Stella and Emma exchanged troubled looks.
Stella glanced at her watch. 12.45. Still no one. For the first time since she had arrived in England, Stella had time to think – and time to panic. Yes, life at Cate Glazer had many faults, she was taken for granted and overlooked, but at least it was secure. When Emma had knocked on her door, she had been ready for a change, a new challenge, but sitting in this big empty room, it all suddenly felt too reckless. She walked over to the walnut table and twisted the top off a mini-champagne bottle. ‘Well, if no one else is going to have them…’ she smiled. Just then, there was a slight creak as the door opened. Stella, Emma and Zoe all looked at each other as an elegant brunette in jeans and a beautifully-cut cashmere coat walked in and signed the visitors’ book. Sophie North, Vogue. She was from Vogue!‘Oh, I love this,’ said the woman, picking up the 100 Bag in the darkest aubergine. Zoe winked at Stella. They were in business.
19
Winterfold’s walled garden was crowded with nearly a hundred people all talking, laughing and drinking cocktails. There was a model on a Lilo in the swimming pool, three naked women in the hot-tub and two rock stars drinking champagne out of an ice bucket. It was the first warm day of spring and everyone was enjoying the feel of the sun and the sense of liberation that comes with the end of winter. Everyone except the party’s host, that is. Rob Holland sat in a pink rubber ring, looked around him and wondered why he wasn’t enjoying himself more. Five years ago he would have loved this, basking in the glory of finally having a big country house with a pool and a lake, bathed in sun and surrounded by willing women and bubbly on tap. So what was the problem? OK, so Winterfold was rented, but his wealthy West London circle of friends neither knew nor cared as long as he invited them down for long weekends. This weekend he had Kowalski, the country’s hippest hard-partying rock band as house guests. They’d brought a troop of friends and hangers-on, including half a dozen gorgeous models, one of whom was now waiting naked in the jacuzzi for Rob, and they were all going through his food and drink like a plague of locusts.
The truth was that at 38, watching people ten years younger – God, twenty years younger – glugging champagne and dancing to the music pumping from the huge speakers on the lawn, made him feel old. One minute he had been a crazy teen hooked on rock music and all its decadent charms, the next he felt like Grandpa Joe, hanging out with the kids at the chocolate factory. If he was honest, Rob had wanted this to be a quiet weekend, getting ready for the arrival of Polly, his six-year-old daughter who lived with her mother in New York and visited him every school holiday. But it hadn’t worked out like that. He’d been forced to invite these over-styled, overgrown teenagers to his new home because there was mutiny at his record company. In the last months, two of the major acts on his record label had walked out and both had petulantly released material on their own websites within days. And it wasn’t just happening to Rob, it was happening all over the industry. He’d never known a time when there’d been more disputes over back-catalogues and digital rights; it seemed as if every other band was going on strike or storming out. Rob was torn: he had always been a enthusiastic supporter of talent but when he had the Hollander money-men, his father’s inner circle, breathing down his neck, suggesting redundancies and reduced marketing spends, what was he to do? In the case of Kowalski, one of Hollander Music’s biggest-selling acts, Rob had done what he knew best. Their manager Tony Holden had begun to play hardball over their latest contract, so Rob had gone on a charm offensive, inviting them to his country retreat, plying them with booze and women and made them feel happy, special and loved. So far it seemed to be working. Tony had started talking about new studio sessions and tours, intimating that they might be ready to sign to the label long-term. Rob had smiled and responded enthusiastically, but inside he felt like the poor little rich boys at his elite prep school in Connecticut who curried favoured with the jocks and the popular set by doing their homework or paying them money. And he was doing exactly the same, ultimately to keep his father – and his father’s money-men – happy.
He looked over to the jacuzzi where Trudy, the 22-year-old blonde glamour model was waving at him. That didn’t make him feel any better either. What the hell is wrong with me? he thought. Trudy was the third blonde model he’d slept with in as many months; the last two hadn’t got beyond a second date. Inevitably, people called Rob a womanizer, but he called it pragmatic. He had a big job, a young child and a difficult ex-girlfriend. Not to mention his father. That was enough people making demands on him 24/7; he didn’t need anyone else, and in the music business, there was always another pretty girl. It kept the loneliness at bay and the sex drive satisfied, so what was the point in getting involved unless it was with someone looking for the same things as he was? Now that was something the music business did not supply.
The door of the garden creaked open and Rob tipped his sunglasses down to see who it was. He groaned audibly when he saw Emma Bailey approaching across the lawn.
‘Oh, shit,’ he mumbled, struggling to get up and out of the rubber ring. He saw the expression on her face change from surprise to disapproval to fury.
‘Emma. Great to see you!’ he said quickly, turning on his most dazzling smile. ‘New hair. I like it.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ whispered Emma angrily. ‘What on earth are you thinking …’
‘Ah, let’s go over to the gazebo, shall we?’ said Rob, taking her by the arm and steering Emma away from his guests. She looked as if she was about to erupt and he didn’t want a dressing-down in front of a load of rebellious youths.
The gazebo was at the end of the garden away from the pool. Honeysuckle climbed the white lattice walls, but the sweet, heady scent did nothing to calm Emma down.
‘Who the hell are those … those people?’
‘Don’t worry, they’re g
oing in a few minutes,’ said Rob, sheepishly.
‘Well, it doesn’t look like it,’ spluttered Emma, as she watched two more people disrobe and jump into the pool screaming. Rob shrugged.
‘Look, the lease doesn’t say anything about not having parties.’
Emma was in no mood for technicalities.
‘This is still my house!’ she snapped. ‘You’ve only been in it two minutes and what sort of respect are you showing my home? I know how these things end up, the place is trashed and a white Rolls ends up in the pool!’
‘I thought you never went to showbiz parties.’
‘I don’t. Oh, my God,’ she gasped. ‘Someone over there is taking cocaine!’
Still wide-eyed with shock, Emma turned her head as someone shouted from the jacuzzi.
‘Rob, are you coming in?’ shouted Trudy, lifting herself out of the water, her bare breasts exposed above the foam. ‘I’m getting out otherwise. I’m like a prune!’
At exactly the same time Morton walked into the garden, his shirt sleeves rolled up, holding a silver tray full of tubs of chocolate ice cream.
‘Ooh, ice cream!’ shouted Trudy, already distracted.
He watched Emma’s lips harden into a tight line. Rob felt unsettled at the way she made him feel. He wondered how old she was. Probably not yet thirty and yet she acted a generation older than the people around him. Despite her anger she obviously felt awkward just being here. He felt sorry for her.
‘Listen, I’m sorry about all this,’ he said.
‘Yes, well, I think your girlfriend wants you.’
‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
‘Of course not.’