Penelope’s lip trembled. Now sober, she was hideously embarrassed. Shame at what she’d done crawled over her skin like hallucinatory bugs in the clinic’s hellish detox room.
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Mother, there will be weekly visits to the hairdresser, to a terrific massage therapist, and some work with the Episcopalians.’ This was the least religious church Edward had been able to find. ‘It will give you a wonderful new lease of life. You do understand, though, that you are very fragile?’
‘I feel fragile.’ She pressed her fingers to her forehead, the nails stubbed and broken. ‘Oh, Edward, I’m not sure I’m ready for any of it . . .’
‘If you sit and brood, you will wind up back in that clinic. Is that what you want?’
She shuddered. ‘No! God, no.’
‘Then let me handle things. After tonight, we will need to have a little talk about finances.’
‘Very well,’ his mother said, distantly.
She was staring at herself in the mirror; her face was lined and wrinkled, her blond hair streaked with thick grey roots, her nails cracked. She was clean and neatly dressed, but the woman gazing back at her had aged a hundred years.
‘Oh, Momma.’ Edward took her hand. ‘Come into the guest bathroom. There are some therapists waiting to welcome you home.’
‘Therapists?’
‘I’ve brought in a manicurist to do your hands and give you a pedicure, and Jason Quigley is making a house call to tint your hair. After that, Dr Westin is coming in.’
Penelope Johnson smiled a proper smile for the first time in weeks. Jason Quigley was her hair colourist. And Dr Westin was her very able dermatologist, from a few months ago, from another life.
‘And then we have Emma Lucille, who will attend to your make-up after everybody else has finished. She’s a freelancer, but comes highly recommended.’
‘What do you know about beauty, Edward?’
‘I did a little digging,’ he said, modestly.
The dinner was a great success. Edward felt the stone lift a little off his chest. The days when he and his family were social pariahs were gone.
He had invited friends he knew would come: the lower echelons of his mother’s social circle, the ones who would still be grateful for an invitation from Penelope Johnson, and two other divorcees. Next, he made sure that none of the eight or nine guests drank alcohol. Finally, he had included Itsy Moran, a second stringer from
Society
magazine’s gossip pages, whom he dated briefly. She could be relied upon for a sympathetic write-up: ‘The Return of the Johnsons’.
Penny swept into the room with something like confidence. Four hours in that bathroom had restored her to herself; her hair was back to a dark honey blond and swept up in an elegant chignon; her face had been smoothed with Botox, plumped with filler and then carefully made up, light and neutral for a woman in her fifties. Her fingers and toes were neatly trimmed and glistening with French polish, and she wore a pair of flat Louboutins and a plain satin evening dress in cornflower blue, with long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Add in her large diamond-stud earrings, and Penny Johnson looked well, even elegant.
‘Penny! How wonderful to see you,’ Itsy gushed.
‘Darling! You look perfect,’ said Bobby Grantham.
‘Kiss kiss,’ his mother said, distributing air pecks, just as she used to. ‘Shall we eat?’
When they all left – quite soon after nine thirty; without wine, guests had other things to do – Penny Johnson came over to Edward and gripped his arm tightly. Her eyes glittered with tears, happy tears.
‘Oh, my. That was . . . enjoyable,’ she said, as though she had not expected anything to be enjoyable again.
‘You see? You can do it.’
She was looking at herself in the ornate gold-rimmed mirror in their hallway, and smiling softly again. ‘Oh, yes, Edward – thank you so much.’
He returned the smile, concealing his contempt and resentment. Up to him to fix his own parents – both of them.
‘Just step into the parlour room here, Mother,’ he said. ‘I have some paperwork that needs signing.’
She followed him into a small office – once his father’s, now redecorated to remove every trace of Shelby – and Edward pulled out the French armchair for her at the mahogany desk. The bank forms were there, pre-signed by him.
‘What is this, darling?’
‘Just sign it, Momma. It’s a transfer of money, so that I can take care of the house and look after you. You aren’t in a fit state to do it – not yet.’
Penelope looked at the papers, her eyes crunching. ‘This looks like a million dollars . . .’
‘Two million, for the year. That’s what I need. Can you sign by the crosses?’
‘But that’s so much money . . .’
‘We have ten in the bank, cash. Believe me, this covers basic expenses, allows me to care for you. I need to make decisions, Momma. Aren’t you a little better tonight? It went well?’
She nodded, hesitating.
‘Look, if you don’t trust me, I’m happy to step away,’ he said. ‘You can sort everything out here on your own. I’ve devoted myself to you, Momma; I gave up college for you. This is the only way things work.’
The pen trembled.
‘Very well. Of course, you mustn’t feel forced. I’ll leave,’ Edward said.
‘No – no. Stay, darling. You . . . you manage things so well.’
She signed, and Edward Johnson was finally a millionaire.
The next morning, he was in the offices of Shaman and Kebler, Attorneys-At-Law, with a retainer cheque for a hundred thousand dollars. First order of business – going after Dina Kane.
Chapter Nine
French Roast was one of her favourite coffee places. It was almost like he knew. She loved the rich scents of the flavoured beans and different syrups, the bohemian crowd that thronged through day and night, the way it sat on the very edge of the Village, across the border at Sixth Avenue, like a gateway.
But it wasn’t the kind of place you’d expect to meet Joel Gaines. Nowhere fancy. Nothing to suit a billionaire.
Dina was there, waiting, by half past seven. She ordered a plain omelette, mostly to secure a table. She was too nervous to eat.
It was wrong to be turned on by this. It was a business deal. For him, barely worth noticing; for her, everything. She tried to think about Meadow, the cream, the potential. Hector Green was a good chemist. The product would work, would fit with what Gaines was trying to do . . .
It was no good. Her mind kept flashing back to him: the salt-and-pepper hair, the dark eyes, the air of complete confidence, complete power.
Goddamn,
Dina thought.
I need a boyfriend.
But how stupid and small that word seemed. Boyfriend. What? Some skinny youth with acne from a world she’d never entered? A student?
Edward Johnson
, or another rich boy just like him?
Gaines had blazed his own trail, conquered his own worlds.
Dina forced herself to dress down for this meeting. Gaines was not for her – obviously not. He was married, for a start. Two teenaged kids. Far too old for her. And he was her only hope in life, right now. This deal would save her ass.
She put on a uniform: a fitted grey woollen skirt from DKNY, cashmere tights in pewter, and gunmetal pumps, with a cream silk blouse and a crewneck sweater in oyster; a silver woollen scarf and a black military coat from Prada lay over the back of her chair, with her leather gloves. Her make-up was almost non-existent: a touch of powder, a little bronzer on the cheeks for health, concealer for her sleepless eyes. Neutral shadow and a clear gloss. As businesslike as she could be.
Dina was sipping her coffee – Irish Whiskey scent, the closest she ever got to alcohol – when he arrived. He was bang on time, walking purposefully through the doors. His greatcoat and dark suit did nothing to hide that body. When he spoke to the hostess, Dina could see the admiration in the girl’s body language, and was instantly jealous.
She jumped to her feet and waved.
He saw her, and threaded his way through the tables. He was carrying a briefcase; she hadn’t seen one of those on the street for years. In that briefcase was the key to her future. The dark eyes were fixed on her, and her heart started to thump. Fear, adrenaline. Something else, too, that she didn’t want to think about.
‘Ms Kane, good morning.’
‘Mr Gaines.’ She offered her hand, and he shook it, amused. ‘Would you call me Dina?’
‘Certainly.’ He sat down and turned to the hovering waitress. ‘Black cinnamon coffee. Grande. No sugar.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
Gaines gestured to the omelette. ‘I thought I told you we weren’t eating.’
‘You don’t have to eat. I need the protein.’
He laughed. ‘You have a lot of attitude for somebody who needs my help desperately.’
‘Like you said, Mr Gaines, you’re not doing me a favour. You’re getting fifty per cent of a major beauty product for half a million dollars.’
Gaines looked the girl over, up and down. She was incredibly beautiful. The perfection of her make-up made her look better than a model: young, but put together. Underneath the bravado, he could see the nerves, and he liked her more for that. Her body, beneath the form-fitting clothes, was tempting – tight, lush, with plenty of curves, despite the slimness.
Jesus. Get a grip.
He thought of his wife, back home. They had quarrelled that morning – it was becoming too frequent, lately – an argument over her lack of desire to do much of anything: shop, arrange charity dinners. Susan was far more polished and groomed than Dina Kane; she worked on herself every day, from the Pilates classes to the private hairdresser. Nobody could rock an evening gown and a diamond collar like his carefully blonde wife. It all seemed OK, back when the boys were young.
‘What’s your problem? I have work to do – running our home.’
‘Of course,’ he replied, reaching for his work papers. He had been looking forward to seeing the kid this morning – the fighter.
‘Really, Joel, what would be the point? I could study as a lawyer, and then we’d have five hundred million dollars
plus
another ninety thousand.’ Susan laughed lightly. ‘You have somebody home here; isn’t that priceless?’
She picked up her tennis racket and blew him a kiss. Gaines tried to imagine having sex with her tonight. Susan never said no to him – part of the wifely code, so he gathered. But she came to his bed without enthusiasm these days, like it was just another chore, a workout.
Dina Kane did not remind him of his wife. Nor of the younger, sexier set that hung out in the Hamptons – on the tennis courts, in the country clubs – with their blond hair worn long. She wasn’t a Park Avenue Princess. She reminded him of
him
. Back when he was poor. Back when it was fun . . .
‘Here.’ He reached for the briefcase, snapped it open. ‘A letter, several forms . . .’
She took them, pulling a plastic pen from her purse.
‘You can do better than that.’ Gaines removed a pen from an inner pocket: Montblanc, pure gold. ‘Sign your first deal; start as you mean to go on.’
Dina took it, delicately. The flamboyance of the gesture heated her. To hide it, she bowed her head, dark hair tumbling around her face as she signed.
‘Done. Thank you.’
‘One copy’s for you.’ Gaines pushed the papers towards her. ‘And keep the pen.’
She started. ‘I couldn’t.’
‘Do great things with it. Make more deals.’ He stood up, before he looked too long at those green eyes. The schedule was busy today – like always. ‘Call me again when you’ve made your first ten million.’
Dina’s belly fluttered with desire. ‘You joke with me, Mr Gaines.’
‘Joel,’ he said, standing up. ‘And I never joke.’
She watched his back as he left the room.
Edward Johnson arrived punctually at his new office. Penelope had signed away part of the trust-fund management to him and he’d set up a shell company, EdJo Inc, listed as ‘private wealth management’. Edward enjoyed printing up little cards that said
Director
, and leasing one smart room in a block off Columbus Circle.
He had no intention of actually doing any work. There were brokers, good ones, who handled the Johnson money, now his mother’s money. This title gave him something to pretend to do. Screw Columbia. Screw Dina. Once she’d handed over Meadow, he was planning another little sit-down with Hector Green. It would be amusing to take a share in that product himself, run it and make a success of it. Women went crazy for beauty; it was a billion-dollar industry. He loved the idea of making money there – New York Fashion Week, fucking the models, front row at the shows, designers cosying up to him.
Far
more fun than some stuffy law office or Wall Street traders’ shop.
For now, there was a boring, cheap secretary in her late forties – practically dead, but you don’t shit where you eat – and a little desk with a view. He would make a few calls to some of the brokers to ‘discuss investments’. More importantly, there would be lunches, dinners, cocktails . . . Ed Johnson had a list of every little fucker that abandoned him, all those Ivy League fair-weather friends. He had money, position again. And he would pursue some girl to marry – one with a lot of cash and no crazy ideas about business.
‘Good morning, Mr Johnson,’ said Faustina Kopek, his new assistant.
‘Morning. Get me some coffee. Jamaican Blue Mountain with cream. And croissants. There’s a Whole Foods downstairs.’
‘OK.’
He preferred
Yes, sir
; they would have to work on that. ‘First things first, put me through to Giles Shaman at Shaman and Kebler.’
‘Right away.’
He closed the door so he wouldn’t have to look at her pudgy ass, and right away the little red button lit up on his phone. Just like a real office. Edward smiled.
‘Johnson,’ he said, pompously.
‘Edward. This is Giles. I’m afraid we have a little bit of a problem.’
Dina called her bank to make sure the money was there. Then she called Brad.
‘I’ve got the money – for rehab. Can you help me get him there?’
‘You’re kidding?’ Brad breathed out, a long, guttural sigh of relief. ‘Did your mother change her mind?’