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‘He has a Nobel prize, honey,’ said Christina, wide-eyed. ‘I have to hand it to her – it’s pure genius!’
‘What’s genius?’ asked Donna, taking a sip of champagne. She had stopped breast-feeding especially for the party.
‘Deferred gratification, darling,’ said Christina, as if it was obvious. Seeing Donna’s blank look, she patiently explained. ‘Rula’s decided not to go for the really big catch,’ replied Christina thoughtfully. ‘Not immediately, anyway. Conrad’s not good-looking, but he’s not exactly rich either, so all the decent men, and I’m talking top fifty on the Sunday Times Rich List here, they’ll see this gorgeous woman marrying an egghead and think, “Ah! Rula isn’t interested in money! She married him for love, the lucky dog.” So when she’s done with him, mark my words, that honey is going to be in hot demand. The world thinks she’s a beautiful woman not interested in money, but the kicker is that her ex-husband was a world-class brain. Rich men are desperate to feel clever. Marry Rula and they can bask in Conrad’s glory.’
Donna whistled, in awe of Christina’s wisdom.
‘Do you spend hours thinking about this stuff?’ asked Karin, taking a Parma-ham wrapped fig from a platter.
‘Darling, we all spend hours thinking about this stuff,’ smiled Christina with a wink.
‘Anyway, on to more serious matters … who did the catering, Donna honey?’ Christina continued. ‘I’m looking for someone to do Joshua’s birthday. We’re looking for something tasteful but simple.’
‘Like recreating Narnia?’ said Karin, recalling the last birthday party Christina had arranged for her nine-year-old stepson, Ariel’s child by his first wife. Their whole Mayfair mansion had been transformed into a C S Lewis novel complete with real snow, actors dressed as fauns and shoulder-high piles of Turkish delight.
‘We want Joshua to have the best of everything,’ said Christina knowingly.
‘Actually, it’s the chefs from the farm who have put this together,’ said Donna. ‘Everything bei
ng served here today you can buy in the farm shop.’
Donna had recently opened a spa and organic farm store on the Delemere family estate, a bucolic 2000-acre parcel of land in Oxfordshire. You couldn’t seem to move these days for socialites setting up children’s clothes shops or designing handbags, thought Karin wryly. Of course, she wouldn’t class herself with the bored lunching classes and their expensive hobbies. Karenza swimwear was becoming big business: turnover of £20 million a year, two more shop launches planned for the autumn and ideas for a lingerie line rolling out next year. Seb’s death had made her a rich woman, but within the next five years she was determined that the money she now had in her Coutt’s bank account would seem like pocket money.
‘You really should be thinking about promoting yourself as the Eco-Brit Martha Stewart,’ said Karin, looking at her slim, eager friend. ‘I know the farm shop is doing well, but you should start expanding the franchise as soon as possible. The possibilities of lifestyle brand extensions from Delemere are endless.’
‘Do you always have to talk business?’ grumbled Diana, draining her flute of champagne.
Karin smiled thinly. She felt sorry for women like Diana who had nothing to do except shop. After drifting into fashion PR, Diana had been working on a promotion for a Savile Row tailor. Dropping into the showroom one day, she had met Martin Birtwell, rising Internet gambling tycoon, coming out of the changing room. Diana was seduced by Martin’s drive and by his convertible Sports car; Martin was dazzled by the fashionable society world that Diana moved in. They instantly became one of London’s most attractive couples. But the second Diana had married him, in July the previous summer, she had given up work. She now filled her days with blow-dry appointments and baby showers. Karin pursed her lips just thinking about it. How silly, she thought. Karin wanted a man to enhance her position, not to depend on him for it. She looked around the room, sizing up all the fabulously wealthy men in front of her. It won’t be long, she thought. It won’t be long.
On the other side of the room, Molly Sinclair wasn’t sure what was making her feel more sick, the calorific cupcake she had just eaten, or sheer naked envy. Molly had just been treated to a tour of the house, which had brought home to her the extent of Donna Delemere’s good fortune. Evie’s nursery was bigger than Molly’s entire apartment, taking up a whole floor of the Georgian pile, complete with a nanny annexe and a Mark Wilkinson cot in the shape of Cinderella’s carriage. White French armoires were stuffed with Bonpoint clothes, while a huge photograph of Mummy and Daddy’s wedding hung over the fireplace like a gloating reminder of everything Molly didn’t have.
It didn’t seem two minutes ago since Donna Jones, as she was known back when Molly had first met her, was a bottle-blonde tramp looking for city boys at Legends nightclub. Now look at her, she thought bitterly, taking a long swig of vodka. Donna had swapped her Dolce & Gabbana hot pants for Brora cashmere twinsets the minute she had met Daniel Delemere, an art historian with a huge family fortune, at the Cartier polo three years earlier. But that had been just the start of her incredible transformation into society wife. Her hair was now a soft nutmeg brown, her wardrobe an elegant mixture of Marni and Jil Sander and, bearing the Delemere name, Donna now sat on the most important charity committees and holidayed for the entire summer in the best villas around the Med. Nobody seemed to mention that she had once been a mobile beautician from Hull.
Of course, Donna had only done what girls with humble backgrounds and explosive good looks had been doing for decades. What really needled Molly was that it hadn’t been her. It was an eternal mystery to Molly why she hadn’t managed to elevate herself into this strata of society. Acquiring a husband with an impressive surname and a gull’s-egg sized rock on her finger was something she had expected ever since her modelling career had taken off like a bottle-rocket in the 1980s. She had been voted one of the world’s most beautiful women four times, for Christ’s sake! Not quite in the Christy Turlington league, but Molly had certainly been on the next rung down in the supermodel pecking order. And Molly had weathered well. Even at forty-three, Molly could have passed for someone ten years younger, and the smouldering sex appeal that had made her famous had not been dimmed. Her hair was long and thick with glossy tawny highlights. Her cheekbones were high and noble and her tanned skin, regularly treated with cell-regeneration shots, from a distance looked fresh and young. Today she was wearing a winter-white cashmere sweater and cream trousers, and she looked as if she had stepped off a plane from St Barts that very morning, not out of her home in the slightly more ‘bohemian’ end of Notting Hill.
But no, the good marriage hadn’t happened. Bad luck, bad judgement, bad drugs – who knew? The bottom line was that her mid-forties were around the corner and Molly was still single. Even worse was that she was slowly being shut out from the most exclusive society events. Those girlfriends she had spent night after night with at L’Equipe Anglaise, Tramp and Annabel’s in the 1980s and 1990s had all disappeared to grand Scottish country estates, to Manhattan’s Upper East Side, or to mansion houses on Palm Beach. Every now and then she would receive a invitation to an event like today’s christening, but she was never invited to spend a week at the villas, or to intimate dinners with the prize husbands. It was obvious why. She was a single, beautiful woman and therefore a threat, plus Molly was part of their past, a past she knew they did not want to be reminded of.
She picked on a crab claw before throwing it into a plant pot behind her. She took a deep breath, assuring herself that the situation was purely temporary. She was Molly Sinclair, the supermodel. She had lived longer on her wits than any of these nobodies. She stalked off to the bathroom to take a line of cocaine. She’d show them. All of them.
Karin popped open her compact and checked her reflection. She had to be looking her best for a charm offensive. As godmother, Karin’s attendance at Evie’s christening had, of course, been de rigueur, but it was also an ideal opportunity to drum up business for the charity benefit gala dinner she had planned for the following month. With so many society players in the room in such a buoyant, benevolent mood, it would have been foolish to let the opportunity pass to sell tickets for her ‘Stop Global Warming’ benefit gala. Like many of the women in the room, Karin had dipped her toe in charity work before, but after Sebastian’s death she had needed a more substantial project to sink her teeth into, and an exclusive high-profile dinner for eight hundred was just the solution.
‘How are the auction prizes coming along?’ asked Christina, who had already donated a week on the Levys’ yacht the Big Blue as a lot.
‘Fine,’ replied Karin. ‘Except I had to fire the events assistant yesterday. You don’t know anyone suitable, do you? I need someone young, keen, presentable – someone with a brain.’
Christina shook her head blankly.
‘I can ask Martin if you like,’ said Diana. ‘I think his company use some agency.’
‘I’d be grateful,’ said Karin, in her usual cool, efficient manner. ‘They don’t have to be experienced, just keen. I’ll be handling the important matters like guest lists and table plans.’
‘Ahh, I see,’ smiled Diana, playing with a pebble-sized solitaire diamond dangling around her neck. ‘Now you’re single …’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Karin, waving a hand dismissively. ‘I’m only interested in raising as much money as possible. Do you know what’s happening to the icecaps?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Diana. ‘The snow was awful in Megève this year.’
‘Hey, why don’t we ask Molly Sinclair?’ said Donna, nodding towards the tall woman across the room. ‘She’s a consultant at Feldman Jones PR and Events. She must know someone suitable.’
