Harry gave a low chuckle down the phone. ‘Well, I was just calling to say that I’ve been invited to a very old friend’s party tonight,’ he said, ‘and I want you to come with me.’
‘How do you know I’ve got nothing better in my diary?’ teased Molly, standing in front of the full-length mirror and patting her pancake-flat stomach.
‘Well, how about I make it worth your while?’ he asked. ‘Why don’t you go shopping this morning and pick out something nice to wear for the party? We can meet in Bond Street at one-ish to go and collect it.’
‘Dress, bag and shoes?’ smiled Molly.
‘I didn’t think you’d be a cheap date,’ he said, his tone playful.
Molly grinned. ‘I’ll be in Gucci.’
She showered quickly to shake off her grogginess, throwing on some jeans, a white shirt and her cowboy boots and pulling her hair back in a ponytail. She inspected herself in the mirror: pretty hot, even if she did say so herself, but still she didn’t feel quite ready for the hustle and bustle of spending someone else’s money. I wonder … she thought, and walked over to Harry’s walnut chest of drawers. Harry was super-neat, with everything in its own place. She rummaged around among his neatly rolled-up silk socks until she found what she was looking for: a small plastic bag containing about an ounce of cocaine. Molly’s eyes lit up. She pulled the seal open and dipped a long fingernail inside. The powder was fine and translucent like ground pearls; it looked as expensive as the rest of Harry’s possessions. Expertly, Molly tipped a small amount on the bedside table, lined it up with her credit card and snorted, feeling the crackle of coke taking hold. Oh yes, that was good. She pulled on her leather biker jacket, her body twinkling. Now she was ready to go shopping.
‘So who is this mysterious friend we’re meeting?’ asked Molly as they flew down Park Lane in Harry’s forest-green Ferrari. ‘I like to know whose party I’m going to before I get there.’
‘Marcus Blackwell, vice president of Midas,’ said Harry, gunning the engine and changing lanes to dodge a Bentley.
‘Midas? Adam Gold’s company?’ said Molly in surprise.
‘That’s right,’ said Harry smugly, ‘we were at university together. I was a med student, he was doing maths, if I remember rightly.’ He glanced sideways to drink in Molly’s figure, barely concealed by the tiny gold lamé shift dress he’d bought her earlier that afternoon.
‘I haven’t seen Marcus properly for years though,’ he continued. ‘He’s British, but he went to work on Wall Street fairly soon after he graduated. He hooked up with Gold and has been his right-hand man ever since. He’s done very well for himself.’
‘Hey, you didn’t do too badly either,’ smiled Molly, expertly massaging both his ego and his cock, her right hand stretched over the gearstick into Harry’s lap.
‘I guess not,’ gasped Harry, trying to keep the Ferrari on the road.
The Midas Corporation drinks party was to celebrate the launch of their flagship London development ‘Knightsbridge Heights’. Molly had read about the luxury apartments in the Evening Standard. Apparently, everyone from celebrities to oil sheiks had been clamouring to buy into one of the capital’s most desirable slices of real estate, and the party was being held in the building’s stunning black marble lobby. By the time Harry and Molly walked in through the black and gold revolving doors, it was already throbbing with the cream of society.
‘So how much does one of these apartments go for?’ asked Molly, looking around enviously. It was really a spectacular place in which to live. The centrepiece of the lobby was a vast black marble fountain that spewed out water as from a whale’s blowhole. The atrium stretched all the way to the glass ceiling hundreds of feet above. Along the back of the building was a bank of sliding doors that opened out onto a lush garden, stocked with exotic plants and lit for the evening with guttering torches.
‘I think they start about three million pounds and then go skywards,’ said Harry knowingly. ‘And I hear ninety-five per cent of them have been sold already. That’s the beauty of Midas’s residential business. They target the very top of the market. It’s pretty much recession-proof up there.’
They eventually found Marcus Blackwell at the entrance of the Winter Garden. He wasn’t a particularly good-looking man, thought Molly, his closely cropped dark hair had receded and his eyes, although brown and twinkly, were too close together, giving his face a pinched expression like a vole’s. That said, he was considerably more attractive than Harry, thought Molly. Considerably.
‘Harry,’ said Marcus, ‘how are you? It’s been too long.’
‘Ten years at least,’ grinned Harry. ‘But now you’re back in London maybe it won’t be another decade. What about lunch in the next couple of weeks?’ he added.
‘Sure, sure,’ nodded Marcus with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
‘Get your secretary to call mine and we’ll sort something out.’
‘Fantastic, I’ll do that.’
‘Marcus, this is my girlfriend, Molly Sinclair,’ Harry said.
Molly reached out to shake his hand, holding on to it just a little longer than necessary.
‘This place is amazing,’ she gushed. ‘You must introduce me to Adam. I’ve heard so many good things about him.’
‘Everyone seems to want to meet Adam tonight,’ replied Marcus. Molly thought she detected a grain of irritation behind the cordial smile. Interesting, she thought, filing it away for future use.
‘He’s just out here, showing one of our investors how many flowers half a million pounds can buy.’
Outside, in a courtyard surrounded by trees and flower-beds, there was a raised pond with another fountain cascading foaming water. Standing with his back to it was Adam Gold, surrounded by admirers, holding court. He was wearing a dark suit with a pale blue shirt – ordinary, conservative. But from her first glance, Molly knew he was the sexiest rich man she had ever seen – and she had seen many. She felt an immediate flutter of lust and excitement as they approached. She was wearing stilettos but he was still at least two inches taller than her; he possessed a natural confidence that matched her own and, although he didn’t have Molly’s cheekbones or poise, she knew instantly that they would make the most beautiful couple in town.
‘I think we were both at the Stop Global Warming benefit dinner the other night,’ said Molly, flashing her best cover-girl smile. She searched Adam’s face for a flicker of recognition as he moved forward to shake her hand. Surely he had noticed her?
‘I don’t think we met,’ said Adam in a polite but distracted manner that made her cheeks smart. He touched her arm to indicate that he had other people to talk to. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he smiled before leaving their group to go and air-kiss a glamorous blonde, leaving Molly’s mouth hanging open. The bastard.
Karin threaded her way through the lobby of Knightsbridge Heights with the confidence of someone who knew she looked fantastic. For a party this important, Karin had pulled out all the stops, paying a visit to Après Mode, her favourite boutique in Paris. Après Mode was a treasure-trove of 1960s Balenciaga, YSL and other classic labels and she had selected, with the help of the boutique’s owner Madam Vervier, a former couture directrice, a primrose-yellow Ossie Clark chiffon dress. But choosing a dress had only been a minor distraction; Karin’s life had gone into overdrive in the ten days following the benefit dinner. The papers had splashed the event’s red carpet pictures all over their front pages, her phone had rung off the hook with interview requests and the three Karenza stores had reported a fifteen per cent uplift