Scandals

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‘I think you’ve been reading my mind,’ she admitted.

‘Delaying your return to New York and coming back to London with me would probably be a bit more obvious than either of us wants right now, but if I were to be able to snatch a couple of days in New York in, say, a couple of weeks’ time…?’

‘You’d be very welcome.’

‘I normally stay at the Pierre.’

‘My apartment has a spare room.’

They looked at one another, Olivia both smiling and blushing a little at what she could see in Robert’s eyes.

‘You’re quiet.’

Rose smiled at Josh. ‘I was thinking about Nick,’ she admitted. They were in the car on their way home from Denham. ‘I do wish there was something we could do to help him with Sarah.’

‘He’s a grown man and not a boy. He knows enough about the world to have sussed out why her parents wouldn’t exactly welcome him as their son-in-law.’

When Rose looked at him, he reached out and covered her folded hands with one of his own. She was so neat and compact and precise somehow, his Rose. And so vulnerable still, even after these years, still so sensitive to her own mixed-race heritage and the revulsion her great-grandmother had felt at the fact that Rose had a Chinese mother.

‘Rose, he’s working class, and Sarah’s father’s a titled, upper-class snob.’

‘Sarah chose to marry him.’ ‘Did she? Or did Nick choose for her? Look, I’m not knocking him – he’s my son – but he had a hard upbringing before he came to us. It’s bound to have affected him. He isn’t like me, we both know that. Nick’s got an edge to him, a need to win, simply for the sake of winning. To someone like Nick, brought up the way he was, marrying an upper-class girl like Sarah would seem like winning, and would be a goal he would set himself simply for the sake of that win.’

Rose shot Josh an unhappy look. ‘That’s not fair,’ she protested. ‘Look how hard Nick worked to buy Sarah that house. She and the boys have the best of everything.’

‘Of course they do. That’s part of the buzz for him, being able to give her more than the upper-class husbands of her friends can give them. It’s all about proving himself, Rose, about proving that he’s the best, but now he can’t, can he, because Sarah’s father is standing in his way, determined to prove that he’s the best.’

Rose gave him a troubled look.

‘Nick’s my son and I love him, Rose, of course I do, but that doesn’t mean that I’m blind to his flaws and faults any more than I am to my own. The trouble is that Sarah’s father is obviously intent on using those faults against him.’

‘Sometimes I think I shall never understand our children. Katie’s going round with a face like a wet weekend, insisting that she should still go skiing, with that broken arm.’

Folding clothes and putting them in the open case in their bedroom at Lenchester House, Emerald continued, ‘And then of course there’s Robert. Not a single word has he said to me about Olivia, and yet it’s obvious that something is going on between them. It’s only because Ella told me that Robert’s invited Olivia to go to Lauranto with him in February that I even knew he was going back, never mind taking Olivia with him. I really don’t like the idea of him getting involved over there, Drogo. I don’t trust Alessandro’s mother one little bit.’

Emerald paused and looked at her husband. ‘Do you think Alessandro’s mother will tell Robert about you know what?’

Drogo walked over to take her in his arms. He knew the real Emerald, the vulnerable Emerald she hid from the rest of the world. ‘About your father, you mean?’

Emerald nodded. ‘The Princess hates me and she always has done.’

Drogo knew how much it would hurt his wife’s fierce pride if the truth were ever to come out, although typically, rather than admit this, Emerald told him, ‘It would be dreadful for the children if they were suddenly to learn that their grandfather was a painter and not a duke, as they have always thought.’

‘I doubt very much that Alessandro’s mother will say anything. It’s in her own interests not to, apart from anything else. She wants Robert to take Alessandro’s place. Alienating him by revealing the truth to him isn’t something she would want to risk.’

‘You’re right.’

Drogo squeezed her arm gently. He knew how much, even now, she still hated the thought that her father had not been his predecessor, the late duke, but instead Jean-Philippe du Breveonet, painter of the picture of Amber, The Silk Merchant’s Daughter, now hanging in the National Gallery.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_5d22964b-9c5e-5cca-96be-491add20dd46)

Outside, January snow might be falling on the New York avenues, children might be begging to be allowed to skate on Central Park’s frozen ponds, but here inside the Limelight disco on Sixth Avenue, in the Chelsea district of Manhattan, the air was heated to almost tropical warmth, as the élite of the fashion and publishing world gathered to ‘Celebrate the month of January’ at an ‘afternoon’ party hosted by Vogue magazine. Olivia had been invited, she rather suspected, in lieu of her mother, who was visiting friends with her father in Palm Beach.

Loud music, a mix of rock and industrial, pounded her eardrums. Waiters and waitresses, dressed in very little other than what looked like tinfoil and sequins, to reveal their perfectly honed bodies, danced and pouted their way through the guests in time to the music, carrying trays of champagne and tiny morsels of food, which Macey Greenberg, Olivia’s friend, had suggested cynically might contain some extra energy-giving or hallucination-inducing ingredients in view of the number of guests, including models, who were well known to have a drug habit.

‘That wouldn’t be any good for the models,’ Olivia had pointed out, before Macey had left on a mission to snag an interview with a not-as-yet-out gay singer for the music magazine for whom she freelanced.

Glamorous parties were supposed to be exciting, and Olivia was prepared to admit that she might have enjoyed this one if she hadn’t just realised that Tait Cabot Forbes was also one of the guests.

She’d seen him ten minutes or so ago, deep in conversation with the editor of the New York Times, no doubt planning to savage and potentially destroy yet another innocent victim so that he could claim some ego-boosting headlines for himself, Olivia thought bitterly.

Above the music she could just about hear the affected squeals of the group of very thin and very pretty young models, clustered together several yards away, the air around them blue with cigarette fumes as they smoked to keep their hunger pangs at bay. Poor things, Olivia thought sadly. She didn’t envy them at all. Watching them, she found it odd to think that once her own father had made his living photographing girls like them for fashion magazines.

Their extreme thinness emphasised Cindy Crawford’s far more sensual curves, the supermodel very much the centre of attention as the press photographers gathered round her.

One of the current crop of top fashion photographers was talking with an editor from British Vogue, who had flown in for the party. The Fashion Pack, including New York Vogue’s Grace Coddington, were all dressed in black, just as Olivia was herself. Pictures of the party would fill the new copy of Women’s Wear Daily, of course, and be pored over by its dedicated readers.

Her own Ralph Lauren dress was on loan from her mother, who had insisted that she borrow the sophisticated heavy black jersey tube of fabric that somehow magically became a ravishingly elegant dress once it was on, with a slashed neckline and just the hint of a small sleeve. With it Olivia was wearing a pair of diamond cuff bracelets, also her mother’s, and she had put her hair up, the whole effect, so her friend Macey claimed, very Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Olivia was just looking round for Macey when she felt a firm tap on her shoulder. Turning round, she was surprised and annoyed to see Tait Cabot Forbes standing behind her.

‘I’ve got a proposition to put to you,’ he told her without preamble, adding, when she stiffened, ‘No, not that kind of proposition. What I’m proposing is that we bury that hatchet you’re carrying around with you. It must be getting heavy and burying it will save you having to look for an opportunity to bury it in me.’

‘You mean like you tried to stick a knife into my father’s back?’ Olivia challenged him.

Tait spread open his hands. He had big hands with long fingers, Olivia noticed, his skin tanned and his nails clean without looking overmanicured in the way favoured by some New York men. His traditional Brooks Brothers shirt allied to law-school-graduate smartness made him stand out in a room in which most of the other men were attached to the fashion world and dressed flamboyantly.

‘There was nothing personal about my investigation into your parents’ relationship with Maisie Fischerbaum. That’s what I am – an investigative journalist.’

‘Earning your money and making your reputation by trying to destroy my parents.’

‘I got it wrong. I admit that. I’ve apologised to your folks.’

‘In private, but you never apologised publicly.’

His expression said that he was beginning to get annoyed with her. Good, Olivia thought. What had he expected? That she’d roll over and be thrilled because he’d attempted to talk her round? It took more than a too-good-looking face and way too much male confidence to do that.

‘Because your father asked me not to publish the reasons why he and your mother were appointed as trustees. I respected that, just as I respect your loyalty to your folks, but I’m beginning to get a bit tired of feeling that glower of yours burning through my skin every time you set eyes on me. So, how about we call a truce?’

‘You can call whatever you like,’ Olivia told him fiercely. ‘As far as I’m concerned you are still the man who tried to hurt my parents by writing things about them that weren’t true.’

Olivia turned on her heel and walked away from him. She would have walked past Macey as well, she suspected, she was so wound up and angry, if her friend hadn’t stepped in front of her waving a glass of champagne under her nose.

Olivia wasn’t going to turn round and see if Tait Cabot Forbes was even still there, never mind looking in her direction. In fact, what she’d like to do more than anything was leave the party early and go home in case Robert telephoned, which he sometimes did just before he went to bed. He hadn’t been able to come over to New York yet, as he’d hoped, but he’d promised he’d be over as soon as he could, and he’d told her that he’d informed his grandmother that Olivia would be accompanying him on his February visit to Lauranto.

Robert. Thinking of him, hugging the thought of him to herself was so much better than thinking about Tait Cabot Forbes. So very much better.

‘Katie.’

‘Tom.’

As she saw Tom coming towards her, Katie stopped dead, blocking the way of a group of determined middle-aged county Sloanes up in London to make the most of the final days of Peter Jones’ January sale. With a great deal of tutting, the group reformed with the skill and expertise of campaign-hardened bargain hunters, leaving Katie and Tom to exchange smiles and then swift hugs.

‘I missed you in Klosters.’

‘I wanted to be there.’

‘I told Zoë’ to tell you how sorry I was about your arm.’

‘I expect she forgot. You know what she’s like.’

It was what they were not saying, rather than what they were, that mattered, Katie knew.

‘I was going to get in touch but Zoë said that you were staying with your grandparents.’

‘I was. I only got back yesterday.’

‘You’ll be going back to Oxford soon,’ Tom guessed. ‘Zoë planned to go straight there from visiting her godmother in Cheltenham.’

‘I’m going back this weekend,’ Katie confirmed.

‘Have you got something else on right now, or would you like to have lunch with me?’

‘Yes. I mean, no, I haven’t got anything else to do and I’d love to have lunch with you,’ Katie told him immediately.

‘Good.’ Tom looked so handsome and grown up in his dark suit, crisp striped shirt and, of course, his essential banker’s red tie, Katie thought admiringly.

‘Will San Lorenzo be OK?’ he asked her, mentioning the very upmarket restaurant in Beauchamp Place, which was one of Princess Diana’s favourites.

Glad that for once she had given in to her mother’s chivvying and worn ‘something decent’ – the ‘something decent’ being a neat-fitting dark plum Armani dress with a dropped waist, under a toning dark plum and grey tweed jacket, worn with plum leather boots, the outfit a Christmas gift from her mother, who had said that she was tired of seeing her daughter looking scruffy – Katie nodded her head and tried not to look too impressed.

Half an hour later they were being shown to a table in San Lorenzo’s airy cream-painted restaurant, thanks, Katie suspected, to the fifty-pound note she had seen Tom discreetly slip the head waiter.

‘Just as well it’s January and the jet set are still either in the Caribbean or on the ski slopes,’ Tom told Katie ruefully, ‘otherwise we’d never have got a table.’

Katie felt a bit like Cinderella, she decided, plucked from the mundane and everyday into a magical world, with Tom, of course, playing Prince Charming.

Over Bellinis Tom studied the menu whilst Katie studied their fellow diners, unable to stop herself from leaning over to whisper excitedly, ‘Don’t look now but over there, just being shown to the window table, I’m sure that’s Jerry Hall and Marie Helvin.’

‘And Michael and Shakira Caine are sitting just behind you,’ Tom informed her back.

‘Tell me about Klosters,’ Katie begged him, once they had ordered and been served. She loved Italian food and had decided to go for the special house cannelloni, whilst Tom had ordered the liver.

‘Well, there was, you know, lots of snow, and mountains,’ Tom teased her.

‘I was so disappointed that I couldn’t go.’

‘I was disappointed that you weren’t there,’ Tom answered.

They exchanged looks, pleased but slightly selfconscious on Katie’s part, and meaningful and very male on Tom’s.

‘This is such a treat for me,’ Katie told him. She felt flushed and happy, and just a little bit out of her depth.

‘And for me,’ Tom told her, in such a deliciously sexy dark voice that Katie curled her toes into the soles of her boots and thought that she’d never ever be able to so much as walk through Beauchamp Place again without thinking about Tom and remembering today.

‘Zoë’s told me about meeting her Earl of Rochester,’ Katie laughed. ‘I’m dying to hear more about him.’

Immediately the smile died from Tom’s eyes.

‘What is it?’ Katie asked him.

‘There was a bit of an upset over that. Axel Von Thruber – I’m assuming that’s who you mean – isn’t someone my parents would ever approve of Zoë’ befriending. You know Zoë – of course she kicked up a fuss when the parents initially said that she wasn’t to have anything to do with him.’

Katie nodded, well able to imagine the ‘fuss’ her friend would have made. Zoë hated any kind of restrictions being put on her, and in fact they were something like a red rag to a bull to her.

‘I have to say, though, that I agree with them, which, as you can imagine, hasn’t made me very popular with Zoë. The fact is that Von Thruber has the very worst kind of reputation.’

‘You mean he’s very sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll?’

‘If only that were all he is,’ Tom answered grimly. ‘The drugs he favours aren’t just the odd reefer, and as for the sex, well, let’s just say louche doesn’t even begin to describe his lifestyle. He’s well known on the Eurotrash young jet set scene, or maybe I should say that he’s notorious. The trouble is, I suppose, he’s had too much of everything far too young. He inherited millions on his twenty-first birthday and he’s due to inherit millions more on his twenty-fifth. It doesn’t help, of course, that he is very good-looking,’ Tom admitted wryly. ‘And I suppose that Zoë, being Zoë, was inevitably drawn to him like the proverbial moth to a flame. Fortunately, though, now she’s come to her senses and seen him for what he is. Zoë can be very naïve. Initially I suspect she saw his decadence as glamorous, and of course the fact that everyone was warning her against him, and our parents so obviously disapproved of him, only added to his allure.’