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

the Central Office approved list.’

      Nat turned to face her, propping his head up with his elbow.

      ‘Baby, you’re not still banging on about that MP nonsense again, are you?’ he said with irritation. ‘Look, sod Parliament and a crappy little salary and eighteen-hour days. This year you’re going to be my wife.’

      He stood up and moved over to a big armchair, his flaccid cock flopping onto the leather.

      ‘I fancy maybe a September wedding,’ he continued, reaching for the glass of wine he had brought upstairs. ‘Of course, that rules out half of the good long-haul destinations for a honeymoon. Pisses it down in the Caribbean around then. But how about a month-long tour around South America? Rio. Peru. Argentina. Maybe we can even take in Mexico.’

      Camilla looked at him, unconsciously pulling the cashmere throw more tightly around her body.

      ‘Nat, this is important to me,’ she said.

      ‘Darling … it’s silly.’

      ‘Silly?’ she felt herself bristle. ‘The things I want to do, my ambitions, they’re not silly.’

      He sipped his wine and laughed gently at her.

      ‘Come on. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

      With his toe he lifted up the crotchless thong, discarded on the white rug, and flipped it at her. ‘Anyway, fuck all that. We’ll talk about it later. Why don’t you phone home? Give Venetia a ring. Old mother hen will love this bit of happy news.’

      Nat sat back naked in the armchair, downing another glass of wine and Krug he had brought upstairs as if they were lemonade. She looked down at the pink dazzling ring and suddenly it felt like a vice. Before she could think further, she was startled by the sound of a loud horn beeping right outside the front door of the chalet.

      ‘What the hell …?’ she said, pulling the cashmere blanket even tighter.

      Nat sprang up from the chair and looked at his watch, pulling on a towelling robe as he did so. ‘Fuck. Is it nine o’clock already?’

      ‘What’s going on?’ asked Camilla, watching him run downstairs.

      Nat stumbled with his words. ‘Er, JJ and Rich, Ant and a few others are in town. I said we might go out to celebrate.’

      ‘What?’ yelled Camilla. She stood up and wrapped the blanket around her like a toga, following him. ‘I’m not going anywhere! Not tonight of all nights! Nat, what are you thinking?’

      There was a loud rattling of several hands on the front door.

      ‘Come out, come out wherever you are,’ sang a loud, drunken voice.

      ‘They are not coming in,’ spat Camilla, feeling the romance drain from the evening with every knock on the door.

      ‘Jesus, Cammy, lighten up!’ said Nat. ‘I found out this afternoon they were in town. There’s a party going on at JJ’s chalet. What was I supposed to say when they rang up? Anyway,’ he smiled, trying to wrap his arms around her, ‘I knew we’d be celebrating …’

      ‘You can never leave it alone, can you?’ she hissed, pushing him away and catching a glimpse of him reflected in the window. Half naked, his glass tipped at an angle, he looked like a more glamorous version of the Dudley Moore character in Arthur: a rich, pampered buffoon.

      ‘What can’t I leave alone?’ asked Nat, in a soothing, placating voice.

      ‘The friends, the parties. Even on the night you bloody propose.’

      Nat shook his head and flashed her a patronizing look as he reached for the door. ‘Baby, you know you love me!’

      Camilla ran back upstairs into the bedroom and Nat opened the door to let in five raucously drunk Sloaney men. As she sat in the dark listening to their bellowing voices, she knew in an instant that she was not going to marry him. She was Camilla Balcon, destined for Parliament, and she would let nothing and no one get in the way of her ambition.

       16

      Cate glanced anxiously around the impressive glass and steel atrium of PCT, London’s biggest firm of accountants, feeling a little sick. Damn Nick Douglas, she muttered, stealing another glance at her watch. He was late again, and on such an important day too. She didn’t need anything else to make her more nervous. Her laptop PowerPoint presentation sat in a slim case beside her, a sheaf of dummy magazines poked out of her Bottega Veneta holdall. She felt shaky enough without him being twenty minutes overdue. As David Goldman had taken great pains to tell her this morning, this was their biggest – and probably only – opportunity to raise the £2 million they needed. After all, the six venture capital firms David had approached had turned him down flat without even asking for a presentation. So David had pulled out all the stops to gather together twelve private investors who might be interested and who had agreed to assemble in the PCT boardroom this afternoon. If Cate and Nick failed to impress them with their presentation today – well, that was going to be it: dream over. David wouldn’t plough any more of his time or money into an idea that was clearly going nowhere fast.

      And maybe they were right, Cate grumbled to herself, maybe it was a waste of time. Especially since that phone call yesterday, the call she would have killed for on the day she was fired. Out of the blue, the editor of Harper’s Bazaar in New York had wanted to know if she would be interested in an editor-at-large position on the prestigious glossy. Why didn’t I just say yes? She smiled grimly to herself. The easy option was never her style.

      ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ said Nick, flying so fast through the glass door that his caramel overcoat flew behind him like a cape. ‘Defective train in God-only-knows-where,’ he spluttered, desperately trying to catch his breath. ‘Brought the whole bloody tube to a standstill. Had to run all the way from Angel.’

      Cate didn’t try to disguise her annoyance. ‘Well, maybe you should have left a bit earlier,’ she said drily.

      Nick ignored her, instead giving a playful wolf-whistle. ‘Woo-wee! You look great,’ he whistled and, despite herself, Cate smirked back, confident for once in her appearance. She’d spent ages that morning getting ready. Her russet-gold hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon, she’d teamed a black Michael Kors pencil skirt with a mint green cashmere polo neck. Her make-up – glossed lips, bronzed highlighted cheeks – was understated but elegant. She looked professional but not boring, striking but not intimidating.

      ‘You’ll knock them dead,’ said Nick with a wink, walking up to the marble reception to announce their arrival.

      They rode the lift to the boardroom in silence – each not needing to tell the other how vital the afternoon was. Cate and Nick had worked so hard over the last three weeks since their initial meeting with David. The dummy magazine was finished, the business plan was polished. There’d been tough negotiations with printers and reprographic houses to get the best possible deals lined up. A deal to distribute the magazine in all airports, train stations and newsagents had been hammered out. They’d even set up meetings with important advertisers such as Estée Lauder, Chanel, British Airways and Armani to canvass support should they have to move quickly for a summer launch.

      The lift door hissed open and David was waiting for them. His grey eyes were serious, his mouth unsmiling: David’s operator mode, thought Nick.

      ‘Everyone’s here,’ said David in a hushed tone, ushering Cate and Nick down the corridor to the boardroom. ‘Ten men, two women. Watch out for Nigel Hammond who’s sitting at the head of the table,’ he said, lowering his voice even further. ‘Nigel made a billion in spread betting, will be very tough in questioning, but if we can get him, the rest will follow.’ At the heavy oak door, David turned towards them, resting a hand on Cate and Nick’s shoulders. ‘Be confident, answer all the questions as we’ve discussed and leave