Gold Diggers (15 page)

At 7 a.m., the morning after her showdown with Adam, Karin had packed her bags and left for the airport. She didn’t leave a note; she just wanted to be out of there. Waiting in the queue at check-in, she called Christina Levy. Years of experience in these matters told her that Christina was a woman who believed that no crisis was insurmountable and that anything could usually be solved by a therapeutic trip to Hermès or a weekend in a Mediterranean hot spot. As luck would have it, Christina wasn’t in London, but escaping the grim British winter on her husband’s 250-foot yacht, the
Big Blue
, currently anchored in St Barts’ Gustavia Harbour. Within minutes, Karin had bought a flight ticket to St Barts, and by lunchtime she was on board the
Big Blue
. Well, she reasoned, as she stretched out on the top deck with a cocktail, if she was going to drown her sorrows, she might as well do it on one of the most luxurious yachts in the Caribbean.

‘I knew Adam Gold was too good to be true,’ said Christina, sitting back on a day bed in a tiny white bikini, stroking the rim of her cosmopolitan. ‘He’s disgustingly handsome, but his manners are appalling. Skinny dipping with
a stylist on your photo-shoot? I mean, who’d believe it?’

Karin knew her friend was trying to make her feel better, but she was still fuming. She felt tricked. Humiliated. Adam’s lavish gifts, the nonstop attention, his cute ‘Let’s play hookey and spend a few extra days in St Barts’ spiel – well, it obviously counted for
shit.
The second her back was turned he was like a dog on heat.

‘Still, I guess you knew that he might not be the settling down kind of guy,’ said Christina, trying to sound kind. ‘So many successful men are commitment shy these days. Divorce laws can be so punishing, you can almost see their point, can’t you?’

Perhaps, thought Karin, but she wasn’t defeated yet. Every instinct in her body told her never to see or speak to Adam Gold again – he was a two-timing shit who clearly didn’t give a damn about her feelings – but she hated being beaten. Karin was always the hunter, the femme fatale who made her man beg for more, but now Adam had clearly shown her that he was the one with the power, the one who could take or leave the relationship, and she hated feeling so out of control. But damn it all, she still wanted him. And she wanted all
this
, she thought, looking around the top deck of the
Big Blue
and letting the soft, salty Caribbean breeze blow against her skin. She wanted the best – and Adam Gold could give it to her.

Christina caught Karin’s wistful expression, and clapped her hands.

‘More drinks!’ she said sternly, summoning the waiter with a wave. ‘I think that’s enough moping about Adam, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘You are here to forget about him, not to spend hours obsessing about him. Listen, there are bigger, better,
richer
out there, Karin. Adam only just made it onto the
Forbes
list this year, for goodness’ sake, and unless the Midas Group has a seriously good twelve months, he might
not even stay on it.’ She shook her chestnut mane over her shoulders and laughed. ‘When I suffered at the hands of Flavio’s
betrayal
, what did I do? I fought back.’

Christina’s actions after her fiancé, tycoon Flavio Mendes, had run off with her best friend Maria two months before the wedding, were the stuff of Belgravia legend. Within weeks, Christina had hooked up with Ariel Levy, whom she had met at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition party. At Christina’s behest, Ariel had acquired Flavio’s company in a hostile takeover and Flavio’s standing in the business community had dropped like a stone. He had tried to claw his way back, but every investment he made seemed to turn sour. It was whispered that Christina had been instrumental in making sure they did. Now Flavio and Maria were rumoured to be living in a three-bedroomed apartment in Alicante, while Christina had the run of twelve homes around the globe, use of a yacht, a private jet and two helicopters. For someone who had been a mediocre model, failed singer, and an actress with a non-existent CV, Christina was a world-class operator in the art of men and marriage.

Karin looked around her and suddenly felt depressed. She wondered if it had been a good idea to come to St Barts after all. Karin might have a fat inheritance sitting in the bank and her company might be turning over millions of pounds a year, but compared to this – walnut decks, helipad, Picassos in every stateroom – her life seemed decidedly parochial. She wanted this lifestyle so badly, she could feel the pain knot in her stomach. She felt lonely, wretched, powerless. She wanted to get off the yacht, quickly.

As if reading Karin’s thoughts, Christina lifted her lithe tanned body off the white day bed and threw on a fine silk kaftan, which slithered down over her bronzed curves.

‘What you need is a distraction,’ she announced,
motioning to the waiter, who sprang forward with her Hermès crocodile Birkin and jewelled flip-flops. ‘We’re going to Nikki Beach for lunch and then we’ll do some light shopping,’ she said, walking down the steps to the middle deck. ‘Whatever you fancy: Ariel’s treat.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ called a baritone voice from the far end of the deck. Ariel Levy was sitting at the table reading the
Wall Street Journal
. He had thick, grey curly chest hair, a small head with thinning hair and a powerful aquiline nose. He reminded Karin of old pictures of Aristotle Onassis.

‘Karin needs cheering up. We’ll only be a few hours,’ said Christina, bending over to kiss Ariel’s cheek. ‘Do you want to have a late supper on board or shall we go down to Le Yacht Club?’

‘I’m sure we will do whatever you choose to do in six or seven hours’ time,’ he said flatly, rustling the pages of his newspaper. ‘Have a lovely time, ladies.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispered Karin as the girls climbed into the tender that would take them to shore.

‘Just his grouchy, lovable self,’ smiled Christina. ‘Can’t get enough of me, that’s his problem.’

Nikki Beach was on the other side of the island on St Jean Bay, just across from the Eden Rock hotel where Karin had stayed many times for the St Barts New Year celebrations. They settled into a couple of white directors’ chairs and ordered mineral water and salads.

‘Who can I commission to do some nudes?’ mused Christina.

Karin smiled. Her friend’s conversation was like a butterfly flitting from one flower to the next, never settling too long on anything.

‘And we are talking what? Photographs?’

‘Of course,’ said Christina sharply. ‘I haven’t the patience
for anything else. Anyway, it’s Ari’s birthday soon. When we were first married I had a set of myself done by Helmut Newton, but now he’s dead I need another genius who can capture me in the same way.’ She ran her hands across her body. ‘Although I must get some work done first, of course. I’m feeling a bit blobby.’

Karin gave a low laugh. ‘You have an amazing figure.’

‘Do you think so?’ she replied eagerly. ‘I’m doing this incredible work-out at the moment.’

‘Oh yes? Which one?’

‘I’m fucking the gardener,’ giggled Christina.

Karin coughed on a crouton and Christina had to slap her back. ‘Tina!’ she spluttered. ‘How? When? WHY?!’

Karin was genuinely shocked at Christina’s confession – it was so completely out of character. Her friend had often told her about what she called ‘Christina’s Charter’, which had only two rules. Rule one: the way to get a rich man is to give incredible head. Rule two: the way to keep a rich man is never,
ever
screw around. Christina was nothing if not pragmatic and, as a learned scholar of the minutiae of international divorce law, she had decided that fidelity was the foundation of a successful marriage.

‘So – which gardener? Town or country?’ asked Karin, referring to Christina’s vast Mayfair home, one of the few detached private residences in W1, the Surrey mansion they had recently bought from an oligarch, or their vast shooting estate in Yorkshire.

‘Our Surrey place. You know, I find it so fucking boring out there, but then he came along,
Jamie
, and now I can’t keep away from the place … Honestly, Kay, Ariel is so uptight these days. I’m not sure he can cope with a business that size,’ she said. ‘Anyway, he’s making me feel so stupid and awkward these days, that the arrival of Jamie on the scene is such a release.’

Karin laughed out loud, beginning to feel a little bit better.

‘And, honey, you’ll find a way to fix it too,’ said Christina, putting her hand over her friend’s, the diamonds on her fingers sparkling in the sun. ‘You’ll fix the situation with Adam, if you want it to be fixed.’

Karin nodded. Christina was right; she had spent a lifetime getting what she wanted and, at thirty-one, at the height of her power, the height of her beauty, she wasn’t going to let that situation change any time soon.

They stayed at Nikki Beach for a couple of hours until the cheesy Europop and self-satisfied Eurotrash spraying Cristal into the swimming pool started to grate. They moved on to Cartier, where Christina enquired about the possibility of a custom-made piece. Legend had it that, many years ago, Mexican actress Maria Felix had gone into Cartier in Paris with her pet baby crocodile and requested its likeness be fashioned into a diamond and emerald necklace. Christina had decided that she wanted something just as personal and unique, although she couldn’t decide if she wanted a brooch in the shape of her chihuahua Kiki or a tiara in the image of a dolphin in honour of the
Big Blue
. By the time they reached the harbour’s edge in Gustavia, the turquoise water had already deepened to cerulean in the late afternoon sun.

‘Have I had too many cocktails, or am I seeing things?’ asked Christina, looking unusually puzzled.

Karin had noticed it too. The
Big Blue
, which only hours before had taken centre stage in the sweeping crescent of Gustavia Harbour, was no longer there.

‘Shouldn’t it be where it was?’

Christina looked perplexed. ‘Maybe Ariel’s got bored and they’ve taken it round the bay,’ she said, dipping her hand into the Birkin to pull out her phone. ‘Let me call him.’

She angrily pressed a few buttons and cradled the phone to her ear.

‘Dammit, it’s going straight to voicemail. Where
is
he? This is fucking ridiculous!’

Karin instinctively knew something was wrong from the wobble in Christina’s voice, a feeling that was confirmed when a black Mercedes pulled up beside them at the dock.

A stocky man holding an attaché case climbed out. ‘Mrs Levy. Good afternoon,’ said the man.

‘And who are you?’ asked Christina haughtily.

‘Barry Rosen. I’m a colleague of your husband’s. I have been instructed by Mr Levy to give you these,’ he said, handing her a large brown envelope before turning back to the car. He opened the rear door and pulled out a suitcase that Karin immediately recognized as her own.

‘I do believe these are all your belongings, Ms Cavendish?’ he said politely, placing the case on the dockside. ‘Mr Levy says he is terribly sorry to inconvenience you, but he has booked you into the Eden Rock hotel in St Jean, for which he will naturally pick up the bill.’

‘What the
hell
is going on?’ said Christina, her voice beginning to quaver. ‘Where the fuck is the boat? Where the fuck is Ariel?’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to contact your husband for those details,’ said Rosen, before climbing back into the Mercedes.

‘Where is he?’ screamed Christina as the car pulled away. ‘Where’s my fucking boat?’

She tore open the envelope and scanned the contents, letting out a long guttural cry of despair as the truth sank in. Christina’s legs buckled and she crumpled to the ground like a wounded animal.

Karin pulled the sheets of paper from Christina’s trembling fingers and put an arm around her friend’s shoulder to comfort her as she read them. There in black and white was confirmation that the lifestyle she had so coveted could
collapse like a house of cards. Divorce papers. The
Big Blue
wasn’t coming back.

Even though her body was telling her it was still the middle of the night, Erin could tell from the light pouring through a crack in the curtain that it was morning. She got out of bed, threw back the curtains and apricot light flooded into the room; the first bright sunny morning of the year. She took a deep breath and smiled. There was nothing like sunshine to remind her of home and, although she badly needed rest after her exhausting week, the lure of a perky spring morning was too strong; she knew she had to get out of the flat. Knocking at Chris’s door, she was mildly disappointed when a woman had answered, but Chris had been good enough to offer her use of his bicycle and a dog-eared
A – Z
and she felt a small thrill of excitement at the prospect of exploring London on two wheels.

She bumped the bike down onto the street and swung into the saddle, feeling suddenly full of energy as she pedalled away. Her legs were still strong and fit from the daily walks she used to take in Cornwall, but this time the view was very different. No cliffs, hawthorn bushes and crashing waves. Instead it was red buses, black cabs and street-corner newspaper vendors. Everywhere she looked there were people: families popping into the deli, tired-looking workers coming back from late-night shifts and giggly girls in party clothes from the night before. She coasted down Rosebery Avenue, past the stately Inns of Court, by-passing the West End, bloated with shoppers and tourists, and made her way along the river, watching the boats tug up and down, the steely water twinkling in the sunshine. She kept pedalling until she found herself in Battersea, right by the crumbling power station. This part of town had never registered on her radar before now, but as she stood there by the river, she could feel the energy of the
place, the air of expectation that surrounded an area in the middle of a regeneration as developers injected life back into the old buildings. She had always thought you had to be a writer or a painter to create, but here, in the heart of the metropolis, she could see that creativity was being driven by commerce. It was the developers and the businesses that were forcing this organic city to grow, building new places where people would live, work, eat and fall in love. Jilly was wrong to dismiss London as a faceless, impersonal wasteland where only fat-cat corporations could prosper. Here Erin could see little cafés, bars, boutiques and small businesses springing up, their owners full of excitement and expectation and she felt herself energized by the place.