A Kept Woman (40 page)

but she sipped at it anyway.

‘Well, they were auditioning,’ Diana told him. ‘It’s a classic good-girl ploy. They were auditioning to be your wife. I bet you they ate before they went out to dinner. It’s reverse competition. The girl that eats least at the table wins.’

Brad laughed aloud. God, she was so funny and enchanting. Having her here was like holding the winning ticket in the lottery and having the delicious anticipation of cashing it in.

‘Can I be honest with you?’

Diana took a big slug of her JD. ‘Hell yes. All the boys

are being honest this evening. Why not you?’

‘When I first met you I knew who you were and I came

after you.’

‘Well, I knew that.’

‘No, hear me out.’ He looked a little shifty. ‘I had

stayed single for about as long as I could. You know, one day a man wakes up and he knows it’s time to get married, to settle down to get himself an heir. And then, if you’re a man like me, you want the best. Since I was small, I’ve been used to the best.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’ Diana beamed, pleased with

her own wit.

‘You were famous. You were English, you had a classy reputation. The way you handled the thing with your ex husband was wonderful. No press interviews, no

National Enquirer exposes.’

‘As if I would.’

‘Well, a man in my position needs to know that if the

shit comes down, there won’t be any scandal. I saw a

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woman who’d been through the worst that can happen to a society wife and who had kept her mouth shut. Even though you somehow lost out on his money.’

Diana straightened. ‘Quite a test,’ she said evenly. ‘But you passed. And then when I saw you, it turned from being.., a… socially proper decision into being a personal one. You are just so breathtaking. And you kept me at arm’s length. You know how long it’s been since I had to chase a woman?’

‘I don’t think you’ve ever had to chase anything,’ Diana said.

‘That’s pretty much true.’ Brad was unapologetic. ‘I never have. But the result is I am head over heels,

incredibly, amazingly, utterly in love with you, Diana.’ She tossed back the rest of her drink. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ Diana said.

The master bedroom was a fantasy. The flooring was warm chocolate-brown marble, the rugs subtle shades of cream and ivory. The bed in the centre of the room was suspended from a pole made of clear glass, so that it seemed to float above the floor. It was draped with rich satin and silk sheets, down pillows and soft comforters. Diana stared at it. It looked like the most comfortable thing she had ever seen. Sunk deep into a corner of the marble was a whirlp6ol bath the size of a small swimming pool, with discreet little bottles from Czech & Speaker lined up alongside it.

Brad steered her gently towards the bed.

‘You’re the kind of woman who ought to have things like this,’ he whispered. Diana felt his breath hot in her ear, playing against the nape of her neck. The buzz from the liquor was stealing over her, making her languid, making her bones feel like they could just pour flat onto the bed. ‘You work, but there’s no need for it. You’

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should throw nice dinners, tennis parties at my place in

the Vineyard. Decorate. Have babies.’

He punctuated each phrase with a kiss, laid soft as

down on her neck and the hollows of her throat.

‘It can be like it was before for you,’ he murmured.

‘Better. Because you’ll have the kind of husband a

woman like you deserves.’

‘Husband?’ Diana muttered, dreamily.

Brad scooped her into his arms and laid her on the bed, reddening from her weight. Then his hands were on her back, seeking out her zipper, delicately peeling the clothes from her like a museum director unwrapping a priceless artefact.

‘That’s what I said,’ he whispered, and moved to kiss

the slopes of her warm, freckled breasts.

The scent of breakfast woke her. Diana propped herself up, her head throbbing, and tried to deal with the cold winter light streaming through Brad’s vast French windows. He was already up and dressed, standing at the doorway taking a breakfast tray from a maid. She smelled fresh roasted vanilla coffee, saw crisp bacon and a fluffy egg-white and fine-herb omelette. There was also a pitcher of squeezed blood oranges, ice-cold spring water and a warm, sun-ripened peach.

Brad walked across the floor and laid the tray across

her knees.

‘No need to get up,’ he said..

‘But there is. I’m late for work already,’ Diana said, dismayed.

‘Sure. Your office,’ he said, a little patronisingly. ‘I

know. I took the liberty of laying out some work things for you on that chair over there. I had one of my contacts at Women’s Wear Daily guess your size for me, in the hope that one day you’d stay over here.’

‘I’m impressed.’

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‘You should be. I plan ahead. I gotta go, honey.’ Brad kissed her on the tip of her nose. ‘I have a closing on a luxury block in the Village. Twelve mill. Look, last night was just incredible. You think about what I said, OK? I want us to be married. It’s the right thing for both of us.’

He smiled at her and walked out, giving her a little wave.

Diana poured a cup of the coffee, set the rest of the tray aside and staggered towards the bathroom set to the side. Brad’s power shower had six jets and a range of shampoos hand-blended in Switzerland. It was inlaid with pale-blue stone studded with small brass stars everywhere. Like showering in heaven, she thought. Anxiously she checked her face. No spots, despite sleeping in her make-up. Diana showered, then grabbed a towel and dried herself, slurping down a little more of the steaming brew and letting the fog in her brain clear.

Last night was … what? She had gotten drunk, and obviously had sex with Brad. Except the problem was she didn’t remember it. Diana pulled off the towel and glanced down at her body. There were none of the scratches and bruises she’d had after a night with Michael. If they had had sex, it must have been sweet, polite sex. She wondered if she’d actually passed out, from the booze, in the middle of it.

Possibly. Knowing men, though, he would only take that as a compliment.

She walked over to the chair, and looked at the clothes he had left. A smart green Prada suit and a crisp white shirt; Woolford hose and sleek Chanel mules. Very nice. Hurriedly she tugged them on and regarded her reflection

in the full-length Swedish mirror. A perfect fit, too. Money buys everything, she thought.

Her life had come full circle. Marrying Ernie for … for money. And getting divorced for naivety, for pride.

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Now she actually had a job and because she hadn’t

chased money, money had come chasing her.

Elspeth would be thrilled. Claire would cheer from the

rafters.

Natasha, Jodie and Felicity wouldn’t know what had

hit them.

Diana brushed out her hair with the Mason-Pearson hairbrush laid out by the side of her clothes and rushed downstairs. The butler, who had let her in, was in the hall and bowed slightly when she appeared.

‘Jenkins has the car waiting for you, madam.’ He

handed her a small Louis Vuitton case. ‘Mr Bailey took

the opportunity of having your things packed up.’

Incredulously, Diana unzipped the rich-smelling

leather. There were her pearls, her dress, her lingerie and her shoes, beautifully wrapped between crisp sheets of acid-free tissue paper.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘If you’ll step this way, madam,’ he suggested, opening

the elevator to the underground garage.

The journey downtown was fast, but it seemed to take

for ever.

The driver was blessedly silent. Relaxing against the comfortable back seat, Diana took advantage of the small silver coffee pot and cup prepared for her and watched the tall buildings of Park Avenue slip past. The noise and bustle of the city was converted to silent images in her sound-proofed luxury, and, she could rest her head against the tinted windows with no fear that anybody could look inside at her.

How comfortable, how easy, life as Mrs Brad Bailey

would be.

Jenkins let her out right in front of the office. There weren’t that many limos in that part of town. The passersby rubbernecked with their Starbucks muffins and

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deli coffee. Diana thanked the driver and rushed into the office.

‘Morning, Miss Verity.’ Ellen, her assistant, looked up at her anxiously. ‘I left a few messages at your house. I’m sorry. I was a bit worried.’

‘That’s OK, I should have called in,’ Diana said. She wasn’t about to explain further. She fought back a blush; what she did in her private time was her business. ‘I’m just going to see Mr Cicero. If you could get my call sheet ready?’

‘But Miss Verity—’

Diana ignored her plaintive call and marched inside. There was Tina, sitting in front of Michael’s office wearing a tight jersey dress which left nothing to the imagination. If you liked string beans, Diana thought viciously.

‘Where’s Michael?’ she asked.

‘He told me he was taking a day off,’ Tina said, smiling sweetly at Diana. ‘He asked me to ask you to look after the business today.’

‘Oh.’ Diana was floored. She’d had a thousand excuses ready and now he was taking a day off? That was like the Pope taking a day off. It just didn’t happen.

‘Miss Verity,’ Tina said, ‘I wonder if I could have a little chat with you?’

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Felicity looked around her dinner table and smiled tightly at her guests. She gave Mort and Natty Zuckerman a little wave, nodded her head so her earrings sparkled, and smoothed down her little black Gucci dress. It was a successful do by anybody’s standards. There was Lola Givens, the Met’s latest black opera diva, Charles Lenten, the plastic surgeon, Amica, the supermodel, and the usual gaggle of business tycoons and politicians. Monsieur Letrec, Felicity’s new cook, had done an excellent job. The duck confit and orange salad was a success, as was the green tea sorbet, the vintage Krug, and the Chateau Lafite ;t 96z.

But the atmosphere was sadly muted.

Annoyed, she looked over at Ernie. His voice was just

that bit too loud, braying over the table. They had fought several times this week about his manners. Felicity was tired of smoothing over Ernie’s rough edges. Despite her little Rolodex files on every one of his acquaintances, their wives, likes and dislikes, it was getting harder to cover up for his racist jokes and off-colour speeches. Ernie had never been subtle, and since the troubles at Blakely’s, things had become worse. She sipped her water - no wine, somebody had to be there to manage things if Ernie got drunk.

‘Your ring is wonderful.’

Felicity smiled over at Elise Davenport, the latest

young wife of Horace, the paper-mill king. She lifted one

slim hand and flashed her diamond. Three full carats and

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a surrounding band of rubies. Yes, there was the compensating factor of Ernie’s pocketbook. Despite their little spats, she was getting some wonderful toys out of this. Ernie had to spend to hold on to quality, she reminded herself.

‘Thank you. Tiffany’s designed it specially.’

Elise nodded. ‘It’s so wonderful of your fiance, especially with the way things are.’

Felicity’s radar prickled. ‘Have you heard something, dear?’

The word was all over the street. Felicity scorned business - vulgar talk of money, she liked to say - but the wives network was a more accurate barometer of current worth than Barron’s.

Apparently Ernie was in some kind of trouble. His big name writers were still selling, but not enough to cover the money spent on promoting them. Then there was the computer games thing. Felicity bit her lower lip. She had so looked forward to rubbing Ernie’s new venture into Diana Verity’s face, but it wasn’t working out that way. The staff, brought in at huge expense from Imperial, chafed under Ernie’s strict working conditions. Suits, ties and signing-in didn’t suit them. Their work was substandard and the code-checkers had missed the bugs. Games were delayed, faulty and often boring. After the first burst of heavily advertised sales success, the book problem was repeating itself here.

Ernie had told her last night that Blakely’s board was worried.

‘Please, darling,’ Felicity snapped. She had the impulse to reach for a cigarette. ‘I’m so uninterested in your work problems. Why don’t you fix them and leave me to run the house?’

She flounced off before he could bend her ear. All Ernie had to do was keep things going just the way they were. Was that too much to ask?

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Felicity was beginning to wonder just how deep the slide would go.

Anxiously she waited for Elise’s reply.

‘Oh, nothing.’ Her guest forked a tiny radichio leaf into her peach-glossed mouth. ‘And anyway, I’m sure it’ll all soon be fixed.’

Felicity scowled and summoned the waitress over with a snap of her red-taloned fingers. Maybe she would take some champagne after all.

‘Of course, Tina,’ Diana said. ‘We can go into Mr Cicero’s office. Did he tell you where he was going, by the way?’

The younger girl pushed herself up and opened the door to Michael’s office. A waft of Chanel No. 5 hit Diana. It reeked, as if Tina had taken to emptying an entire bottle over herself. ‘No,’ she said, shutting the door. ‘He didn’t have that much time this morning, Diana - do you mind if I call you Diana?’

‘No,’ Diana said, gritting her teeth.

She did mind, she had worked hard to be made director of this company. But she didn’t want Tina to think she was picking on her, because of Michael. Then Tina might get the silly idea that Diana resented her. ‘Go ahead,’ she said.

I don’t like you because you’re a vacuous, skinny, itsybitsy bimbo, Diana thought. It’s got nothing to do with Michael.