Tasmina Perry 3-Book Collection: Daddy’s Girls, Gold Diggers, Original Sin. Tasmina Perry

stairs of the grand staircase in bounds, followed quickly afterwards by the roar of a motorcycle engine revving up quickly outside the front door. Oswald stormed into the hallway as Serena looked down from above.

      ‘What the Dickens is going on?’ he yelled up at her. ‘You decided to leave your dinner, now at least leave us to enjoy ours in peace!’

      ‘An intruder! There was an intruder in the house!’ shouted Serena.

      Oswald ran to the door to see the red taillight of the motorbike disappear as Serena sank slowly to the floor. Putting her head against the banister, she began sobbing.

      Camilla walked into the Royal Suite at Claridge’s to find Serena upside down on the floor, her body bent into an inverted V.

      ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she asked, cocking her head to look at her sister.

      ‘The downward dog, what does it look like?’ sighed Serena, uncoiling herself. ‘My life-coach is in Capri, my shrink has gone AWOL and my agent is fucking useless. Yoga is about the only thing keeping me sane at the minute.’

      ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ asked Camilla helpfully, sitting down on the sofa.

      ‘How about a revolver?’ said Serena, pursing her lips.

      Serena had gone missing for twenty-four hours after the intruder had been found at Huntsford. Disappeared. Missing from the Musical Evening without a word or message to anyone. It was only when Camilla received a text from Serena the morning after the event that the mystery of her whereabouts was solved. Claridge’s Royal Suite was one of Serena’s favourite bolt holes when the world was closing in: deliciously chintzy, totally private, it even contained Gilbert and Sullivan’s old piano. Not that she could play.

      ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ asked Camilla, helping herself to a grape from the fruit bowl.

      The strain was unmistakable in Serena’s face. Camilla was shocked: her sister never looked anything less than gorgeous, confident and totally in control.

      ‘I put up with a lot of things you know,’ she said fiercely. ‘Paparazzi calling me bitch in the street. Reporters going through my bins. Having my phones tapped. But to find someone in my house. My room.’

      She rubbed her temples and her voice softened dramatically. ‘I came here because I wanted to hide. It was awful, Cammy. It really was.’

      Bending her knees, she sank down onto the carpet of Claridge’s luxurious suite.

      Camilla paused, used to her sister’s dramatics, before noticing that real tears were rolling down Serena’s cheeks. She came over to throw her arm around her shoulder.

      ‘It’s OK. Come on, this stress isn’t good for the baby,’ she whispered. ‘You’re safe. The intruder didn’t hurt you or take anything.’

      ‘It’s not OK though, is it?’ replied Serena, blotting the corner of her eye with her fingertip. ‘I heard the evening was a bit of a disaster. How bad was it?’

      ‘Pretty bad,’ said Camilla with a grimace. In fact, ‘pretty bad’ was an understatement. The previous night had been an unmitigated disaster, which had no doubt cost her father thousands.

      ‘The main thing was the weather,’ said Camilla. ‘It was so foul yesterday that it kept a lot of the crowds away. Then the PA shorted for about twenty minutes and, to be honest, it was an absolute mud bath. People were still queuing to get out at four in the morning.’

      ‘What about the introduction? Who opened it?’ she asked, feeling guilty that it should have been her role.

      ‘Who do you think? Daddy. He droned on for so long he was booed. They’d have started throwing bottles if they hadn’t all been holding umbrellas.’

      ‘Oh great,’ said Serena, rolling her eyes. ‘I suppose that’s my fault as well. Blame it on the bad guy – everyone else does,’ said Serena. She fell back into the ruby-red sofa and drew her knees up to her chin.

      ‘How do you mean?’ asked Camilla.

      ‘Look at the papers. Haven’t you seen them this morning?’

      Camilla picked up a stack of Sunday papers that were sitting on top of the suite’s grand piano. The Sunday Reporter had a splash: Serena deserts family for lover.

      ‘Go on, read it,’ sighed Serena. ‘According to them, I’m the reason the evening was a disaster. Apparently I was supposed to be the star attraction and left Daddy in the lurch.’

      Camilla traced the newspaper text with her fingertip. ‘Pregnant Serena flouted her family duty when she skipped the event for a booze-fuelled rendezvous with her lover.’ Camilla looked up. ‘What lover?’

      ‘Precisely, but I can take that,’ replied Serena, her mouth setting in a thin determined line.

      ‘What I don’t like is the stuff about my family. I don’t like the implication that I don’t care.’ Her voice trailed off until it was small and fragile.

      Camilla looked at her sister, slumped like a glorious film-noir heroine on the sofa. Framed by the glorious backdrop of the Royal Suite, she couldn’t help but think how misery suited Serena. But while she managed to carry off her gloom with style, her obvious upset was completely out of character. Serena’s hide tended to be bulletproof, but Camilla suspected that the run of recent events was beginning to grind her down. Tom, Michael, the tabloid frenzy, the pregnancy, the intruder. How much could one person take in just a few months; even Serena?

      ‘There’s another thing,’ said Serena, her face darkening. She stretched over to a suitcase that was lying on the floor, ribbons of clothes and shoes tumbling out of it, and pulled out a seal-able bag the size of a matchbox. She placed it on the table.

      Camilla touched it with her fingertips, feeling the white powder inside the bag. ‘Shit, Sin. Cocaine?’ she said, looking up in surprise.

      Her sister nodded slowly.

      ‘Yours?’ offered Camilla gingerly, knowing her sister had dabbled in the past.

      ‘No! Not mine!’ snapped Serena, grabbing back the bag. ‘I’m pregnant, remember?’

      ‘So whose is it?’

      ‘I don’t bloody know. I found it in my overnight bag,’ said Serena, her voice regaining its fire. ‘And if that intruder who’d been rooting through my stuff had been there a second longer, he’d have found it.’

      ‘So what are you saying?’ asked Camilla, sensing more of her sister’s theatrics. ‘That he put it there?’

      Serena shook her head vigorously. ‘No, I don’t think he planted it there. I think Maria did; in fact I feel sure of it. That intruder, Miles, I’m certain he was a reporter. Maria tipped him off because she wanted him to find the drugs.’

      Camilla couldn’t suppress an incredulous laugh, wondering whether it was Serena’s cocaine and it had made her paranoid.

      ‘Come on, Sin …’

      ‘I know how it sounds, but Miles wasn’t on Zoë Cartwright’s list of employees for the event: I asked her. And the way he called himself the artist liaison manager, the way he knew exactly where Maria’s trailer was and knew all about her movements that day …’

      ‘Supposing you’re right, why on earth would Maria do it?’ asked Camilla, still not convinced.

      ‘Because she’s a total bitch, Cam. She wants to discredit me. God, this is all so stressful.’ She pulled a mirror out of her bag and started inspecting her face, fingers frantically moving over her smooth skin. ‘I look bloody awful. Do you think I should get a botox shot?’

      Camilla looked at her wryly. ‘So you won’t take coke but you’ll have botox?’

      ‘It’s not funny,’ said Serena, flopping onto a cushion. ‘I