Gold Diggers. Tasmina Perry

ridiculous,’ said Karin, waving a hand dismissively. ‘I’m only interested in raising as much money as possible. Do you know what’s happening to the icecaps?’

      ‘Of course I do,’ said Diana. ‘The snow was awful in Megève this year.’

      ‘Hey, why don’t we ask Molly Sinclair?’ said Donna, nodding towards the tall woman across the room. ‘She’s a consultant at Feldman Jones PR and Events. She must know someone suitable.’

      ‘If we must,’ said Karin coolly. Karin barely knew Molly, but knew of her; an eighties almost-supermodel, a coked-up has-been, still on the circuit peddling her overt sexuality, trying to bag whatever half-rich man would have her.

      Donna waved her friend over.

      ‘Everyone here knows Molly, don’t they?’ said Donna, getting weak smiles from all three women. ‘Do you know of any good PAs or events assistants, Molly?’

      ‘What’s it for?’ purred Molly in her smouldering smoker’s voice.

      ‘Karin’s Stop Global Warming benefit. She’s trying to do it without a committee,’ said Christina sternly.

      Karin smiled thinly. A committee was the last thing she needed. She was happy to let a handful of select, connected friends sell tickets on the fund’s behalf, but the controlling streak in Karin would not allow any meddling in her vision. She wanted the glory to be all hers.

      ‘Will you be coming, Molly?’ asked Diana, absently wondering how Molly managed to look so good. If she’d had a lift, it was amazing.

      ‘Tables are very expensive,’ said Karin quickly. ‘One thousand pounds a plate and selling out quickly.’

      Molly shook her head, hair swooshing from side to side across her shoulders. ‘Can’t make the actual dinner, unfortunately. I have friends coming from the States that night,’ she said, accepting another glass of champagne from a waiter.

      Inwardly, Molly was wincing at the ticket price. A thousand pounds! It was outrageous! Her coke allowance for a month. Six months’ gym membership. A good dress. She knew the event was a worthwhile investment, but she just didn’t have that much money sloshing around.

      ‘Speaking of friends, I tell you who you should invite,’ smiled Christina, taking a delicate sip of a white Russian. ‘Adam Gold.’

      ‘Who’s he?’ asked Karin.

      ‘Karin, darling, you’re slacking,’ smiled Christina through glossy lips. ‘New York real-estate and investment guy. He’s behind some of those fabulous new condo developments in Manhattan, Miami and Dallas. He’s also very sexy and very wealthy. Just made the Forbes list this year.’

      Molly’s ears pricked up. Forbes list! That meant net worth a billion dollars minimum.

      Karin gave Christina her best uninterested ice-queen expression. ‘Billionaire or not, he’s unlikely to come from New York for a party, even this one.’

      ‘Oh no, haven’t you heard?’ said Diana, widening her baby-blue eyes. ‘He’s just moved to London. Martin says he’s rolling out his property developing all over Europe, Moscow and Dubai and the Far East.’

      ‘We could do with a shot of new blood,’ said Christina, smiling. ‘Not that I want to touch, of course,’ she added, stealing a glance at her husband, who was smoking a Cohiba on the terrace, ‘but I do like to look.’

      ‘Darling, get him invited,’ smiled Christina, touching Karin’s knee meaningfully. ‘The tickets will fly out the door once word gets out that he’s coming.’

      ‘Well, I am in London that evening,’ said Molly slowly. ‘Perhaps I could pop by afterwards …?’

      Karin and Molly’s eyes locked and they recognized in the other something they had encountered many times before. Rivalry.

      ‘I hate to disappoint you, sweetheart,’ said Karin coolly, ‘but there won’t be any after-dinner tickets for the benefit night. It’s just not that kind of event.’

      Molly smiled. It was her sweetest, most earnest smile, a smile that had lit up a dozen magazine covers and persuaded many people, people much richer and more powerful than Karin, to do her bidding. Yes, thought Molly, Adam Gold sounded like just the sort of man to get her right back where she belonged, and she wasn’t going to let an uptight, jealous little control freak like Karin Cavendish stop her from getting him. And her smile grew just a little wider.

       2

      Cornwall in January is beautiful. Not the hazy beauty of midsummer, when the sea shines turquoise and the sun blurs distant hillsides into deep green smudges, but a bleak, eerie beauty so strong, crisp and immediate that it turns your cheeks pink and sends a shiver through your bones. Erin Devereux pulled her scarf a little higher around her chin, too wound up to appreciate the chilly splendour around her. My life is going nowhere, she thought grimly, thrusting her hands deeper into her pockets and marching on along the cliff top. Usually, whenever she felt uninspired, there was nothing like the granite rocks, crashing surf and the whiff of smugglers to get her creative juices flowing. But nowadays, more often than not, she found herself wondering what she was doing in the prime of her life – well, at twenty-four – living in a tiny village at the end of the earth, trying to write a book about … well, nothing very much at the moment. Erin felt so hemmed in by all this open space, she couldn’t get off the first page. She kicked at a pebble in frustration, missing by inches and stubbing her toe on a tree root. She howled in pain and irritation. Just then, as if someone had turned on a tap, it began to rain hard. Story of my life, thought Erin, and began to run for home.

      ‘These boots are going straight in the bin,’ declared Erin, pushing open the back door of Hawthorn Cottage and feeling the blast of warm, sweet air on her face. She flopped down on the nearest chair, pulled off her sheepskin boots and threw them in the corner.

      ‘Got writer’s block again?’ said the elderly woman standing in front of a scarlet Aga. Jilly Thomas, Erin’s grandmother, was as small as a mouse, with a shock of wiry grey hair and a proud, handsome face. There was a line of flour across her lined cheek and she was wearing a navy apron smeared with something white.

      ‘Yep, writer’s block, writer’s clog, writer’s jam, the lot,’ said Erin, pressing her cold toes against a lukewarm radiator.

      ‘Well, don’t you worry, lovey,’ said Jilly, ‘I’ve cooked you a nice chicken pie and some mash, too – just the ticket to warm you up.’

      Erin smiled at her grandmother. No wonder she had put on seven pounds since she’d been back in Cornwall. But her tall frame could take a little extra weight, hidden most of the time in jeans and a thick sweater. Erin glanced in the mirror above the fireplace and saw a ruddy, pretty farm girl. Her lips were full and naturally pink and long russet curls fell down her back. She’d always envied redheads who had startling green eyes – the classic Irish colouring that gave them bold, cat-like strikingness, but Erin’s eyes were cognac brown and it softened the look. Although right now her cheeks had been stung pink by the sea air and ribbons of wind-lashed hair were still stuck to her face. The glamorous authoress, she thought. Erin wrapped her cold fingers around a steaming mug that Jilly had placed before her.

      ‘The problem is that there’s nothing to write about round here,’ she complained.

      ‘You make it sound like it’s Cornwall’s fault,’ said Jilly with a hint of a smile.

      ‘Well – it is!’ said Erin. ‘I’m not doing anything. I’m not experiencing anything. What am I supposed to write about? Seagulls?’

      Erin saw a look of sadness pass over Jilly’s face and felt an immediate stab of guilt. She hadn’t meant to sound so critical of the warm, welcoming village she had called home for the last twenty years, nor did she want