Most of the best set wouldn’t date him – the pretty blondes with the long limbs and white teeth, swinging their tennis rackets and setting their cap at the hedge-fund guys, the investment bankers. But that still left a lot of rich pickings. The ugly chicks, the girls who were overweight with the dull skin and disappointed eyes, they were there for the plucking. They were the nervous ones, the aggressively political girls – camouflaging the pain of not being wanted with activism and ideology.
Edward was careful. It wouldn’t do to leave a trail of broken hearts. So he threw parties and dinners, and invited a good selection of the richest wallflowers from Wall Street – ugly chicks with great financial résumés. He was sociable, he didn’t hit on them, taking his time to scope them out.
His plan now was to date just one, maybe two, if that didn’t work out. He would be remiss if he didn’t get some chick to the altar in three dating partners.
First, he had to ensure they really were solvent. Not just pretend rich, like him. Was there a solid trust fund in the girl’s own name? Were her parents the kind of crazy liberals that left their money to foundations? Did she have her own house, income, stock portfolio? Were the parents achingly rich? Were there brothers and sisters? Who had she dated before?
It took time, and it was work Edward didn’t want to contract out. If the slightest whisper got back to any of them, he was ruined. He investigated public records and gossip columns, chatted to friends about his own investments, drew them out . . . Some wine, cigars for the men, moving on to a private smoking club where the scent of cigars, money and fine cognac all mingled together. By the end of a month of socialising, he had three women picked out, and had already dined with two of them alone.
The room came back into focus and he remembered Lena was in front of him, one of the only staff he had retained in the house: the cook. You couldn’t get rid of a brilliant cook that worked cheaply. Edward liked his food, and there was something so colonial about having servants.
‘Yes? What?’
He was filled with foreboding. What had she seen? What would she say to his mother? Perhaps he’d been stupid, keeping her around.
‘It’s on the computer.’
He stared at the older woman. ‘I’m not going to the computer. What is it?’
‘Well, sir, it’s on one of the blogs. As Mrs Johnson is coming back . . . You wouldn’t want her upset . . . I think there may be some publicity tomorrow about a certain person. Perhaps if you can get her to delay her return just one more week, it might be better.’
‘A certain person? Is my father returning?’
‘Oh. No, sir. Nothing like that.’ Lena twisted her hands. ‘It’s just, you know, that awful young woman. Dina Kane.’
The shock hit Edward like a physical punch to the chest. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘Dina Kane, sir, if you remember.’
He remembered. ‘But she was fired. Ruined. She can’t work again. What are they saying on the fucking computer?’
Lena winced. ‘Sir, please . . .’
Edward bit his lip. Rage was simmering, he could feel it, that old rage he thought had gone, it was just lying in his blood, waiting for a spark to ignite it. He felt dizzy, sick, like his careful world was shattering – shattering again – just as he was putting it back together.
‘Tell me,’ he hissed.
‘That she’s opening a store.’
‘For Torch?’ Had that jerk off, Ludo Morgan, taken her back?
‘No, sir. Her own store, they say. And a website. It’s happening tomorrow. All quite secret, but the blogs are leaking now.’
Edward Johnson stared. ‘Lena, you read the beauty blogs?’
His cook was a mature woman, but she was slender and dark haired, somewhat elegant. He supposed he had never looked at her as a person before.
‘I . . . Sometimes. Yes, sir. Sometimes.’
He took in her dress. It was dark and well cut, and her hair had a short, fashionable shape to it.
‘And I read up on the news when that girl was fired, sir, and you were very pleased.’
‘I hardly noticed,’ snapped Edward.
‘Oh. I’m sorry, sir. I suppose I thought you might. Never mind – my mistake.’
She made to move away. Edward forced down the bile, the impulse to grab her and shake her by the shoulders.
‘Lena, wait! If you think it might upset Momma, I should like to know the details. I’ll go and sit in the study. Can you email the piece to me?’
‘Yes, sir. Of course. Can I go?’
He waved his hand and dismissed her. ‘Yes. And I’ll eat out tonight.’
‘Very good, Mr Edward.’
The last thing he wanted right now was chatter with this woman: discussing Dina Kane . . . giving something away . . .
She scuttled off, and he forced himself to wait, to pour a large whiskey from the decanter into a cut-crystal glass, so that he was not rushing off to his office. He didn’t want to give Lena clues. This was important; he didn’t yet know why, but it was important to him.
Dina Kane was off limits.
He sipped the whiskey, neat, feeling the alcohol burn against his tongue and his lips. He allowed the tang of it to slow his anger, make him stay there, to work through the spurt of rage. Agonisingly slowly, he drank one finger of the golden-brown spirit and it relaxed him a little.
Then, finally, he headed off to his study.
The computer was there before him. His email box was blinking with the link from Lena.
Edward clicked on it, sucking in his breath, and read.
Big launch tomorrow. Dina Kane vanished from the scene when she got fired by Torch – but now she’s back in a big way. Dina has been doing more than just counting her savings in the piggy bank. She’s opening an exclusive new boutique in Times Square, selling top-rated beauty finds. Dina Kane, Inc. is aiming to be the new Sephora, but Dina has added a new twist: the walls of her ultra-chic basement getaway sport scrolling videos of real women being made over by the products on sale. It’s hypnotic – as is the underground oasis Kane and her architects have built. You won’t believe how the tiny space, formerly a strip club, transports you to an underground jungle, serene with waterfalls, white woods and natural lights. But every inch is beautifully used, with fewer products on shelves than normal, yet each one a standout. Kane has found some of the best freelance make-up artists in the city, and samples are available with larger purchases. Her base range is high-end. We predict a riot – and that’s before we even consider her stunning website.
The preview, which bloggers were shown, of DinaKane.com got most of us very excited! Expect a wider range of first-class beauty finds, brushes and accessories, and – more than that – a masterclass in Kane’s natural look on every page. Just like a designer fashion site, she breaks new ground for make-up by including video tutorials with every item. That’s right – see your Bobbi Brown Brick in Pink Quartz applied to the face, or an African-American model experimenting live with IMAN’s BB Crème! DinaKane.com is too cute. And it suggests other ‘pieces’ you might want to go with your purchases . . . An Urban Decay eye shadow palette matches beautifully with a Chanel bronzer; do you need a Shu Uemura brow pencil with those Kevyn Aucoin brushes?
I don’t like hype, here on Unfashionista, but I think we may just be seeing the next big name in beauty – and, in the next days and months, we’ll find out!
Edward read the review twice, three times. There were pictures of some kind of spa with make-up in it, a hanging garden, a waterfall, bright daylight flooding a basement. It looked architectural, stunning, inviting – deeply rich.
Toys for girls – wealthy girls. He wanted to kill her. How the hell . . . ? How had this happened? With what money? It had barely been more than a few months. How did she get up this fucking fast? Times Square? His head was spinning. How had she found the stock? Wasn’t there a clause? A fucking clause that stopped her working?
Dina Kane was supposed to be falling apart
in a corner somewhere. He’d intended to finish the job, get her addicted, get her fucked up, just like her worthless brother, after he was done at home. Managing his mother and picking a girl – those were his priorities. Settling the money, the finance, the easy way.
Once he had a rock-solid prenup and title to the new wife’s assets, Edward planned to go looking for Dina. The dead brother was meant to be a warm up.
He had to think. But the rage was rising inside him, rising into a frenzy. Impotent and enraged, Edward thumped at his desk.
The phone rang.
‘Yes?’ he barked.
‘Edward? Oh, it’s Janet . . . Is this a bad time?’
‘Janet? Jesus! I’m busy!’ One of his girlfriends. He tensed with annoyance.
‘Oh. Oh, OK; I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
This was Janet – his Janet; if he worked hard enough, she was his ticket to comfort and fortune. What the hell was wrong with him?
‘No, Janet, wait. Wait . . .’ Panicking, he tried to force some calm into his voice. ‘It’s a fine time to talk, don’t worry—’
‘It’s OK. I didn’t expect to be shouted at.’ Janet was teary down the phone, reproachful, exactly what he hated in women. ‘We’ve only been out once, I mean . . .’
‘Yes – absolutely. I didn’t mean to snap; I’m sorry. Can I take you out tonight to apologise?’
There was a pause. ‘I’m busy tonight.’
‘Tomorrow night?’ He kicked himself under the desk, now he was chasing, sounding desperate.
‘I have a date with Peter Lucas tomorrow night. We can talk some other time – maybe,’ she said, and hung up.
‘Goddamn it!’ Edward shrieked. He slammed down the phone and buried his head in his hands.
Peter Lucas was his rival; a poor but sleekly handsome young guy on a full scholarship to Columbia, he was invited to parties as a guest, getting a taste for the high life. He specialised in the rich, ugly chicks, although he dated around, not settling on any one of them. Edward knew he was after Janet, but hadn’t worried. At least Edward had a good name, had his own townhouse, a presence on the Upper West Side. Lucas was some pretty schmuck from Brooklyn.
But he was soft-spoken. Greedy, not pathological.
Pathological. Edward had wondered – every now and then – in the days after he’d found out that Johnny Kane OD’d . . . But so fucking what? If I’m pathological, Dina Kane made me so.
He would watch the launch tomorrow. He didn’t kid himself that it would fall flat.
Dina Kane was his disease. And Edward Johnson needed it cured.
Their home in the Hamptons was truly magnificent. He had spent many happy days here. And Susan had built up the estate, planning the garden, the tennis courts, looking after their boys and the dogs. Perhaps they were detached, but they had been a team.
The sprawling mansion reached out, through its Italian front garden with four interlinked saltwater pools, down to a stretch of private beach, one of the largest in Sagaponack. He would sit here with his phone and make calls, with the ocean crashing before him, feeling calmer, feeling the intensity of triumph at his success: a wife and children who would never want for anything; being able to afford any toy he chose – even his own jet, although he only kept a modest Gulfstream V.
Joel drove to the house. He didn’t park the Lexus in the garage; he left it right in front of the front door, which was open slightly. Maria, his housekeeper, was dusting along the marble staircase.
‘Where is she?’ he said.
‘Out in the garden, señor. I think she just finish tennis.’
‘Very good. I need to talk to her privately. Tell the staff to give us some space, OK?’
Maria lifted a brow. ‘Yes, Mr Gaines.’
She knew better than to ask her boss what he was doing. When Gaines spoke like that, nobody questioned him.
He waited there a little, as she scurried away, listening to the sound of workers quietly moving to the back wing of the house. And then he walked outside.
Susan was bending over some rose bushes with her secateurs. She always liked clipping fresh roses from the garden; they grew all kinds, a riot of colour, across the spectrum, with flowering from May to August. Picking flowers was as close as she ever really got to getting involved, but it helped her to believe she had a green thumb. And, indeed, she had a good eye, telling the gardener what to plant, the cook what to make and the housekeepers how they should store Joel’s things. She ran a tight ship at home and, as a chief of staff, he had no complaints; as a mom, she was fine.
It was just their marriage that was dead. As he breathed in, feeling the weight of pain across his chest, of what he was about to do, Joel Gaines suddenly understood that he had been aching for years. It wasn’t just the sex, as routine and dull as that was, scratching an itch; it was the lack of adventure, of passion – for him, for life. They never argued politics. They never talked late into the night, not unless it was about the kids. He had friends, business deals, his sons: that was his life. Plus this lovely, comfortable home, which had become a prison.
‘Susan,’ he said.
She stood up straight, surprised. ‘Honey! I wasn’t expecting you till tonight. What happened? The office close early or something? Look –’ she thrust a bouquet at him: pale green and cream roses – ‘I thought these for your study. You like them?’
God almighty, but this hurts. He took the roses, laid them down on the grass.
‘Susan, I have something to say to you. It’s important. Can we sit down somewhere? Go inside?’
She blinked at his tone. ‘What? Why? Are you sick?’
‘I’m not sick. But we need to talk. Can you come into the study with me?’
Looking anxious, she followed him indoors, into his downstairs study. It had a window looking out on to the garden, but it was small and private, and he could close the door.
‘Joel, you’re scaring me.’
‘Please sit, Susan.’
She did, on the burgundy love seat, and he faced her on the hard English oak chair he used at his desk, turning it to look directly at her.
‘We’ve lost our money?’ Her face was grey with anxiety. ‘Something at work? Oh, God, Joel, you’re not into some kind of Bernie Madoff thing, or anything . . . ?’
‘No. Nothing like that. Susan, there is no good way to say this, so I’ll just come out with it. I want a divorce.’
She slumped. ‘What? What did you say?’
‘I want a divorce. I’m in love with someone else, and our marriage has been miserable for years now. We’ve been living separate lives – emotionally, at least.’
Tears sprang to her eyes, and that made Joel feel awful, sick. The powerful weapon of tears. He didn’t love Susan; he couldn’t spend the rest of his life with her. But having to hurt her was dreadful.
‘What are you talking about? We’re not miserable. We have two kids. We have a lovely life!’
‘Our boys are grown, Susan. Yes, the life is lovely –’ he gestured around the garden, warm in the sun, at the roses and the sea beyond – ‘but you’re not in love with me anymore. Are you?’
‘I am!’ she protested.
‘You’re not, Susan. You don’t want me in bed; you don’t ask me to come home and spend time with you. We live very beautifully, but we live separate lives. I work; you do . . . your thing – socially and otherwise.’ He could hardly say, Shopping, yoga, Pilates, visiting the salon.
Her tearful face was hardening now – to anger. ‘You said you’re in love with someone else. You cheated on me? The mother of your children? How could you do that?’
Gaines didn’t deny it. ‘I’m sorry.’
There had been no sex, but there was intent. Flirtation. Bonding. Love, even. Could he say he hadn’t cheated on her?
‘What is her name?’ Susan hissed. ‘Tell me that bitch’s name!’
He swallowed. ‘Dina Kane.’
There was no point in hiding it; she would know soon enough.
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br /> Susan blinked. ‘What? Dina Kane? That girl Ludo Morgan dumped? The girl at the party?’
‘Yes. It was after that night that I fell in love with her.’
Susan looked around wildly. ‘But, Joel . . . you can’t do this. We’re married. You made vows to me. We have kids. I’ve always been honest and faithful . . . and you’re leaving me?’ She was frowning with rage but not crying anymore; her face was red; she was screeching. ‘It’s just a mid-life crisis! You’re an old man to her, an old man with money. Don’t you get it? She’s playing you for a fool. You can’t throw away our family for this!’
‘Susan –’ he wanted to take her hand, to calm her down, but didn’t dare – ‘please. Dina didn’t ask me to do this. She doesn’t even know I’m doing it. I haven’t spoken to her for weeks.’
‘Don’t defend that slut to me!’
‘I want you to understand this is about us . . . first. For years now, we haven’t had a real marriage. You reject me in bed.’
‘Lies! I never turn you down.’
‘And you never ask me, either. It was always a duty to you, Susan. Do you realise, in all these years together, you never once came to me and asked me to take you to bed?’
She flushed. ‘I’m not built that way. It’s up to you to lead . . .’
‘Men want to be desired, just like women do. Susan, you don’t ask me to come back home here unless there’s an event, or a party. You never come down to Manhattan to spend time with me in the season.’
Susan Gaines bit her lip. ‘But you never said you wanted it!’
‘I need you to take the initiative, not simply act like a secretary that runs the Hamptons house. Look, we have wonderful children together, Susan, but once they were grown, you just weren’t interested in me. I always thought you were a great mom. But I want a wife, a partner . . . More than this.’
‘Well, you never complained to me.’
He winced; that was true.
‘If you were unhappy, why didn’t you say anything? What are you going to tell our children? My children?’
Joel sighed, long and deep. ‘Yes. You’re right. I should have said something. But I didn’t know how much I missed being loved until I found a girl who really did love me.’
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