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Adam pushed his hair back in a gesture of irritation. ‘Apparently, the Minister for Culture and Art’s office has heard that Midas are doing a very similar, even bigger, project in Paris. They’ve said – off the record of course – that they’d prefer the company that won the London Gallery tender to make it their number one priority. Basically the Paris development has scuppered our chances.’
‘But the Paris thing hasn’t even been announced yet,’ said Marcus. ‘How could they possibly know?’
‘Fuck knows,’ growled Adam. ‘Someone has talked somewhere. Maybe the architect?’
‘Sergio? No way. His whole reputation’s on the line here.’
Erin could see why they were angry. She knew the architects’ fees alone for the London Gallery pitch were in the hundreds of thousands – Sergio Vinchely, a Spanish architect from Seville, was the best in the world. He only took on a handful of major commissions every year and he had done an incredible job.
Erin was as mystified as Marcus and Adam – there had obviously been a leak, but w
ho would do such a thing? Erin stared at her computer screen and scrolled through her documents, running through the possibilities, hoping she could help. And slowly, ever so slowly, she began to get a horrible sinking feeling.
40
‘So, Summer, what did you think of the veal?’
Marcus was topping Summer’s glass up with an expensive claret and forcing conversation, while Molly watched contently. She was glad to be back in London. Back in a smart restaurant with her rich boyfriend. Back where she belonged. Her trip to Newcastle was something she had been trying all week to put in a box at the back of her mind. Only a dislodged bath plug had saved her from certain drowning in the bath of the Metropole. She had finally woken up in the cold, empty porcelain tub, with a thumping head and alcohol curdling round her bloodstream. She had taken the first train back to St Pancras without contacting her stepmother, not even to find out about the funeral. She had gone back to Newcastle and almost died. It was a sign that she did not belong there. A sign that she had done the right thing by severing all ties with her past.
‘The veal was delicious,’ smiled Summer politely, hoping nobody would want dessert and delay the agony of the evening.
‘Tell Marcus about the film you’re auditioning for,’ said Molly, snapping herself out of her thoughts. Summer winced. Please God, not the proud parent routine.
‘Molly,’ she said, ‘I don’t even know if I’ll get seen by the casting director yet.’
‘She’ll get seen,’ said Molly, turning to Marcus with a smug smile. ‘Of course I had my opportunities in Hollywood too. Did you see Robert Altman’s Prêt-à-Porter? Bob really wanted me for a cameo but filming clashed with another commitment.’
Summer rolled her eyes. The evening was turning out to be even worse than she’d imagined. Marcus had invited Molly and Summer for dinner at Le Gavroche, having been inexplicably seized by the notion that they all spend quality time together. Even though the food was exquisite and the restaurant sumptuous, Molly was behaving strangely. One minute she’d be morose and thoughtful, the next minute she’d be the charming, gushing parent, to the extent that she was treating Summer like a teenager.
Adding to Summer’s awkwardness was that she was sleeping with Marcus’s best friend. It was impossible for her to relax. Still, thought Summer, taking another sip of claret to anaesthetize herself, at least Marcus seemed a decent enough man. Molly’s boyfriends usually fell into two narrow categories: objectionable and pompous.
It was a game of Summer’s to guess the background of her mother’s boyfriends. It was easy to spot the playboys, of course, with their perma-tans, extravagant dress-sense and the hungry, hooded lids when they looked at Summer. The inherited money was also obvious; the rebellious sons of old established families, who invariably took the most drugs, and had the worst manners once they had drunk a few glasses of wine. Marcus fell into the third, and rarest category of Molly’s paramours. He had the serious, considered manner of someone who had earned his wealth. He looked at Summer with the respectful interest of someone who wanted to know what she had to say, rather than what she would be like in bed.
Summer could also tell a lot about Molly’s boyfriends by how her mother behaved around them. Her mother possessed a chameleon-like ability to adapt herself to become any man’s fantasy woman. Her physical appearance, her clothes, hair and her make-up would all alter slightly to fit to the man’s tastes. Robert Cabot, a hedge-fund banker with a wife in Manhattan, had been treated to pencil skirts, kitten heels and a succession of white shirts, unbuttoned just a little too low. Her hair would be lightened a few shades to a buttery blonde and she would talk about her time in New York, when she had partied with Basquiat. With Stavros the son of a Greek shipping heir, Molly wore Cavalli. Skirts were shorter, heels higher, lips as red and juicy as berries. More friendly, flirty, louder, prouder; more Notice-me.
For Marcus, Molly was definitely a softer, quieter version of herself. Hair in a ponytail, jeans and a Chanel jacket, her conversation was peppered with glamorous people and places. Marcus was a numbers man, who sat behind the desk while Adam wheeled and dealed and travelled and had dinner with the rich and famous. For Marcus, Molly added colour and sophistication to his life.
‘Molly tells me you’re doing terribly well with the modelling,’ said Marcus. ‘Apparently brunettes have more fun.’
Summer tugged at a lock of hair. ‘Well, it does all seem to have taken off after I had my colour done. I suppose I have Karin to thank.’
‘Not really Karin, though, honey, was it?’ said Molly quickly. ‘Summer was discovered by Dan Stevens the photographer in Regent Street, would you believe it?’
‘Speaking of Karin,’ said Marcus, giving his dessert menu back to the waiter, ‘Adam has invited us to down to the yacht in Capri next week, if you fancy it? I think Karin is in Italy visiting the factories. I’m sure Adam won’t mind you coming along, Summer. Have you been to Capri?’
‘Ooh, Capri, darling,’ said Molly, looking over to her daughter and nodding. ‘I’m sure Karin will be glad to see you; after all, it’s your image that’s getting her cash registers ringing right now. And will there be anybody interesting on the yacht for Summer?’ she continued, nudging Marcus gently.
‘Mother,’ said Summer sternly, averting her eyes. The thought of standing face to face with Karin filled her with dread. How could they make small talk and say how lovely it was to see her again and pretend that she did not know the taste of her boyfriend’s mouth or the muscular hollow at the top of his thigh, or the tiny mole on the shaft of his cock.
Marcus laughed, trying to diffuse the tension. ‘Rule number one, Summer. Never let your parents fix you up with anyone. My first date was with the daughter of my father’s boss. She weighed two hundred pounds and had a fascination with newts.’
‘It’s a lovely offer, but I can’t,’ said Summer, adding to her acting skills by feigning regret. ‘As you probably know, I’m doing this TV show and we’re doing some filming that weekend.’
‘Really?’ said Molly, raising a sceptical eyebrow. ‘What can you be possibly covering of any note next weekend? It’s so quiet in London right now. Everyone’s buggered off on holiday.’
‘I think we might be going away,’ said Summer vaguely. ‘I never really know what we’re filming until the production meeting a few days before.’
Molly flashed her a look that clearly said, we’ll talk about this later. Marcus, however, was hardly distraught. Summer appreciated the gesture, but it had clearly been for appearances’ sake. As he paid the bill and they walked down the steps, it was just going dark. The streets of Covent Garden were unusually still.
