lounger’
Cosmopolitan
‘Glitzy, scandalous and hedonistic, this compelling read is a real page-turner’
Closer
‘Hilarious!’
OK!
‘If you want sex and scandal, you won’t go wrong with this gem’
Woman’s Own
Rebecca Chance is the pseudonym under which Lauren Henderson writes bonkbusters. Under her own name, she has written seven detective novels in her Sam Jones mystery series and three romantic comedies. Her non-fiction book Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating has been optioned as a feature film, and her four-book young adult mystery series, published in the US, is Anthony-nominated. As Rebecca Chance, she has written the Sunday Times bestselling bonkbusters Divas, Bad Girls, Bad Sisters, Killer Heels, Bad Angels, Killer Queens, Bad Brides, Mile High and now Killer Diamonds, which feature her signature mix of social satire, racy sex and roller-coaster thriller plots. Rebecca also writes for many major publications, including the Telegraph, the Guardian, Cosmopolitan and Grazia.
Born in London, she has lived in Tuscany and New York, and she travels extensively to research glamorous locations for the books. She is now settled in London, where she lives with her husband. Her website is www.rebeccachance.co.uk. She has a devoted following on social media: you can find her on Facebook as Rebecca.Chance.Author, and on Twitter and Instagram as @MsRebeccaChance. Her interests include cocktail-drinking, men’s gymnastics and the Real Housewives series.
By Rebecca Chance
Divas
Bad Girls
Bad Sisters
Killer Heels
Bad Angels
Killer Queens
Bad Brides
Mile High
Killer Diamonds
First published 2016 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2016 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-8286-0
Copyright © Rebecca Chance 2016
Cover: www.headdesign.co.uk
Title lettering: www.ruthrowland.co.uk
Cover Images © Shutterstock
The right of Rebecca Chance to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Killer Diamonds Page 43
