Career Girls (20 page)

Elizabeth was twenty-eight ye.ars old and married to the wealthiest man in the Western world, which meant that money no longer concerned her. Achievement was all she gave a damn about, and he threw parties for the people at the top of each individual, tree, their bank balance being incidental. Your ancestors came over on the Mayflower? So what? If you couldn’t compete on a worldwide scale, Elizabeth didn’t have time for you.

Her parties were strictly for the great. The. good could

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take care 0fthemselves.

Young, cool, competitive Manhattan was hosting the Meritocrats’ Ball.

Topaz Rossi and Rowena Gordon had both been invited.

Oberman arrived at Rowena’s new apartment on West 67th street at 8 p.m. There had never been any question that he wouldn’t fly over for this one, and in any case Rowena needed an escort, since she didn’t know any of the American players yet, and invites were for on person only; no wives, no husbands, no lovers.

‘Just come in, Josh, it’s open,’ called Rowena from the bathroom. He took a look round, pleased with himself; with no time to hunt for a place, Gordon had taken the first thing he recommended, and he obviously hadn’t failed her.

‘

The co-op had a faqade of elegant white stone, with Gothic carvings of gargoyles entwined around the porch, which led into a lobby of polished black granite with efficient, discreet z4-hour security. Rowena had four huge, high-ceilinged rooms with breathtaking views over Central Park, and she’d decorated them with a few small English watercolours and exquisite Georgian furniture. He nodded to himself, satisfied. No disgrace for Musica’s youngest-ever MD to live somewhere like this.

‘Holy shit,’ he said as Rowena walked into the drawing room.

She was wearing a white chiffon gown by Ungaro, high-waisted in the Regency style and bias-cut in the skirt, so that it flowed around her, following every slight swing of her hips. The chiffon was studded with tiny fabric roses, complementing her classic peaches-and-cream complexion. Her blonde hair was swept up into a regal pile, secured by tiny ebony combs. Rubies glittered at her ears, throat and wrists, the dangling earrings in particular giving a sexy emphasis to the movement of her head and setting off her sparkling green eyes. Delicate pink satin heels peeped out from under her hem.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Rowena anxiously.

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‘You look unbelievable, toots,’ said Oberman, with fatherly pride. ‘Have a drink. You’ll need it.’

‘If you say so.’ She smiled at him. What a sweetheart he was. She hoped she’d get the same reaction from the two people she was really dressing for: Michael Krebs and Topaz Rossi.

Topaz received her gold-embossed invitation at the office, just as she was winding up a particularly tough advertising deal for Girlfriend. She was one of only four people invited from American Magazines.

Mrs Alexander Martin requests the pleasure of Miss Rossi’ s company on Wednesday, 28June,for a party in four acts. The Victrix Hotel, 8.3o p.m.

Dress as you please.

She sperrt a fortnight agonizing over what to wear, and then decided that less was more and went for a Chanel sheath in light green silk with matching shoes. She wore her hair loose, and no make-up orjewellery of any kind. The dress let her figure speak for itself, hugging her curves like a second skin, and the sea-green colour lit up the deep cobalt of her eyes. It was a look to stop traffic.

Nathan Rosen, Marissa Matthews and Joe Goldstein were coming too, and since they were all ridiculously busy

people, they met up in the limo. Nathan was wearing a tUX. Joe was wearing a tux.

Marissa was wearing a golden creation in six layers of organza, laced with silver thread a;ad covered head to foot in solid gold sequins. She had added a three-row pearl choker and sapphire and diamond bracelets.

‘What’s the matter, honey? Couldn’t you at least have hired something to go in?’ she asked as Topaz settled into the leather seat, furious because neither Nathan or Joe would stop stripping her with their eyes.

‘I didn’t realize it was a fancy-dress party, darling!’ Topaz

countered. ‘How original of you to come as a Christmas tree!’

Nathan hastily turned a snort of laughter into a cough, and the limo eased smoothly away.

Rowena clutched on to her boss’s arm, trying to catch her breath.

What was normally the ballroom of the Victrix Hotel, occupying the entire twenty-fourth floor, had been turned into a landscaped garden, with mosy turf laid down wall to wall and ancient-looking stone paving. To the right and left were orchards of orange trees in full blossom, delicately scenting the air. Footmen in full court livery paraded around with mahogany trays of caviar and truffles, and maids appeared and disappeared silently, ensuring that no glass was ever less than half full of vintage champagne. Tiny bells had been. garlanded into the branches of the trees, filling the room with soft, delicious chimes. White peacocks wandered among the crowd.

And what a crowd! Rowena had passed Madonna on her way in, and then found that she and Josh were sharing an elevator with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Si Newhouse, mogul head ofCond Nast magazines. Oberman had had to edge past Henry Kissinger, deep in conversation with Henry Kravis, just to get Rowena some champagne.

‘Come on, kid,’ he said, seventy-two and unshakeable. I’ll introduce you to a few people.’

For the next ten minutes Rowena Gordon, who lived and died for the record business, was catapulted straight to heaven.

‘Ahmet Ertegun, Rowena Gordon.’

‘Rowena, you haven’t met Sylvia Rhone, have you?’

‘Tommy Mottola. Clive Davis. Michelle Anthony. Joe Smith. Alain Levy.’

Rowena shook hands, suppressing the urge to curtsy.

‘This is Rick Rubin,’ said Josh, steering a huge man who looked like a bear towards her.

Dear God, thought Rowena, as she shook hands.with the

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ultimate Heavy Metal prince, you can almost smell the testosterone. The guy’s masculinity must walk into a room three paces in front of him.

‘I like the rushes of that Atomic Mass record Krebs is working on,’ growled Rubin. ‘Word of mouth on that band is huge.’

‘Yeah, they’re great,’ agreed Rowena, glowing with pride. ‘I thought you did an awesome job on “Licensed to II1”.’

‘Thanks,’ said Rubin.

‘Stop flirting with everybody, Rowena,’ said Josh loudly, making her blush even worse.

‘Get out of my face, Oberman,’ said Rubin amiably. ‘Oh my God, Batman and Robin,’ said Oberman, grabbing a pair of guys who were walking their way. ‘Hello, gentlemen, come say hi to Musica’s new woman in New York. Rowena, say hello to Q-Prime, and then go sign me an’act they can handle.’

Rowena was afraid she might drop her glass. If it was good and it used a guitar, Q-Prime represented it. Sweet Jesus! The two most legendary managers in the world…

‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ said Cliff Burnstein and Peter Mensch.

‘How are you finding New York?’.asked Burnstein, who basically didn’t give a shit about anything and had turned up in a Metallica shirt and jeans.

‘Er, it’s very big,’ muttered Rowena, her powers of conversation deserting her. They kindly agreed that it was indeed very big, and then launched into an animated discussion of the prospects for the Mets that season, finishing offeach other’s sentences.

‘Do md a favour,’ Oberman murmured to her after they’d moved away. ‘Never, ever luck with those guys.’

‘I wasn’t planning to, Josh.’

At the other end of the garden Topaz had also taken up residence on cloud nine, because Nathan had finally introduced her to Tina Brown, and the editor of Glamour had

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omplimented her on Girlfriend.

‘Excuse me, Marcelle,’ simpered Marissa, dragging a highly reluctant Topaz away from the exquisitely dressed editor of British Cosmopolitan. ‘Topaz, didn’t you know

Rowena Gordon when you were at school?’

‘What about it?’ snapped Topaz.

‘Because she’s right over there,’ Marissa purred.

At that moment, Rowena happened to glance to her left,

and froze, paralysed to the spot.

They had not laid eyes on each other for three years.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced a waiter. ‘Dinner is served.’

Elizabeth Martin had outdone herself this time, everybody agreed. The menus announced ‘Act II: A fairytale meal’, ‘ and she had certainly delivered.

The dining hall looked like a missing chapter of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It seemed as if Alexander Martin must have bought the entirety of F. A. O. Schwarz to decorate it. The centrepiece of the room was a table for zoo people crafted out of hard-baked, solid gingerbread. Miniature trains ran round the table, laden with quails’ eggs and celery salt in one carriage, Godiva chocolates in the next, and still more caviar in the third. Humanoid robots stumbled about, bearing various trays of drinks: champagne cocktails, fine wines, fresh pressed raspberry juice, even ready-mixed Long Island Ice Teas and Cokes in glass bottles. With a fine disregard for the seasons, various trophies of childhood festivals stood around; pumpkins complete with flickering candles and jagged smiles, fireworks for the Fourth of July, Easter eggs and chocolate bunnies, and Christmas trees everywhere, strung with tinsel and baubles and laden with gifts to which guests were expected to help themselves: Rolex watches, silver cuf’flinks, Hermes scarves, bottles of Joy and Chanel No. 5 You just didn’t know where to look first.

‘Fucking fantastic!’ laughed Joe Goldstein, seated on one side of Topaz.

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wonder, smile and relax. Nobody had ever seen anything like it. You almost saw the pressures of the city lifting and the years evaporating. Normality was suspended.

As waiters dressed in penguin suits served them with starters of smoked salmon mousse or honey-glazed roast vegetables, guests started unwrapping the presents laid beside each individual place setting, parcels of various different shapes and sizes. A chorus of gasps arose amongst the delighted hubbub. Someone had spent a long time on the known preferences of each guest; Elizabeth had apparently cast herself as everyone’s fairy godmother. Beside each plate was an object of desire longed for by the recipient, but never acquired.

‘Oh my God,’ said Topaz, delicately lifting the gauze offa letter to an academic written, and signed, by J. R. R. Tolkien. °

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Josh Oberman, pulling out a small Faberg6 egg. ‘It can’t be what I think it is.’

‘Look at this,’ said Rowena in astonishment, holding up a first-pressing copy of the Def Leppard EP and a bootleg tape of the MCs.

‘Look, Joe,’ said Nathan Rosen, showing him his bat- . tered football with the autographs of the entire Giants team.

Silence descended on the room as people started to enjoy the food.

Topaz couldn’t eat anything. She toyed with her meal, trying not to stare at Rowena. The force of her loathing gripped her inside her stomach, tistirg her guts. God, she was just the same: English, cold, haughty. So stunningly beautiful, so perfectly tasteful. Rowena could wear as many rubies as she liked and carry it off, whereas Marissa just seemed vulgar. Look at her. She didn’t give a damn about anybody or anything.

I worshipped you, you hateful bitch, Topaz thought, choked. I shared everything with you. And it obviously;

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meant nothing to you.

She felt weak, she thought she might cry. The bitter pain of Rowena’s treachery came flooding back, and the terrible hurt of betrayal by the only friend to whom she’d ever fully revealed herself; the hurt of Rowena, whom she’d totally trusted, teaching her that sisterhood was a sham, and that the only person in this life that Topaz Rossi would ever be able to believe in was herself.

Rowena sliced up her duckling breast, precisely and automatically. She was determined not to show how badly she felt, knowing Topaz Rossi’s cruel blue eyes were boring into the back of her neck.

She had betrayed a friend. Cheated on her. Stolen her lover. And used her class and breeding to excuse herselfas her father had done to justify his own rejection of her. It was a system she had previously denounced as an archaic, imperialist British hangover, best forgotten.

But you used it against an Italian Yank when it suited you, accused a nagging little voice in her head.

Rowena shook her head, as though she could dispel the past. She hadn’t given Topaz a second thought! Why should she be looking at her like this now? Water under the bridge, right? Christ, they were only kids at college.

Trust Topaz Rossi to get worked up about it.

Anger mingled with her guilt. That terrible Cherwell headline flashed in front of her.

Deliberately, Rowena pushed back her chair, and stood up, smoothing down her dress. The room was seriously overstocked with men, and at least thirty pairs of eyes followed the flow of the material over her breasts.

There was a tension in the air. The main course wasn’t even finished. What was she doing?

‘Sit down,’ hissed Josh Oberman.

Rowena, apparently, could not hear her boss. She walked carefully over to where Topaz was sitting, and the other woman shot out of her chair to meet her.

Two places down, Marissa Matthews was ecstatic. Something was very wrong indeed, and very .right for

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Friday’s column. She strained to listen.

‘It must be hell for you, Rowena,’ said Topaz, in bitter, measured tones, ‘having to break bread with all these ghastly colonials.’

‘I see that you’re doing well in American Magazines, Topaz,’ said Rowena evenly, ‘although I’m not surprised, since journalism is a profession where the scum usually rises to the top. Do you find a better class of interviewee to sleep with these days?’

‘No wonder you’re succeeding in the record business, Rowena,’ answered Topaz, barely restraining her fury. ‘So few women to get in your way, and you can contribute to the feminist agenda by promoting male heavy-metal bands. But then this sister was only ever doing it for herself, wasn’t