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

of the fashion world under her belt. It also did no harm that she lived with Ginger Foxton, the country’s most influential fashion writer.

      Venetia poured herself a cup of tea from the pot, letting the tobacco-coloured leaves whirl through a silver strainer.

      ‘So what did you think of New York?’ she asked Brix, knowing that she had arrived back in London from Manhattan that morning where one of her clients was showing at New York Fashion Week.

      ‘Really gorgeous,’ she gushed, throwing a clump of dark red curls over one shoulder. ‘I usually get much more excited about Fall collections, but this year – well, put it this way, you’re right on the money.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ asked Venetia, puzzled.

      ‘Well, from what I’ve seen over there, next summer is going to be all about little tea dresses, crisp tailoring and lovely sorbet colours.’

      Venetia thought nervously about the collection she was preparing to show on the following Wednesday in London. Tennis whites, sheer cashmere, butter-soft accessories, long pale palazzo pants and vintage-feel camisole tops.

      ‘Oh, that sounds rather like where I’m coming from,’ she said, her voice betraying her disappointment.

      ‘Don’t worry darling,’ Brix laughed at Venetia’s fashion naivety. ‘It’s cool to be thinking along the same lines as the other big names. You don’t want to be channelling military if Marc Jacobs has decided it’s going to be all about boho this year. It’s good commercial sense that you’re in the same ballpark as all the other big designers, although the Venetia Balcon range does have its own unique twist, which is great. Anyway,’ said Brix excitedly, pulling off her Fendi leather jacket and flinging it over the back of the chair, ‘guess who’s coming to your show?’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Only Miranda Seymour!’ beamed Brix, putting her cup down with a rattle.

      ‘No! Christ, that would be such a coup!’

      Miranda was America’s most influential glossy magazine editor. Feared and admired in equal measure, she had the power to make or break any designer. Certainly she had the clout to pull a struggling novice from obscurity and make them the next Donna Karan. Despite the fact that Miranda was English, she very rarely made an appearance in her native city for Fashion Week, choosing to go straight from the New York shows to Milan a week later. Her thinking was that London just wasn’t a significant enough fashion capital for her to deign it with her presence.

      ‘But why on earth is she coming to my show?’ said Venetia, still in shock.

      ‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ laughed Brix, clearly delighted. ‘She doesn’t usually bother with London, but she’s collecting some gong from some university or other. Her assistant called me and asked for a ticket for the Venetia Balcon show while she was in town. If you ask me, the woman is just obsessed with the whole English upper-class thing. I mean, you do tick all the right boxes, don’cha?’ said Brix, her south London accent becoming deliberately more pronounced. ‘You’re an aristo, you’re Serena Balcon’s sister, and you live this glamorous life with the hedge-fund husband. No doubt she saw your house in American Vogue. Put on a good show, young lady, and mark my words, she will champion you.’

      Brix pulled a large brown lizard-skin notebook from her Mulberry bag and began running through her notes with Venetia. ‘As you know, your ten a.m. show slot is considered something of a graveyard,’ she began.

      Venetia was aware of this, but she’d had to pull every contact she had with the British Fashion Council just to show her debut collection in the first place. Such an unknown was lucky to be part of the shows at all.

      ‘However, the response is just phenomenal,’ said Brix. ‘Every UK glossy magazine editor is coming. All of the key fashion writers, plus the usual celebrities that turn up to these things. I take it Serena is coming?’

      Venetia nodded.

      ‘The Times want to run an interview with you, the Saturday Telegraph magazine want to do Diego: that’s if we can get him photographed this week.’

      ‘I’ll give him a ring now,’ said Venetia, picking up her mobile.

      Leila Barnes, Venetia’s assistant, walked onto the terrace with a rather unsettled look on her face. ‘Venetia, can I talk to you one second?’ she asked. Venetia immediately picked up on the anxiety in her voice and excused herself from Brix, moving through the French doors that led back into the building.

      ‘The police are here to see you.’

      Venetia’s first thought was for her Range Rover, which she had parked on a meter outside the shop. Surely that hadn’t expired yet? She walked into her office where two police officers – one male, one female – were sitting down, looking very uncomfortable, on the upright leather chairs.

      ‘Mrs von Bismarck?’ asked the female officer as she stood up.

      ‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Venetia as calmly as she could. ‘Please, sit down. Now what can I do for you?’

      The policewoman was around thirty, with an intelligent face and pale brown hair tidied neatly behind her head. She introduced herself as Sergeant Gillian Finch, cleared her throat, and waited as Venetia sat down behind her desk.

      ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news,’ she said softly, cutting straight to the chase. ‘It seems there has been an accident – a fire at Diego de Bono’s apartment in North London.’

      Venetia felt her blood run cold. ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ she barked, the words almost jumping out of her throat. ‘I mean, when was this? Where is he? What’s happened?’

      The two officers looked at each other briefly before Sergeant Finch continued. ‘I’m afraid Mr de Bono was killed in the fire …’ She paused hesitantly as the shock registered on Venetia’s face, her hand flying to her mouth.

      ‘But that’s not exactly why we’re here, Mrs von Bismarck.’

      ‘I don’t understand,’ she replied, her voice quavering with anxiety.

      ‘We have reason to believe that your husband was also in the house at the time of the fire.’

      Finch stopped, allowing the full gravity of the situation to sink in. ‘We have found a body we believe to be that of your husband, and we would like you to come with us to identify the body.’

      She was hysterical now. ‘Jonathon is dead? That’s what you’re telling me? At Diego’s house?’ said Venetia, her fingers clutching at her breast. ‘It’s ridiculous. My husband hardly knows Diego. What would he be doing at his flat? What makes you say such things?’

      ‘The body is partially burned,’ said the other policeman, not meeting her gaze, ‘but there was identification in the clothing. Credit cards, and so on. They all have your husband’s name on them.’

      ‘No, it’s not right, it can’t be.’ She started to shake her head slowly.

      ‘I think you had better come with us, madam,’ said Sergeant Finch. ‘So we can get this cleared up as soon as possible. I think it’s best if we drive you,’ she added kindly, putting a hand on Venetia’s shaking shoulder.

      Venetia waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Yes, yes, um, I’ll come, yes, I just need to … I need to tell my colleague.’

      She took slow deliberate steps towards the terrace, her head down, pressing her fingertips against her temples.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ said Brix, standing up immediately. Venetia took a deep breath, trying to think rationally. She put one hand on the black tablecloth, trying to steady herself as she looked up at Brix, her face pale.

      ‘There’s been a fire,’ she stuttered, her eyes dazed. ‘Diego has been killed.’

      She could see Brix’s mouth open in horror, like a movie