The Mandel Files (16 page)

The Rolls dipped down into the giant Castlewood condominium’s underground garage. Horace Jepson had his own private park on the second level. Thick metal doors swung open as the chauffeur showed his card to the lock.

Steven Welbourn and Rachel Griffith, Julia’s two bodyguards, hurried out of the trail car as the little convoy came to a halt. Both of them were wearing formal evening dress, Steven in a dinner jacket, Rachel in a long navy-blue gown. Their alert faces scanned the stark, brightly lit concrete cave. They needn’t have bothered, two of Horace’s own security staff were waiting for them.

There was a distinct air of farce about the entire scene. But Julia was careful not to show disapproval. Steven and Rachel were just doing their job, and she got on quite well with them. Steven had been with her for years, almost since she came to Europe, a twenty-seven-year-old with sandy hair that she teased him was already thinning. He was sympathetic about her circumstances, and his discretion had been demonstrated time and again, considering the schoolgirl truancies which he could have told her grandfather about. Rachel had been with her for about a year; a twenty-two-year-old with neat close-cut mousy hair; she came across as a mix of big sister and maiden aunt. Courteous, but an absolute stickler for security protocol, always checking the toilet cubicle first, which could get embarrassing. Of course, one day she might be very glad of them. Besides, any complaints would find their way back to Morgan Walshaw. And then there’d be another bloody lecture.

The five of them squeezed into the penthouse lift. Kats and Adrian didn’t notice the press, lost in a private world of furtive smirks and hungry looks. Julia gritted her teeth.

The lift opened straight into the vestibule of Horace Jepson’s suite. Music and conversation hit them as the doors slid apart.

On her previous visits, the centre of the penthouse had been divided up into various function areas by hand-painted Japanese silk screens depicting scenes from mythological battles, samurai and improbable creatures. Now the screens had all been folded back against the walls leaving one big open space. Coloured jelly-blobs of hologram light swam through the air, wobbling in time to a loud acid-thrash version of ‘Brown Sugar’. Bodies packed the black-tiled dance floor, a rainbow riot of frantic movement; older sweating men with younger energetic girls. More people lined the vestibule walls under the umbrella of fern fronds; drinking, chattering excitedly. She recognized a lot of faces from the channels.

Trust Uncle Horace. There was nothing refined about this party, it was deliberate Dionysian overload without a refuge, forcing you to enjoy. She wondered if he’d have a topless model bursting out of a cake at some point. More than likely.

Horace Jepson broke free of the crowd, shooing away a girl who had the glossy vibrancy and dazzling pout of a Playmate. He was smiling warmly at Julia. A genuine smile, she thought. Then it flickered slightly as he took her in, as though she’d come in the wrong sort of dress, or something. But she’d chosen a five-thousand-pound Dermani gown, pale pink silk with a mermaid-tail skirt; nothing like as tarty as the rest of the girls she could see, so that couldn’t be it.

His smile had mellowed by the time he reached her. He took both her hands and gave her a demure peck on the cheek.

It was almost saddening. He used to give her big bear hugs and a huge slobbery kiss. Funny, she’d always hated them at the time. Now they were a part of an old familiar world, lost and gone for good.

“I was afraid you weren’t going to come,” he said.

“Try keeping me from a party.”

“That’s my gal. Say, look, I’m real sorry about Phil. One of the best, you know?”

Behavioural Response: Sorrow.

She’d loaded the program in the processor node to remind her, keyed by any mention of Grandpa. For her to giggle at his name, at people’s earnest sympathy, would never do.

“Thank you. Do something for me, Uncle Horace?”

“Sure, honey.”

“Don’t treat me like glass. I won’t break. And it only makes it worse.”

“Right.” He grinned at Katerina and Adrian. “Come on in, you guys. We’re just getting warmed up. Plenty of action here tonight.”

Julia thought his glance hovered around Kats’ cleavage. Then he was looking over her shoulder at Steven and Rachel, a faintly puzzled expression on his face as Kats dragged Adrian past him into the throng.

“No escort, Julia?”

“Fraid not.”

“Hell gal, why didn’t you let me know? Cindy could’ve fixed something up for you. That girl’s got a list of boys bigger than a census bureau.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Damn, Clifford won’t be over before the weekend. He would’ve done, just fine. You met Cliff before? My boy? From my first marriage.”

“You’ve mentioned him,” she said drily. Had the two of them walking down the aisle in his mind.

“Oh well, let me introduce you to a few people. Hey, maybe I can have one dance. Make an old man happy.”

“I think your friend would scratch my eyes out first,” she nodded at the Playmate girl.

“Ouch, Julia. There’s a lot of Philip in you,” he said admiringly.

She quashed the laugh while it was still in her gullet.

Sorrow.

“Good. Because I’d like to do some business with you.”

Horace Jepson suddenly became wary. “Most of Globecast’s contracts with Event Horizon are pretty much cut and dried.”

“Well, not formal business. More a favour.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a programme I might want broadcasting. It’s important to me, Uncle Horace.”

“What sort of programme?” he asked cautiously.

“A planet-wide exposé. Every current-affairs channel Globecast owns.”

Now his face really fell. “Julia, honey, do you know the kind of legal angles on this? I mean, if you’re really hot on rubbishing someone, then hearsay ain’t no use.”

“I’ve got the proof. All we need.”

“Damn, but I wish you didn’t grow up so fast.”

Kendric di Girolamo was at the party, and Hermione. Julia didn’t know when they’d arrived. Kendric was his usual oily suave self, dancing with a girl who made the Playmate look like a hag.

Their eyes met and held. She gave him a cool, level gaze. Quietly satisfied at the startled light in his eyes. Quickly hidden.

He knew full well she couldn’t stand the sight of him; expected a girlish glare, a tossed head, flouncing off in a huff. Instead he got a dispassionate assessment from a multi-billionairess. Small wonder he was surprised. Hopefully concerned.

Squirm, she wished him silently. Her eyes moved on sedately, showing him how little he mattered. Fighting the impulse to whoop for joy. It’d begun.

Horace Jepson had hired a five-piece rock band for the evening, the Fifth Horseman, their axemen tooled up with reasonable copies of Fenders. They were dressed in torn T-shirts, studded Leathers, and thigh-length boots. Clean, though, Julia noticed. But they were a tight outfit for all their synthetic attitude, the rhythm pumping out of their Gorilla stacks hot and fast. The singer had a Ziggy Stardust stripe across his face, 3D paint opening into middle-distance.

She danced with Bil Yi Somanzer to a number that could’ve been ‘Five Years’. Uncle Horace had introduced them, interest in her name and wealth finally penetrating the mega-star’s syntho stupor. Basking in the jealousy which lashed out in tangible waves from the other girls. His skin was smooth and shiny from plastique, his voice slurred. He groped her backside and asked if she fancied a quick trip to one of the bedrooms. The band finished their stuff, and they parted. His reputation upheld.

Seeing Kats standing on a table trying to Bunter down a long glass of champagne to the boisterous cheers of an admiring audience of young blades. The hologram blobs congregated around her legs in a silent red and green swarm, floating up inside her skirt. Adrian hovering on the sidelines, tolerant, fixed smile.

Talking to a young French finance manager who was helping Uncle Horace to expand Globecast into Europe. He was nervous about her, stammering, telling her about the investment ratios of various gilt stocks, and the new junk-bond markets opening in South America. She turned down his invitation to dance. Boring.

Kendric offering a gentlemanly hand to Kats as she climbed down off the table, face flushed. He handed her a drink. Hermione joined them, palpably excited. Laser fans swept across the trio, sparkling off jewels, teeth, lips, fluorescing Kats’ cloud of hair into an electric-pink halo.

A dance with Adrian. Doing his duty. A smoochy number, so he’d have to hold her close. Swaying rhythmically with the feel of his hard body pressed against hers, his hands on her back.

“You dance well,” she told him.

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” Distracted.

She shivered beneath his hands.

Kendric and Kats dancing. She was hanging on to every word he uttered, both laughing ebulliently, plainly delighted with each other’s company. Her body flowed with the music, lost to the beat, wild and sensual.

Half a dance with Uncle Horace. His face red and puffing as he gave up, leading her over to the seafood buffet. Picking out their food together, Horace with something to say about every dish, urging her to sample. His own plate piled high. Divine crabs.

A cocktail that took the bartender an elaborate three minutes to prepare. Only it tasted like orange juice that someone had spilled vinegar into. She flashed him a smile saying how wonderful it was, and poured it into the punch bowl when no one was looking, green ice-swan sculpture and all.

Kendric and Kats nearly alone on the dance floor. Doing the lambada. Adoration in her eyes.

She chatted to the Playmate girl, whose name was Cindy, and was actually a data-compression expert. So much for first impressions. Cindy was raucous and worldly wise, and had lots of funny stories about men in general. A life lived in the fast lane, with no regrets. She hung on to every word, Cindy gave her a window on the kind of world she so rarely glimpsed.

Cindy was well into a completely unbelievable recital of her recent Spanish holiday when both of them became aware of the shouting. The Fifth Horseman ground to a halt in a dissonant metallic skin.

Adrian, Kendric, and Kats stood in the middle of the dance floor, two against one. Kats stood beside Kendric, breathing heavily, sweat-darkened tassel ends of her hair sticking to her shoulders. Hologram blobs orbited the trio slowly.

“Enough!’ Adrian yelled.

Kendric raised a warning finger. “Go home, little boy, you’re making a fool of yourself.”

“I’ll go all right, you people make me want to puke. And you’re coming with me.” He tried to grab Katerina, but she dodged nimbly behind Kendric.

“No way,” she shrilled. “I’m having some real fun. First time in bloody ages, too.”

Julia knew Kats well enough to see how she was loving the scene, milking it. The centre of attention. All the glitzy people she worshipped were focusing on her, asking who she was, a girl so desirable she was worth fighting over in public.

Kendric grinned. “That seems pretty plain, little boy. Go play somewhere else.”

“Come on,” Adrian entreated. His fists were clenched, face beaming hatred at his rival.

Kendric’s arm snaked protectively round Katerina, his hand squeezing her breast. “I do so detest these revolting peasants. Why don’t you and I go somewhere quieter? My yacht is anchored in the marina.”

Katerina’s face was flushed with triumph. She tossed her head. “Sounds good. Better than anything Mr Ten Centimetres here ever offered me.”

Kendric roared with laughter. There were snickers from the guests. Adrian paled, staring at Katerina in complete and abject incomprehension.

There was a voice inside Julia’s skull pleading at her to rush over and throw her arms round Adrian. He was too honest, too decent for this to be happening to him.

Somehow she managed to keep her feet in place, clinging magnetically to the black tiles.

Kendric and Katerina turned as one. Walking away. Adrian stared at their departing backs, his hands had fallen limply to his side.

“Katey,” he called after her.

She let out a playful squeal as Kendric pinched her rump, giggling. Never looking round.

“Katey!”

Julia closed damp eyes.

The music boomed again.

Julia waited for five days after the party before she sat in the chair at the head of the study table and called Kendric. The arrangements with Globecast had taken a while to finalize, but Uncle Horace had come through in the end, God bless him. And then there was her nerve to screw up.

When the phone’s flatscreen activated, Kendric was sitting on the aft deck of his yacht, the marina forming a bright enticing backdrop, slightly out of focus. The sight of him stiffened her own resolution. He was wearing a lemon-yellow silk shirt, open at the neck, looking supremely relaxed, impenetrably black glasses covering his eyes, just the right amount of stubble shading his chin, emphasizing masculinity. It was a calculated pose, she thought, intended to demonstrate the ease with which he moved through life, his authority and influence. The epitome of an international wheeler-dealer.

It was working, too, the effect seeping out through the screen to abrade her own confidence. She gripped the armrests on her chair against the impulse to smooth down her hair. Wishing she’d taken some time to straighten out her own appearance. Her blouse was nothing special, a hundred-and-fifty-pound Malkham, she’d already worn it a couple of times before. She should’ve worn a Chanel suit.

“Hermione was only saying the other day we don’t see enough of you, Julia,” Kendric said. “It’s such a pity. We’re having a party here on the Mirriam tomorrow night, nothing formal. Why don’t you come along? A lovely young girl like you ought to involve herself socially. Katerina tells me you don’t have many friends. That makes me so sad.”

Julia didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment. That little cow Kats had told him that! How he and that dyke Hermione must’ve laughed. God, what else had she told them?

“I’m afraid I’m a very busy person nowadays, Mr di Girolamo. I’m in industry, you see, not finance. It means I have to work for a living.”