‘So, Summer, what did you think of the veal?’
Marcus was topping Summer’s glass up with an expensive claret and forcing conversation, while Molly watched contently. She was glad to be back in London. Back in a smart restaurant with her rich boyfriend. Back where she belonged. Her trip to Newcastle was something she had been trying all week to put in a box at the back of her mind. Only a dislodged bath plug had saved her from certain drowning in the bath of the Metropole. She had finally woken up in the cold, empty porcelain tub, with a thumping head and alcohol curdling round her bloodstream. She had taken the first train back to St Pancras without contacting her stepmother, not even to find out about the funeral. She had gone back to Newcastle and almost died. It was a sign that she did not belong there. A sign that she had done the right thing by severing all ties with her past.
‘The veal was delicious,’ smiled Summer politely, hoping nobody would want dessert and delay the agony of the evening.
‘Tell Marcus about the film you’re auditioning for,’ said
Molly, snapping herself out of her thoughts. Summer winced.
Please God, not the proud parent routine.
‘Molly,’ she said, ‘I don’t even know if I’ll get seen by the casting director yet.’
‘She’ll get seen,’ said Molly, turning to Marcus with a smug smile. ‘Of course I had my opportunities in Hollywood too. Did you see Robert Altman’s
Prêt-à-Porter
? Bob really wanted me for a cameo but filming clashed with another commitment.’
Summer rolled her eyes. The evening was turning out to be even worse than she’d imagined. Marcus had invited Molly and Summer for dinner at Le Gavroche, having been inexplicably seized by the notion that they all spend quality time together. Even though the food was exquisite and the restaurant sumptuous, Molly was behaving strangely. One minute she’d be morose and thoughtful, the next minute she’d be the charming, gushing parent, to the extent that she was treating Summer like a teenager.
Adding to Summer’s awkwardness was that she was sleeping with Marcus’s best friend. It was impossible for her to relax. Still, thought Summer, taking another sip of claret to anaesthetize herself, at least Marcus seemed a decent enough man. Molly’s boyfriends usually fell into two narrow categories: objectionable and pompous.
It was a game of Summer’s to guess the background of her mother’s boyfriends. It was easy to spot the playboys, of course, with their perma-tans, extravagant dress-sense and the hungry, hooded lids when they looked at Summer. The inherited money was also obvious; the rebellious sons of old established families, who invariably took the most drugs, and had the worst manners once they had drunk a few glasses of wine. Marcus fell into the third, and rarest category of Molly’s paramours. He had the serious, considered manner of someone who had earned his wealth. He
looked at Summer with the respectful interest of someone who wanted to know what she had to say, rather than what she would be like in bed.
Summer could also tell a lot about Molly’s boyfriends by how her mother behaved around them. Her mother possessed a chameleon-like ability to adapt herself to become any man’s fantasy woman. Her physical appearance, her clothes, hair and her make-up would all alter slightly to fit to the man’s tastes. Robert Cabot, a hedge-fund banker with a wife in Manhattan, had been treated to pencil skirts, kitten heels and a succession of white shirts, unbuttoned just a little too low. Her hair would be lightened a few shades to a buttery blonde and she would talk about her time in New York, when she had partied with Basquiat. With Stavros the son of a Greek shipping heir, Molly wore Cavalli. Skirts were shorter, heels higher, lips as red and juicy as berries. More friendly, flirty, louder, prouder; more Notice-me.
For Marcus, Molly was definitely a softer, quieter version of herself. Hair in a ponytail, jeans and a Chanel jacket, her conversation was peppered with glamorous people and places. Marcus was a numbers man, who sat behind the desk while Adam wheeled and dealed and travelled and had dinner with the rich and famous. For Marcus, Molly added colour and sophistication to his life.
‘Molly tells me you’re doing terribly well with the modelling,’ said Marcus. ‘Apparently brunettes have more fun.’
Summer tugged at a lock of hair. ‘Well, it does all seem to have taken off after I had my colour done. I suppose I have Karin to thank.’
‘Not really Karin, though, honey, was it?’ said Molly quickly. ‘Summer was discovered by Dan Stevens the photographer in Regent Street, would you believe it?’
‘Speaking of Karin,’ said Marcus, giving his dessert menu back to the waiter, ‘Adam has invited us to down to the
yacht in Capri next week, if you fancy it? I think Karin is in Italy visiting the factories. I’m sure Adam won’t mind you coming along, Summer. Have you been to Capri?’
‘Ooh, Capri, darling,’ said Molly, looking over to her daughter and nodding. ‘I’m sure Karin will be glad to see you; after all, it’s your image that’s getting her cash registers ringing right now. And will there be anybody interesting on the yacht for Summer?’ she continued, nudging Marcus gently.
‘Mother,’ said Summer sternly, averting her eyes. The thought of standing face to face with Karin filled her with dread. How could they make small talk and say how lovely it was to see her again and pretend that she did not know the taste of her boyfriend’s mouth or the muscular hollow at the top of his thigh, or the tiny mole on the shaft of his cock.
Marcus laughed, trying to diffuse the tension. ‘Rule number one, Summer. Never let your parents fix you up with anyone. My first date was with the daughter of my father’s boss. She weighed two hundred pounds and had a fascination with newts.’
‘It’s a lovely offer, but I can’t,’ said Summer, adding to her acting skills by feigning regret. ‘As you probably know, I’m doing this TV show and we’re doing some filming that weekend.’
‘Really?’ said Molly, raising a sceptical eyebrow. ‘What can you be possibly covering of any note next weekend? It’s so quiet in London right now. Everyone’s buggered off on holiday.’
‘I think we might be going away,’ said Summer vaguely. ‘I never really know what we’re filming until the production meeting a few days before.’
Molly flashed her a look that clearly said,
we’ll talk about this later
. Marcus, however, was hardly distraught. Summer
appreciated the gesture, but it had clearly been for appearances’ sake. As he paid the bill and they walked down the steps, it was just going dark. The streets of Covent Garden were unusually still.
‘Do you want to wait here while I go and pick up the car?’ asked Marcus, rattling his keys.
Molly shook her head. ‘This is really a night out with my daughter. You’re just tagging along, Marcus, my dear,’ she teased, turning to kiss him lightly on the lips. ‘I’m going to see if I can tempt her with a nightcap at the Light Bar,’ she said, pointing over the road in the direction of the St Martin’s Lane Hotel. ‘And I will see you tomorrow,’ she said, purring into Marcus’s ear.
‘Please come for a drink,’ said Molly, as Marcus disappeared around a corner. ‘I only had a couple of glasses at dinner. Marcus hates me drinking too much.’
‘He knows what you’re like, that’s why,’ said Summer cynically. ‘No. I’m going home,’ she said with finality, sticking her arm out to hail a taxi. Summer rarely stood up to her mother, but the last thing she needed just then was more cocktails and self-pity.
Molly just shrugged and they climbed into the back of a black cab, trundling round Trafalgar Square past the National Gallery, lit up and stately, and watched impassively as lovers walked round the fountains.
‘You aren’t filming next weekend, are you?’ said Molly finally. She had seen the look of fear and confusion on her daughter’s face at the mention of Adam, and her instincts for intrigue told her something was wrong. ‘Why don’t you want to go on the yacht?’
Summer stared out of the window. The yacht. Where Adam had promised to take her. Since they had first made love, anchored in the Solent, Adam and Summer had barely been apart, their passion swelling in ferocity with
each meeting. Now they had arranged to meet on
The Pledge
at Porto Ercole on the Wednesday before Adam went on to Capri. Just the two of them, alone, together, entwined. How could Summer then reboard their love nest two days later, with his girlfriend playing hostess? How could she sleep on the boat, knowing that forty-eight hours earlier she had been lying next to Adam, kissing him, feeling him inside her?
She knew what she was doing was wrong. Selfish, immoral. Many times, over the years, Summer had criticized her mother for willingly being ‘the other woman’, but now she was doing exactly the same. Even worse, she knew Karin; she owed her success to her. She hated herself for it, but the feelings she felt for Adam were too strong to deny – and, in truth, Summer felt she deserved this small ray of happiness.
She had never let anyone get this close before, and she didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell her that her fear of intimacy and abandonment lay with Molly. What Summer had seen as a child. What she had heard at night. It was why, when all her friends in Toyko were out at clubs and going on dinner dates with rich businessmen, Summer had kept her distance and always gone home alone. It was why at twenty-four she had never had a proper relationship, regardless of her beauty. It was why she needed Adam so badly now.
‘Come to Capri,’ said Molly softly. ‘Bring a friend if you want to. Marcus will ask Adam. Someone pretty. Pretty girls are always welcome on yachts,’ she said, smiling slightly.
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Summer, beginning to sob, the guilt, shame and sadness overcoming her unexpectedly.
Molly put her arm on her shoulder. ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ she said softly.
Summer looked at her through misty eyes. She was going to tell her. She had to. The burden of what she was doing
was too heavy to bear alone. And out of anybody she knew, Molly would know that feeling, of being the other woman and its sweet burden.
‘I am seeing Adam,’ said Summer simply, hoping for a second that her mother might not have heard her. ‘I don’t want to go because I’m already going. A few days beforehand. I’m meeting him in Porto Ercole.’
She held her breath and she looked at her mother, knowing that Molly wouldn’t judge her for sleeping with somebody else’s partner, but wondering for one moment if she would be angry for encroaching on her new wonderland, by bagging its prize.
Molly stared open-mouthed at her daughter, the glimmer of fury immediately softening as she realized with startling clarity the opportunity that had presented itself; wondering why she had not thought of it sooner. If Adam Gold was proving stubborn to her own advances, then having him as her son-in-law would be the perfect compromise. She smiled at Summer, one strap of her silk, crocus-yellow sundress falling off one shoulder, the curve of her rosy lips, slightly downturned with unease, and thought that she had never looked more beautiful.
She took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it lightly. ‘That’s perfect. It really is perfect. You and Adam are perfect for each other.’
‘Perfect. If it wasn’t for Karin,’ said Summer, a teardrop running down her cheek.
‘Give it time, honey,’ she said stroking her fingertips. ‘Hang on in there and just give it time.’
Erin was hiding in a toilet cubicle at the Midas Corporation, her face buried in her hands, thick sobs welling in her throat. Her worst suspicions had been confirmed and the last few
days all began to make sense as the pieces of the awful jigsaw fell together. It was part of Erin’s daily routine to go through the trade papers for Adam:
Estates Gazette
, the property section of the
New York Times, Construction News
. In one building industry journal she had seen, to her horror, a news story about Julian. There, smiling at her, taunting her, was a head-shot of ‘renowned architect Julian Sewell’, accompanying a story that Julian had just been taken onto the board of Dreamscape Construction as vice president. She had known immediately how Dreamscape had got the information that had sabotaged the Midas pitch for the London Gallery. Every pitch, every development had its own file on her computer. Anybody accessing her computer would know exactly what Midas Corporation was doing – which developments they were pitching for, who they had been commissioned by and the intimate details of their costs and designs.
Erin tore off a piece of loo roll to blot her eyes and blow her nose. He’d used her, then discarded her. Had he ever really felt anything for her? When he whispered to her in bed, was it just his ambition talking? When his naked body pressed against hers was he simply going through the motions until he could get the information he wanted? Her mind flashed around every possibility – for all she knew, he might have manipulated that first meeting in the Piccadilly wine bar; hadn’t he been waiting for a friend that never showed up? Their entire relationship was a sham. A knot of pain stabbed in her belly.
Erin took a deep breath and sat in the Eames chair in front of Adam. The sun was shining in through the window and making her squint. She felt nervous and pressured.
‘What is it, Erin? I’m very busy today,’ said Adam with impatience.
‘I’ve got something, well, something bad to tell you.’
Adam glanced up. ‘It can’t be any worse than the news I’ve already had this week,’ he said.
‘Well, I think you should know that I’ve been dating Julian Sewell.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Adam, looking up from a pile of contracts. ‘I hope he’s a better lover than he is an architect.’