‘We can’t help you.’
‘Far too complicated.’
‘You have no assets. That’s a piece of paper.’
Nothing she could say would persuade them. And the other venture capitalists she tried would barely talk to her; one of them gave her an appointment, three weeks away. By then she’d be a dinosaur.
Weary, discouraged, she headed back to her apartment. If this didn’t work out, if she had to defend the suit, she might go bankrupt.
Jesus
, Dina thought.
Back to square one, back to nothing
. Tomorrow she would call a realtor, try to dump her apartment as soon as possible. Maybe, if she was lucky, she would get a few thousand to put in trust for Johnny.
And then what? She had no references, no proof of success. Would she waitress again? Hector would brand her a thief, when she caved; what beauty brand would want to work with her?
She went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. Really, she should stand up, shower, change. But there was no energy; Dina just couldn’t move.
This morning she thought she was really getting somewhere. But he hadn’t called. It was a hopeless, stupid, extravagant play . . .
The phone rang at the side of her bed. ‘Dina Kane.’
‘Joel Gaines.’
She sat bolt upright, immediately. Her palm holding the receiver started to sweat.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Here’s the deal: I will buy you out for half a million dollars.’
She gasped in shock. ‘My God.’
‘I’m not doing you a favour; I’m taking a gamble. That will include all your interest, not just in this cream, but in anything developed for the Meadow brand, the line, the intellectual property, everything. I will accept all liability belonging to you.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘“Yes,” is my suggestion,’ he said.
‘Yes. Sir. Thank you.’
‘You aren’t listening to me. By making this deal, you are putting yourself in Hector Green’s position. I’m advancing you a relatively small amount of money. If the cream takes off, you will have sold a half share that could be worth tens of millions, maybe more, because you need money now. And don’t try to come after me when that happens. There is no crying in baseball.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Dina couldn’t stop the huge smile spreading across her face. He was so fair, straight with her. But not giving an inch. She loved it. ‘It may be worth tens of millions to you, but it isn’t worth that to me. I can’t fight the suits.’
‘Are you going to try to bargain?’
‘I’m not in a position to bargain.’
‘That’s right. You’re not,’ he said, softly, and again, Dina felt that squirming lick of desire trawling across her belly.
Cut that out
, she ordered herself, thankful that she was on the end of a phone and he couldn’t see any of her reactions.
‘I do need the money fast, though.’
‘They always do. You can meet me for coffee tomorrow morning at eight. I’ll have papers for you to sign.’
‘Meet for breakfast? OK. Yes, sir.’
‘I said coffee. This is a half-million-dollar deal. You don’t rate breakfast.’
Dina smiled. ‘Of course not. Where should I come?’
‘French Roast,’ he said. ‘Sixth and Twelfth. Don’t be late.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr Gaines.’
‘See you tomorrow, Dina Kane.’
The hooker was one of his favourites. An exotic mix of black and Hispanic, skin the colour of creamy coffee, she bounced up and down on his cock with a lazy smile and enthusiasm. She went by the nom-de-fuck of Coco, which was all right by Edward.
‘Ah. Yeah.’ He shifted around, watching those perfect, huge fake tits jiggle. ‘Work it. Come on, show me.’
‘Ohhh,’ she groaned, theatrically. He scowled, hating it when they said anything. What Edward wanted was an anonymous screw. Quickly, he closed his eyes and thought of Dina Kane, that slim, sexy, younger body. He thought of the lawyers, and of breaking her. Mostly he thought of having her, desperate and penniless, coming back to him, humbly, and kneeling down to suck. He groaned, and came.
Coco slipped off him. ‘
Chérie
, that was wonderful.’
She affected some Creole shit. Not that he gave a damn. She was already heading to the shower. This was a classy joint, and her little apartment saw a lot of action. The two o’clock was already on the way.
He tugged on his pants, not bothering to wash. By the bed lay his little silver-topped vial with the tiny spoon for the coke. He helped himself to another small hit. He was just like an English gentleman of the eighteen hundreds with his bottle of snuff. Edward liked that image; it made him feel good.
As he buttoned his shirt, the chemical rush hit him. Yes, things were fine; things were better. His weak-ass father had bailed, so fuck him. Edward had no intention of working for a living. And, as for the army – that stuff was for suckers.
He didn’t need therapy. He just needed to bury Dina Kane. And it was happening sooner than he’d ever hoped. Hector Green, that stupid, confused old man, had told him what he wanted to know.
‘She did offer finance, though, Mr Johnson. She mortgaged her apartment . . .’
‘How did she get one of those?’
A sugar daddy no doubt. Like his father.
Whore
.
‘I don’t know. We didn’t talk much outside of business. I’m a private person. So is she.’
Not that private
.
‘OK. Thanks, Hector.’
It was especially delicious hiring lawyers that could dump all over Dina’s stupid little discovery from a great height. Now they would be able to steal her little face cream – Jesus, a
face cream –
and whatever she’d borrowed against that apartment. The middle-class dream, climbing the property ladder . . . That would have to go.
The letters got sent, and it made him hard. There were drinks in a nightclub, quiet words with a discreet dealer, and then a visit to a hooker.
No more chasing teenage pussy, poor students or bridge-and-tunnel girls. He was going to select a classy wife, and fuck call girls on the side. The cocaine sparkled in his blood; Coco seemed like a great decision. Discreet. Easy to hide. He was smart; he was going to stick to professionals – whores with Blackberries and health certificates you could view.
But he was done now.
‘See you soon, sugar,’ she called as Edward headed out the door, ignoring her. He hadn’t come for the conversation.
The car – with his mother’s chauffeur – was parked outside. So what if it was nearly two in the morning? Time to earn his money. Edward felt like hitting a club, but there would be time for the big party later, once Dina was officially bankrupt. He expected the capitulation from her lawyers tomorrow, a letter begging Hector for mercy. Edward couldn’t wait to show the girl who was really pulling the strings.
Edward was getting his shit together. First, he’d come out of the club and gone home. If Daddy wasn’t going to be his meal ticket, Momma would have to. He
deserved
it. It was his
father
’s stupidity that let Dina take advantage. Edward had to drop out of college to preserve the family honour. They owed him. He was the victim here!
‘Momma.’ He marched into her bedroom and pulled back the ornate drapes; sunlight streamed into the dusty room. ‘Get up.’
‘Oh, God,’ she moaned. There were bottles everywhere – beside the bed, on the bedside cabinet – champagne and whiskey and liqueurs. She didn’t seem particular, just anything left in the cellars, anything she would not have to go outside the house for. ‘Leave me alone.’
The room stank of sweat, even a little vomit. Edward wanted to gag. He tugged the covers off the bed; his mother was lying there, fully clothed in the slacks she’d put on two days ago.
‘Get into the shower.’ He ferociously yanked her to her feet as she gagged and gasped. There was a master bathroom attached, with a wet room, all in marble, that his father had designed.
‘No! Leave me alone!’ Her hand reached for a whiskey bottle on the side, but Edward knocked it back, hard. His mother disgusted him, they all did.
‘Get your clothes off, or I’ll do it for you.’ He flung a bathrobe at her.
Choking, she peeled off her stinking jumper and shirt. Edward turned his back, ignoring her, and walked into the shower, twisting the taps on full blast, lukewarm.
‘Get in.’
She stumbled in, still wearing underwear, and Edward went outside and summoned a maid.
‘In ten minutes, go into Mrs Johnson’s room. You will throw away every bottle, strip the bed, remake it, and thoroughly disinfect and clean.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
‘Tell Rafael to go through this house and remove everything alcoholic, including mouthwash.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And have the chauffeur get the car ready.’
He went to his mother’s chest of drawers and pulled out a bra, a T-shirt, underwear, socks and a pair of lounge pants, and laid them on the embroidered French bench in the dressing room.
‘Mother – get out.’
There was the soft sound of Penelope crying. Edward ignored it. He was driven with rage, pure white rage that felt so good for the soul. When she didn’t move, he stepped into the shower and turned the dial all the way down to ice-cold.
She shrieked with misery and stepped out.
‘Edward! Why are you doing this to me?’
He flung one of the huge Egyptian cotton bath sheets at her; was anything more repellent than the sight of his mother, shivering and half-naked?
‘It’s over, Momma.’
‘What’s over? You are acting crazy . . . I need a drink.’
‘No drinks. That’s all gone. I’m afraid I can’t afford for you to fall apart. Go and put your clothes on, in the dressing room. I’m taking you to the doctor.’
She dry-retched. ‘I feel sick.’
‘You are sick. Your skin looks like day-old porridge, your eyes are bloodshot, your hair is matted. You’re drinking yourself to death. I’m taking you to the doctor. If you refuse, I will go to a court and have you committed. I’ll put you in Bellevue, Mother.’
Penelope limped out of his sight, the towel clutched pathetically around her. As she dressed, Edward called Dr Rathbone, their highly overpaid, but always available, family physician.
‘Why are you doing this? I’m sick. I feel so ill. God, Edward, if you only knew how much it hurts . . .’
His mother stood before him, dressed, her wet hair still plastered against her head. How he acted now would be key to his future.
He pulled her close, kissed her on the head. ‘Somebody has to look after you, Momma. Daddy’s gone now. I’ll be the one to help you.’
She sobbed.
Edward wrapped an Hermès silk scarf round her head and selected a fox fur coat from her closet. A pair of Versace sunglasses, a relic from their last vacation at the Four Seasons resort in Costa Rica, was lying in her jewellery case; he slipped them on, hiding her bloodshot eyes, and doused her with Aqua di Parma to conceal the reek of alcohol seeping from her pores, despite the merciful shower.
‘Come along. I’ll take you to the car.’
‘I don’t want to go . . . I don’t want to be seen out.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Dr Rathbone is fantastically discreet.’
He was. He admitted Penelope to his private clinic, with three recovery suites, mostly for models and film stars after their facelifts.
‘She will experience delirium tremens.’
Edward shuddered at the thought. His own mother, calling out about spiders crawling on her skin, hallucinating.
‘I don’t care. I want you to sedate her. Keep her as an inpatient for a week. Get her clean.’
‘That’s extremely costly. Is she in a position to pay the bill?’
Edward was not surprised at the lack of sensitivity. Bill paying first, compassion later: that was Manhattan society for you. ‘You need to sign this,’ he said. ‘It’s a statement that she is medically unfit, giving me power of attorney. My lawyers will have it ratified today, and then you’ll be paid from the family trust.’
Rathbone scribbled immediately. Edward smirked; this stay was tens of thousands to the doc.
‘After she’s sober, she’ll be fit again. You do understand that?’
Edward smiled. ‘Of course, doctor.’
He wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t just shove his mother out of the way. She would need to be persuaded. She would need to
depend
on him.
Every day, he came to the clinic. He brought flowers, toiletries. He sat with his mother. As she shook and shuddered, he gripped her hand, spoke soothingly to her.
‘Don’t worry, Momma. You’re here. You’re safe.’
Edward made sure the lights were kept on, the walls were clean white – that there was nothing to promote hallucinations. When Penelope started to gibber and panic, he insisted on sedatives.
‘She shouldn’t have too many benzodiazepines. That could be a whole different problem.’
‘I don’t give a damn,’ Edward replied. ‘Put her under.’
And his mother looked at him with wild, grateful eyes as the nurse administered another white pill.
She came home two weeks later, shaken and nervous, but sober, and grateful to him.
‘I can’t believe it.’ Penelope looked round at her house. It was transformed: all the mess had vanished, the doors and windows sparkling clean. The stench of sweat and failure and crisis had gone. Edward had arranged fresh flowers in every room and conducted a complete clean out of her wardrobe and shoe closet. The fridge was stocked with healthy foods. Get-well-soon cards from some of her friends were arrayed on the mantelpiece of the drawing room. The garden was weeded and tended, and all the domestic staff had been paid. ‘It’s wonderful. Oh, Edward, I never want to go back.’
‘The tendency will never leave you, now. You do understand that? No alcohol, ever again.’
Penny nodded meekly.
‘I’ve arranged a small dinner party tonight.’
Her face creased with anxiety. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘You can. You must. I have a programme set up for you, Mother. We will face our friends – tell them the stress of the divorce made you sick. I have enrolled you, in a small way, in a few local charities. And you can attend the odd benefit. I’m carefully selecting those where no alcohol will be present. And I am putting together a programme of events: concerts, plays, some spa and therapy days. I don’t see why you can’t resume your position.’