‘What for?’
‘A war cry. To thank everyone. Brainwash everyone into the Karenza message.’
Dan had a point. Karin did want to thank everyone properly. Everyone had worked their asses off. The campaign was going to be as good as anything Lauder or Gucci had ever done, but she had done it on the cheap. And she wanted to impress Adam.
She scanned the beach for everyone. There were only ten or so of them in their party, but she couldn’t see anyone. More importantly, she had lost sight of Adam and Summer.
She felt sudden unease and checked the crowd again. ‘Have you seen Summer?’ she asked Dan urgently.
‘I think she’s gone back to the hotel.’
Yeah right
, thought Karin, striding across the sand. She walked to the barbecue, which had stopped cooking. The chefs were dancing in the area around the band, which had been turned into a makeshift dance floor. There was a huge throng of people on the beach now.
Honeymooners slow-danced in other arms, kids twirling their arms ran and in and out of middle-aged couples, who held hands and moved awkwardly to the sounds of Bob Marley’s ‘One Love’. Adam and Summer weren’t there or by the bar.
A few people had milled out further along the sands, where the beach blurred into blackness, and Karin walked towards them. After a few minutes of walking across the cold sand, she saw a couple ahead of her by the edge of the water. It was silent out here now. All she could see of the party was the orange furry glow of the bonfire.
An icy chill shivered down her spine as she marched over. She could make out Adam from a hundred metres, recognizing the navy shirt he had changed into. But the other woman. It was hard to identify her as she was naked except for a pair of briefs. She stood like a statue at a distance, watching the woman splashing in the surf, tempting Adam to join her.
Forcing herself to move closer, her hands curled into a tight fist. The long brown mane of the girl’s hair swished away from her face so Karin could make out who it was.
Tessa.
Karin was twenty metres away when they saw her approach. Tessa ran over to a little pile of clothes sitting on the sand, her breasts like two round tanned tennis balls bouncing in the air as she fled to grab her T-shirt.
Adam turned round and looked straight-faced.
‘We were just going swimming. Are you coming in?’
Karin felt a lump in her throat. She quashed every urge to stop a scream coming out of her mouth, but took a deep breath and smiled thinly.
‘I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun,’ she said tartly.
‘Karin, wait,’ said Tessa still pulling her T-shirt on.
‘Get out of my sight, you little tart,’ snapped Karin. ‘You’re fired.’
Tessa grabbed her shorts and sandals and ran off along the beach.
Karin exhaled and waited a moment before she said anything.
‘It wasn’t how it looked,’ said Adam, running his hand through his hair.
‘Of course it wasn’t,’ said Karin sarcastically.
‘She just wanted to go skinny dipping.’
‘You’ve humiliated me, Adam,’ she said coolly. ‘I hope she was worth it.’
‘Nothing happened,’ he said, moving towards her. ‘I had all my clothes on.’
Karin snorted. ‘I bet that’s what Bill Clinton told Hilary.’
Adam was shaking his head. ‘I came to Anguilla to have a good time. With you.’
‘That’s not how it looked two minutes ago.’ She could feel an aggressive wobble in her voice and suddenly Adam’s expression went from sympathetic to defensive.
‘Can we let this go?’ he snapped, his eyes looking moody. ‘It’s not even as if we’re exclusive.’
The comment was like a slap across a sore cheek.
‘Exclusive?’ She had never dated an American before. Did exclusivity have to be spelled out? Written in blood in a contract? ‘Forgive me for getting the wrong end of the stick, but flying out halfway across the world to be with someone sounds pretty exclusive to me.’
She looked out to the inky-black sea, feeling a tear pricking at the back of her eye. She bit her lip to stop it escaping and turned to him shaking her head. ‘Do you know what? Forget it. If that’s how you feel, then I shouldn’t care about what’s happened as much as I do.’
Adam stretched out a hand towards her. ‘Kay. I’m sorry. Let’s talk about this. I do care about you.’
‘Clearly not enough,’ she said steadily and began to walk back to the hotel, determined to keep her pride.
Working for the Midas Corporation had taken over Erin’s life. In an average day she might take a helicopter to a development site, set up meetings in Miami, Kazakhstan and LA or spend hours locating a specific type of vintage wine or rare sculpture – all at Adam’s whim. She had become on first name terms with the PA of every business giant and, after Adam had insisted on giving her a clothing allowance – he had politely suggested that she smarten up her image – she was starting to feel completely at home in the high heels and designer suits she now wore to the office. Erin’s life had changed beyond all recognition, and she was beginning to really enjoy herself. It was true she simply didn’t have time for a social life, but then who needed to be sitting in a loud, smoky pub when you travelled private?
As usual, Erin was exhausted by the time she reached the front door of her new apartment block. At least it was still early, she thought, glancing at her watch: 8.30. It had been a hard day; a hard week, in fact. Adam had returned from Anguilla a couple of days early with a sexy hazelnut tan and a very bad temper, and he had been making her life a misery ever since, picking at every detail. He had gone ballistic at the
finish on the limestone flooring in the Chelsea Marina development and had demanded that the whole thing be redone. Erin had barely been off the phone for six hours straight.
‘Alright you?’
Erin had spotted Chris Scanlan standing at one end of the hallway, sifting through his post, and had tried to walk softly over the marble tiles in the hope of not being seen or heard. No such luck; he turned and grinned.
‘Hard day at the office?’ he asked with a sympathetic look. She couldn’t work out if he was making fun of her.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she said, walking briskly to the lift. ‘I wish I could say I’m going to drown my sorrows with a glass of wine, but I just haven’t had time to do any shopping.’
Chris grinned at her mischievously. ‘Well, you certainly have the right neighbour, Miss Devereux.’
She was surprised he knew her surname. No doubt been nosing around the post.
‘In what way?’ she replied defensively.
‘Didn’t I tell you what I did for a living?’
Erin shook her head. Ever since she had moved to Peony House, any contact with her neighbours had been limited to a few cautious hellos.
‘President of Moet et Chandon?’ she asked, looking at his slightly shabby suit. She surprised herself by having noticed it; a month before she wouldn’t have been able to tell Savile Row from a shell suit.
‘Close,’ he said, entirely seriously. ‘I am the food and drink editor for the
Herald
. I dare say I can rustle something up from my cellar,’
Erin felt her face flush with embarrassment. ‘Oh, I didn’t know,’ she stuttered, ‘I really wasn’t trying to scrounge a bottle of wine from you.’
‘Come on. You know you want to,’ he teased. ‘Anyway.
I hate it in London when you don’t even know your neighbours well enough to borrow a cup of sugar.’
Judging by the number of women she had seen going in and out of number twelve, Erin wasn’t entirely sure if she was safe going round to borrow a bowl of sugar. On the other hand, she would just love a chilled glass of Sauvignon right now.
‘I’ll even throw in a bowl of risotto,’ he added.
Erin hesitated. How much she would love right now just to curl up on her sofa underneath a blanket with a hot drink, quiet music and just rest. But she was hungry and she knew that her fridge was full of wilting vegetables that she had bought with moving-in enthusiasm, but had never had the energy to cook.
‘Okay,’ she nodded. ‘Thanks, that sounds good.’
Chris’s flat was smaller than Erin’s. Just a big room that doubled as a lounge and a kitchen that was surprisingly tidy. There were two big grey sofas, a heavy oak coffee table with a few empty wine glasses and a bookcase bursting with books. The kitchen area looked like Harrods’ food hall, stuffed with olive oils, vinegars and exotic fruit and vegetables. Chris ran over to the stove where a big pan was simmering and stirred frantically.
‘You do surprise me, Chris Scanlan,’ said Erin with a smirk.
‘Why?’ he asked, looking up from tasting a spoonful of the rice.
‘From where I usually see it – my front door – you seem to live off pretty girls and cigarettes. But this – well, it’s a picture of domestic bliss.’
‘I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere,’ he said cynically, picking out a bottle of white. He poured two big glasses, and handed Erin one.
‘I assume it’s the high-powered job makes you all uptight and prickly. What do you do again?’
She told him and took a sip of the wine. It felt good on her lips, like grass and gooseberries. ‘And I am not uptight and prickly,’ she said, spilling a droplet of wine on her skirt.
‘Course you’re not, Prickles,’ grinned Chris, then picked up a black, coal-like lump and started shaving it into the steaming risotto.
‘What’s that?’ asked Erin, drinking in the deliciously earthy smell.
‘Hey, don’t admit you just said that to your billionaire jet-setting boss,’ replied Chris, handing Erin a bowl. ‘They’re truffles. King of the mushrooms.’
She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t they an aphrodisiac?’
‘You’re not my type, Prickles, so stop panicking and just enjoy it.’
Erin did as she was told. The truffles melted on her tongue like a musky butter. ‘Wow – they’re fantastic! I could get used to those.’
‘Easy, Tiger,’ smiled Chris. ‘They cost a fortune. You’ll have to marry your rich boss if you want truffles as your teatime snack.’ She felt a warm rush at the mention of marriage to Adam.
Stop it
, she scolded herself.
‘So why are they so pricy?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t believe the trouble it takes to get that to your plate,’ said Chris. ‘About ten years and a lot of paranoia. Truffle hunting is shrouded in so much secrecy. In some areas of Italy, only the father of the family knows where the truffles can be found, and the secrets are passed down from generation to generation.’
‘Gosh, sounds like the basis for a thriller,’ said Erin.
‘Hmm, maybe that’s the answer to my literary impasse,’ said Chris.
‘How do you mean?’
Chris looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, I am writing a book. Actually I’ve written two, although neither of them have ever been near a bookshop.’
‘Really?’ asked Erin. ‘What sort of thing? Cookbooks?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Horror.’
Erin nearly choked on her risotto. ‘Horror? How … odd,’ she said lamely. ‘You are a dark horse.’
‘Hey, don’t knock horror, young lady. It’s one of the biggest commercial genres in the industry. Look at Stephen King.’
‘Well, yes. Precisely,’ she teased.
‘Anyway, I’ve just been binned by my agent but –’ he drained his wine glass with a flourish ‘– I will continue. Stephen King only got his break when his wife rescued his notes for
Carrie
out of the dustbin, and the rest is history.’
Erin was shaking her head and laughing. ‘Actually I’m writing a book too,’ she said, greedily scraping the last of her risotto from the bowl.
‘Look who else is full of surprises,’ smiled Chris. ‘I didn’t think you would have time to put pen to paper with all the international jet-setting.’
‘Stop being cheeky. I am a lowly PA with a dream,’ she said smiling. ‘But you’re right. I’ve got an agent but no time,’ she added, realizing she hadn’t even opened her laptop for at least three weeks.
‘I tell you what, Prickles,’ said Chris, putting his feet up on the coffee table. ‘Let’s have a competition. By the end of the year, let’s see if one of us can get a publishing deal.’
‘Okay!’ said Erin, suddenly enthused about her book once more. ‘And every competition must have a prize.’
Chris flicked the rim of his glass. ‘I’ve got it – whoever gets the first book deal has to take the other out for a meal of their choice in any restaurant in the world.’
‘That’s not fair!’ complained Erin, ‘you can go anywhere for free!’
‘Hey, don’t assume that I’m going to win.’
She blushed. He was cute. ‘Okay, you’re on. But out of interest, where would you like to go?’
‘I’ve never been to the French Laundry in the Napa Valley,’ replied Chris seriously. ‘Thomas Keller is one of the world’s best chefs.’
‘Napa Valley,’ spluttered Erin. ‘I was thinking more like that gastro-pub at the end of the road,’ she smiled.
‘Well you’d better get on with winning, then!’
They clinked glasses and, as she let the wine slither down her throat, a light giddy feeling washed over her.
She extended a hand to Chris and he shook it. ‘It’s a deal. But there’s one more thing.’
‘Name it.’
‘Don’t call me Prickles.’