Prologue


The sun beat down on the hills. Count Cosimo Parigi wiped his

brow as he stood looking down on the town of San Stefano in

Umbria. The familiar grey stone turrets, left by the Normans, and

the red terracotta-tile roofs shimmered in the haze of the baking

glare. It was August, and anyone with any sense had left town. The

cool water of the azure Mediterranean sea and the light breeze on

the lakes to the North called the Italians to their annual vacanze. This

year, more than ever, most people had left. The war had just ground

to a halt and a defeated (or 'liberated', depending on which

propaganda you bought) Italy was picking itself up from the dust. It

was time to recoup, to snatch at the strands of a normal life. "i

	For most people, that was, but not for him.
	'.

Cosimo felt no lethargy, no exhaustion. He was driven, and .he
had a vision. He looked out at the rolling hills and forests and he
wanted to ride through them. Brand new railway tracks that would
glitter under the burning sun. An engine for Italy, to bring it out
from the ashes of war.

He was a second son, which meant he was an irrelevance. The
faded old palazzo of the Parigi family, mounted on the crest of a hill
overlooking San Stefano, was going to pass to his brother Giuseppe,
il Principe Giuseppe Parigi. Giuseppe was the heir, and that was set
in stone. He would inherit the farmland that no longer offered
riches, the meagre rents of the cottages they owned, the crumbling
palace. Cosimo was expected to live in a small house somewhere on
the estate, to assist with the farming, and generally to keep his head

down.

But he had no interest in being forgotten, like Other second and
third sons before him. Cosimo wanted more, and he had an idea
how to get it.

His parents and brother had not approved when he told them.
Here he was, dressed in the overalls of a peasant, working with his

hands in the August sun. He as surveying the land, taking samples
of the soil, ilnaginmg a new, better route for the railway that had
been smashed into useless smithereens by the Royal Air Force.
When construction of the railway was done, he, Cosimo, would
turn to the roads. All across Italy people still travelled by horse, or
donkey and cart.

This was unacceptable in 1946. It was a new world, and Italy had
to be fit for it. Cosimo was already talking to bankers in the ravaged
city of Milano. He was drawing up his plans, he was going to do his
part.

His future was as glorious as the landscape before him.


Cosimo Parigi had drive and intelligence. He also had a good idea.
Railway executives and state bureaucrats called him 'il typhoon' the
hurricane. He blew through meetings, objections, and regulations.
By I95O, Parigi Railways had been established, and it was
thriving.

His parents died in 95 I. They had never approved of what their
younger son was doing. Trade! For a Conte di Parigi! It was
unthinkable. But their natural laziness, and their desire to enjoy la
dolce vita in their last years, had kept them silent. The old Prince
wanted only to tend to his vines and taste the first pressings from his
olive trees. Young people like his son did crazy things, Madonn'. But
he would grow up and get over it.

Cosimo wept 'or his mother when she died, and again for his
father when, unwilling to endure life without her, he followed her
to the family crypt in less than a month. His sorrow was lessened,
though, because of his parents' advanced years, because his company
was racing ahead, and because he had a new bride on whom to
bestow his sudden wealth. Donna Lucia di Parenti was the daughter
of another noble family, and marrying her was the one thing Cosimo
did that Giuseppe, the new Principe, approved of.

'Congratulations, my dear brother,' he said to Cosimo in the rich,
plummy tones he affected when speaking as the head of the family.
Archbishop Fanti had just united Cosimo with his new Contessa in
the chapel of the Palazzo, beneath the gaze of the busts of his
ancestors, and the angels and saints carved in glorious lenaissance
marble. Cosimo actually would have preferred another venue, a
church in lome, perhaps even St Peter's - nothing was good
enough for his Lucia - but Giuseppe had insisted they be married


2

from the Palazzo, and Cosimo had given way. In a matter like this
one, it did not hurt. Family tradition, and all that.

'Thank you, Giuseppe,' Cosimo said. He smiled at Maria,
Giuseppe's meek little wife, who was cradling Roberto, the new
heir, in her arms. 'The little one is quiet today, it must be a good
omen.

Giuseppe looked at his sleeping son. 'You also will have children.'
'We hope so.'

'And may your first child be a boy,' Giuseppe said solemnly.
'Thank you,' Cosimo acknowledged, trying to suppress the
thought that Giuseppe really could sound like a pompous ass
sometimes.

'When the honeymoon is over, call upon me at the Palazzo. We
have much to discuss,' Giuseppe told his brother.

'I will,' Cosimo promised, although he had no intention of
keeping his word. Parigi Railways was about to become Parigi
Transportation. He was taking over a cement-mixing and laying
company. New autostrade were planned across the peninsula, and
Cosimo was going to be a part of it. After the honeymoon, he would
be flying to Switzerland for discussions with a consortium of
investors ...


Giuseppe sat brooding in the dusty halls of his once-spectacular
home. The years rolled by pretty much as they had always done;
some years the wine harvest was excellent, and he could repair a roof
or two, other years it had blight or drought and he was out firing
workers and raising rents. The Parigi estate was, under his

stewardship, much as it had been for generations beforehand.

He resented it bitterly.

Cosimo, the little upstart, had founded a firm using his family
name. He was making billions of life a year. He had modern cars, an
estate, an old, but beautifully restored villa outside of Rome. But was

he, Giuseppe, not the elder brother? That money should be his.
He spoke of it incessantly to the Principessa.

'What belongs to the House of Parigi belongs to the Principe,
cara,' Giuseppe told her. And Maria nodded her head and continued
to embroider, for that was her hobby, and she had long since got out
of the habit of listening to her husband.

But he had an audience. Four-year-old Roberto was playing with
his toy wooden train while his father spoke, and the words sunk in.
Consequently he grew up loathing his upstart uncle Cosimo. Over

and over, his l;ither would lift the boy on to his knee and tell him of
his inheritance.

'You are to be Prince of the Parigi,' Giuseppe told his son. 'All
this is yours. You must never lose the rights of the family.'

I<oberto nodded gravely. He worshipped his father. That is, until
that spring day, when he was six years old ...


'Is the Count prepared?' Giuseppe asked of the nanny. She bobbed a
curtsey.

' Si, Principe.'

'Very good,' Giuseppe said, regarding his son as she placed him on
the back seat of the Bugatti. The little Count 1Koberto was bundled
up against the slight March wind; a true Italian, he was ultra-sensitive
to cold. Maria was in the hospital with suspected tuberculosis, and
Giuseppe had bills mounting. He did not trust his son to be alone
with peasants, and he had decided to take him with him on this vital
errand.

1Koberto bounced up and down with pleasure as his father slid the
car into gear and out of the courtyard of the Palazzo, down the
ancient, windy road that led into San Stefano. From there, they
would take a new road, one .Parigi Enterprises, as the company was

now called, had helped build, to their destination.

'Where are we going, Papa?' he asked.

'To see your uncle Cosimo,' Giuseppe said.

'Why, Papa?' 'I
have very important business, tkoberto. Now you will be a
good boy when we arrive, won't you? You will go and play with
some toys.'

'I will,' P,.oberto lied. He had no intention of missing this. His
beloved father was about to set Uncle Cosimo straight, and l<oberto
couldn't wait to hear him do it.


Little tkoberto stepped out of the car and regarded his uncle's house
as his father took his hand.

'What do you think, Roberto? It is very pretty, no?' Giuseppe
asked him. 'Of course, it is not as fine as the Palazzo.'

'No, Papa,' Roberto agreed solemnly, even though he was lying.
He was taking in Uncle Cosimo's villa, and he thought he had never
seen anything so fine. The building was old, with glorious ochre
walls and sprays of climbing roses, white and yellow, but it was not
crumbling like their palace; the tiled roof was new and perfect, the


4

drive was gravelled, the stables perfect, like something out of the
magazines his mother read. Roberto saw new and better cars in the
garage; fountains which were working, not lined with moss; gardens
which were professionally tended, lawns which were nearly clipped.

Roberto was a young boy, but he knew instinctively that the villa
was worth five times as much as the wreck they lived in. How fine
that his father was here to demand their family rights! His father was
the elder brother. P, oberto examined the house with a covetous eye. He would like to play here. One day, his father said, the whole estate
would be his.

'Come along,' his father said, tugging Roberto out of his reverie.
They walked towards the door, which was opened by a butler in
uniform, but before he could say anything Cosimo had run out to
meet them.

'Giuseppe! Caro.' He kissed his brother warmly on both cheeks,
hugging him. 'And P, oberto. How big you have grown.' Roberto
hung close to his father, but Uncle Cosimo bent down and gave him
a solemn handshake, which he liked. 'Are you thirsty? Would you
like a lemonade? We have Coca-Cola and chocolate biscuits.'

Roberto's mouth watered. They never had American Coca -<2ola
at the Palazzo. But already he was starting to feel resentful towards'his
uncle. He wanted to wait until Uncle Cosimo had given his fatl'itar

his due as head of the family, then he would drink his Coca-Cott.
'No thank you, I am not thirsty.'

'Maybe later, then. But come in, come in.'

Cosimo led them through a wide corridor hung with artwork and
lined with antique Roman busts into a large kitchen filled with
modem appliances.

'We can talk here, Giuseppe. Roberto, would you like to go and
play in the nursery?'

Roberto looked at Papa, who nodded.

'Yes, Uncle Cosimo.'

'I will send for the nurse,' Cosimo said. 'Our Luigi is only two,
and he's napping right now, but we have many toys for bigger boys.'

'I do not want the nurse, Uncle Cosimo,' said Roberto. 'I like to
play by myself without my nurse.'

Cosimo laughed and raffled Roberto's hair. 'He's independent,
Giuseppe! Very well, she will just show you to the playroom.'

A nanny in a blue pinafore materialised and whisked Roberto
away. He saw his uncle Cosimo close the kitchen door behind him.


5

The nurseD was splendid, lLoberto thought jealously. His infant
cousin Luigl, who was sleeping - good, because Poberto had no
interest in seeing him - was lying in a bedroom several rooms away
and the nurse told him to play freely, because he would not wake his
cousin up.

'Thank you,' tLoberto said gravely, 'you may go.'

The nurse stared at him but left without saying anything, closing

the door. 1Loberto wanted to run back down the corridor and listen
at the kitchen door, but he decided to wait a few minutes, to be sure
the servant woman was not hovering ...


'But, Giuseppe!' Cosimo struggled with his amazement. His brother
was stuffy and pompous and stuck in the ways that had kept the
Parigi fortune declining for the last two hundred years, but he loved
him.and did not want to hurt him. Laughing at him wouldbe the
absolute worst thing he could do. 'I have made this money, myself,
and you and Father did not approve.'

The Prince shrugged. 'We were wrong, and I see that now. But
the fact remains, you must cede control of the majority of the
company to me, as is only right and proper. I am the '


Outside the door, loberto smiled fiercely. He pressed his little ear
to the keyhole, keeping the other open for the nanny or other
intruders. Now his papa was telling Uncle Cosimo!


'- head of the family?' Cosimo's patience snapped. 'Madonnat.' He
shook his head and crossed himself, regretting the outburst. 'You
have a title, dear brother, one I care nothing for and never wanted.
The world is changing. I am not a feudal vassal! I owe you nothing,
nothing! You amaze me. You do no stroke of work, then arrive and
demand.., demand my estate, the estate of my son? You live in the
twentieth century! Are you insane?'

Giuseppe scowled. 'You refuse to do your duty, then?'

'By not finding work, selling off the dead wood, revitalising the

Palazzo, perhaps you have failed to do yours.' That hit home, and
Cosimo saw the hurt on his big brother's face. He clasped him by the
shoulder. 'Ah, come now. We must not fight. You have your way

and I halve mine. You need money?'

'I need nothing. I am owed ...'

Cosimo cut him off. 'Let us end this now. You have no legal
recourse, or you would already be in the courts.'


6

	This was true; they both knew it, and Giuseppe's face clouded

	with frustration. 'I have a duty to you, of course,' Cosimo went on,

	'one of love . . . tell me what you need, and I will provide you with

	an allowance.'

	Giuseppe hesitated, surprised. 'You will?'

	'I will. Do you think I would let my brother and nephew want for

	anything? Let us fix the Palazzo together. But I will draw up the

	budget,' he added hastily, 'and I will take a look at your books, and

	send you an allowance for your family.'

	Giuseppe struggled now. He wanted that money so badly he

	could taste it. But his pride was still there.

	'I cannot have some stranger look at the fortunes of the Parigi,' he

	said stiffly.

	Cosimo sighed. 'I will do it myself, brother. I am a Parigi too.'

	Giuseppe weakened and fell. His brother was disarming him. He

	had expected blackmail and shame to work; he had not expected this

	kindness. For all his arrogant hauteur, Giuseppe Parigi was funda
	mentally
lazy. He wanted an independent income, preferably one he

	controlled ... but he would take one somebody else controlled if

	need be. Unexpectedly, a blissful future arose before him; he would

	live as should an Italian nobleman, and he would not work, and "he

	Palazzo would be heated, restored, warm like this place, with o

more rain leaking through the rotting roof beams

'Cosimo.' He moved forward and embraced his upstart brother.
'You have a good heart, fratello. I accept ...'


P,.oberto was already stumbling down the corridor towards the
nursery, tears in his eyes. He brushed them away and gulped down
air. His papa had done nothing, had let Uncle Cosimo run all over
him. He hated his father, hated Uncle Cosimo ...

He barrelled into the nursery and saw the nurse there looking for
him.

'Did you get lost? Were you looking for the bathroom?'
'No,' P,.oberto muttered.

She was carrying a tray with a big ice-frosted glass full of black
Coca-Cola, with ice cubes chinking enticingly. 'Maybe you are
ready for this now, little Conte?'

P,.oberto looked at the Coca-Cola. He could not resist. He took

it, but he burned with shame.

'Thank you,' he mumbled.

'You miss Papa, no? But he is coming back soon,' said the nurse.


7

1<oberto turned to the wall so she would not see his red eyes. He

drank the Coca-Cola. It was delicious.

'Leave me alone,' he said.

She withdrew, thinking he was a little brat. loberto cared

nothing for her feelings. She was just a servant maid. He wondered

what he would say to his papa on the way home. Probably nothing.

Papa! He despised him ...


Luigi never forgot the first time he saw Mozel.

She was running through the market square in Cortona when

Luigi saw her. It was difficult not to. She was clad in green, black
and silver, and her full skirts trailed behind her like her black hair.
She was also clutching a string of sausages, and she was hurtling
towards him, screaming curses at her pursuers.

Luigi laughed and took them in: a fat butcher, waving his knife

and bellowing curses of his own, followed by his assistant, a child,
equally tubby, crying for his father. Madonna, but she was a beauty.
Her cheekbones were high and haughty, her hair curly and
luxuriant, and she had an incredible figure that the loose gypsy
clothing did not completely hide.

Well, of course, Luigi thought, I am a fine upstanding citizen of

the Republic and must do my duty. He side-stepped swiftly into the
path of the oncoming female who crashed into him, spitting and
squealing and trying to get away, but Luigi had her by the arms in his
strong grip. He was seventeen, and brawny like his father.

'Grazie,' the butcher huffed. 'Thank you, my friend. You have

caught the witch. Filthy gypsy witch!' he yelled at her.

The wildcat in Luigi's arms struggled and snarled in lomansh,

baring her teeth.

The butcher took a wary step back.

'You hold her, my friend, and I will fetch the police. A night in

the cells should cool her off. Thievery,' he said malevolently, 'is a
very serious matter. As for you, I will give you a discount on a nice
side of lamb. Very good with salt and rosemary.'

Luigi said seriously, 'Come now, you do not wish to have the

young woman arrested?'

The butcher's face turned sour. 'You do not see those sausages?

The magistrates have had enough of the gypsy filth, stealing
everywhere, polluting the town ... basra!'

'These sausages? Fine-looking sausages,' Luigi admitted. He took


8

out his wallet and slowly extracted a hundred-thousand-lire note.
'Does this cover them, do you think?'

The butcher made to snatch the money, greedily, but Luigi held it
out of reach. 'And it also covers the entire unfortunate incident, no?'

The man hesitated, hovering between covetousness and loathing.
'Who are you, Signore?'

'I am Count Luigi Parigi,' Luigi said.

The butcher blinked in surprise. '&usi, Don Parigi,' he said,
taking the money and withdrawing, followed by his now bawling
child.

Luigi looked at his prisoner. Up close she was even more
sensational. As well as the cheeks and hair there were full red lips, a
slender nose, and the most amazing, incredible pale-grey eyes, almost
silver, like a wolf's, shaded by long, dark lashes. Mesmerised, he let
his grip slacken. She instantly wrenched herself free and strode away

from him, in a flounce of skirts and a .jangle of her coin necklace.
'Wait,' Luigi barked.

She spun around to face him. 'You want something, ,gajo? A gypsy
blessing? For saving me?'

He didn't like her tone.

'Maybe a kiss,' Luigi said.

The woman rolled her eyes. 'The oaje think we are all for sal. I
am an honest woman.'

Luigi laughed. 'The butcher does not think so, Signorina.'
'That fat fool,' she said contemptuously.
'Tell me your name,' he said.

'I know yours.' The wolf-eyes narrowed. 'Count Luigi Parigi. It
rhymes.'

'What were my parents thinking?' he responded, and for the first
time she smiled. Her whole face lit up, and Count Luigi, sole son
and heir of Count Cosimo Parigi and one of the richest men in
Tuscany, fell hopelessly, finally, and without any possibility of
reprieve, in love with her.

'My name is Mozel,' she said.

'That's a strange name.'

'Not to my people,' she said confidently. 'It means "blackcurrant".'

'You
are very beautiful,' Luigi said.

'That's true,' Mozel agreed, tossing her hair and laughing.

'Let me buy you lunch,' he said.

Mozel agreed. Her father would not like it, of course, but her


9

father was not here. And after all, she had gotten away with the
sausages.


1Koberto never forgot the instant he laid eyes on Mozel.

It was the crowning moment of his humiliations. His father had
died early, of a heart attack. I<oberto's mourning had not been very
deep. He had despised his father ever since, as a child, he had heard
him crawl to accept Cosimo's handouts. Ever since that day, his
father had taken the handouts from the junior branch of the family.
The Principe and Principessa had lived quietly, in comfort, with
every modern convenience in their restored palazzo, but as far as
1Koberto was concerned, they had lived as slaves.

He had vowed revenge. But he was cleverer than his father.
1Koberto was not going to bluster in and challenge his enemies until
he was able to defeat them.

He had embraced his weeping uncle Cosimo at the funeral.

'I'm so sorry, taro.' Cosimo hugged him close. 'Nothing can ever
replace the loss of your papa.'

'Nothing!' 1<oberto said, weeping himself. 'But at least I have
you, Uncle. I want to come and work at Parigi Enterprises, to be
close to the family.'

'My boy,' Cosimo had saic[, smiling through the tears, astonished,
'that is wonderful. It will be wonderful to have you close.'


Close he had become. 1Koberto, the latest Prince of the Parigi, had
set himself to learn anything and everything about the company. Not
the business; he was not interested in that. Instead, 1Koberto noted
who the smart managers and consultants were. That was the extent
of success, hiring smart people. His interest was in seeing who was
paid off, how the bribes worked, who was close to whom, who were
the people Cosimo Parigi trusted. 1Koberto had a grave charm to him
that rendered him a favourite in the boardroom. And he took special
care to get close to his cousin Luigi.

1Koberto believed that risks should only be taken when necessary.
His uncle had contracted hepatitis C after an operation for a skiing
accident in an unsanitary mountain hospital, and his health was
shaky. Luigi was a playboy, a daredevil who enjoyed not merely
skiing, but tearing through the winding hills on his motorino, hanggliding
like Sean Connery in James Bond - there was even one
occasion when he jumped from an aeroplane with a parachute.
Cosimo's wife was unable to have any more children ... well ...


IO

loberto was the beloved nephew. There would be no need to rock
the boat.

But then there was that day in May when everything changed,
when P, oberto's long-lusted-for inheritance was snatched from
under his nose. Luigi came home with tales of a woman, not of a
noble Italian family, not even a foreigner of good breeding.., but a
gypsy.

The woman was barely a person. Gypsies were lower than the

lowest Italian peasant, they were witches and dirty thieves.
Roberto had enjoyed a good laugh.
'Luigi! That's funny.'

His cousin's eyes flashed with that headstrong spark. 'I am not
joking, Roberto.'

'Not joking! But you must be. It would be a misalliance . . . your
blood . . .'

'My blood is hot,' Luigi grinned, 'that's all that matters, don't you
think? It's the Seventies, bro. She's something else, too. Smart ...
sexy ... just wait until you see her. You'll forget all about that
antiquated shit ...'

Roberto had gritted his teeth, smiled, and said, 'Of course.


When he was introduced to Mozel, he hated her. Hated her .d
beauty. Hated her fearless spirit. She called him 'R.oberto' at once,
never 'Principe', not even the first time.

'I expect you found it hard to adjust?' he'd asked her pointedly, as
the family sat by the fire in the drawing room of Cosimo's town
house in P,.ome.

'No, l<oberto. My people are used to adjusting,' she said. 'Bi-lacio
raklo.'

He suspected that was an insult in her barbarous tongue from the
way her eyes danced.

'Will you wait to have children?'

'No. I want as many as possible,' Mozel purred. 'Luigi must have
heirs.'

Her wild white eyes bored into his. Witch, P-oberto thought,
wretched witch. She made him want to squirm and wash himself. So
now, the fortune due to him would be in the hands not just of his
juniors, but of half-breed gypsies.

It would not be. He was more than a match for the wild-eyed
little tramp his foolish cousin intended to marry.


II

'That sounds wonderful,' Roberto assured her. 'You bring the
wedding date forward. That way you can get started right away.'

Luigi gave him a grateful wink. It was good to have his cousin
change his mind. Theirs was a tight, close family; he wanted nothing
to alter that.


The wedding was appalling. Roberto had to stand there in the pews
of Santa Maria in Ara Coeli in Rome, the traditional and romantic
church at the top of the Campidoglio, watching his cousin, a count
of the Parigi, unite himself to gypsy scum. The shame of it almost
made him feel faint as he stood there in his morning suit, with a crisp
red rose as a boutoniere, and realised he was sharing the pew with
members of her dirty unwashed tribe, her family. Contessa Mozel
Parigi! It was not to be borne. And Uncle Cosimo actually approved.
The man had no honour at all. Maybe my grandmother deceived my
grandfather, Roberto thought, taking comfort in the idea. That
would mean that Cosimo and Luigi were not Parigis at all.

The gypsy wench wore red. Red! It was their tradition, she had
told him, the bride wears red to symbolise her virginity. And so she
stood there in the church in a huge silken gown, as open and full and
red as the poppies scattered across the Roman forum, carrying a
bouquet of ivory roses, and wearing a wreath of them in her long,
dark hair.

She was beautiful. She was sexy. He wanted her.

And she knew it, too, the little minx, with her laughing eyes
flickering over him as he watched her hungrily when the family
were together. She called him names in her strange pidgin language,
and muttered to herself when he passed her by. Witch things,
Roberto thought. How he hated her, and hated Luigi for tainting
the family name and honour.

But Roberto had a remedy. He had made his plans. It only
remained to put them into effect.


Cosimo lived long enough to see Mozel full with child, but he died
before she gave birth. Luigi was inconsolable, and Roberto managed
to put on a decent show of grief for his cousin, now his boss, sole
owner of the Parigi fortune. Uncle Cosimo left it all to his son,
nothing to speak of to Roberto, the Principe - not even a small
minority stake. Instead, his will had contained an emotional letter of
love, saying that he had thought of Roberto as another son, and
which Roberto had thrown into the fire.


12

Bullshit. Another son would have been given an inheritance.
Cosimo gave P,.oberto a trifling amount of money, barely enough
to buy a new villa with, and some useless personal items such as
paintings. So what? l<oberto was not interested in them. He was
interested in the Parigi fortune, but once again he had been left to be
dependent on the junior branch.


'You must snap out of this,' loberto said to Luigi one night, as his
cousin burst into a fresh round of tears. 'It is not good for you, not
what your father would want.'

'He's right, carissimo,' Mozel said, stroking her husband's hair.
'Cosimo would not want you to be weeping when the baby comes.'

A flicker of light crossed Luigi's face. He reached out to stroke his
wife's swollen belly.

'When will he be born?'

'I told you yesterday. A month.' She laughed. 'You ask me every

day! And besides, it is a girl.'

'How do you know?'

'I know. I can feel it,' she said, mysteriously.

'You should not sit in this gloomy room,' 1Loberto insisd.
'Besides, 1Lome is so dirty these days. The smoke, the pollution :...
It isn't good for babies. And the motorini speeding everywhere, w,t
if they knock Mozel down?'

Luigi looked alarmed and brushed the tears away. 'That's a good
point, 1Loberto.'

'Your child should be born in the country, in the woods.'
Mozel's face lit up. She hated and mistrusted tLoberto. She knew
exactly what he thought of her. But she was a daughter of the
country and the woods.

'He's right, Luigi ...'

'I have that hunting cabin in Umbria. Near the town of San
Clemente, which has a wonderful hospital, very modem. An
excellent maternity ward, with doctors from America.' This was
tree; 1Loberto knew that would be the first thing they would
investigate. It was one of the best hospitals in Italy. 'And the cabin
... it's actually a lodge. Very luxurious, with three bedrooms, a
library, a pool room, and an indoor swimming pool, heated.' He
looked at the Contessa. 'Swimming is excellent exercise for the
heavily pregnant, dear Mozel; you know what your doctor said.'

She looked down, she truly was as fat as a cow; Mozel longed to


I3

move, safely, of course. Roberto knew it. In fact his workmen had
only finished with the pool last month.

'If you want my advice, Luigi, you will take three months off. A
month with Mozel, to be in the countryside, and finish your

mourning, and then a little time with your child once he is born.'
'She,' Mozel said.

'He, she. What does it matter as long as the baby arrives safely, and
in good clean air, too?'

They both nodded their agreement. Fools.

'But who will run the company?' Luigi protested. 'We have
contracts to fulfil, mergers on the way, acquisitions ...'

'You're no good to Parigi in this state,' loberto said reasonably.
'And your first-born will only arrive once. Are you going to miss the
first months for work?'

'He's absolutely right,' Mozel said.

'I can take care of the Dulon merger. We have very capable men
running the company, Luigi. Between us we'll manage for a few
months without you.'

Mozel looked at her husband longingly, and Luigi agreed at once.
He could never resist any plea from those intense, pale eyes.


Ioberto was cunning. He knw Mozel was suspicious, and he made
sure her fears were allayed. He invited their friends to stay in the
lodge, and he remained in Milan while the couple enjoyed the
country air, and while Luigi went hunting wild boar, his favourite
pastime.

Luigi was intensely grateful, but loberto brushed his thanks aside.
'It is the least I can do for my dear cousin,' ILoberto said. 'After
all, we are family.'

Mozel was surprised to find the hospital was just as 1koberto had
promised. It had American doctors and British nurses, and catered
mostly to wealthy foreigners who did not care for Italy's friendly,
broken-down state care. Her husband's arrogant cousin had also
arranged for specialists to visit her weekly at the lodge, so she could
be examined in comfort and privacy. Soon she relaxed, and did not
worry when he came to visit, even when he disappeared with Luigi
in the woods. Each night they came home again, and her friends
came and went, and she felt safe.

The American doctors gave her another cause for joy, too,
something that distracted her from her instinctual caution.
She was not about to have one child. She was going to have three.


4

1<oberto rejoiced loudly and publicly. He threw a party in company
headquarters the day his cousin's babies were born - three girls, ha!
Three children and not a boy amongst them. He shut the entire
corporation for a day, giving every employee a long weekend. He
filled Mozel's bright new hospital room with flowers; he had a
magnum of champagne delivered to his brother along with a box of
Cuban cigars; and he offered the use of the Palazzo for the
christening.

'But when are you coming to see the babies?' Luigi asked him on
the end of the phone.

'I must just finish up some business, then I will come to the lodge.
I can't wait to hold them,' 1Koberto said. 'How adorable.'

	'They are adorable,' said his sappy cousin, voice full of foolish

doting pride. 'They are the most beautiful children ever born!'
'I bet they are,' 1Loberto said. 'And the mother?'
'Mozel is doing wonderfully.'

'I will arrange the christening, Luigi. Let me take care of
everything.'

	'I can't thank you enough for all you've done for us, I feel like a

new man,' Luigi said gratefully.

	'Don't be silly,' Poberto said softly. 'I'm family.'
		"


P, oberto took a few days to return to San Stefano and start some very
public preparations for a grand christening. The cake was ordered,
balloons and banners were bought, the Archbishop was booked;
1Loberto showed himself around town, passing out cigars, receiving
congratulations, and ordering from as many suppliers as he could.
The town took note of the unusual good humour of the Principe di
Parigi. As he had intended.

	And then, finally, all was ready.


When 1Koberto arrived at the lodge, he was all smiles. Mozel, already
back to her normal size three weeks after the birth, greeted him
warmly, as if he were truly Luigi's brother. She was wearing a blue
dress that picked out the glossy raven hue of her hair, and he thought
how delicious she looked, and how much he would enjoy finally
having her.

Mozel was wasted on a limp noodle like Luigi, 1Koberto decided.
Of course, he would never have married her, but she would be good
to luck. He imagined all that wild passion squirming underneath


I5

him. Before Ee wiped out the sain of herself and her gypsy brats for
good.

Roberto caddied the babies. They were ugly little pink morsels
with blue eyes and scraps of dark fluff on their heads. He felt no
compunction at the thought of what he was going to do to them.
They would never know a thing. At this age, they were hardly
people. Magnanimously, he decided to smother them with a pillow
before the flames took them.

'Aren't they amazing,' he cooed, and Mozel leaned over to
retrieve them, smiling at him. Her heavy breasts brushed against his
forearm in her thin silky blue dress, and Roberto stiffened
pleasurably, and thought that she wanted him.

That night, after the happy parents had retired to sleep, R.oberto
poured the gasoline and accelerant he had kept in an outhouse into
all the channels he had dug for them. A pity to waste such a
magnificent little holiday villa, yes, but he was insured to the hilt; he
could always plan another ...


In the morning, Roberto ensured that he would not be interrupted.
He waited for the postman to come, and the maid to leave, tipping
her handsomely. Then, accommodatingly, Luigi himself suggested
they head into the woods to shoot a few boar, maybe even a stag or
tWO ...

It was like - what did the Americans say? - taking candy from a
baby, I<oberto decided, as he stood twelve metres behind Luigi,
taking careful aim at his cousin and firing.

Luigi crumpled to the ground in a slither of clothes and flesh. His
own gun dropped harmlessly from his hand, and blood gushed from
his head as he collapsed on the forest floor, branches and twigs
cracking under the weight of his body.

I<oberto walked off, not even looking back. This forest was full of
animals, wild boar in particular, which would take care of his
cousin's remains. He had hunted in it many times by himself, and
many times with Luigi; the Count never suspected for an instant that
1Koberto was a danger. When death came, 1Koberto told himself
smugly as he headed back to the house, Luigi had not known a
thing. He was now in heaven. Or hell. Roberto didn't care much
either way.

His crotch hardened as he emerged from the thick, green dark of
the forest and walked into the house. What would Mozel feel, that
treacherous gypsy slut, whose sex had stolen his cousin's wits and let


I6

all the world see a Parigi united with a gypsy woman? She would be
afraid, and he was looking forward to that. But would she be wet
and hot when she was taken by a real man? Despite herself? That
tramp ... of course she would ... she would love it ...

1Koberto's anger and hatred mixed with his lust. He strode past the
patio, through the open doors of the living room. He was hard as a
diamond now. Through into the kitchen, and then to the family
room, where Mozel would be sitting with her brats ...

There she was. She had a child at the breast. The sight of them,
usually large but now even more swollen with milk, turned him on
so much it hurt. For a second, 1Koberto just stood over her, staring,
his shotgun in his hand.

She knew immediately.

Of course, he thought triumphantly; she is a witch, after all.

Mozel said nothing but snatched at the phone and started to dial
for help.

'There is no tone,' Roberto said. 'The line has been cut.'
'Why?' she screamed. 'Why?'

He shrugged and moved towards her. 'I am a prince of the Parigi,
befana slut. Put the child down.'

'No!' she shrieked, and started to run. But 1Koberto raised his
shotgun and pointed it at the other babies.

'Unless you want me to blow their brains out, you will do exactly
as I say.'

She stopped dead. 'Yes,' she said numbly. 'Yes. Yes.' She laid her
baby gently down on the couch, where it started to squall with fury,
because its lunch had been interrupted. P,.oberto found the sound
annoying.

'Walk into the bedroom,' he said, 'and strip your clothes off, slut.'
Mozel obeyed him, trembling, and went into the bedroom. She
would fight. Maybe she could get away. Her mind was thinking only
of one thing, to save her children, Luigi's children. She would
mourn him later ...

loberto stood before her, shotgun pointed at her breasts. She was
a slight, skinny little thing; he had ninety pounds on her. He was
lean and muscled, his body reflecting the disciplin of his life

'Slowly,' he said, enjoying himself. She obeyed him. She slowly
removed her clothing, letting the dress slither to the floor, her tits
already out of the bra, they were magnificent, the tiny white silk
panties peeled off and she was absolutely nude. R.oberto, his hard-on


I7

full to bursting, shoved her roughly back on to the bed, tugged his
pants half-down, and mounted her.

Mozel shrieked and tried to struggle, but he had her fast. t<oberto
raped her savagely, thrusting deep. She scratched at his face and tore
it with her nails, so he slapped her, hard, on the head.

That was a mistake. He was stronger than her, and she blacked
out, which stopped her struggling, and shrieking, and now he was

fucking a limp body. No fun. He cursed and shook her awake.
'My children,' she groaned, 'spare my babies!'

'Of course I'm not going to,' 1Koberto said, grinning and
thrusting. 'Let some gypsy take what is mine, inherit what is mine?
You and your filthy line die tonight, witch.'

She looked up at him, with those grey wolf eyes. She stopped
struggling, and started to move with his rhythm. 1Koberto was
shocked, then he smirked. She was enjoying it. He knew she would.
She could not resist ...

And then, looking directly into his eyes, Mozel loudly and clearly
pronounced a curse on him, a curse that seemed to go on and on,
speaking the words in her barbaric language, until he wanted to
throttle her.

1Koberto felt his belly crisp with fear. Inside the witch, his hard-on
shrivelled and died. He felt himself become limp and small, and slip
out of her. Enraged and red-faced, he lifted his hand to strike her

again, to beat all the life out of her ...

'Wait!'

Her voice was strangely calm. Despite himself, 1koberto Parigi
hesitated.

'You can break the curse,' Mozel said calmly, 'if you spare my
infants, 1Koberto. Then it will not come upon you.'

He hesitated. The spell ... the spell ... he did not like it.

'It is impossible,' he said, reaching for her throat.

Mozel spoke fast, the words tumbling out of her. 'No! Not
impossible. Give them to churches, leave them on doorsteps, who
will know? Separate them. Nobody will know, they are Italian
girls . . .'

'They have your eyes, witch,' he snarled. 'All would know them!'
'Their eyes are blue,' she pleaded, "blue!'

Roberto felt his limpness flop against his clothes. His rage and
frustration burst, and he screamed 'Silence!' and moved forwards,
choking her until she stopped breathing and lay dead and quiet on
the bed, unable to torment him with more of her words and spells.

I8


He sat there for a few minutes, panting. Now both Luigi and
Mozel were dead. Calm, calm, Roberto, he told himself. Relax . . .
don't let the slut get to you.

But she had, he knew she had.

When he said 'witch' loberto Parigi believed it. Modern times
did not mean modem attitudes, not in this land of long memories,
where superstition was a way of life. The look in the gypsy slut's eyes
as she spoke that curse ...

Dimly, he heard the sound of crying from the other room. He
stumbled back in there, zipping himself up. There were the two in
their cots and the third on the couch.

Curiously, Roberto gazed into the small eyes of the squalling one.
Yes, the slut had spoken the troth. They looked like ordinary Italian
brats, with dark hair, blue eyes, olive skins ...

He picked up a cushion from the couch and stood over the
screaming one. But then he hesitated.

Fuck it, Roberto thought. Nobody will ever know, and I will
break my curse ...

He scooped the three children up and carried them out to his
Rolls-Royce, laying them in the back seat. '

Then he walked back to the start of the first trough he had laitt
and filled with gasoline, struck a match, then tossed it in.

Within a few seconds the entire building was ablaze. Channels of
fuel were laid all through the house, and it was a wooden structure.
Within an hour, nothing would be left but that brand new pool.

Prince Roberto Parigi turned the key in his ignition and started to
drive up the winding road that led into the hills, with the three little
contessas screaming annoyingly in the back of his car.


Roberto thought he had arranged things perfectly. He had cultivated
some connections in the Cosa Nostra, low-level men with no morals
and a fierce love of money. He had also made sure he kept his own
band of thugs on the Parigi payroll; 'security', of course, but not for
the company, for himself.

His connections already had a racket going in the sale of children.
Infants were .highly sought after in Europe and America, and parents
were prepared to pay for them. Roberto was cautious; he instructed
that each child should go to a different orphanage, and that no fee
should be charged to adopt them. He didn't want anything getting in
the way, he wanted the gypsy brats dispersed around the globe, far
from each other, and far from himsel£

I9


It was done smoothly and with a minimum of fuss. A place was
found in En.gland for one girl, and, in America, Brooklyn for a
second and IrA for a third. Fly-by-night operations that charged
heavy 'expenses' for the most part, washed a little money, and closed
down when the Feds came looking.

The Prince expected reports on who chose the brats, and he got
them. He was expecting there to be a delay; they were only females,
after all, and who would want one of those, given a choice? But the
girls went fast, and pleasingly so, to the kinds of families he had
hand-selected; boring, ordinary people with enough to raise a child,
who were neither especially poor nor exceptionally rich. An Italian
worker from New York, a middle-class English couple, and a lawyer
from Los Angeles.

After that, he forgot about his tiny cousins. They were gone from
the picture, removed from being a threat, from taking the
inheritance that was so rightfully his.

And he had done right by them, he thought self-righteously. They
were alive, which was more than the children of a witch deserved to
be.

Prince R.oberto Parigi busied himself with a very public funeral,
mourning the tragic loss of the new family he had been so close to.
He had a service in the Cathedral in San Stefano, and the Archbishop
remarked in his sermon how he had been looking forward to
performing a baptism, and instead here he was, presiding over a
funeral . . .

R-oberto, last of the Parigis, wept bitterly, and was inconsolable.
He mourned all that year, never removing his black suit, and refusing
to dine out. He even wept as his cousin Luigi's will was read, making
him the default heir of the entire Parigi fortune: the houses, the
apartments, the villas, the cars, the private jet, and, of course, all the
stock of Parigi Enterprises.

His first act as Chief Executive was to rename the company. It was
now to be known as Venda Incorporated. He did not wish the
ancient name of Parigi to be tainted with trade. Roberto was happy
to take charge of all the money, but he regarded the means of
obtaining it as beneath him. Murder was acceptable; working for a
living was not.

People wondered about the name. 'I just like the way it sounds,'
loberto told them.

In fact, it stood for vendetta. His private joke.

loberto moved back to the Palazzo after installing some very


20

competent nen to run his business affairs. He poached the brightest
talent from America, even some executives from Japan, where an
incredible revolution was taking place in business. Venda was known
for paying huge salaries and bonuses; 1Koberto knew that the Capos
made the organisation.

His judgement was sound. He grew richer and more powerful as
the years rolled by, and he did not have to lift a finger for it. As a
prince, his job was to be social, to attend the masked balls of Venice,
to play in the casinos of Monte Carlo, to restore the glamour and
lustre of the House of Parigi that his uncle and cousin had tarnished.

The gypsy brats were no longer a danger, and they faded from his
mind.

Chapter I


'Are you hungry?'

Rose Fiorello smoothed down the pleats of her skirt and glanced
over at her morn. Mrs Fiorello was standing there with that worried
look on her face, the one that used only to be there when Rose left
to walk to school, and now was there almost every night. 'You have
to be. Look at you, you're so skinny, it's dreadful.'

'I'm not skinny, Mom.' She really wasn't hungry, but anything to
make her mother feel better. 'But I could eat, I guess.'

'Good. We need to use up these cold cuts,' Daniella Fiorello
replied, turning back to their tiny kitchen countertop. Tll make You

	a nice sandwich.'

	'Sounds great.'
	"

Rose eased her heavy, threadbare knapsack off her back and
perched her slender frame on one of the whitewashed chairs in the
cramped room. There was never any space in their HeR's Kitchen
apartment, but as her father kept reminding her, it was Manhattan.
Plus, it was rent-controlled. Even if the area wasn't of the best, there
were plenty of people who would kill for this space. You only got
into trouble around here if you looked lost or frightened. And R.ose
never did. Even when she was dressed in the cute little uniform of
Our Lady of Angels - navy pleated skirt that hovered just above the
knee, white socks and shirt, which most of the girls wore
unbuttoned to try to look like Madonna - nobody wanted to mess
with Rose. She was fifteen, tough, and pissed off. And she was
beautiful.

The Fiorellos had always gotten by, up until now. But it had been
at a cost. Surviving was expensive, and it meant somebody had to go
without. That somebody was usually Rose, and she didn't mind that,
at least not much. Sometimes she wanted stuff." new Nike sneakers, a
VCl, Whitney Houston CDs, movie tickets; it was hard not to,
right now, in the booming Eighties, when the Wall Street flyboys


23

paid three hundred dollars a month just to park their Corvette
convertibles, and it seemed that everybody else was getting rich.
Rose told herself she was content to bide her time. She was doing
great at school, even if she hated it. School was a necessary evil. She
would ace her SATs, get a scholarship to Columbia or NYU, and
get a high-paying job as a lawyer or an investment banker. Then she
would be able to move her parents out of their shitty little apartment,
and buy all the cool make-up and CDs she wanted.

Rose spent so much time being mad, she didn't really understand
just how gorgeous she was. She was coltish, with long legs, dark
glossy hair which looked like it came out of a comic book - so black
it was almost blue - an oval-shaped face, and full, sensual lips with a
natural pout. She was five feet seven, she weighed one twenty, had a
cinched-in waist, firm, full breasts, and had just bought her first Ccup
bra. Her nose was aquiline and arrogant, her skin was a rich
olive, and her eyes - her incredible eyes - were a startling ultra-pale
blue, almost white, even wolfish.

Her parents didn't have those eyes, but no wonder; Rose was
adopted.

Men cat-called when she passed in the street, but usually didn't
accost her. They didn't dare. That stride of hers was pure Bronx,
pure menace. Rose Fiorello was permanently mad: at her mom's
disease, at her father's long hours, at their filthy streets, at the Mayor,
at her birth mom, at the world.

But today she had a focus. And the hatred she felt burned as
strongly as the first love felt by most other girls her age.

Rose tossed her head, sending a waterfall of sleek, raven-black hair
flying through the air.

'Sounds good.' She tried to temper her tone. 'More cold cuts
from the deli? Did they turn off the power again?'

Daniella nodded sadly. 'Your dad's called ConEd already. But it's
another day's worth of stuff ruined.'

'I could eat Dad's stuff all day long,' Rose said loyally. They both
knew she already did. Today would just be one more day of it,
before the choice Italian meats and cheeses and fish turned bad and
had to be thrown out. Before her father lost even more money.

Paul Fiorello was fifty, and had run Paul's Famous Deli for
twenty-five years. Despite the optimistic name, the Deli wasn't
famous: it was in the wrong neighbourhood and too small ever to
attract the new foodie crowd that would pay twenty dollars for a thin
bottle of organic olive oil. But it was good, and the food was fresh


24

and the tastiest for ten square blocks. Her father had a regular
clientele, and he'd kept his head above water all these years. The
Deli paid for the medications for Mom's arthritis, and lose's
Catholic school. It was cheap, but it wasn't flee. Plus, there were
costs; the uniform, for one thing. The Deli took care of all that, plus
their rent.

Up until last month.

Manhattan property prices were going through the roof. Even the
worst areas which they said would never gentrify were already being
bought up; the East Village and Hell's Kitchen to name but two.
Some people said Alphabet City and even Harlem would be next.

Whatever. Rose didn't give a damn about the demographics.
She cared about Paul's Famous Dell.

They were located in a big building, a tall, decrepit old skyscraper
on Ninth Avenue and Fiftieth. Next to them were a pizza]oint and a
fabric merchant which sold buttons and sequins and lengths of dingy
netting; above them were offices. But somebody had sold the entire
building to Rothstein Realty.

Rothstein were a big, giant, mega-bucks real estate company.
They bought and sold in the tens of millions of dollars. They
plans for the building, and those plans did not include the loc.l
salami merchant.

Already Paul's neighbours had taken the hand-out offered b
Rothstein and given up their rent-controlled leases. But Paul
Fiorello had refused. What would he do with a lousy fifty thousand
bucks? He knew nothing but the Deli, and where would he find
another cheap lease? If the store moved more than five blocks away,
it would lose all the regulars, and it would be competing with the
smarter, bigger, cheaper dells, the ones with rows of shiny waxed
fruit racked up on stands outside the store. Fifty Gs would only last

them for one year. And then it would be welfare time.

'You don't have to move, Dad.'

Rose recalled talking fiercely to her dad about it as he sat in the
kitchen, reading the latest letter from Rothstein. It was full of veiled
menace. Nothing they could sue over, but which could be read
between the lines.

'They can't force you out. You got ten more years on. that lease.'
'They can do stuff, baby.'

'What, send the heavies round?' Rose glared fiercely at her
father's slumping shoulders and greying hair. 'If they try any of that
shit I'll go to the police. And the press.'


25

'Don't use language like that in this house,' Paul Fiorello growled.
'Sorry.' She rubbed her father's aching shoulders.

'It's not about leg-breakers. All they need to do is mess with the
water, the electrics ...'

'You pay for that, how can they shut it off?'

'Accidents. Interruptions. There are ways. Not to mention the
construction noise next door. They've already started to gut the
other two stores, and they start drilling the floors during lunchtime
... crowd's thinner already.'

'They can't do that to you.'

'They can and they will, kid.' Paul sighed. 'Only question is, can I
ride them out? If I could persuade Mr Rothstein that he could, you
know, build around me. Maybe his fancy lawyers and architects
would need a good sandwich at lunchtime? I could write him a
letter.'

He looked hopefully at his daughter, the straight-A student, the
one who wrote all the letters in this house.

'Sure, Dad. I'll give it a try,' Rose had said.

They had crafted the letter together and sent it off. It was a
masterpiece. Firm, but amiable, respectful, and accommodating.

Rose walked it down to the mail herself and sent it return-receipt.
The receipt came back. Nothing else did.
That had been two weeks ago.

Today she was going to eat more spoiled cold cuts. More stuffthat
would have to be thrown out when they couldn't get through it,
which was exactly like tossing a handful of twenties into the fire.
Rose was sick to death of cold cuts, but the whole family ate them
like champs, for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

'When is Dad coming home?' she asked, as Daniella sliced the
foccacia and put ham and chicken and ricotta on it.

'He's gonna be late. He has to try and get access to the mains, get
the police to make him turn the electric back on. Otherwise it's two
days' worth of food chucked fight out.' Daniella swallowed hard,
and Rose saw the tears glittering in her mother's eyes, tears she

would not let herself shed in front of her baby.
God, how she hated lothstein Realty.
How she hated them!

26


Chapter


Poppy Allen sat in her room and stared longingly at her posters.

Uhh. John Bon Jovi. Joe Elliott. Def Leppard were just so hot.
And Metallica, too. Lars was a real cutie. She liked the hard stuff and
the soft stuff` about the same; all her favourite bands featured
gorgeous guys with long hair, black leather, studs, and plenty of rebel
attitude.., in short, the kind of babes her morn and dad would never
let her date.

But Poppy had ways around that.

There was a knock on her door.

'Come in,' Poppy said. ,
Her mom, Marcia Mien, appeared in the doorway, bedecked for
another gala night on the town. Poppy's parents, Jerry and MarcN,
were social butterflies, which was good because so was PoppY/.
Unbeknownst to them.

Marcia was a lawyer's wife, a rich lawyer's wife, and didn't she
look the part, in a shoulder-padded red suit from Karl Lagerfeld and
a string of pearls as big as marbles.

'You look great, Mom,' Poppy lied dutifully. 'What is it tonight?'
'Opera. Rigoletto.'
'You hate opera.'

'I know, but the Gotdfarbs had some extra tickets.' Marcia

shrugged. 'Daddy says it should be a fun night out.'

'How late will you be back?'

'Late,' Marcia said reassuringly, and Poppy pouted to show she
was disappointed. 'Don't worry, we've set the burglar alarm. I don't
want any TV after eleven.'

'No ma'am,' Poppy said. 'I've done all my homework for tonight.

I was actually wondering if I could go out for a little while.'
Marcia frowned. 'While we're not here?'

She had to be careful of her little Poppy. The girl was blooming
before her parents' eyes - she had dyed blonde hair, she was slim,


27

with natural curves which meant there was no need for that sweet
sixteenth trip to the plastic surgeon all her friends were buying their
daughters. And then, of course, there was that stunning face and
those wild, wolf-like eyes. Poppy certainly hadn't got her looks from
Jerry or Marcia, people said, and Marcia smiled brightly and told
them maybe it was her grandma. Of whom, conveniently, she didn't
have any pictures.

Poppy was adopted, and Marcia and Jerry saw no reason to tell her
so, nor to tell anybody else. Marcia was very keen her little girl
should marry a nice Jewish boy, and she was sure his mother would
have the same standards, so why rock the boat?

The trouble with her sexy teenager was that all men were attracted
to her. That was Marcia's concern.

'Well, it's with someone you know. Brian Pascal was gonna take
me out for a burger and fries. But not if it's not OK,' Poppy said
sweetly.

Her mother crumpled. 'Brian's a good boy ...'

Poppy .just waited her out. Mom was always trying to throw her
together with Brian Pascal. His parents were a dentist and an
orthodontist, they had tons of money, and his sister was in
Hollywood, which was what Marcia wanted for Poppy. She was
always on at her to take acting lessons.

Poppy had no intention of being a soap-opera star or whatever. As
the World Turns was not her destiny.

No way. She was going into heavy metal.

'I thought I'd wear this, if you say I can go, Mom,' Poppy said,
.jumping off her bed and running to her closet. She showed her
mother a frilly blue number with a long skirt and puffy sleeves that
made her look about twelve. Her mom loved it, and Poppy never
wore it. 'I .just know he'll flip when he sees me in this.'

'Well . . . OK.' Marcia gave in. 'As long as you're back by ten.'

'Cross my heart,' Poppy lied brightly. 'I guess I'd better get
changed now, huh?'

'Is Brian coming over to pick you up?' demanded Marcia,
suddenly suspicious.

'Oh yeah,' Poppy said. Damn. 'I .just have to call him and let him
know you said it's OK.'

Jerry Allen's head appeared with his wife's. 'What's going on?'
'Poppy wants to go out with Brian.'

'As long as you're back by nine,' Jerry said, disappearing.
Poppy pouted. 'Mom '


28

'Ten,' her mother hissed, 'but don't tell Daddy.'

She waited in the doorway. 'Aren't you going to call Brian? I
want to speak to him.'

Poppy's heart went into her mouth. She dialled her friend's
number. Brian was never going to be interested in Poppy, blue
horror of a dress or not. He was strictly a player for the other team,
but neither set of parents knew that, and she and Brian covered for
each other on occasion. Poppy mentally crossed all her fingers and
toes and hoped Brian would get it, this time. Dark Angel, the hottest
band on the Strip, were playing tonight and no way did she want to
miss them.

'Hi, Mrs Pascal, can I speak to Brian? It's Poppy Allen. Hey,
baby,' she added after a pause, 'my mom said you can pick me up
tonight whenever.'

'Dark Angel?' Brian asked.

'You got it,' said Poppy brightly, 'and Mom wants to speak to
you...

'I was going to have a quiet night in. I don't feel like driving.'

'Thanks,' Poppy said, injecting an urgent note of pleading into her
voice. 'Here's Mom, OK?'

She passed the receiver to her mother. 'Brian? Now you'll get .}ny
little Poppy back by ten? Yes, I'm sorry I'm not going to be hege
too, but I think we're leaving now. Yes, I know I can trust you with
my little angel ...'

Poppy winced. She loved her mom, but Marcia had obviously had
a cool by-pass at birth.

Marcia hung up, satisfied.

'Be a good girl, Poppy,' she admonished. Poppy smiled her
patented non-threatening Shirley Temple smile and agreed that she
would be.

Which was another lie. But at this stage, who was counting?


Poppy covered her tracks professionally. She actually got changed
into the blue horror and came downstairs, to hang out with her
parents until they left. The second their Ferrari pulled out past the
wrought-iron gates that hissed back electronically, she raced upstairs,
pulled it off, undid her long, dyed-blonde hair from its neat little-girl
braids, and slipped into a black miniskirt, a low-cut top, and high
heeled boots.

Mmh! She looked just about good enough to eat right now.
Brian called to tell her he couldn't make it. Never mind; she had

29


her own ride. He'd served his purpose. Poppy slipped downstairs
and unhooked the keys to her mother's Porsche 9I I from their spot
above the sub-zero refrigerator. Their housekeeper, Conchita, lived
in Daddy's guesthouse in the Hollywood Hills. She could park there
and then walk down to Sunset.

Poppy caught a glimpse of her lithe, sexy reflection in the full
length mirrors by the door and blew it a kiss. The poor little rich girl
who had to play nice was about to be let loose on LA. She just
hoped they were ready for her!

3o


Chapter 3


'Daisy!'

Daisy stopped staring out of the window and jumped out of her
skin. Her plump cheeks bore a red imprint from where her fingers
had been pressed against them. The Surrey countryside was so
gorgeous, all rolling hills dotted with woods and grazing cows and fat
white sheep. Like something out of one of her favourite Jilly Cooper
novels.

Her heart sank.

'Yes, Miss Crawford?'

'Can you give us the benefit of your opinion on this matter..?'
Miss Crawford was staring at Daisy as though she was somet.ing
unpleasant she had just scraped off the bottom of one of her st.ut

brown brogues. Daisy heard Victoria Campbell snigger. "
'Um, about this?' Daisy temporised desperately.
Miss Crawford's mono-brow rose.

'Yes, about this. The Merchant's Tale. One of the most gripping,
funny stories in the entire cycle, which some critics take to be a
proto-feminist piece only slightly less important than The Wife of
Bath's Tale. Perhaps you feel you have nothing in common with
Chaucer, Miss Markham?'

Daisy glanced down at her page. 'The slakke skin about his nekke
shaketh . . .'

'He spells like me,' she joked feebly.

'Very funny. But with your stellar academic record, you can afford
to ignore our lessons, can't you?'

Daisy flushed at the sarcasm. She hated Miss Crawford and
Victoria and most of the bloody girls here. Just because.she didn't do
very well at school. It wasn't as if she didn't already know she was
thick.

Tears prickled in the back of her throat, and Daisy forced herself
to see a mental picture of Mummy opening her last report, which


3

was full ofCs ad Ds, and saying it didn't matter a bit, because Daisy

had tried her best.

'Miss Markham. This is one of your only O level classes. Maybe

you should have been streamed in the CSE class after all.'

'No I shouldn't,' Daisy said.

Where did that come from? She was terrified of Miss Crawford.

But it had popped out, defiant, mutinous.

'And why not?'

'Because I'm good at writing and I like books,' Daisy stammered.
'Good at writing!' The scorn dripped from her teacher's narrow,
red-painted mouth. 'You're no Chaucer. That's a detention tonight
and one demerit to Sackville House.'

Victoria was a Sackville prefect. She stopped giggling and scowled

at Daisy.

'I could ask you to read the next ten lines, Daisy, but why put the

class through it?' Miss Crawford sighed theatrically. 'Miss Garnett,

can you continue?'

'Yes, Miss Crawford.'

Arabella Garnett tossed her sleek mane of auburn hair over her

slender shoulders and began to read, pronouncing each word

perfectly.

Daisy sat there mercifully dy-eyed. She had been going to cry,

but luckily Miss Crawford and Victoria had been their usual hateful
selves, and that gave her the resolve to keep the tears back. They
could wait until she got upstairs at break.

There were a couple of good things you could say about St

Mary's, Withambury. It was nestled in a picture-perfect setting in the
Surrey countryside, and Daisy liked going for walks outside the
school grounds. Now she was a fourth year, she was allowed to. She
also liked the fact that finally she had got her own miniature cubicle.
It had space for a bed, a sink with a mirror, and a cork board for
sticking pictures up on. Sharing a room with Isobel Soames hadn't
been that bad, because Isobel was quite nice, not a bully like those
prefect bitches and the snobby girls in the Oxbridge Preparation set
who thought you should curtsy to them just because they were
clever. But still, she hadn't enjoyed it. Isobel was pretty, very pretty
- honey-blonde hair, pale green eyes, small perky breasts, and a cute
dusting of freckles.

And Daisy wasn't.

It was tough, getting changed in front of Isobel. Daisy used to

keep a towel around her ample thighs and try to struggle into her


32

cream school shirt as quickly as possible, so her dimpled bottom and
podgy upper arms were hidden. And it was worse because her friend
tried to be so nice about it.

'You've got such a pretty face, Daisy.' She'd be almost pleading.
'If you just lost a bit of weight.'

'I know,' Daisy would say, and then she would change the
subject.

Like she hadn't tried. Daisy longed to be slim and beautiful and
toss her long, gleaming hair over her shoulders in what the gifts all
called 'The St Mary's Flick'. But she had her hair cut in a bob,
because long hair made her face look even fitter, and when she tried
to stop eating, she just couldn't. Her diets were secret; Victoria and
Mercedes and Camilla would all be so mean if they found out. Daisy
tried eating fruit and skipping pudding and sometimes she even
lasted a week. But she got so hungry she could cry, and then one day
it would be fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies for tea, and she'd
crack - and a week later, she'd weigh more than she'd started out at.

Nothing worked. Diets only made her fatter. PE lessons were a
nightmare; she couldn't run, she couldn't shoot netball - she could
hit a rounders ball, but she couldn't get to the bag in time. Beides,
the bitchier girls always used to give her wobbly bottom and chunky
thighs contemptuous glances which made Daisy feel about three
inches high. Next year things would be even worse. Fifth form gifts
got to take PE lessons in the health club at the local town. This was
meant to be a big treat; for Daisy, it simply meant random townies
would get a good look at her cellulite and her embarrassingly large
boobs that barely fitted into a D-cup.

Daisy had given up on her body. She ate what she liked, and she
ate for comfort. When she failed her mock CSE in maths, she ate a
whole bag of fun-sized Marathons. (Why did they call miniscule,
unsatisfying morsels fun-sized? Fun-sized was a full bar with 2o per
cent extra free.) Getting her own cubicle had been an immense
relief. She sat next to Isobel at lunchtimes, but mostly she kept to
herself. After all, on her own, she could do her favourite thing short
of driving out of St Mary's gates at the end of term: reading.

Daisy loved books. Not Chaucer and Dickens and Evelyn Waugh,
or whatever other boring set text they had to do in O level English;
she loved Jeffrey Archer and Judith Krantz, Jilly Cooper and Shirley
Conran. Her copy of Lace was falling apart at the seams. In her
books, the women were all slender and beautiful, the men were
dashing rakes, or determined power-players. Daisy was scared of

33


flying, but with her trashy nocels she could move seamlessly from
the sun-dre1ched French Piviera to the snowy romance of the
Russian Steppes. She yearned to be ravished by P,.upert CampbellBlack,
to work her way up to a vast empire like Abel Rosnovski; she
wanted to be beautiful-yet-feisty like Maxime and Pagan, to shop at
Scruples, and generally to be anything other than Daisy Markham at
St Mary's, Withambury.

Daisy had the best collection of trashy novels in school, and
gradually her classmates wised up to it. Soon after she'd set them all
out on the shelves in her little cubicle, Lucy Gresham had sauntered
in.

'Hey, Daisy.'

'Hey, Lucy,' Daisy said, pretending she hadn't heard Lucy hiss 'fat
cow' under her breath when she'd sneaked an extra cream cake at tea
that day.

Lucy stood there, doing The Flick with her long, expensively
highlighted blonde hair. Everyone knew Lucy went to London on
the train every exeat weekend and had her hair done at Vidal
Sassoon. Her parents were very rich. Daisy's parents were struggling
to keep up their middle-class lifestyle, even though she was an only
child, and she was at St Mary's on a bursary, because her mother had
been Head Girl there thirty years ago.

'I see you've got the new Jilly Cooper,' Lucy said casually.
'Haven't you?'

'Mummy doesn't want to have it in the house, because it's got s -
e - x in it,' Lucy admitted.

Daisy paused. 'Would you like to borrow it?'

Lucy obviously would. 'Have you finished it?'

'The day I bought it, of course,' Daisy said sternly. As though you
could put down a Jilly Cooper! She had strained her eyes finishing it
under the bedclothes with a torch, but it had been worth it. 'Here.'
She picked up the thick white paperback with its embossed gold
letters and passed it over.

'Thanks, Daisy,' Lucy said, sweeping out.

Soon she was acting as a mini-library. The girls considered Daisy
an expert and asked her opinion on which one to borrow next.
There was a queue, so nobody returned the books late. Apart from
Victoria and Arabella, most of the fourth form stopped teasing Daisy.

They still didn't like her much, she could tell, but it was bad
manners to pick on someone you owed a favour to.

Victoria got mad and bought more than one copy of every new


34

trashy novel worth reading, but her ploy backfired. Daisy was
established as the pulp fiction queen. The girls liked gathering in her
cubicle, talking to each other about the books they'd just read.

'You know,' Emma Wilkins told her one day, 'you should write
one of these, Daisy.'

Daisy flicked through Kane and Abel. 'Don't be daft, it'd take me
ten years.'

'I bet it wouldn't.' Lucy agreed with Emma. 'You know all about

this stuff. You should write one. You could let us read the chapters.'
'You'd be great at that,' Emma said. 'You could put me in it.'
Daisy smiled, her fat face dimpling. This was the first compliment
anyone had ever paid her at school. She'd love to be a writer. Maybe
she should try it.

35


Chapter 4


Rose stopped in front of the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue. The
display was opulent; quietly expensive suits and summer dresses by
the top designers of the day, with matching shoes, and handbags that
started at a thousand dollars. But she wasn't checking out the

merchandise; it was a little out of her price range.

She was staring at her own reflection.

She looked beautiful. Rose wasn't a particularly boastful girl, but
facts were facts. She knew that the long, coltish legs, the aristocratic
cheekbones, the dusky skin with the ice-blue eyes set under arching,
elegantly shaped brows were lovely. How could she not know it?
The boys stared on the street. Grown men whistled and cat-called, as
though she would somehow find it endearing. And she wouldn't
even be of legal age for another year. Not that that bothered them.

Rose looked good in anything. A white T-shirt and faded pair of
blue jeans merely showed offher figure and contrasted with her skin.
Her sheeny dark hair looked dramatic against anything, even the
cheap K-Mart dresses that were all her mom could afford.

Today she needed to look a little more than beautiful. Today she
needed to look adult.

She had picked the suit out of a thrift store and got it dry-cleaned.
It was navy and nondescript, too slim to sell in the store, and the skirt
sat on her knee, modestly. It had everything Rose fondly imagined a
modern power suit should have: shoulder pads, gold buttons, the
whole lot. She had put her hair up in a severe bun, and got a
girlfriend to do her make-up - red mouth and nails, two coats of
mascara, and blusher. She'd skipped' the foundation, because she
could never find a good match for her skin tone, and drawn the line
at the blue eyeshadow Elise Carboni wanted to slap on her. But she
thought she looked older, at any rate.

Maybe twenty-five? Rose took in her reflection. OK, that was


36

being a bit optimistic. But she could carry herself as though she were
twenty, at least. A college gift.

She turned from the window and marched a little further down
the street, psyching herself up. Elise thought she was crazy to try a

stunt like this, but Elise didn't know the half of it.

I'm not crazy, Rose thought, I'm desperate.

There was nothing else she could do. Last night had been the final
straw. Rose had lain there in her tiny cupboard of a bedroom,
pretending to be asleep, listening to her father sobbing his heart out
in the kitchen next door. His business was as good as ruined. Even
his best customers were going elsewhere now. The food was spoiled,
their vegetables weren't fresh, and the construction noise was
deafening. Only in the mornings, lunchtime, and at 5 p.m., of course - Rothstein timed the decibels to the peak traffic times.

The cops ignored Paul's complaints, or issued halfhearted
warnings. They had all but asked for a bribe, but he had nothing to
bribe them with. No way could he compete with Rothstein Realty
on that front.

Or, indeed, on any front.

Her father hadn't wanted to take the money. No selling outfor

him. He was too proud.
	"

Yesterday, when he got back from work, there was a letter. Gol
-
embossed, thick, costly paper, the hated insignia of Fkothstein Realty

on the front cover.

Iose had wanted to open it immediately, but her mother told her

to wait till her father got home.

'It's his mail, after all,' she said flatly.

Rose did her homework in front of the letter, unable to

concentrate. It sat there, staring at her, taunting her. She had

butterflies in her stomach. Finally, Iothstein had responded to her

letter.

She'd known it would have results, eventually. Rose was a realist.

She didn't hold out much hope that they were going to go away, she

just hoped that they would let her father keep his place. But maybe

they were going to up the money. In exchange for his livelihood, a

hundred grand would barely last two years, and the store space was

worth so much more to them. If they offered two hundred, her dad

could get a nice long lease on a space nearby, somewhere else. And

the dark cloud would move away from his head.

She felt almost sick with nerves by the time he got home.


37

'You got a letter,' her mother said, picking it up gingerly by her
nails and handing it to him.

Paul glanced at his daughter. 'It can wait. I'll open it later.'
P,ose swallowed hard, to force down the protest that wanted to
burst from her lips. Obviously he didn't want her to see it. She
knew, deep down, that she was smarter than both her parents, but
she was also fifteen years old. She could have helped them to deal
with it, but they still saw her as a child. And now was not the time to
challenge her father on anything.

'You know what, I'm tired,' she said. 'I need an early night. I'm
gonna take a shower and see you guys in the morning.'

Half an hour later, she got into bed and pretended to be asleep.
The door creaked fifteen minutes later - her parents checking to see
if she was out. lose kept her eyes closed, her breathing nice and
regular. She heard the door click shut. Then her father sobbing.

After a sleepless night, lose woke up as soon as the first red
streaks of dawn filtered through their tiny windows, lighting the grey
air-conditioning vents of the industrial building which their apartment
overlooked. She swung her feet out of bed and padded
barefoot into the kitchen. The letter lay open on the side. P,.ose
snatched it up, dry-mouthed.:


Dear Mr Fiorello,

This letter is notification that the time allotted to you to take
advantage of the offer of fifty thousand dollars for early vacation of
your lease has expired. Rothstein Realty does not wish to renew
this offer nor to offer any other compensation should you
voluntarily choose to vacate the premises you have leased. The
terms of your lease guaranteed by law will be honoured by
Rothstein Realty in accordance with law. Rent must be paid in full
and on time as specified in the lease. Eviction proceedings will
begin with the first missed payment, as specified in the terms of the
lease.

We remain very truly yours,

J. Mandel, B. Wilson, H. Saperstein

Mandel, Wilson, Saperstein 8: Thomas, representing Rothstein
Realty, Inc.


Her heart raced, and she slid into a chair, dizzy with fear. But
P, ose didn't have time to be afraid. She stood up again and slipped
into the bathroom, running a quick, quiet shower. Then she turned


38

to her closet and selected her best suit, purchased for that summer
job as a receptionist at an accountant's she'd landed last summer.
Then she'd rushed to Elise's for help with her make-up, wound her

hair into a bun, and set out for mid-town.

She was going to Rothstein Realty.

Screw the lawyers. There was no other way. Rose believed that
over at Rothstein they didn't know what their lawyers were doing.
After all, this was just one tiny wriggle in their vast operations. The
main company couldn't possibly be keeping track of everything.
Rose would go in to see them, explain the situation, and offer a
compromise. Two hundred grand, and they would just walk away.
Her dad could set up nearby, Rothstein would get their vacant
building - everybody would win.

The Rothstein offices were located right by Rockefeller Center,
in a sleek, high skyscraper covered in gleaming polished granite.
Rose was almost there now, and she suddenly realised she had no
idea what she was doing.

She had no appointment . . . no one to speak to. She had been a
receptionist. Would she have let a person in without an appointment?
Rose paused and ducked down a side street, looking fqr a
phone. She found one in a couple of minutes - amazingly unbrokaen.
She got the number for Rothstein Realty from 41I and crossed le.r
fingers. It was only eight-twenty in the morning. Yesss .. :"a
computerised voice was clicking in.

'If you know the name of your party's extension, press it now.'
This was so modern, Rose thought bitterly. Trust Rothstein to have
one of these automatic systems. She waited. 'If you do not know the
extension, press star for a company directory by surname, or zero to
leave a message in the general -'

Quickly Rose punched the star key.

She typed in 7 6 8 ... R O T.

'To select... Giovanni Rotando, press now. To select... Fred

Rothstein, press I now.'

Fred Rothstein was the CEO. Rose didn't think she'd have much
luck with him. She continued to listen.

'Seth l.othstein ...' suggested the voice. 'Tom Rothstein ...
William Rothstein.'

It was a lottery. Rose punched one.

'You have reached the mailbox for William Rothstein in public
relations,' the soothing voice said. 'Please leave a message after the
tone. This is extension II56.'

39


Rose swallowed hard and strained to keep her tone level.
'William, this is Rose Fiorello confirming our appointment for nine.
Your assistant hasn't got back to my once, so I'm assuming
everything is OK. See you at nine.'

She hung up, a fine bead of sweat over her forehead. Her
wristwatch said it was eight-twenty-two. There was a cheap-looking
coffee and bagel joint just across the street, and she headed towards
it.

She would get there in twenty minutes. She just hoped to God
this would work.


Rose tried not to look impressed when she stepped through the glass
revolving doors. Rothstein's lobby was sumptuous. The walls and
floor were of perfectly matched marble, pink veins swirling through
a silky-smooth, gleaming surface that screamed of money. There
were three huge oil canvases hung in ornate gold-leaf frames; she
didn't notice what they were of; that hardly seemed the point. The
receptionist's desk was carved of mahogany. Two women sat behind
it, dealing with ringing phones and a bevy of suited supplicants that
buzzed in front of them with military precision. The desk rested on
an Oriental rug in cream and'pale blue. Rose had seen ones like it in
the Metropolitan Museum. She thought it was ten thousand bucks'
worth of rug, maybe more. And yes, both the receptionists were
wearing ultra-smart navy Chanel suits.

Perspiration dewed the palms of her hands. She surreptitiously

wiped them on the suit. It wouldn't do to look nervous. Rose
breathed in deeply through her red-slicked lips, pausing before
breathing out. Nature's valium.

She marched up to the receptionists' desk, shouldering her way

through the crowd of male executives.

'Yes, ma'am?' the polished girl said, not raising her eyes.

Rose prayed hard. 'Rose Fiorello, to see William Rothstein,' she

said confidently.

The receptionist consulted a vellum-bound book. 'I don't see

anything in there for nine, ma'am. What was the name again?'

'Ms Fiorello,' Rose said, impatiently. 'Don't tell me that stupid

girl of his messed this up again? This is the second time -'

'Let me call up to his office -'

'Extension 1156,' Rose said, with just the right touch of
condescension.

4°


The receptionist bent her head apologetically and talked into the
phone in a low voice.

'His assistant isn't in yet -'

'She didn't pass on the message on the machine confirming our
appointment?' Rose demanded.

The girl muttered something else into the phone. There was a
brief pause, and Rose tried not to hold her breath.

'Mr Rothstein says to go right up. It's the eighth floor -'
'Thank you, I've been there before,' Rose lied smoothly.

She half ran to the elevator bank before the women could inspect
her and start asking questions about her age. Thank God nobody
paid attention to other people any more.

Men crowded into the elevator with her, some of them looking
her up and down lasciviously, but Rose stared straight ahead,

ignoring everybody. She'd got this far. It was a miracle.

Maybe it was all going to work out ...

The elevator glided to a stop at the eighth floor, and Rose stepped
out on to soft carpet and another oasis of dark woods and oil
paintings. She was directed to William P,.othstein's office and kept
walking, .just kept going, looking to neither right nor left, expecting
to be challenged at any minute. There it was, with the errlpty
assistant's desk in front of it; a heavy, imposing door made of sdid

oak, with a discreet brass nameplate on it.
Rose knocked.
'Come in.'

She opened it and stood in the doorway, feeling awkward. A
large, thick-set man, bald and wearing a well-cut suit, sat behind his

desk, flicking through a file of papers.

'Can I help you?'

He glanced up and looked her over.

'I'm P,.ose Fiorello,' Rose said, closing the door.

'Yes. My assistant didn't tell me about any meeting for this
morning.'

'I'm here to talk to you about Paul's Famous Deli. Located in the
building you've bought on Ninth Avenue. You're forcing the tenant
out of his lease, and now you've withdrawn your offer of
compensation.'

His eyes narrowed.

'Who the hell are you?'

'That's really not important,' Rose said, the wash of adrenaline
carrying her through. Her heart was pounding now, and she had

41


beads of sweat on her forehead. 'You run the publicity department
here, don't you? It won't make very good publicity when I go to the
papers and tell them that you're running a twenty-year institution
out of his lease ...'

William Rothstein was smiling now, and it wasn't a pleasant smile.
'Now I get it,' he said, and his words were soft and vicious.
'Fiorello. You're his kid. This whole thing is a stunt. You're here to
blackmail me.'

'You can't talk about blackmail, cutting off" our electricity '
'Let me save you some time before I get security to throw you
out,' Rothstein said silkily. 'You aren't going anywhere with this
stoW. Do you know how many apartment ads we run in the Post and
the News and the Village Voice? We get hundreds of people like your
father every day, thinking it's open season on developers, that they
can trade in their shitty leases for hundreds of thousands more than
they're worth. If anybody did pay any attention to you - which I
highly doubt - we would simply use your presence here today as
evidence of your blackmail.'

'We aren't extorting you. You are driving us out. What about my
father's livelihood?'

Rothstein shrugged. 'Your father was offered fifty thousand
dollars to settle with us. Instead, he chose to go to the police, to
make trouble. If you take on this firm, you face the consequences.'
He leaned forward in his chair, casting dark eyes up and down her
slim body. 'You're a very attractive girl. Is that why he sent you to
me?'

Rose flushed scarlet, rage and shame bringing the blood to the
surface of her cheeks. She took a step forwards, her hand shaking,
intending to slap him in the face.

'Oh-ho, a regular wildcat.' She couldn't believe it; he was actually
laughing at her. 'I don't think so, Missy. You're a little out of your
depth here.'

There was a knock on the door. 'Mr Rothstein? It's Melissa. Shall
I call security?'

Rose's ice-blue eyes flashed. 'You'll regret this, Mr Rothstein.'
'Urn. Yeah. I'm sure I will.'

He leaned back, chuckling. Rose wi:enched the door open, facing

a pneumatic blonde in her twenties who glared at her.

'You didn't have any appointment '

'I'll show myself out,' Rose said, ignoring her. She walked down
the hall, cheeks burning, as the girl screamed, Tm calling security!'


42

There was a fire exit next to the elevator. I<ose took it, jogged
down three floors, then stepped out to get on a different down
elevator. Nobody was going to throw her out. Fiercely, she blinked
back the tears prickling in her eyes.

This was unbelievable. They were ruined. And there was
absolutely nothing she could do about it.


Rose helped her parents get through the next two weeks. She
contacted their landlord and got him to waive the notice period. She
found a cheap two-bedroom in the Bronx, and ringed ads in the
Help Wanted section. Her father closed the store, sold off what
equipment he could, and donated the food to a homeless shelter. She
tried not to let him reflect too much on the loss of his place.

'It's really an opportunity,' she told her father. 'You know,
starting over. You have five thousand bucks and no stress. And
anyway, Mom needs you to be strong.'

She told her mother the same thing, and watched each of her
parents force a calm exterior for the other.

Paul Fiorello found himself a job. He got a Deli Manager position
at a Pathmark store on Third Avenue, a decent job. It pafd.less
money, and it was taxable, and it wasn't his own business, lose
knew that every day he put the uniform on, he felt humiliated. But
her father never complained, and the job carried health benefits. Her
mother got to go to the doctor's more often, and did her best to
make the new apartment feel like home.

But her father was a man with a broken spirit, and Rose became
obsessed with putting it back together again.

Her grades went to pot. All the subjects she'd loved at school
suddenly seemed like a big waste of time. English - who cared?
History was the past. Geography ... even Math .... Rose just did
not care. She was never likely to travel abroad, and as for Math,
today there were calculators and computers. None of this rubbish
mattered.

What mattered was money.

William Rothstein had taught her that.

Rose thought about him every day. And not just him; about the
soft carpets, the rich woods, the blonde, twenty-something secretary.
The toys that money bought him and his firm. And the power. The
ability to take twenty years of someone's hard work, expertise in
their field, and a loyal customer-base, and just throw it away.

Money had paid for that lawyers' letter. Money had bought off the


43

NYPD. Mon('y greased the wheels at City Hall and got the press off
yonr back. W hen P,.othstein had said that to her, she had believed it.

Fuck school, Rose thought bitterly, using language in her head
her father would have belted her for if she'd ever said it aloud. What
she needed was money. She wanted a place her father could not be
thrown out of, and a home they owned themselves. A place with a
garden in the back, where her father could grow his tomatoes.

Well, she was going to get it. And she was going to get it from real
estate.

If that snivelling little shit lothstein could do it, so could she.

44


Chapter 5


Poppy turned into the guesthouse's drive and parked the car. She
thanked all the rock 'n' roll gods her parents owned this place, near
Sunset, keeping it for their maid, somewhere she could stash her ride
and not worry it would get stolen. Nobody was home except the
housekeeper; she could see Conchita's Mercedes station wagon in
the garage, the one she sometimes got picked up from school in.
Quickly she got out, before she could be seen, and ducked out into
the base of the Hollywood Hills. Conchita probably wouldn't rat her
out, but why take the chance?

The guest house was a spacious bungalow without muck of a
view, but with a fantastic little garden instead - Daddy had installed a
small fountain, imported from Italy, to go with the bougainvillea ad
thick climbing roses over the fence. The scent of flowers was
intense there that it almost muffled the smell of gasoline fuel and
smog. Of course, the best thing about the guesthouse from Poppy's
point of view was that it was close enough to the Strip to walk.

Poppy clip-clipped her way two blocks south to where the Hyatt
stood, tall and boringly functional. There were always cabs parked
out front. She got into one and told him to take her down to the
lLainbow.

'But that's only-'

Poppy flung ten bucks at him. 'I know, but I don't wanna walk.'
'You got it,' the guy said, pulling out.

Poppy grinned. Like they said in Spinal .Tap, money talked and
bullshit walked.

Excitement crackled through her. She'd made it. The late summer
sun was sinking behind the glossy towers of Sunset Strip, and sloe
could see a few hookers right over there, too close to the chichi
hotels for the doormen to feel comfortable - the cops would be
along in a second - and over there, the first knot of metal-heads,
dudes in jeans and black leather jackets with mullets, or long straight


45

hair down to their asses, and a few Motley Crue-style glamsters - the
guys with lipstick had to travel in packs, or they'd get beaten up.
The girls kicked ass, too. You had punk chicks and biker chicks and
then you had the L.A. babes - dudettes, as KNAC called them - girls
with sprayed-on black pants, low-slung studded belts, fingerless lace
gloves, and platinum-blonde hair teased up to the sky. The ones who
couldn't get implants got padded, push-up bras. Every chick had lip
liner, red talons, and tons of attitude.

Poppy loved it. She couldn't wait. She wondered who was
playing tonight. Even the shittiest gig offered possibility; getting
drunk, hanging out, flirting with the boys. Even better, flirting with
the band. Poppy's wet dreams all involved Jon Bon Jovi and Rick
Savage, and sometimes even Ad Rock from the Beastie Boys. It was
cooler to like Slayer, but Poppy didn't care. Really hard metal made
her ears bleed. But it was still cool to go to those gigs, too; you were
part of the heavy metal brotherhood, and you got to piss off: Debbie
Gibson fans. Which had to be a good thing in anybody's book.

The cab screeched to a halt outside the club. Poppy stepped out

and shook her long, carefully highlighted honey-blonde hair.
'Hey, baby.'
'What's up, sugar?' 'Lookin' fine ...'

Poppy pretended not to hear the calls of appreciation as she
walked into the crowd, but she bit back a tiny smile. Somebody saw

it, and a storm of wolf-whistles followed her up the queue to get in.
The bouncer on the door saw it and beckoned to her.

Poppy raised one delicately arched brow and put her manicured
nails over her boobs, which were looking even bigger in the pushup
bra she had crammed them in to, her low-cut top revealing
generous amounts of cleavage. She pressed her hand to them, as if to
say, Me?

'Yeah, you, sweetcakes.'

The bouncer looked her up and down, taking in the glorious tits,
the pale eyes and tanned skin, the expensive highlights, the black
miniskirt, the high-heeled ankle boots and fishnet stockings.
Together with that pretty face and soft teenage skin, she was a little
slice of metal heaven. She looked like she belonged in a Cinderella
video.

The girl walked towards him in a confident way. Usually girls
would come up deferentially, desperate for a pass or a ticket or.just to


46

avoid being thrown out. Not this kid. He didn't have respect for her,

of course; wasn't his way with girls; he just liked the looks of her.
'You're on the list,' he said.

Poppy rewarded him with a stunning smile, displaying perfectly
white, straight teeth that were the result of eighteen months with the

best orthodontist in Bel Air.

'Hey, thanks,' she said.

'Hey, luck that, man.' One of the Hell's Angel biker dudes at the
front of the queue growled with fury. 'You didn't even check her
name. You don't even know her name.'

The bouncer stared him down. He worked out on Muscle Beach

and he could take any drunk-ass biker.

'Her name's Baby,' he said.

Poppy started to pull out her fake ID.

'You don't need that.' He winked at her, and Poppy smiled back.
This was what made her feel sexy and alive, little tributes to her
beauty like this. One of the dirty, unmade-up biker chicks started to
call her a bitch. Poppy tossed her hair and walked into the club.

Some people - her parents included - would call it crazy and
dangerous for a girl to be out on the Sunset Strip alone. Especiay a
Bel Air Jewish princess like Poppy. But they were wrong, Poljay
thought. It was all about the care and feeding of men's egos. On .(!e,
Poppy had been in the front row at a Bad Brains gig and the moth
pit was so intense she thought she might get crushed. She'd turned a
sweet smile on the guys behind her, and they had put their arms
either side of her on the stage lip, creating a little pocket of protected
space for her.

The club was packed. Condensation literally dripped off the walls;
kids packed in together, sweat on foreheads, jackets consigned to the
cloakroom. The girls did better than the dudes; they could peel off
layers of clothing. Maybe it was designed to have just that effect.
Poppy's eyes flickered over tonight's crowd, seeing all the girls in
just their lacy bras, some of them with marker pen marks across the
creamy flesh. The adrenaline crackling through her kicked up a
notch, loadies were scurrying across the club stage, pulling away
equipment; setting up other stuff. Plastic cups and other trash were
scattered across the floor. Obviously one band had already left the
stage, and another was coming on. That was OK - support bands

usually sucked. Poppy walked up to the bar.

'Hey, cutie,' the barman said.

He recognised Poppy. She was in here often enough, busting the


47

legal drinking age, but hey, it was the Eighties, who didn't? Anyway,
girls like her should be drunk. It gave you a better shot with them.
Although a fox like this one had to have some big-ass metal-head
boyfriend hanging around.

'Jack and Diet Coke,' she said, with not quite enough bravado to
pull it off.

'Coming right up,' he agreed anyway.

Poppy took a seat at the bar and sipped at her icy drink. Oh, man,
this was heaven. All the sexy dudes with their long hair and muscles . . not that she ever wanted to do anything with them. She was way
too young. She was saving herself for something other than a one

night stand, even if they were cool and rock 'n' roll.

These boys were strictly eye-candy.

But this was her scene. Her crowd, her people, her brotherhood. It
might not have been the Sixties, but there was a vibe here that her
parents and Tipper Gore and the PMP,.C, the suburban moms'
pressure group that agitated to ban metal stars and their R-rated
lyrics, would never understand. To Poppy's shame, her own mom
had actually joined the PMIC. But it wasn't all about Satan, it was
all about fun. Sex, drags, and rock 'n' roll. What the hell was wrong
with that?

She thought music beat the shit out of the film business. Poppy
took another slug of the fiery spirit, cool to her mouth, but burning
her throat. Mom would freak when she told her she wanted to quit
her acting lessons. When would they get it? She wanted to be a rock
star, not some boring old actress. Going to auditions and whining at
an agent, no thanks. Poppy wanted to found an all-girl rock band
and get out there, banging her blonde hair all over the place and
toting her axe around. Or maybe she'd be a bassist. Bassists were
cool, because they had a lot less to play, so they could move all over
the stage. Ideally, Poppy wanted to be a lead singer, but despite Mrs
Teischbaum's singing lessons, she unfortunately had a voice only

marginally better than a frog with a particularly hoarse croak.
'And now ...'

The lights dimmed. A huge roar went up from the crowd, who
were punching the air at the ME and making 'devil' sounds.

'Please welcome - Dark Angel!'


Dark Angel started to play.

They had charged on to rapturous cheering, fists thrust skywards,
a surge in the club to the lip of the stage, girls pressing forwards, arms


48

outstretched in supplication. The lights played on them, red and blue
and gold, and the band blasted into the first tune.

Poppy was enraptured. She gulped at her drink, mesmerised. She
was too late to get a good position in the crowd, so she stayed where
she was, where she had a good view. Oh, man. They were all
gorgeous, and they rocked. They sounded nothing like the average
hair band, but they weren't hardcore thrash metal.

They were new, and different, and ... incredible.

And they knew it, too. Look at the way the lead singer strutted
over his tiny space as though he were headlining Madison Square
Gardens. The guitarists were flirting with the squealing chicks in the
front row, and the bassist ...

He was tall and skinny and had flash rock-star pants with glitter on
them, and a bandanna, and he stroked that bass suggestively,
lovingly. He had almond eyes and flowing black hair, he was
smooth-chested and Byronic and she wanted him. Most of the other
girls were creaming themselves over the singer, some over one of the
guitarists. But Poppy liked that dark, mysterious look. She sat up on
her stool and manoeuvred herself under one of the small round lights
over the bar, and over the heads of the crowd she looked rightaX

him.
And he saw her.

His eyes flickered her way, up and across the blonde hair, the ....
push-up bra, the hand-span waist, the rock-chick outfit. Poppy felt a
wave of heat pulse through her, centring in her belly. She was always
being checked out by men, but never by men she fancied. The way
the guy was assessing her felt as though his eyes were peeling off her
clothes. She felt exposed, and it was hot.

She couldn't help it. She dropped her gaze.

When she looked back up, the bassist was still stating at her. Like
he'd been waiting for her to look at him again. He'd totally caught
her.

Poppy flushed crimson, not that anyone could see it in the club.
Her lips parted.

He grinned, and gave her a slow, deliberate wink.

Poppy's hand shot up to her mouth. The heat in her belly spread
little tendrils all over her skin. Her nipples hardened into .tiny little
buds. She backed her stool out of the light, she couldn't take it. He
looked away, swinging his bass out over the crowd, running to the
other side of the stage.

The barman behind her chuckled.

49


	'I guess he likes you,' he said. 'Can't blame him.'

	Poppy turned to him eagerly. 'What's that guy's name?'

	'Ricardo '
	'
	'I

	t erez, he said. think they call him Rick.'

'Rick,' Poppy repeated, as though it were somehow magical and
fascinating. She had to get to meet him.

	She took another, deeper slug of her Jack Daniel's. The alcohol

relaxed her, made her feel confident. Poppy gazed at the stage, lost in
the music and the lights, staring at Rick, fantasising, hoping he'd'!|
glance her way again.


	By the time Dark Angel got off stage after their second encore, and
	[

	the fights went up, she had found the backstage door. It wasn't too

	hard ... there was a gaggle of chicks thronging around it, pleading

	with a stone-faced bouncer, squealing and jumping up and down

	and touching up their hair and makeup.

	'Are you all waiting for autographs?' Poppy asked.

	A razor-thin platinum blonde with large fake boobs looked her

	over witheringly. 'Yeah, that's it . . . autographs,' she said derisively.

	The other girls tittered at Poppy for being so nai've.

	'Will they come out?' she asked the security guard.

	He looked down at her bl.anldy. 'Dunno.'

	'Come on, baby,' one of the bleach-blondes wheedled, jiggling

	her tits at him. 'I was, like, totally meant to be on the fist. You

	should let me back, it's just a mix-up ...'

	'Name?' the security guard said in a bored manner.

	'Trixie Campbell,' she pouted.

	He scanned a sheet of paper. 'Your name's not down, you can't

	come in.'

	'Hey, come on .. .'

	The door was opened just a crack from inside. The girls all started

	to scream hysterically.

	'Zach! Zaaaaach! Pete! Carl! Rick! Jason! Aaaah! Aaaah!'

	The singer's face poked out half an inch, grinning. The girls thrust

	bits of paper at him.

	'Sign this!'

	'Will you sign my boob?' Trixie said, pulling down her top to

	reveal a rock-hard pair in a black lace bra.

	Poppy was shocked, but tried not to show it.

	'Sure, honey,' the singer said. He was armed with a black marker

	pen and scrawled something on her flesh while she cooed and

	giggled. One of the guitarists started to do the same thing.


5o

'Pete, can I come back? Can I come back?' a fiery redhead
pleaded ab`jectly. She wasn't all that good looking, too much ass for
the miniscule skirt she was wearing.

The guitarist shook his head. 'It's a bit crowded back there, sorry,
OK?'

Poppy blushed crimson and hung back, uncertainly. She felt out
of her depth. She'd never tried to go backstage before, and she didn't
want to show her tits in public nor to beg for access. She hovered on
the edge of the crowd, clutching her pen and the napkin she had
brought for the bass player to sign. Now she knew why the girls had
laughed at her - getting an autograph was.just an excuse, a way to be
able to speak to a rock star and say what you really meant, which was
'Can I come backstage and hang out?'

She'd wanted that too, but this was .just humiliating. She wasn't a
sign-my-tits type of chick. Poppy was ashamed of herselt she wasn't
as rock 'n' roll as she'd thought. Maybe she was just a nice Jewish girl
and she should go home.

Rick Perez stuck his head out the door. Poppy gasped; he was
gorgeous, she thought, insanely gorgeous. Those slightly slanted
eyes, that coal-black hair. He was wearing mascara, but that md,g
him look more rock-star-ish, as though he were in the New Yorl.
Dolls. She flushed scarlet again, and this time the house lights were
up. Now he was close, she felt incredibly embarrassed. She wanted'
to say something, but she felt rooted to the spot. Her hand with its

sad little napkin hung limply at her side.

'Kick!' the girls screamed. 'Rick!'

He signed a few cigarette packets and body parts, then his eyes
skimmed the little knot of groupies and fell on Poppy.

She could hardly breathe. He was looking right at her.

Kick beckoned. Unmistakably, he was pointing straight at her and
crooking his finger.

Almost as one, the girls turned round and stared at Poppy. She
stumbled forwards through them, hoping her sweating palms
wouldn't dampen the napkin. Poppy tried to think of something to
say, along the lines of 'Could you sign this for me please,' but her
tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of her mouth.

'Bitch,' Trixie said in a low voice, designed for Poppy to hear.
She was standing right in front of him now with the whole crowd
staring at her. Poppy's blush seemed to have reached the very tips of
her ears. She .just couldn't look up. He was tall, and she was standing
right by his chest. She could feel him looking down at her.


5

'Charlie.' He had a rough voice that sounded as though he

smoked a lot of cigarettes and drank a lot of liquor. 'This young

lady's with us.'

'Sure, 1Kick," the security guard said.

'Hey!' the girls chorused.

Poppy glanced up, open-mouthed. The bassist stuck something

on her left shoulder. It was made of cloth-like sticky paper, square

and green, and said 'Guest'.

The security guard opened the door to let Poppy through.

'Wait a minute!' the redhead squealed. 'I'm with her! I'm her

friend! I know her-'

Poppy was pulled through the backstage door by Rick Perez, and

it shut behind her with a clang, drowning out the sound of the
desperate girls. She was in a grey-painted corridor, leading off to
wide open doors that looked like regular offices. It didn't seem all
that glamorous. But here she was, surrounded by the members of
Dark Angel, and Rick Perez had one hand proprietorially on her
shoulder.

Zach Mason, the lead singer, checked her out, then grinned at

Perez.

'Nice,' he said. 'Cutest chick in the place.'

Poppy could hardly breathe.

'Look,' said Pete the guitarist, 'she's blushing. I don't know when

I last saw a chick blush.'

Rick Perez looked down at Poppy.

'Hi,' he said.

Poppy half whispered, 'Hi.'

'Would you like to get a drink?' Perez said. 'We've got a cooler of

beers and shit in the dressing room.'

'Thank you, that would be lovely,' Poppy said politely.

Perez stared at her and snorted with laughter. 'You're a riot.

Come on. This way.'

52


Chapter 6


Poppy followed Rick into a small room, crammed with people.

The walls were covered with graffiti, every spare inch thick with
marker pen; obscenities, band names, complaints about the showers,
fuck-yous to the promoters of the gigs. There were a couple of ratty
old black leather couches, covered with slashes, the rest of the band
sprawled across them with their friends - long-haired dudes, talking
loudly, drunk, chopping out lines of coke on mirrors, or whatever
flat surface came to hand. There was a large plastic cooler in one
corner, full of ice and cans of soda and beer. On a table there were
the remains of a buffet - metal platters of cheese and fruit and bits o"
sandwiches. Not very rock 'n' roll. There was a more recently set up,;
table with bottles of vodka, packets of cranberry juice, and plastic.,
cups; it wasn't quite so wrecked. Poppy realised that someone had
only put the alcohol there once the band had gone onstage. No need
to risk a drunk group until after the performance. Hovering round
the drinks table, primping their hair in the grimy dressing-room
mirror, laughing and pretending to talk to one another, were the girls.

Poppy tried and failed not to stare.

They were the same as the chicks outside, but they had the edge
on them. Dressed in exactly the same trashy style: skirts as short as
belts, lace, bras, leather, heels and studs; exactly the same long blonde
hair, full-on make-up, and with lots of flesh on display. But these
girls were better-looking and acted a little less desperate. They
carried nothing suggestive of autographs; they drank the band's
liquor and nibbled on their celery sticks and acted like they had a
right to be there.

'What are you drinking?'

Rick was talking to her again. Poppy couldn't quite believe it. She
was here and she was talking to the bassist!


53

Suddenly, the crowded, filthy little dressing room seemed like the
coolest place on earth.

'I'll take a vodka and cranberry juice,' Poppy said, 'thanks.' She sat
down on an unoccupied corner of one of the couches and looked at
him expectantly.

Rick Perez grinned and went to mix her a drink. At the makeshift
bar, the girls elegantly draped themselves over him, smiling right into
his eyes, as though Poppy didn't exist.

Poppy was picking up the rules of the game. It was the jungle in
here, survival of the fittest. Or the prettiest. They didn't give a damn
about her; several of the chicks were eyeing her with disdain ...

But Rick came back over to her and handed her her drink. Poppy

took refuge in a big gulp, then spluttered.
He laughed. 'Too strong for you?'
'You could say that.'

'How old are you, anyway?'
'Seventeen,' Poppy lied.
'I'm twenty-two.'

'That's cool,' Poppy said, trying to be sophisticated.

Rick settled back on the couch and casually draped one arm across
her back. His fingers rested ligh.tly on her shoulder, and the touch
was electric. Poppy saw the other girls gazing at her, their mascaraed
eyes narrowing in loathing. She felt an instant thrill of triumph. He

preferred her, he'd taken her right out of the crowd.

This rocks, Poppy thought.

'I saw you out there,' he said.

'I know,' Poppy said confidently. She grinned. 'I saw you too.'
'Did you like the band?'

This question she felt comfortable with. She un-tensed slightly. 'I
think you guys really have something.'

'They "have something",' said one of the blondes at the bar.
'Well, that's nice.'

The guitarist glanced Poppy's way.

'Dark Angel are, like, totally the best band ever,' cooed the chick
with whom he was intertwined.

Poppy rolled her eyes. 'No they're not. Come on.'

Rick Perez laughed again, this time in disbelief. Poppy realised a
second too late that the entire room was now staring at her. It also
dawned on her that backstage girls weren't meant to venture opinions, unless they were along the lines of? 'You guys are God.'

'Did she even like us?'

54


Zach Mason was asking the question of Rick. As though Poppy
was his property and he was responsible for her big mouth. Mason
had two long-limbed beauties, both redheads, draped against him,
one in each arm. One of the chicks was resting her head drunkenly
against his chest, the other had her shirt halfway unbuttoned, with a
white lace bra peeking out.

'No, I did. I mean, I thought you guys put on an excellent show.
But the PA was too loud for the melodies and you look like you
need a bigger stage to run around in, and the lighting guy was
messing up in that fast number '

'Fighting fire,' Jason, the drummer, said.

'Yeah, like you know about stage shows,' said the redhead with
her buttons undone. She pouted at the singer. 'Why is she even
here?'

The singer ignored her and tilted his full glass slightly towards
Poppy. 'He did mess it up.'

'He didn't light me during my fucking solo,' said Carl, the
guitarist, sullenly.

'OK, Sharon Osbourne,' said P,.ick Perez, 'and what did you like
about it?'

'All the songs and the way you work the crowd,' Poppy sai
simply.

Mason smiled broadly. 'She's cool. Not to mention the hottest'
chick in the place.'

'I know,' said Perez, with the air of a connoisseur.

The girls at the bar scowled and headed for the other members of
the band, like mosquitoes homing in on a patch of bare flesh.

Poppy looked into her drink, taking another slug. She had
sounded really stupid, she thought. Why couldn't she just shut up
and be cool? After all, he was sooo gorgeous ...

Her watch caught her eye. It said eleven-thirty.
'Shit. Fuck. I have to go,' she said.
'Already? You just got here.'

'I know. I'm sorry, I really gotta leave.' She jumped up from the
couch.

'I don't even have your phone number,' Perez said, blinking. He
couldn't believe it. She was blowing him off?

'Here.' Poppy wrote it down for him, feeling miserable. Zach
Mason and the others were staring at her again. She felt like a little
girl.

'Goodbye, Cinderella,' said the blonde bitchily. She waggled just


55

the tips of her blood-red fingernails in a snide farewell. 'Better get
going, before you turn into a pumpkin.'

Poppy blushed again and hastily let herself out of the dressing
room. She barrelled through the corridors and out into the club. It
was empty now; the girls had dispersed, giving up hope of getting
backstage. The club lights were up; the place which had seemed so
magical and rock 'n' roll was now dirty, squalid and messy, with
crushed plastic cups and other debris all over the floor. A side door
was slightly ajar, and she pushed against the heavy metal bar and
walked out on to the sidewalk.

It wasn't even midnight, and Sunset wasn't done. The metal-heads
and bikers and whores were out in full force now, the street lights
washed over the scene, the clubs glittered neon under the movie
poster billboards ...

But Poppy was done. She was hella late, as Metallica would put it.
She got lucky and grabbed a cab, which drove her back to the
Hollywood hills. Conchita's lights were on, but she didn't have time
to worry about that now. Poppy threw ten bucks at the cabbie and
jumped out, grabbing the door of the Porsche and putting it into
gear. The front door opened and Conchita came out in a pink

housecoat, lace flapping, fat arms waving.

'Signora Poppy, what you doin'?'

Poppy wound down the window. 'I'm OK, Conchita, don't say
anything, OK? Please?'

Before the housekeeper could answer, Poppy screeched forwards
out of the gate, blasting off down the hill and on to Sunset. Oh, shit.
At least there wasn't traffic, not to speak of, this late at night. At the
lights she peeled off her jacket; at the next lights, her lace hose. If she
made it back before Mom and Dad, she'd have, like, three seconds
to change. She breathed into her hands - that wasn't too bad, vodka
didn't smell, and she hadn't had that much Jack Daniel's. Maybe, just
maybe, she'd get away with it She
finally turned in through the wrought-iron gates and Busted.
Oh, shit. Her parents' car was parked right there in the driveway.
The lights were on, and she could see her mother pacing up and
down in the living room, talking into a hands-free phone and
gesticulating wildly. The front door was wrenched open and her
father came charging out. Poppy hastily stuffed the fishnets into her
jacket pocket.

'Poppy!'


56

Her mother dropped the phone and came racing out after her
husband. Oy, they're so melodramatic, Poppy thought. Look at
them. Or not. She quailed at her dad's face.

'What - what - where the hell have you been?' He reached into
the car and started shaking her shoulders. 'Damn it to hell! And what
are you wearing? You look like a hooker! It's that goddamn devil
music again, isn't it!'

'Poppy! Oh, Poppy!' her mom was wailing. 'Are you all right?
My baby!' She looked Poppy over tearfully, ascertained she was all in
one piece, then started to scream with rage. 'What are you wearing!
My daughter, she should go out looking like some tramp! We
trusted you! You betrayed us!'

'It's that music. Only drunks and junkies like that filthy punk
music,' growled her father.

'You're grounded for ever!'

'Mom - be reasonable -'

'For ever!' her father bellowed. 'Don't even say a word to your
mother, young lady! Get the hell in the house!'

'Language, honey,' said her mom, automatically.

Mr Allen turned a baleful eye on his daughter.

'Just wait till I'm through with you,' he said. 'You're in my hod.se,
you will abide by my rules.'

57


Chapter 7


'Well, what do we have here?'

Daisy froze. Oh no, help. She had been so lost in her story she

hadn't heard Miss Crawford's footsteps. The old cow was renowned
for having specially soft leather soles on all her shoes, so that nobody
heard her sneaking around the dorms at night. She managed to catch
more girls smoking or being in each other's cubicles after lights out
than any other teacher.

Plus, she hated Daisy.

I should have been paying attention, Daisy thought, her pudgy

face flushing.

Too late.

Her teacher snatched up th red-covered rough book and started

to read Daisy's hastily scrawled biro aloud, in a nasty sing-song voice.

'Chapter One.' She frowned, her bushy brow contracting down at

Daisy. The rest of the class stared. 'My, my, how thrilling! Finding
the English classics boring, Miss Markham has decided to give us all
the benefit of her own creations!'

The girls were all holding their breath, watching the scene with

horrified fascination.

'Emily McCloud shivered in the cold Highland air,' Miss Crawford

read sarcastically. 'She wasn't at all sure about this. After all, she had never
met any of her British cousins, and this Rory was only a distant relative.
Scotland was fieezing when you were used to LA sunshine. But her mother
had insisted, and so, here she was. It was an honour for Emily to be invited
to this ball. Morn was determined that her only daughter should make a
splash at the castle.

'Castle. The very word gave Emily a chill. How do you behave at a place

like that? The closest Emily had ever come to a castle was the toy one at
Disneyland. '

Miss Crawford gave a sarcastic laugh. 'Honestly, Daisy. If you're

going to get a detention, at least make it for something worthwhile.


58

Not this kind of trash. Maybe if you paid more attention in my
classes, you might actually learn to write something people wanted to
read.'

Daisy bowed her head. Of course it was no good. What had she
been thinking? Now the entire fourth form had heard her pathetic
attempt at a trashy novel.

'It's so bad, it reminds me of Judith Krantz,' Miss Crawford added,
in a final, stinging put-down. 'Detention for you and two more
demerits for Sackville House.'

She tossed the rough book back at Daisy, who hastily put it away
and opened up her copy of As You Like lt.

She was glad she could hide the sparkle in her eyes.

Yes! Miss Crawford thought she wrote like Judith Krantz!

As the class filed dutifully out, Victoria shoving Daisy meanly
because she'd got Sackville two more demerits, some of the other
girls looked at her with keen interest.

'So,' said Arabella, curious despite herself, 'what happens with this
P,.ory bloke? Does she fall in love with him?'

'Well, he's a laird,' Daisy said, 'and he meets her and he doesn't
know who she is and he laughs at her because she's a tourist. Then
they meet again at his castle for the ball and when she realises he w.as

the one who made fun of her in Edinburgh she runs away.'
'Like Cinderella,' Arabella said, breathlessly. '
Isobel Soames said proudly, 'Daisy read me the next bit. She's
trying to get to the airport, but there's a big storm and she's stuck in
Scotland.'

'I want to read it!' said Arabella.

Victoria hit her. 'No you don't. Some silly stoW by fat Daisy.'
'God, you're a bitch, Vicky,' Isobel said.

'I do want to read it,' Arabella said. She went slightly pink from
defying Victoria.

'You can,' Daisy said, 'but Emma Wilkins asked me first.'

She felt a strange rush of pleasure. Even though Arabella was in
her house, she wasn't mad about the demerits. She just wanted to
read Daisy's story.

Daisy had to work out what happened when the airport told
Emily she had to go back into town. Suddenly all she wanted was to
get upstairs to her cubicle and start writing again.

'Got to go,' she said, and waddled off.


Winter came early that year. There was a great storm which blew


59

down thousan& of trees in the outh of England, blocking the roads
in and out of Withambury. The girls watched the news and oohed
and aah-ed over the dramatic pictures of flooded villages and
stranded trains. In their dormitory, the only talk was of the Chatsford
Dance - the annual dance with Chatsford School for Boys - and
whether or not St Mary's would still be able to go.

Daisy prayed the answer was no. All she wanted to do was stay in
her room and write her book. She enjoyed winter, watching the
green hills outside her window silver over with sugary frost, and the
dark clouds scud across an angry white sky. She liked the sparseness
of the dark branches and twigs against the bare landscape, and her
favourite thing was to be inside, preferably by a log fire, while a
severe wind howled and whipped around the roofs outside. There
were no fires at St Maw's, but there was a lot of warmth. It was
perfect writing weather. She tried counting up the words in a line
and multiplying the answer by the number of lines on a page, and
then the number of the pages she had written. It was mounting up.
She might even have done about twenty thousand words by now.

There was a queue to read her stuff. The teasing she'd been used
to all her life had died off a little. Even Victoria just avoided her

now.

Daisy didn't want it to start again.

'Hey.' Isobel walked in and dropped her satchel on the bed. 'Have

you seen this?'

'What is it?' Daisy said.

Isobel fished out a ripped-up magazine page. 'Company magazine

is having a book competition. If you win, they give you dinner with

an agent and a publisher and Marcia Watson.'

'Really?' Daisy snatched it up. It was true; they wanted a sample

chapter, no longer than three thousand words. The top prize was
five hundred pounds and the chance to give your manuscript to a
real agent. Her heart thudded in her chest. What if she actually won?
It could be destiny.

'It has to be typed, though.'

'I could type it. I'm learning in computer club,' Daisy said
resolutely.

'You totally should. Everybody thinks it's awesome,' Isobel said.

Emma burst into their room. 'Hi, Daisy. Isobel, guess what!

They've just announced the Chatsford Dance is on, after all.'

'Awesome,' Isobel said. 'I hope Tom 1Khys is going to be there.

He's gorgeous.'


6o

'What are you going to wear?'

'I don't know,' Isobel said. 'Maybe the pink. It's very figurehugging.'

'What
about you, Daisy?'

'I'm not going. Those dances are so childish.'

'You have to go,' Emma said, horrified. 'Otherwise you'll just
look like a total weirdo. Everybody else is going. You can't be the
only girl in the year not to go.'

'I bet I can find you something that'll look really good on you,'
Isobel added, not quite convincingly.

The excitement of the writing competition died away. She was
trapped. Emma was right, it would be even worse not to go - so
obvious that she was ashamed. Daisy thought about it. She could go,

and just find someplace quiet and wait it all out.

'OK,' she said.

'Honestly.' Isobel relished a challenge. 'If you put yourself totally
in my hands I can make you look really good.'

Daisy caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cracked and grimy
mirror nailed above the small washbasin. She had the beginnings of a
double chin and her hair was looking lanky. There was a zit on, the
side of her nose. Writing had proved so addictive, she'd taken ecen
less care of herself than usual.

'I suppose I'll have to let you try,' she said.

Isobel clapped her hands. 'Don't worry, this is going to be good.'


As the weather got colder, Daisy did her best to forget about the
Christmas ball. After all there was the end of term to look forward
to. She had typed up Chapter One of her novel and mailed it off- it
was only fifteen hundred words, though, was that too short? She
hoped not. Anyway, having it out there gave Daisy a dream. All the
girls loved her stuff. She was starting to believe she was actually
talented. Isobel kept telling her she could be the next Jilly Cooper.
She felt happier, and she lost a tiny bit of weight. When they got a
free weekend and were allowed to go shopping in Withambury,
Daisy haunted W.H. Smith and bought copies of the magazines
aimed at aspiring writers. They filled her with a curious mixture of
hope and despair. On the one hand, there were stories .of publishers
and mainstream authors and interviews with supposedly best-selling
writers, even though she had not heard of any of them. But on the
other hand, all the photo-opportunity pictures made it look a bit
seedy, and everyone in them seemed to be grey-haired and over


61

fifty. They attended conferences in run-down hotels in Brighton;
they won competitions organised by the magazine; and mostly, it
seemed, they paid money for correspondence courses to teach you
how to write. Gushing praise for the results of these courses ran
along the lines of 'Thanks to your course, I placed a stoW in Trout
Fishing Monthly and was paid sixty pounds!'

Daisy didn't want to do that sort of thing. She wanted to write a
big bestseller. Maybe she was being too ambitious, though?

No way. She was quietly confident about the Company competition.
After all, the popular clique at St Mary's believed in her
writing, and they were never wrong.

Chapter 8


'OK.'

Isobel tossed her honey-coloured hair and regarded Daisy
critically.

'I'm not sure about this,' Daisy said.

She looked at her reflection. Even though she had tried to diet, it
hadn't really worked. Daisy looked at her podgy, pasty cheeks and
was filled with her usual self-loathing. Trying to dress it up a little
didn't work. The only thing that worked was forgetting about
herself.

Her stories helped her do that. Emily, her heroine, was waish
with cheekbones like knives and perky breasts. Her blossomirg
romance with Rory, laird of Craithy Castle, was far more interestiOg
than Daisy Markham suffering at the Chatsford dance.

'You said you'd put yourself in my hands. So trust me,' Isobel
insisted.

Daisy tilted her head, her bob plastered to her head and covered in
goop. Isobel was dying her hair with what the cardboard box
promised would become 'Rich Russet Auburn'. Right now it
looked like food-additive.

'I guess it's too late,' Daisy muttered.

Her tactics at the hideous dances and parties she couldn't avoid
were to find a quiet corner and blend into the wallpaper. Not to be
noticed.

Isobel's watch bleeped. 'Thirty minutes. OK. Let's wash you out.
Head back., please.'

Daisy tilted her head back against the cracked wshbasin. The rim
of the sink dug into her neck and it was cold and uncomfortable. She
felt Isobel running the taps on her hair, then massaging in the little
packet of conditioner that came with the hair dye. She'd spent
almost five whole pounds on this. She hoped it worked.


63

There was a creak as the door opened. Daisy tried to lift her head

to see who it was.

'Don't move.' Isobel splashed more water on her from the BBC

Pebble Mill toothbrush mug. 'Hi, Victoria.'

'You must report to the prefects by seven,' Victoria said
officiously, 'so that we can take roll-call for the coach. What are you
doing?'

'None of your business, said Isobel stoutly.

Victoria's voice was all sweetness. 'Tarting Daisy up? How nice,'

she said, in a tone that meant, 'Good luck.'

As she walked out of the room, Daisy heard her sniggering to

herself.

'That's it.' She sat bolt upright. 'Isobel, this isn't working. I'm not

going.'

'You have to go. Everyone will know if you don't.' Her friend's

slim, pretty face stared down at Daisy. 'It'll be even worse if you

don't. Now sit over there while I blow-dry you, OK?'

Daisy stared out of the window while Isobel worked on her. It

was six-thirty and already dark and cold; early December chill was
hanging over the air. The courtyard of St Mary's was lit up from the
headlights of the giant coach parked in the forecourt; teachers were
milling around it, Miss Crawford was dressed in a blood-red satin
gown which emphasised her bony body. Despite the neon glare,
Daisy could see stars speckled over the inky sky; it was going to be
freezing later. Her nose always went bright red in the cold, like
1Kudolf's. She made a mental note tO have Isobel slap on an extra
layer of concealer.

'Now for the make-up,' Isobel said. 'A bit of blusher, not too

much... Hold steady, will you.., and no mascara, you don't need

it, amazing lashes ...'

'Let me see. I know you're making me look like a clown,' Daisy

muttered.

'Only when I'm finished. Close your eyes, please.'

'That eyeshadow's pink,' Daisy said, horrified.

'Pale-pink works great with red hair. Now shut your eyes. Thank

you. Finally.'

When she was done, Isobel made Daisy get into the dress she had

picked out for her. It had been a horrible day when they'd gone
dress-shopping. Daisy didn't even want to think about her bottom in
that changing-room mirror - dimpled, orange-peel skin on her
wobbly butt that rippled down her upper thighs, even gathered in a

64


tiny pocket on her knees. Until she'd seen herself-in the harsh
overhead lighting of the dressing room at Top Shop she didn't know
just how ugly her body was. Daisy had blinked back tears, thanking
God that she was alone and Isobel had agreed to wait outside. Her
reflection made her want to go and live alone on an island
somewhere in the Orkneys, with no company except a puffin or

tWO.

No wonder she never went shopping.

Isobel had taken charge and picked out a dress based on the sizes
of all the other clothes Daisy rejected. It was too expensive, but she'd
stumped up for it - anything to get away from the stores and their
cruel mirrors. Now she struggled into it. It was tight, but it seemed
to fit OK. The bodice was boned, almost like a corset, hiding her
jiggly pot belly, and the skirt flared out over two petticoats, which
did a creditable job of covering her wide hips and soft, rippling
thighs. The colour was practical; dark burgundy, not quite black.
'To hide red wine stains,' as Isobel put it.

'lKight.' Her friend zipped her up at the back and tugged the hook

and eye at the top into position. 'Face the mirror. Now look.'
She took her hands away. .
Daisy blinked.
She hardly recognised the girl in the mirror. Her hair was
gorgeous, all shiny, brown with hints of cherry wood, the bob ,cut
blow-dried a little choppy, half-hiding her burgeoning double chin.
Isobel had done something clever with her make-up; the pink
eyeshadow did bring out her blue eyes, the foundation evened her
skin tone, and the blusher painted on a suggestion of cheekbones she
didn't have.

The dress was stately. She looked heavy-set, but it wasn't that bad,
was it? A little black lace jacket covered her plump arms, the spiderweb
embroidery making them look delicate, and her figure was at
least half-disguised. And of course the dress pushed up and out her
one good feature, her boobs. They were spilling out of the burgundy
silk like two creamy white pillows.

For the first time since she was a child, Daisy experienced a tiny

bit of pleasure at the way she looked.

'Wow. Thanks.'

'You're gorgeous,' Isobel gushed.

'Please.' Daisy took in Isobel's long blonde hair, clear lip gloss, and
above-the-knee cocktail dress in pale blue silk. 'No need to lie. But I
look less awful.'


65

'You'll be such a hit,' Isobel exulted.

'Daisy stood there grinning stupidly.

'Come on, you two.' Emma stuck her head round the door.

'Seven o'clock ... Daisy, gosh. That looks awesome.'
'Do you really think so?' Daisy said shyly.
'You look really pretty.'

Isobel tugged at her hand. 'Let's go. I totally can't wait.'


Miss Crawford and Mr James, the maths teacher, looking uncomfortable
in hired black tie that didn't quite fit, packed the girls on to
the bus, ticking off all the names. Fifty teenage chicks crammed
themselves against the grey and orange seats in a rustle of satin and
silk and the relentless click-click of toweringly high heels. Daisy
couldn't wear high heels, her ankles swelled every time. In this dress
she didn't have to, though.

A few of the girls said she looked great. Victoria passed her and
raised an eyebrow sarcastically.

'Quite the transformation. When do you turn back into a
pumpkin?'

'The coach turned into the pumpkin,' said Arabella, in a black
satin gown and real diamond stud earrings.

'Well, we are talking about Daisy,' Victoria stage-whispered, so
Daisy could hear.

'Don't mind her,' Isobel said. 'She's just jealous. I told her you
were entering the Company competition. She's been extra-nasty

since then. She's terrified you're going to win.'

'Do you think so?' Daisy said, very pleased.

'Settle down please, girls,' said Miss Crawford. 'lKemember,
everybody must be back here by a quarter to eleven without fail.

And no drinking except for the sixth form, on pain of suspension.'
'Wooh-hooh!' said Victoria.

The coach sped through the Surrey countryside. Daisy stared out
of the window while Isobel chatted to Emma about the Chatsford
boys. She loved watching the branches of the trees that overhung the
little country lanes brush against the window, and the villages with
their adorable red-brick cottages loom up in the sweep of the
headlights. Anything to be out of St Mary's. She half wished the
drive would last all night. But a small part of her was excited. She
didn't look so bad; at least, she'd never looked this good. And
maybe, just maybe, a boy would ask her to dance. Obviously not a
good-looking boy; but that didn't matter. Maybe there was a fat boy


66

in her year at Chatsford and he was dreading this like she was. Daisy
looked at her face reflected against the coach window. She did have a
pretty face - it was one of those things they said to overweight girls
to make them feel better, but in her case, it was true. She cursed her
sweet tooth. Her stomach was always betraying her. Gosh, she could

go for a big packet of salt 'n' vinegar Golden Wonder right now . . .
'Here we are!' Victoria crowed.

,adl the girls stopped talking and pressed themselves up against the
window. Chatsford was a big grey Victorian school with a gravel
drive and lions and turrets; mock-gothic, standard-issue public
school. But it was incredibly exotic, because it was full of boys.

Large flaming torches had been placed outside the front door, and
there was a teacher and a crowd of boys gathered, dressed in black
tie, waiting.

'What are they doing?' Isobel wondered. 'Why are they out
there?'

'Ooh. Top totty,' Emma squealed, to gales of laughter.

'That'll do, ladies,' Miss Crawford said. 'File out of the bus in an
orderly manner, please. Front seats first. Victoria Campbell, led the
way.' "

'Yes, Miss Crawford,' Victoria said, like a pussycat. She stood.pp
in her clinging, almost see-through little gold number, tossed er
hair in The Flick, and walked down the coach-door steps, smiling
like a movie star.

Daisy was dragged up and thrust into the aisle, in between all the

other girls. She heard whoops and wolf-whistles.

'Nine! Nine! Nine!'

There was a chant of male voices. Then Emma stepped out.
'Eight!' 'Nine!' 'Eight!'

'What are they doing?' Daisy hissed to Isobel.

Isobel looked at her friend. She had gone slightly pale. 'Don't let
them bother you.'

'I don't get it -' Daisy said.

Then Isobel was shoved forwards. Daisy watched her friend

descend into a torrent of wolf-whistles. The boys were yelling at her.
'Ten!' 'Ten!' 'Yeah!'
Daisy stepped out.

There was silence and a bit of laughter. She stared at the boys,
confused. Somebody shouted out, 'Two!'

Somebody else said cruelly, 'You think that much?'


67

Isobel grabbed her as she stood there blinking and tugged her
away. And then Daisy realised.

They had been grading her out of ten.

Daisy burst into tears and ran into the school, blundering her way
through the crowd of grinning boys. The wave of shame and
humiliation beat everything she'd ever known.

Isobel hissed, 'You bastards!' and raced after her.

Daisy lumbered through the oak-panelled hallway, decorated with
large wooden plaques commemorating Rectors of the School and
Captains of the Cricket Team in burnished gold letters. There were
marble busts on plinths, polished granite floors, and vases of flowers.
She could not see a girls' bathroom, and tears were rolling down her
fat face.

'Daisy!'

Isobel caught up with her and grabbed her by the lace jacket.

'Just leave me alone, will you,' Daisy howled. 'I look like a stupid
clown.'

Isobel opened the nearest door and shoved her inside. It was an
empty classroom. She flicked on the light and shook her.

'For God's sake, wipe your eyes,' Isobel half shouted. 'You have
to pull it together. You can't let them see you like this.'

'Bit bloody late,' Daisy said. Crying had made her eyes all
bloodshot, her nose was running, and she was white as a ghost, the
blusher standing out on her garishly. 'I can't believe I let you talk me
into this, Isobel. I'm so fat and ugly. Of course no boy would ever
want me.'

'Here.' Isobel opened her little silk purse and fished out a small
cellophane-wrapped packet of tissues. 'Wipe your eyes. We're stuck
here till eleven now. You have to '

There was a creak and the wooden door pushed back against
them. Daisy felt her stomach drop through the floor. Oh, God - it
was getting worse, it was a Chatsford master telling her to get out of
the classroom, he'd see her like this 'What
the bloody hell are you doing?'

Victoria Campbell regarded the two girls with total contempt.
'Get out of there. Only the ballroom and the too are in bounds for St
Mary's girls.'

'Here's an idea, Victoria,' Isobel said, 'luck off. OK?'

Victoria's skinny face coloured. 'I'm a prefect, actually. You have
to do what I say.'


68

'Arrange these two words into a well-known phzase or saying,'
Isobel snapped. 'Off. Fuck.'

Victoria looked at Daisy. 'What are you crying for? They gave
you a two. That's two more than you normally get.'

'They rated me higher than you,' Isobel said. 'And that's before
they even knew your personality.'

'Get into the ballroom, or I'll go and get Miss Crawford,' Victoria
threatened. 'And drag her with you.' She jabbed a thumb at the
quivering Daisy and marched out, slamming the door.

'You don't want Miss Crawford to come,' Isobel pleaded.
'No, I don't!'

Daisy had calmed down a little. She didn't want Victoria to

triumph over her any more. Fuck Victoria. Isobel was right.
'Can I borrow that tissue?' Daisy asked.
'Atta girl,' Isobel said,

Daisy looked at her loyal friend. Isobel was a bit twitchy. Daisy
knew she wanted to go and hook up with that boy Tom lhys. She
was always talking about him.

Daisy dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, and took in a few deep
breaths. 'OK. Let's go to the ball. I'm going to sneak one of the s,!xth
former's drinks, anyway.' She tossed her head in a conscious
imitation of The Flick. 'I don't look that bad. If they don't wantto
dance with me it's their loss.' ....

She wrenched the door open and gave Isobel a gentle push into
the corridor.


Once she had got Isobel into the 'ballroom', which was in fact the
refectory with all the tables temporarily removed, and some strobe
lights and a cheesy mirror ball brought in, Daisy managed to find the
designated girls' bathroom. Mercifully she was the only person there.
All the other St Mary's girls were offtrying to find dark corners to be
pawed in, or shaking loose their long hair and dancing off their firm
teenage asses so some penguin-suited spotty boy would come up and
attempt to paw them ...

Daisy smiled a bit at that thought. OK, so the face staring back at
her from the mirror above the stinking urinals was plump, but was
that any worse than some of the buck-teeth and pizza-faces her year
was drooling over out there? She'd spotted one lad in that baying
crowd who had a face that was erupting like Etna on a bad day, and
another with coke-bottle glasses and railway-track braces on his
teeth. She took out the free sample of EstSe Lauder perfume she'd


69

ripped from a magazine and brought with her in her bag, robbed it
over her neck and wrists, and marched into the ballroom.

There was definite revenge to be had, she thought, determined to
make the best of it. After all, she wasn't going to be the only person
who was about to have a bad night. She was a writer. So she'd sit here
and watch and take notes. Daisy longed for her rough book, but it
was back in her room at school. She would have to do it all mentally.
She swept into the room, telling herself she was a stately Spanish
galleon, just like in that poem they had learned in last week's English
class, and made a beeline for a stretch of wall not already covered by
gaggles of boys or girls. Isobel and Emma were on the dance floor
with partners already. Daisy hoped one of them was Tom l:khys.
Victoria and Arabella and most of the other girls were dancing by
themselves, though.

Daisy instantly saw how it was going to be. A black-tie version of
all the excruciating teenage dances she'd been dragged to. For three
quarters of the time, the boys would huddle together, making loud
coarse comments and trying to score a cider. The girls would dance
with each other, pretending they didn't want the boys to come over
and approach them. When the boys finally worked up enough
courage to say something, the 'event would be almost over. One guy
usually asked one girl, then there was a flood. Dancing lasted for less
than five minutes, because people needed to get their snogs in before
the final curtain. Watches were checked, lads fumbled enthusiastically
and clumsily at bras stuffed with tissue paper, there was some
tongue wrestling, and the lights went up. Girls ran off giggling and
hoping for phone calls, and boys ran off to lie to each other about
how Jo Smith had let them feel under her knickers ...

Her internal monologue made her laugh. Victoria Campbell heard
it. She was twirling stiffly to 'Venus' by Bananarama at the edge of
the dance floor.

'Don't laugh at me, you fat cow,' Victoria hissed, flushing.

'Hard not to,' Daisy said. 'You can't dance. You should hang out
by the drinks table.'

'Excuse me,' said a voice.

Daisy turned around. There was a tall, very lanky boy standing
next to her. His suit fitted immaculately, but she could instantly see
that he was as skinny as a rake.

'May I have the honour of this dance?'

Victoria tossed her hair triumphantly and made towards him,


to
flashing her green eyes at Daisy, but he shifted, and extended one
bony hand to Daisy.

Victoria drew back like a snake poked with a stick, but Daisy

hesitated. How did she know this wasn't just a cruel joke?
She glanced up at the boy's face.
It was terrified.

Daisy knew that look. She wore it every day. It was the look of
waiting for the humiliation to happen.

'I'd love to,' she said, smiling radiantly at him.

He beamed, a mixture of pleasure and relief. 'Shall we?'

Victoria stage-whispered, as Daisy passed her, 'Couldn't you do
better than that, Markham?'

Isobel, dancing with Tom 1Khys, saw to her astonishment that
Daisy was on the dance floor.

'Who's that boy?' she asked.

'Edward Powers,' 1Khys told her. 'Very good family. Very rich.
Clever. Bit eccentric. Who's the fat girl? It's like Jack Sprat and his
wife.' He laughed.

Isobel hit him. 'Lay off.' She waved frantically at Daisy. 'This is
brilliant. Everyone can see her dance.'


When Daisy said goodbye to Edward at eleven, he kissed her ha'nd.
She felt overwhelmed with gratitude towards him and had to bite
her lip to stop from saying so.

'I hope I shall see you again,' he said, with old-fashioned
courtliness.

'Of course,' Daisy said. She wasn't remotely attracted to him, but
there was no way she'd allow him to suffer one second's worth of
humiliation. 'Here's my phone number.'

Miss Crawford shepherded them all back on to the bus, and as
Daisy climbed on, everybody went, 'Woooh.'

She thought it was one of the happiest moments of her life.

71


Chapter 9


'And we want to congratulate Daisy Markham,' Sister Clare said in
her booming voice at Assembly. Her wrinkled hands gripped the
polished wooden podium firmly as she looked out over the rows of
girls sitting quietly in their neat navy uniforms. 'Daisy has been
placed third in a national writing competition and although she did
not get the prize, she has won a certificate of merit. I'm sure we're all
very proud of her.'

Daisy sat on her polished wooden bench between Isobel and
Emma, who clapped enthusiastically. The whole school gave her
some dutiful applause. Behind her, Daisy could hear Victoria going,
'Oooh' sarcastically. Miss Crawford, up on the teachers' dais, looked
satisfyingly green with aggravation.

That was nice, but it really didn't make Daisy feel any better.
Third. As in, not first and not even second. Basically, not close.

'Come up here and get your certificate of merit, Daisy!' barked
Sister Clare excitedly.

Daisy lumbered to her feet, putting on a fake smile. She couldn't
let Sister see how disappointed she'd been. Gutted, in fact.
Everybody loved their old Headmistress, with the twinkle in her eye
and the stout tweed skirts she habitually wore. Sister Clare always
liked to see 'her girls' do well at anything.

Clearly, Sister thought this was a pinnacle of achievement for
Daisy. Her results streamed her into a university, but not Oxbridge,
and not even the second rank of London, Edinburgh, Durham, and
the rest. She had avoided being put in the polytechnic class, but only
barely, so there were not to be any great academic laurels for Daisy.

Instead, though, there was this stupid certificate of merit, Daisy
thought, as she stumped up the podium steps.

'Well done, dear!' Sister Clare said brightly, thrusting the gold
embossed piece of paper at her. 'Smile for the school magazine.'

Oh, God. Now this humiliation. Daisy blushed and twisted the

72


scowl on her face into a rictus grin. Some impossibly tall Upper
Sixth-former, eighteen with coltish legs, neat little breasts and the
long, glossy trademark St Mary's hair, was standing there snapping
her for the Gazette.

Now all the parents would know she hadn't made it, as well as the
entire school.

I ought to feel grateful, Daisy told hersel£

But she didn't. She couldn't.

She felt like a big loser who had blown her only chance.

'You can go back to your place again now, dear,' said Sister Clare.
'Thank you, Sister,' Daisy muttered.


'What about this one?'

Isobel threw the prospectus across at Daisy. It landed with a little
thud on top of all the other glossy brochures that were strewn across
her coverlet.

'Packham University,' Daisy read. 'A small university set in the
heart of the ancient City of Oxford ... oh, come on, there's only
one university in Oxford. All the other ones are secretaries' colleges
and places with "college" stuck on the end of their names so' they
can overcharge stupid Americans who think they have somethin to
do with actual Oxford University.'

Isobet sniggered. 'Mostly true. But l<ackham's not all that b'gd.
They have an entrance requirement of a B and two Cs. You could
make that easily. You'd make three Bs if you bothered to pay
attention to any of your subjects.'

Daisy pouted. 'But they're so boooring.'

'You're telling me. But no pain, no gain. They specialise in the
arts. History, French, English, History of Art ... and it's near the
university. Near Christ Church. Just think of all the interesting
people you could meet there. In fact, I hear,' Isobel said slyly, 'that

Edward Powers is going to study at Christ Church.'
Daisy sighed. 'Subtle as a brick, aren't you?'
'I had a date with Tom last weekend.'

'How did that go? I'm much more interested in your love life than
in you trying to fix me up.'

'And he mentioned,' said Isobel, not to be put off, that Edward

wanted to know where you were going to go to university.'
'Edward Powers is very nice.'

'So you said after your last dinner with him.'

'But,' Daisy said, putting her foot down, 'I don't fancy him. Not


73

at all, not even a little bit. I don't like boys that are really skinny. I
like muscles. Now, I know I am not a big catch and I should be
grateful to Edward for dancing with me and being interested at all,
and I am. But I'd rather be alone than date somebody just because
I'm - I'm the desperate fat girl who should take anybody that'll look
twice at me.'

Her cheeks had gone shiny pink with high spots of red right in the
middle, like they did when she was more than comtnonor-garden
embarrassed. This might be the most honest she'd ever been with
Isobel. And herself, come to that.

For a second her friend was stumped.

'But you could like him as a friend,' she said.

'Of course. He is my friend.' Daisy smiled. 'He's so clever. And
he's such a gentleman. How could anybody not like him?'

'Well, then. I'm trying for St Anne's. So that would make two
friends. And you always said that beauty mattered to you.'

'It matters so much.' Daisy finally paid attention. 'I couldn't bear
some grim, industrial town somewhere. I need trees, or at least
beautiful buildings.'

'Rackham's red-brick,' Isobel admitted, 'but it's near everything
beautiful. Walking around is gorgeous in Oxford. And it's full of
music, lots of chamber performances, debates - you can join the
Union . . .'

Daisy looked at the prospectus.

'You can read English.'

'If I have to study one more Shakespeare play, I think I'll burst.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, fuck off,' Daisy declaimed.

Isobel burst out laughing. 'You're awful. It's Miss Crawford, she
can make anything seem crap.'

'Maybe History of Art. I wouldn't mind taking lots of trips to
museums and galleries.'

'There you go, then.' Isobel grinned. 'Thank your lucky stars
you're not me. I have to cram three hours a night for the Oxford
entrance examination.'

'Yeah.' Daisy smiled at her friend, but her thoughts were sarcastic.
Thank heavens she wasn't in a class like Isobel! What a stroke of
luck, Daisy wasn't going to Oxford University, she wasn't going to
distinguish herself in any way.

Close, but no cigar. It seemed to be the story of her life.


Daisy spent the next six months doing some half-hearted studying.


74

The teasing had pretty much stopped since Edward Powers had
called at the school to see her. Victoria Campbell and her cronies
made cruel remarks about Edward being a nine-stone weakling, but
not too many; they were, Daisy had realised with a delicious jolt of
pleasure, jealous.

It didn't really matter to girls like Victoria if a boy wasn't all that
good-looking if he had money and was the heir to a title.

When Edward's father died, he would be Sir Edward, and his wife
would be Lady Powers. Daisy hadn't realised the depths of Victoria's
snobbery until she watched her reaction when Isobel told her about
Edward being the son of a baronet. Her enemy had gone pale
around the gills. Later, Daisy had had the delicious pleasure of
catching Victoria poring over a Burke's in the library, open at the
Powers page.

'Hadley Park,' Victoria was muttering to Catherine Jackson, her
new lieutenant. 'Eighty acres of deer park, built in the eighteenth
century, with a lake and ...'

'I wouldn't bother, Victoria. He's taken,' Daisy had said
triumphantly. Then she'd felt bad, because she knew she wasn't
interested in Edward, not like that. But the look on Victoria's" face
was enough for her.

'I wasn't looking at that. Mr Skinny-Minny, you can have hirrl,'
Victoria said, but she blushed scarlet. 'You two will make a perfect
ten.'

'Yeah, yeah.' Daisy patted the ink drawing of the Powers coat of
arms and grinned smugly. 'Bothers you, doesn't it?'

Then she had walked out, without getting the history textbook
she'd wanted. But Daisy knew how to make an exit.

Victoria had avoided Daisy after that. Most of the crueller girls
did. Daisy understood. They judged a person's worth by men's
standards. A rich boy wanted Daisy, and so now she wasn't such a
loser. Even though she was exactly the same plump dumpling she'd
always been, with the same bad grades.

Daisy worked out her time at school with nobody paying
attention to her. Even Isobel didn't bother with her quite as much,
because she didn't need so much defending. And she wasn't writing
any more. A sense of listlessness and lethargy overcame her. Daisy
coasted through her exams, and managed two Bs and a C, which
both her parents and the school were thrilled with.

She knew she could have done better, but she didn't see the point.
lackham accepted her for History of Art, and Daisy called to


75

confirm she was taking up her place. When her parents came to pick
her up from St Mary's for the last time, Daisy felt a sense of relief.
School was done with.

Now she was an adult. Oxford would be different, it had to be.
Something had to change in her life.

76


Chapter I 0


'Stop living pay-cheque to pay-cheque!'

The beaming faces of the people in the infomercial stared back at
Rose. A man in his early twenties wheeled a yellow Porsche on to
the screen as he pulled up to a comfortable-looking suburban house
with a landscaped garden.

'Yes!' said the booming voice. 'You too can reach for your
dreams with real estate! No need to rent! Houses can be purchased
for no money down! Start with no credit! Put cash in your pocket
every month!'

Rose reached up and turned the TV off.
'Mom,' she said, 'how's your credit?'
Her mother laughed, tossing the pasta.
'What credit?' she said.


After her dinner, Rose told her mother she was going to the library.

'That's real good, honey.' Mrs Fiorello smiled proudly, glad that
Rose was finally going to do some homework. Her grades had
plummeted, but her parents had attributed it to stress. Rose was so
responsible, they just knew she'd come around.

Rose walked to the large, uninviting brick building three streets
away. Her backpack was empty of schoolbooks. She walked straight
to the real estate investing section, then to the personal finance
section. Ten minutes later she was back in her apartment with a full
load of books.

Tll be down later,' she told her parents. 'I'm studying for
something .special.'

'What is it, honey?' Daniella asked.

Rose thought about it. 'Just a project.'

She went into her new bedroom, shut the door, and laid the
library books out on the second-hand desk Paul had found her at the
consignment store. Her bedroom was plain, apart from the posters.

77


Other kids her age had DefLeppard and Motley Crue stating back at
them from the walls, maybe with a touch of Madonna or the Beastie
Boys.

P,.ose Fiorello had pictures of skyscrapers. New York prints in
black and white, tattered around the edges so she'd gotten them for a
discount; fifty cents, mostly. She was in the low-rise, low-rent, dirty
Bronx, but she had glittering dreams; soaring buildings, covered in
wraparound granite and sparkling glass, with smooth black tinted
windows, jabbing into the sky.

And now she had these books to start offwith. Eagerly, lose bent
her lovely head, her glossy raven hair pooling on to the chipped
wood in front of her, and started to read.

After less than an hour, it became clear to her that 'no credit' was a
crock. The chapters for 'no credit' dealt with how to get yourself
credit.

'Take a thousand dollars and deposit it in the bank, then ask for a
secured loan and -'

And where was she supposed to get a thousand dollars?
'Borrow it from a relative,' the infomercial king suggested.
Urn, yeah. So many desperate people would pay three hundred
dollars for the infomercial co.urse to find out the first great 'secret'
was to borrow money from a relation. If you had a relation rich
enough to loan you a thousand bucks, you wouldn't need these
books, would you?

P,.ose refused to be put off. After all, if you could buy real estate
for free with no credit, nobody would be renting. Her parents paid
their rent cheque in each month and never saw that money again.

Nobody would do that unless they had to.

Still, there had to be a way.

She thought about the money she'd saved up so assiduously from
her summer job at the accountant's. There was over two thousand
dollars there, just sitting in a bank. Her parents' credit was worse
than non-existent. Pose mulled this over, then turned back to her
books.

It seemed simple enough. Get enough money together for a two
family house, rent out one unit, live in the lower one . . . that way,
you would get rent to cover the mortgage, each month.

Of course, you needed to find the right property, cheap enough.
And the right loan, and you'd need to join a credit union, and check
tenants, and you'd need to buy in an area with great rentability and
one which was improving ...

78


Rose read until darkness fell, then switched on her light and read
some more.

	She was startled when her door opened sharply, and her father

stood there, shielding his eyes in his worn-out bathrobe.

	'What the... ? You know what time it is, Rose?'

'No.' Rose rubbed her eyes. They were aching, but she hadn't
noticed.

'It's two a.m. Get to bed, now! You got school tomorrow.'
She tumbled into her bed and tried to sleep, but she was too
excited. Rose tossed and turned, full of adrenaline. There had to be a
way to find properties better than the crazy stuff they put in the get
rich-quick books. P,.ose wasn't a sucker; she knew it was all a load of
crock. 'Driving for Dollars', 'Hand Out Flyers', 'Hold a Real Estate
Seminar' ... Puh-leese. And what were you supposed to do in the

real world? She wasn't going to start her empire that way.

	What did the professionals do?

Rose finally got to sleep a few fitful hours before dawn woke her.
She never drew her curtains; natural light was the best alarm clock in
the world. When she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she felt a

crackle of excitement, despite her tiredness.
	'

	All the books talked about appraisals. An independent
	"

		apprals.er

would value the house for the bank. You could hardly buy a hou
without one. Mostly, the get-rich-quick books talked about ways to
avoid paying for the appraisal, which could be well over a hundred
dollars. But wouldn't appraisers be the best-placed people in the
world to know what a house was worth, and what it cost? They
might even get to know where the bargains were. At any rate, they
wouldn't get ripped off. How could they, their job was to know
what everything was worth.

R.ose figured she had two years to learn. She'd be eighteen then.
She : lade a vow; on her eighteenth birthday she was going to own a
house.

She packed up the real-estate books in her backpack and got
dressed in her school uniform, ready to take the bus into Manhattan
to go back to school. Her parents had been determined not to break
that last link to their old life, and Rose agreed. She wanted to be in
Manhattan.

	That was where the action was.

At school that day, in between paying as little attention as she
could get away with, Rose studied her books at break. At lunch she
went to the phone booth in the hall, which kept a copy of the Yellow


79

Paes chained to the wall. Rose took a pen and her rough notebook,
flipped to the Property section, and started writing down names and

numbers.

'Hey!'

Mike Chastain, the King Jock, their star quarterback with
aspirations to N6tre Dame, was tapping on the windows. Rose
flipped him the bird.

'Get out of there, Fiorello!'

'When I'm done,' lose snapped. It wasn't done to cross Mike at

this school; he was super-popular, the favourite of the blondes in

white bobby-sox.

'Bitch,' Mike snarled, turning away. Rose had turned him down

for dates twice, even though her family was way too poor - which
everyone knew - and he drove a BMW. Mike and his buddies had a
bet on who was going to pop that cherry. He didn't like the fact he
hadn't collected yet.

Mike thought it was about time 1Kose got taught a lesson. She

wasn't even the super-brain any more. Her grades were dreadful, and
she kept getting sent up to Sister Heloise's office. The teachers
wouldn't be so bothered about her now, now she wasn't a
scholarship prospect.

Rose moved out of the booth, holding her notebook. Mike

snatched it from her.

'Give me that back!' Rose snarled, making a grab for it.
Mike laughed and held it up out of reach.
'Pay for it,' he said. 'Give me a kiss.'

'With your dog-breath?' Rose said. 'I don't think so.'

A small crowd of kids had stopped walking through the hallway

and were watching. Some of them giggled. Mike Chastain's face
darkened.

'The price went up,' he said. 'Now I want to feel up your tits.'

'You asshole,' lKose said.

'Let's see what we got here.' Mike held the book up out of reach,

taunting her. 'Manhattan Real Estate Appraising. Option One
Appraisals, Inc. Oooh.' He read out her notes in a sing-song voice.
'Norman Hubbard Appraisals. I think I see a pattern here. What are
you having appraised, Fiorello? A house? Oh wait, you don't have
one, you got evicted.'

'Fuck you,' 1Kose said.

'Any time, baby.' He threw the notebook back at her - a teacher

was heading their way. 'Do you know how dumb you have to be to


8o

get evicted from a rent-controlled apartment? That was nice going
by your parents there, Rose. Hey, I got fifty bucks whenever you
want to supplement your father's income. I got some friends that'd
be interested too.'

Rose reached across and slashed at him, her nails raking viciously
across his cheek, drawing blood.

Mike gasped and put his fingers to his face. The kids scattered, and

Rose felt a heavy hand descend upon her shoulder.

'Name?'

'Rose Fiorello,' Rose muttered.

The teacher was wearing a heavy tweed suit and a thunderous
scowl. 'Physical violence is cause for expulsion, Ms Fiorello. Unless
it was self-defence?'

'I never touched her!' Mike started whining.

'He didn't hit me,' ROse said.

'Go straight to Sister's office, Ms Fiorello. Right now.'


'You must really like this dScor,' Sister Heloise said dryly. 'You can't
seem to keep away from this office.' ..

Rose mumbled something, but Sister wasn't letting her get away
with it. Her face was crinkled under the dark-blue habit and crip
white wimple, and the old eyes, green and watery, stared piercingly
back at her.

'Lift your head, girl. I'm going to give you my theory.' Sister
lifted the sheet of paper in front of her. 'Grade A student until eight
months ago, when your father lost his business and you moved out

of your apartment near here.'

'We were evicted.'

'Yes, I know,' Sister said unapologetically. 'This is a school. Word
gets around. Your teachers have been wondering about the drop in
your grades, your lack of discipline and attentiveness; but they heard
the children talking.'

Rose smothered a small smile at hearing her classmates referred to
as 'children'.

'But,' said Sister Heloise firmly, 'to use a colloq-uial expression, I
don't buy it. You may be many things, Rose, such as stubborn and
wilful. But you are not lazy. You are also not responsive to stress. I
do not subscribe to the fact that you have been traumatised by your
family's financial troubles. There is some other reason for your
behaviour. Now, what is it?'


8i

Rose found herself squirming a little on the burgundy leather
armchair. She preferred the usual lecture and detention ...

'The reason for me hitting Mike Chastain was that he... said bad
things about my fther '

'You are neither stupid nor five years old,' Sister said firmly. 'He insulted your father. If you want to carry on pretending to be stupid
that's your affair, but you will not do it in this office.'

'Yes, Sister,' P,.ose said, taken aback. 'He insulted him. And he

then said I could make some money on the side by - by '
She looked at the nun's habit and blushed.

'I see,' Sister Heloise said. 'Sounds as though he deserved it, but
violence is not the answer.'

Rose wasn't sure she agreed with that. Violence had certainly
made her feel better.

'Why have you decided to stop trying to succeed here?'

'I haven't.'

'I do assure you, young woman, I am not stupid.'

l<ose blushed and stammered. 'I - I think school isn't as important
as '

'As what?'

'As making money,' Rose admitted.

Sister Heloise sighed.

'First, man does not live on bread alone. Someone said that once.
But I understand that the viewpoint is not as fashionable as it might
be. Second, even if you are not cut out as a pure academic, staying in
school, and in your case winning a scholarship to an Ivy League
university, is a good plan even from a mercenary point of view.' Her
eyes twinkled. 'By taking one path, you will become a salaried
employee who will be lucky to work your way up to middle
management. By taking the other, you become a white-collar
executive.'

'There is a third path.' Rose had settled slightly in her chair, and,

the old nun was relieved to see, was speaking to her as an equal.
'Enlighten me.'

'I could get a .job and train in something and then become an
entrepreneur when I learned the trade.'

'I assume you have something in mind?'
'Real estate,' Rose said, proudly.
Sister's eyebrows lifted a fraction more.
'You sound very certain of that.'

'| am.'

'I'll make a deal with you,' Sister Heloise said. 'You can go ahead
and get a part-time job. I will see to it that your homework is
reduced. But not eliminated; you may have to study on weekends.
However, I expect your grades to improve, starting tomorrow. You
are going to go to college. And if your work and your attitude does
not improve, I will call your parents and tell them everything before
I expel you. I think their sorrow will be enough of a motivation for
you to avoid that eventuality.'

Rose grinned. 'Thank you, Sister. I'll be going to interviews
tonight.'

'Not tonight you won't,' Sister said. 'Tonight you have detention.
We do not tolerate physical violence. That will be all, Miss Fiorello.'


Rose had six interviews before finally landing a job. It was out in
Brooklyn, and she was to do filing and typing for two hours a night,
cleaning the offices, and acting as a receptionist on Saturdays.

She made the most of it. Small as her salary was, she banked it
each week, and her work was efficient. Rose countered the mindnumbing
tedium by racing to get each job done as fast as possible.
After two weeks, her fingers flew over the keyboard, and she cmald
assign a file to its proper place by merely glancing at it. This maSe
time for what she really wanted to do, which was talk to tl'.
appraisers. '

'This is your ambition?' they asked, and Rose would answer
sincerely, 'Yes.'

It wasn't so hard to believe. The top appraisers wore fancy suits
and drove nice cars. There was plenty of work; appraising values all
over the Tri-State area. Many of the best guys worked nights,
frantically typing up jobs, trying to free up space in the day for even
more appointments. Rose even saw one thirty-year-old, keen and
ambitious, sleep in his office.

But this was the go-getting Eighties. Nobody thought twice about

it.

'How do you work it out, though?' Rose kept asking.

Tll tell you when I've got some time.' Keith Harding, the thirtyyear-old,
laughed. 'I guess that'll be the Tuesday after never, huh?'

Eventually Rose started to pick it up. You got the address and
square footage, went to the place, measured the dimensions, took
photographs. Then you looked up 'comps', industry slang for
comparable properties. You had to find out what properties in a
similar area, of a similar type and size, had sold for over the past six


83

months. Applasers had contacts in the area - realtors' offices,

mortgage brokers - and they gave them this information.

It didn't matter what your house was worth - what someone

would be willing to pay for it - only what the appraiser could prove.

Everything came down to those comps.

Of course, mortgage brokers and realtors were always desperate

for the deal to go through. They would call every day, asking for a
'.juiced' number. Push the value up, say it's worth more, or lose our
business.

This was illegal.

It was also 'S.O.P.', or standard practice.

If the appraiser listened, though, they took a risk with the bank. A

mortgage went south based on your false value, and you could be
sued. Losing your licence was the least of it. You were then liable for
millions.

All for a hundred and fifty dollars.

Good appraisers did more than measure and run comps, however.

They were attuned to neighbourhoods. They got a feel for housing,

for rent rolls, for values, and shysters.

Rose learned quickly.

She got promoted. After a' while, they let her take photos on

Saturdays. She drove round houses in a banged-up secondhand
Nissan belonging to her boss, snapped them, and got more money.
The appraisers got used to her nagging and her questions.

On Saturday nights Rose was often in the office, reading reports

by lamplight, learning, soaking everything up.

'Why don't you buy something?' she asked Keith one day, when

her courage was particularly high.

He made a dismissive gesture. 'My credit's not great. Down

payment is too big. And tenants are a pain. Who needs the

headache?'

Whomever she asked gave her the same answer: who wanted that

kind of hassle?

I do, Rose thought.

When she'd finished at Richmond Appraising, P,.ose would pore

over her school books. She liked history best, and now she'd started
paying attention again. She had to; Sister Heloise watched her like a
hawk. Her grades shot back up to normal. When the time came for
SATs, Rose aced them.

Her parents were overjoyed. They expected her to get a


84

scholarship, and so did Our Lady of Angels. The only problem was that Rose was falling asleep on her feet.

After Sunday Mass, she used to sleep all day.

And then Keith came to her with 22 Maple Leaf Drive.

85


Chapter I I


'Good morning, class.'

'Good morning, Madame LaTour,' the class chorused brightly.
'Good morning, Madame LaTour,' Poppy muttered.

She was stuck in the acting class of Madame Marie LaTour, the
famous fifty-year-old French doyenne of LA acting classes. Despite
her un-chic uniform of a black dress which looked like a dyed potato
sack and heavy brown brogues, Madame LaTour was the hottest
ticket in Hollywood for rich teenagers. Her acting classes, priced
exorbitantly high, had in the past produced more than a smattering
of stars. Framed headshots adorned her corridors and outer office,
the bigger stars in the more prominent positions. Madame was
evidently proud not only of her two Oscar winners, but also of
everybody you could see on the big and small screen - the soap stars
and game-show hostesses amongst them.

Poppy grimaced. Mommy and Daddy had slashed her allowance
to the bone, taken away her ride, and forced her into this. It was
worse because she knew Mommy had to lean hard on all her social
contacts just to get her in. Producers' daughters and studio vicepresidents'
sons were in this class - that didn't leave much room for
the offspring of divorce lawyers.

Her parents, she knew, secretly longed to be in 'the biz'. 'The biz'
was films, or TV at a pinch - TV was looked down on, but that was
where all the money was. Music, apparently, didn't count. Certainly
not with her parents. And the fact that Poppy was passionate about
rock didn't matter in the slightest.

'Today, you 'ave great opportunity.' Madame LaTour's voice was
masculine and raspy and she had bristling white hairs sprouting from
her upper lip. 'You learn your craft in the cradle of the art. Of
course, acting is more than a craft. Eet ees a joy, a calling . . . noble
... powerful...'

Her audience was loving it. They sighed, with rapt attention.


86

'Through eemagination come performance!'
		shouted,

		Madame

making Poppy jump in her seat. She pounded a black stick on the

ground. 'Today - you start the dream!'
The class applauded wildly.
Oy vey, Poppy thought.

'You become a cup of coffee!'

'Hey, that's brilliant,' said the pasty boy in front of her with the
P, olex. 'I mean, that's, like, super-inspired.'

Poppy stuck up her hand. She knew she shouldn't, but she
couldn't help it.

'Mademoiselle?'

'Yeah, Mrs LaTour,' Poppy said, in a not-deferential-enough tone
of voice. Her fellow students turned round in their chairs to face the
back of the room, and sent her a barrage of deadly stares. Poppy
ignored them. 'How can we act a cup of coffee? A cup of coffee is an
inanimate object. We're never going to be asked to act an inanimate
object, I mean, not since I was a tree in the third grade -'

Madame held up an imperious hand.

'You become, you feel, the heat, the confinement ... Are you
een a paper cup, are you een a silver coffee pot?' She waved ;er
hands expansively. 'The choice ees yours!'

The class started to hum and rock. Some of them shuddered
made perking noises. Another one flung himself headlong to the
carpet.

'Breeliant!' shouted Madame. 'He ees speeling all over the floor!'
'Fuck me,' Poppy muttered. 'How long is this class?'

'Eight weeks,' whispered the pasty youth in front of her. 'Isn't it,
like, awesome?'


'Daddy,' Poppy wheedled. She was wearing her best good-girl
outfit, the silk shirt-dress with the small shoulder-pads, the strappy
sandals, and her Gucci sunglasses perched on top of her head.
'Honestly, I swear. I'll be good at school. I got an A for my math
paper last week. I'm taking those classes -'

'You're not dropping out,' her father said darkly.

'No way' said her mom.

'I don't want to. I totally love those classes! And I'm getting on
really well with Jonathan Epstein,' Poppy lied.

'He's a very nice boy,' her mother said, softening slightly.

The phone rang in the next room and the maid entered the living
room.

87


	'Call for Miss Poppy.'

'Who is t?' her father asked, suspiciously.

'He say his name is Rick Perez,' the maid informed him.

Poppy felt the flush rise instantly to her cheek. Her hands started
to sweat. 'I have to take this call, Daddy.'

'Who is this Rick? How do you know him?'

'From acting class,' Poppy said. 'He's my partner for our next
assignment.'

Her mother noted the blush. 'He's not Jewish, with a name like
that.'

'Mo-om,' Poppy protested.

Her father waved her away. Poppy hurried out to the hallway,
forcing herself not to run.

'Hello, this is Poppy,' she said.

'What's up, baby?' said the bassist's voice. It had been two weeks
since the gig and she had given up hope that he'd call. An
indescribable thrill shot through her. Her nipples tautened under her
virginal white cotton bra, and that heat curled a new fist in her belly.

'You didn't call,' she said plaintively, then wanted to kick herself
very hard in the shins.

'I've been on the road. You know how it is.'

Wish I did, Poppy thought.

'We got a gig tonight at the Whiskey. Want me to put you on the
guest list?'

Poppy died a million deaths.

'I can't,' she whispered miserably. Tm kind of grounded.'

He chuckled. 'Tell me you're sixteen, at least.'

'Oh, definitely,' Poppy lied. She was getting good at lying, she
thought. Maybe she wasn't such a shitty actress after all.

'How about we meet for lunch tomorrow? You know Nathan's?
About one?'

Tomorrow was a school day. 'No problem,' Poppy said decisively.
'See you then, OK?'

She went back in and faced her parents again. Now it was really

important! Poppy started to plead passionately.

'You know, Daddy-'

'Give me one good reason why I' should restart your allowance,'
her father snapped. 'How do I know what you'll do with it after the
incident?'

'Well - all the other kids in class have, like, the hot records and
they see all the movies and there's this cafeteria and I don't have any


88

money and...' Poppy lowered her voice in horror - 'I look like the poor kid in class.'

Her morn blanched visibly. Yes! Score one.

'Jerry . . .'

'On sufferance, Poppy.' Her father smothered an equally horrified
look, but Poppy wasn't fooled. 'And you can only have half.' He
pulled out his wallet and gave her two twenties. 'That's it, young
lady.'

'Thanks, Dad.' Poppy gave him a jaunty kiss on the cheek, and
her father tried not to look pleased. Tll be upstairs studying my
lines.'


She couldn't concentrate in school the next day. Would lLick even
be there? And would they miss her? If she was caught absent ... it
didn't bear thinking about. Plus, she had no sexy clothes. She was
going to have to go in her uniform. She almost didn't want to do it,
but she had no way to call him back.

And besides, Poppy secretly admitted to herself, she had to get real - there was no way in hell she wasn't gonna meet that guy.

It was so exciting. Finally, a little colour in her boring, middle.
class life. She had kept flashing back to the concert, the lights, th*e
sweat, the crackle of sex ....

She grabbed a ride and headed over to La Brea at lunchtime','
casually walking out of the school grounds. Nobody stopped her she
doubted anybody cared. One less JAP to worry about. That was
all she was to this school. What the luck.

Poppy arrived at Nathan's by twelve-forty and ordered a bunch of
food she was too nervous to eat. She pushed the fries and sauce

around her plate and watched the clock.
One ... he didn't come.
One-fifteen, one-twenty - nothing.

Poppy was starting to feel embarrassed. She threw some money on
the table and got up to leave when she saw him; standing in the
doorway in a T-shirt and jeans, dark hair tumbling down his back,
rock-star shades, looking about for her.

The girls were all staring at him, too.

She jumped up and waved. 'Rick! Over here!'

He saw her and threaded his way through the crowd. Poppy was
suddenly ashamed of her waving and her lack of make-up and her
little pleated navy skirt and white school shirt. She wished the
linoleum floor would open up and swallow her whole.


89

'Hey, bah?.' He pushed up the sunglasses to reveal a pair of
bloodshot eyes, which travelled lazily up and down her uniform.
'Dig that skirt. That's sexy.' Perez leaned forwards and kissed her
lightly on the mouth.

Poppy felt her knees buckle. She was overwhelmed with desire.
He was so hot. Her peripheral vision noticed the girls in the diner
staring at her. All probably wondering what a cool musician was
doing with a schoolgirl. She felt geeky.

'Already ate, huh?' He was glancing down at her plate.

'I didn't think you'd come.'

'Wouldn't have missed it.' He looked deep into her eyes, in a way

that made her want to dissolve. Poppy felt herself slick up.
'Do you want something ... I can get the waitress ...'

'Nothing on this menu. He grinned and tugged at her hand.
'Let's get out of here.'

9o


Chapter 12


'Get in,' Perez said. He yanked open the sliding door of a beat-up
blue van and Poppy jumped up on to the passenger seat. It smelled
faintly of incense and weed, and there were empty bottles rolling
around in the back. He walked around the other side, got in, and
pulled away from the kerb.

	'Hi,' he said, looking into her eyes.

Poppy felt a rush of joy. This was awesome. She was going on an
adventure. Her life was finally interesting. It felt like being released

from prison. What a high!
	..

	'Hi,' she said, and she didn't even blush.

He turned a knob on the ancient-looking radio and blasted
KNAC. The strains of Metallica's 'Master of Puppets' filled the va,
blasting from the windows, and he gunned the accelerator. Poppy
cranked her window down - it actually worked with a handle, it
wasn't even electric - and hastily tugged the scrunchie out of her
hair, so it tumbled loose and golden, streaming in the blast of air that
rushed past them.

	'Where are we going?' she asked.

'You'll see.' He drove lazily, one hand on the wheel, caressing it
almost. Poppy was attracted to everything about him. She loved the

cool skull rings he wore all over his fingers. This guy was a badass.
'So what's it like, being in a band?'

He chuckled. 'Lots of sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll; no goddam
money.'

	Poppy hated the idea of the sex. All those bitches hanging around

him. She felt her first pang of jealousy.

	'Is that why you got into it?'

'No, I wanted the money, too.' He laughed loudly at his own
joke, then glanced at her through those dark-fringed eyes. 'Zach
Mason writes awesome songs. I wanted to be in his band. It might

91


go places. And anyway, what else am I gonna do? Be a bank teller?
I'd rather shoot myself.'

Poppy was a bit embarrassed. She hoped he didn't ask too many

questions. She was little Miss Suburban P,.ich.

'But why don't you have any money?'

'No record deal.' He shrugged. 'Even if we got one, we'd likely
get screwed. Most acts do.'

'But you sold out your gig,' Poppy persisted. There couldn't be
that much of a gap between the glamorous band onstage, with the
glitter and the flash and the screaming girls and the hardcore security,
and his real life - could there?

Perez scowled. 'You'd think so, honey ... wouldn't you? We
have to kick back money just to be allowed to play. The house gets
most of the take, what's left has to go on roadie fees, and gas to the
next gig, and if there's anything left over for the band we get a pizza
or something. That food in the dressing room is the best we eat all
week.'

Poppy was horrified. 'How do you survive?'

He gave her a sly wink. 'Chicks, mostly. If they come over to the
crib we only let them in if they bring a bag of groceries, or a six
pack. Oh, don't worry, . not .you, baby. You're just a schoolkid.'

Poppy didn't want to tell him she had over seven thousand dollars
in her checking account and a twenty-thousand-dollar CD which
would mature when she was eighteen as a graduation gift. He was
heading past the Beverly Center, barrelling down Third Street.

'But what about you? What are you gonna do with your life?
Besides looking hotter than hell.'

'I'm going to be a rock star, too,' Poppy said enthusiastically.
Perez grinned. 'A singer?'

'I can't sing. I sound like a screech owl with a sore throat.'
'You're a riot.' He shook his head. 'You play something?'

'I'm going to be learning the guitar,' Poppy told him. She'd have
to speak to Daddy about getting some lessons. A glorious vision of
herself flung on her knees onstage, axe lifted up to the spotlight, head
thrown back, her long, teased blonde hair cascading behind her,
came blazing into her head. Yeah! She could be the next Nancy
Wilson from Heart.

'Sounds good. What would you play?'

'Stuff like you,' Poppy said adoringly.

He reached out and traced a callused fingertip under her chin.
'You're cute.'

92


The van slowed and he turned the Metallica off. Poppy glanced
outside, and saw they were pulling into a motel. Cars were parked in
the forecourt, and it was painted Pepto-Bismol pink.

'You stay here, OK? I'll get us a room,' Perez said. He got out of
the van and walked towards the main door.

Poppy's heart thudded. He wanted to have sex with her.

She felt confused and naive. What should she do? Get out and
run? Wasn't that childish, though? He thought she was hot and
sixteen.., was she acting like a teenager? She wanted him to be her
boyfriend.

Guys like that don't go out with girls that don't put out.

Oh yeah, she was a wild rebellious rock 'n' roller - who wanted
to run for the hills. Don't be pathetic, Poppy! she screamed at
herself. All those girls shooting you the dirty looks, they'd give their
eye teeth for this!

If she wanted to go out with Kick she'd definitely need to give
him a reason; after all, he had women throwing themselves at him all
the time ...

He was coming back. Poppy took deep breaths, compqsing
herself. OK. OK. Everything was going to be fine.

'Ready, sugar?' He dangled the keys in front of her.

'Got any liquor?' Poppy managed.

He looked impressed. 'Good thinking. I got some in the bacl4'."
He walked around the back of the van and rummaged around,
emerging triumphantly with a bottle of cheap vodka. 'We can make
our own Martinis. Without the olive.'

Poppy clambered out of the van. Perez locked it - 'Who'd want
to steal this piece of shit anyway?' he said - and took her hand. That
same squirmy feeling returned to her belly, but she was scared, too.
She wasn't gonna show it, though. He led her along the ground
floor to a wooden door, 5E, and unlocked it with the key, flicking
the light on. Poppy stood awkwardly in the room, glancing about;
there was a twin bed with a brown coverlet, ugly, but clean;
linoleum on the floor; a small TV wall-mounted, screwed into the
wall, with a remote on a chain; a phone; and a tiny bathroom with a
shower and washbasin. The tiles in the bathroom had grout that
needed attention for mildew, but apart from that, the place didn't
look dirty. Small and bare, but not dirty. There was no kettle,
nothing like that. There wasn't even a glass by the sink for
toothbrushes. Too easy to steal, she realised. In this place, even the
bedside lamp was screwed down.


93

Perez noticed her shrinking. 'Relax, babe - this might be the one
roach-free motel in LA. It cost me forty bucks but that's for the
whole day, and this place never has bedbugs.'

She realised he was speaking like an expert, but told herself that he
used it for previous girlfriends.

'There's nothing to pour the drinks into,' she said.

'Who needs it?' Perez turned the radio on again, found the rock
station.

'And now - a little Queen for ya. Here's "Under Pressure",' the
DJ said.

Poppy smothered a laugh. This whole thing was crazy. The bass
player tossed her the bottle. 'Go ahead. Internal heating.'

She didn't want to look like a putz. She took a long swallow of
the fiery liquid, gulping it down. It seared her throat, and she broke
off, spluttering.

'Hey! Hey,' Perez said, laughing. 'You're wild. Easy there,
slugger. I don't want to carry you out of here.'

Poppy felt an instant head rush. She flopped down on the bed and
twisted up the radio volume. He was standing over her, tall and
gorgeous. His smile made her feel almost as dizzy as the alcohol. She
tried to relax; the booze helped.

'You know, you're really beautiful,' he said, sitting beside her.
'Your face is one you remember out of a crowd.'

Then he pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her. His tongue
curled into her mouth, tracing a line on her upper lip. Poppy had
never French-kissed anyone before. She tried to reciprocate. His
hand came up and cupped her left breast, kneading it lightly. Poppy
suppressed a rising feeling of panic.

'I'm just gonna wash up, put a rubber on. Make yourself
comfortable,' he said. He got up and went into the bathroom with
the dirty tiles, shutting the door.

Poppy blinked. She was gonna go through with it. She reached
for the bottle and took another large swallow, then another. She
started to feel light-headed. She peeled off her clothes and put them
neatly on top of the dresser and breathed in through her nose to
relax.

Perez came out of the bathroom nude. Poppy swallowed a
nervous giggle. He was hard, and she'd never seen a man naked
before. It was different from the still photos they showed you in
class.

The lust in his eyes took her aback. He was gazing at her like a


94

dog looks at a steak, she thought. Perez rushed over to the bed, took
her into his arms, and started to kiss her nipples. Poppy lay back
unresisting, looking at the textured white paint on the ceiling.

'Ah!' she said. There was a stabbing pain, and she felt pierced. She
froze. So did he.

'Oh shit,' Perez said, 'you're a vir,in?'


It was about the worst afternoon of her life.

After he was done, Poppy stumbled into the bathroom and puked
her guts out. At last she retched herself dry, washed her face, sluiced

out her mouth with tap water, and found a sullen Rick waiting.
'Let's go, OK?' he said.

Miserably she clambered into the van. Her head ached, her eyes
were throbbing, and he was avoiding looking at her. At least the pain
between her legs had gone away. Poppy could still see him, frozen
above her. She had said, 'Well go on - don't stop now,' and had
been relieved when it was over. Except that he'd said, 'So, how do
you feel?' with that expectant look, as if he was about to get a gold
star, and her answer had been to rush to the tiny windowless
bathroom and start chucking her guts out. '

Washing that stain from her inner thigh had been almost as bad.
She wasn't a virgin any more. It was supposed to have been magiq{1
and sexy and to have lived up to that hot feeling in her belly, but it
hadn't been anything like that. The best Poppy could say was that it
hadn't taken long.

She hoped that next time it would be a lot better. Rick Perez
would be a great boyfriend. Look at him, with that long black hair,
tousled from the bed, and that stubble, and the skull rings. Poppy
comforted herself that it was definitely worth it to have him as a
boyfriend.

'When will I see you again? You have to give me a number,' she
croaked, as he made the turn towards Beverly Hills.

'Uh.' Unlike before, Perez was the model driver, keeping his eyes
firmly fixed on the road. 'I dunno. We're on the road. I don't have a
number, we travel.'

'But you'll call me?'

'Sure,' he said, unconvincingly.

Poppy rested her head against the window and tried to
concentrate on not crying and not throwing up. She had definitely
screwed up. Maybe she hadn't been sexy enough. It was a dumb


95

move to have drunk all that vodka. Nobody wanted a chick that
threw up.

'Turn left here,' she said when they got near the school. 'Drop me
over there.'

'OK.' He pulled up to the kerb with an obvious expression of
relie£

Poppy got out, searching for something, anything, in his face that
would let her hope that he still cared about her. She knew she should
be sophisticated and act like she didn't care; all the girls said you
should never sound desperate. But she really couldn't help herself.

'Make sure and call me, OK?' she said, and it came out in a
definite pleading whine.

Perez looked her over, the white, sickened face, her beautiful
cheeks gone colourless and pasty, her eyes bloodshot, her hair
messed up. In the schoolgirl's uniform she was vulnerable and needy
and she couldn't handle her drink. She had a hot body, but she
wasn't a rock chick, just a kid living with her parents. No doubt
she'd lied about her age, too. He preferred his girls willing and slutty.
No guilt trips. Besides, he wanted to gun the van right out of there,
before some state trooper came along with an arrest warrant for
statutory rape.

'Uh-huh,' he said. 'See ya, Polly.'

Then he drove offwithout looking back at the little forlorn figure
standing by the roadside.


She somehow got through the rest of the day. Nobody had missed
her in school, and when Conchita arrived to pick her up, Poppy
buried her face under a pile of books. She told her mom she had to
study, went up to her bedroom, and flung herself on her bed amidst
the dolls and teddy bears, and started to cry.

At least she had an ensuite bathroom. Poppy crawled into it,
grateful for the spaciousness, the stand-alone shower, the bottles of
expensive Floris bath oils, and her antique-style tub. She ran the
water as hot as she could stand and poured in halfa bottle of gardenia
oil, so the entire room was filled with the scent of flowers. Anything
to make herself feel less dirty. While the bath was running, she
grabbed her toothbrush and scrubbed away the feeling of sick on her
teeth, rinsing over and over with Listerine. Then she clambered into
the bath and submerged herself, her hair, her entire body, washing
her thighs, getting the dust and the smell off her.

Poppy dumped her school uniform in the laundry basket and


96

changed into jeans and a T-shirt. She looked in the mirror. With her
hair freshly dried, and the smell of sweat and old smoke particles
from the lnotel no longer clinging to her, she felt like a different
person. Her innate optimism reared its head. Maybe it hadn't been
all that bad. The drink had been a mistake, for sure, but maybe all

chicks did that, maybe everyone needed help with their first time...
Maybe he'd call her?

It wasn't working. He would not call. She remembered with a
wince that at the end he'd called her 'Polly'.

She'd just lost her virginity in a seedy motel to some impoverished
rocker who didn't give a luck about her. Then she'd crowned the
experience by vomiting and pleading.

Poppy thought bitterly that her parents would be pleased. Not at
what had happened - yeah, like she'd tell them - but at the fact that
she wouldn't be running off to rock gigs any more. She felt another
one of her trademark blushes creep up her neck. Everyone would
know. She pictured a scene of those girls in the stockings and garter
belts and fingerless lace gloves whispering that she was the girl who
puked up with the bassist of Dark Angel ...

She could never show her face at a club again. Poppy lo,,ked
wistfully at her pile of hard-rock CDs. Well, obviously she'd n&ver
listen tO them any more. Too painful.

She tossed back her luxuriant blonde hair and the fifteen-year-,mid
face in the mirror sighed back, wisely, at her.

That part of my life is over, Poppy thought.


'I guess we can think about it.' Marcia Allen looked at her husband.
'She has been pretty well behaved.'

'What kind of bass?' Jerry Allen said suspiciously.

'Both kinds,' Poppy said innocently.

It had been a month since the motel episode. She hadn't been out
to a club even one time. But Poppy hadn't been able to stop
thinking about rock 'n' roll. She listened to Ozzy and Metallica on
her headphones, and even the sordid sex had acquired a patina of
rebellious adventure now she'd gained some distance from it. Her
period had come, thank God, so she knew there would be no
permanent consequences.

Poppy wanted some of the magic she'd had that night at the club.
The crackling excitement, the roar of the crowd.., lights sweeping
the packed bodies, teenagers and college students all packed together
like sardines, hands thrust into the air, fighting for a place in the front

97


row. She wanted it so bad it nagged at her like toothache. But she'd
learned her lesson. She didn't want to be one of the girls at the
backstage door any more. Even if it felt good to be the girl that was
picked. Poppy wanted to be onstage, and have all the kids screaming
at her.

Like Nancy Wilson from Heart or Lita Ford or something. 'Kiss
Me Deadly' ... yeah! She could totally do that.

And then, as she didn't acknowledge even to herself, she could
date rock stars. It was OK for girl rock stars to date their male peers.
That was the stuff in X magazine. If non-musician girls did it then
they were groupies. Look at Patti Smith. In her day she'd dated
everyone. Chrissie Hynde, too. Even Heather Locklear. She'd gone
out with a bunch of rock stars, now that dude from Motley Crue,
and nobody called her a groupie because she was in Dynasty ...

Girl rock stars had all the perks. Poppy wanted to be one. True,
she couldn't sing and she also couldn't play. But she could definitely
learn to play, if Mommy and Daddy would just stump up.

'Both? Why do you need to know the electric bass?' Jerry said.

'Daddy, you're such a lawyer. Always with the interrogation,'
Poppy pouted.

Her father grinned. She knew he was melting. Poppy zoomed in
for the kill.

'I want to learn some flamenco and some folk tunes, maybe even a
little classical, but I'd also like to play Country and Western and you
know, some Everly Brothers and Buddy Holly.'

Her mother smiled proudly. Marcia Allen was a huge Everly
Brothers fan.

'Bye, Bye, Love,' Poppy started to hum.

Jerry's eyes crinkled. 'So no heavy metal then?'

Poppy rolled her eyes. 'Daddy! That stuff is so over. Come on,
now all the kids are learning an instrument. Josh Cohen even started
a rockabilly band.'

'All right, honey.' Her father gave in. 'Sign up, if you want to.'
'Thanks, Dad.'


98

Chapter 3


Daisy opened the door to her tiny flat and sighed with satisfaction.

It was located down St Aldgate's, in a modern building. She hated
everything modem, being strictly a country girl whose idea of
perfection was anything which looked like it belonged in a Beatrix
Potter book. But once you rode up in the lift - her flat was on the
sixth floor - there was an incredible view. She had windows on two
sides, flooding the place with light and looking over Tom Tower in
Christ Church in one direction, and the green meadows leading down to the Isis in the other. It was autumn, and there was a p!easant
crispness in the air, with the trees turning gold and red, and white
mist creeping up over the fields in the morning.

Daisy adored her place. It even had a tiny balcony with a
wrought-iron chair and table, so she could take her morning cup' of
real coffee, brewed up in a Bodum's pot, and sit out there in her
white towelling bathrobe and just watch the beauty of Oxford. From
a height, even traffic was romantic. She loved watching the students
zip around on their bicycles, like so many ants, in jeans and sweaters,
occasionally wearing some delightfully clich6d college scarf. It was
the start of the academic year, and that meant the new crop of
Britain's brightest, attending the University, were going through a
bunch of ceremonies. They whirred past her in tasselled black caps
and all sorts of gowns, like something out of an Anthony Trollope
novel. Even her envy couldn't dampen her delight.

Daisy was only cynical about herself. This might have an air of
Disneyland-England about it if you were a Guardian reader, she
conceded. But not to her. To her it was pageantry-, and she loved it.

This was her first week up and she still wasn't used to anything.
Not the city, with its glorious old piles of Elizabethan beauty around
every corner, not her own little college with its lectures and classes,
and not this flat. Mummy and Daddy had rented it for her fully
furnished. It was by far the most luxurious place she'd ever lived in.


99

Almost all R:ckham students were crammed into dingy flat-shares

on the Woodstock road, or thereabouts.

'We don't have to pay those school fees any more,' Quentin
Markham told his daughter, solemnly. 'Budgeting is very important.
You realise that, Daisy.'

'Of course I do, Dad.'

When had it ever not been important in their house? Daisy
sometimes felt guilty about her hatred for school, knowing what a
stretch it was for her parents to afford it. They went without holidays
and her mother often secretly bought clothes at the Oxfam shop. But
her mother was a clever cook and decorator and gardener, and kept an attractive house on a minute budget.

Being a teacher just did not pay well, and her father's job brought

in even less, editing a line of translations of the classics. Academia
may have been fascinating, Daisy thought, but it certainly wasn't lucrative. And yet, having adopted her as a child - endometriosis
having left Sally Markham infertile - her parents had been
determined to bring her up as a lady, as a member of the upper
classes. And that meant public school.

If only she'd been scholarship material! They barely made it even

with the shameful bursary Disy received for being her mother's

daughter.

But now the school fees monkey was off the Markhams' back, and

Quentin Markham wanted his daughter to have the best possible
time at university. He sometimes wondered if Daisy had really
enjoyed her schooldays as much as she protested she did. He himself
was lanky and small-boned and had been beaten up as a boy. But
Quentin Markham did not allow himself to think like that. Daisy
had survived, and even made her way to university. He wanted her
to have the best. Or something like it.

So no faded wallpaper or shares with drunken freshmen for Daisy
Markham. He rented this tiny jewel of a studio flat, with the view
and the gated development, nice and safe, at five hundred pounds a
month. And if Quentin Markham had seen how happy his daughter
was to be there, he'd have thought it money well spent.

Daisy loved all the furniture. Everything was from IKEA, clean

Swedish lines, lots of stripped pine. She had a sofabed, which saved
space, and which she pulled out at night, shoved a fitted sheet and a
duvet on to it, and then was able to sleep like a queen. There was a
wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a real sheepskin rug in which she
loved to rub her toes. The bathroom had brand new tiling and shiny

IO0


fixtures with a stand-alone shower as well as a bath, and the kitchenette even had a microwave. Perfect for baked potatoes.

For once in her life, Daisy had just about everything she wanted.
She was filled with a wild, heady optimism. Oxford was gorgeous,
her flat was gorgeous, and all she had to do now was go to a few
boring lectures on Titian and Rembrandt!

I can't wait for Isobel to see this, Daisy thought.

Then she remembered. Isobel hadn't made it through the rigorous
Oxonian entrance procedure. She'd been 'desummonsed', a horrible
way of telling candidates 'don't call us, we'll call you'. She hadn't
even made it to interview stage, and Daisy for once had had to
comfort her friend, letting Isobel cry all over her shoulder and
passing wads of Andrex over to her.

'Wait a year and reapply,' Daisy had urged, but Isobel wouldn't
hear of it. She took a place at Edinburgh and promised she'd stay in
touch.

Deep down they both knew that it was unlikely. University was
where people made the friends that stayed with them for life. But

they hugged and cried as though it were a certainty.
	.

	Daisy anticipated starting out with a few acquaintances. There

	were six others in her particular History of Art course, though she'd

	only seen them a couple of times. And, of course, there was Edv¢d

	Powers.

	Daisy walked into her neat little kitchenette and put the kettle on.

	She got out the Tetley and her packet of milk-chocolate Hob-Nobs

	and made a small pot of tea, considering Edward and what to do

	about him. He was so nice, and she enjoyed his company so much.

	But he seemed to be so into her, and she wasn't interested. Was it

	cruel to be friends with him? Leading him on?

	Oh come on, now, she told herself. Edward's rich and sort-of

	titled and this is Oxford. There are hundreds of gorgeous, intelligent

	girls just in his own college. He'd soon forget all about her. He could

	do so much better. And meanwhile, he was the only person that she

	knew at Oxford University.

	Edward. could be a window into that whole glittering life. Besides,

	she liked him. So why not?

	Daisy ate three Hob-Nobs and started on a fourth before deciding

	that perhaps she'd better not. She was meant to lose some weight. At

	St Mary's it had been too hard, but here it should be easier. She

	could control her own diet. What did the skinny girls eat? Fruit.

I0I


Blergh, fruit. Daisy had never seen the point of apples and oranges
when God made Buttons, Flakes and Hob-Nobs. But ...

She looked down at her soft thighs, spreading out under her
ample 5oIs. There were plenty of amazing-looking men here, and
she still wanted to meet somebody. A new Marks & Spencer had
opened in Cornmarket. She could buy some peaches there, maybe.
And then walk round to Merton and see Edward.


Daisy picked up some healthy, taste-free options for supper - diet
sandwiches and masses of fruit; vegetables was going a bit too far -
then walked back down the High Street towards Queen's. There
was a turning off to the left that took you down an ancient, cobbled
road towards Merton. It ended in a little square by a back gate to
Christ Church and the unimpressive frontage of Oriel College. To
her left was Merton, apparently the only college in Oxford that
served edible food. It was small and well-regarded. A bit like
Edward, Daisy thought.

She went nervously inside the college gates. There was a sign
directing tourists to pay an entrance fee. But nobody stopped her.
She looked like any other undergraduate, Daisy realised.

Inside the porter's lodge w.ere pigeon-holes with names stencilled above them. She found Edward's in a second. Daisy didn't quite dare
approach the frock-coated porter in the bowler hat to ask where
Edward's rooms were. She dug a biro out of her handbag and

scribbled a note to Edward on the back of a scrap of paper.
'Hey.'

Daisy jumped out of her skin. There was a tall American boy
standing right behind her. He was gorgeous, with black hair, dark
eyes, a tan, and muscles. A rower, Daisy thought instantly.

'Sending a note to Powers? I'll give it to him, if you like. I'm his
room-mate.'

'Yeah. Sure.' He was so good-looking that it came out as a high
pitched squeal, like a dying mouse. Daisy loathed herself, but giggled

nervously. 'I'm a friend of his from school. Daisy Markham.'
He shook her hand warmly and gave her a little bow.
'Brad Evans,' he said.

I02


Chapter 14


'And of course artists' relationships with their patrons were complex.
Take Lorenzo de Medici ...'

Dr Marsh droned on in his annoyingly monotonous voice and
Daisy found herself drifting off. Marsh's lectures reminded her of
particularly boring sermons at St Mary's. Back then, she used to stare
at the stained-glass windows. Now, she gazed at the beautiful
pictures of Renaissance masters in her book.

Luckily she was also sitting by the window. The lawns outside
Rackham's lecture hall led down to the river Isis, and boasted an
enormous weeping willow right by the river bank. Daisy loved ,that
tree, loved to go and sit under its shade and imagine he'elf
picnicking there with Brad Evans.

Ooh. He was too gorgeous. Thick muscles, broad shoulders like'an
American football player, dark eyelashes, and a sexy Southern accent.
Daisy knew he was out of her league, of course. But he seemed to
enjoy her company, at least.

She could see her silhouette reflected in the windows. Yes ...
There was definitely a little more definition to her chin. Eating fruit

and Shapers sandwiches sucked, but it seemed to be worth it.
Losing weight was all about motivation.
Now she had some.

'Thank you, class, see you on Wednesday.'

'Thank you, Professor,' they chorused.

Daisy packed up her book and notepad and hurried out of
lackham's rather suburban grounds, making a right on St Aldate's,
heading up towards Christ Church. She cut through the college to
Merton. It was the shortest way, and it was so incredibly beautiful.
Walking through Peckwater Quad always gave her a buzz; the stately
beauty of the library made Daisy feel as though she were in a Jane
Austen novel, and that Mr Darcy would drive a coach and eight
horses past her any second.


IO3

Merton was not quite as attractive, but it was still beautiful. She
didn't particularly envy Brad and Edward their room, though. Daisy
liked privacy. She didn't have to share her own place. And even if it
was modern, it had a view, and you didn't have to use a communal
bathroom.

There was the sound of classical music drifting out of their room.
Daisy rapped on the door. Obviously Edward was in. Brad preferred
country and western.

'Come in,' Edward called. 'Ah, Miss Markham. Good morning.'
'Hi, Edward.'
Brad wasn't around. Daisy suppressed her stab of disappointment.
What the hell, she liked Edward. Maybe Brad would be coming
later. Edward had asked to take her to a speaker meeting at the
Union, and Daisy hadn't been crass enough to ask if Brad would be
coming too.

'You look as lovely as ever,' Edward said, his eyes drinking her in.
Edward was wearing a well-cut dark suit and expensive-looking
shoes that picked out his black eyes. He always wore the same thing
anyway.

Daisy twirled, feeling a bit uncomfortable, but smiling at her
friend. She was wearing a naW dress with a heavy silk lining and a
forgiving A-line skirt. Navy was just as slimming as black, but kinder
to her skin tones. She had kept her make-up light and neutral, and
she was trying to grow her hair. It was at that awkward stage right
now, but she had twisted it up in a French pleat. The dress had little
chiffon sleeves that covered her plump dimpled upper arms. Since
she'd met Brad, she'd become so much more aware of her figure.
She'd thrown out every pair of shorts she owned, all her trousers that
weren't jeans, every skirt that was made of thin material.

Fat girls - Daisy was harsh with herself, why not? Everybody else
was - should only wear lined skirts and dresses. She had learned how
to take five pounds off her figure by dressing better. Dark colours,
monochromes, coverage of tell-tale bits like the arms, push-up bras
for the huge boobs that were her one asset. And, yes, waists. If she
gave in to the temptation to disappear in a huge piece of fabric it just
made her look bigger. She needed well-fitting stuff that came down
around her ankles. With blusher she ould shade away - or at least
minimise - the pouch under her chin, she could paint on
cheekbones.

The other fat girls Daisy saw around the place went one of two
ways: they either gave up completely, and wore shorts that showed


IO4

their cellulite, had dirty hair and glasses, or they pretended they
didn't care and wore God-awful 'funny' outfits - sweaters with 3-D
animals embroidered on them.

Why did people expect fat girls to be funny? Daisy swallowed
hard. Her eyes had started to glitter. No tears right now. She wasn't
into feeling sorry for herself.

'You're so elegant,' Edward said. He sounded completely sincere.
'I feel quite underdressed.'

'Who are you dragging me out to see?' Daisy asked.
'It's a surprise.'
Daisy hit him.

'Oh, very well. It's Richard Weston.'


Her skin prickled with excitement. Now it felt less like a dutiful
evening out. Richard Weston was Daisy's favourite author. Bank
rapt in a share scandal as a young father, he had written his first
bestseller, The Kensin,ton, out of sheer desperation - wanting to try
something, anything, to get his family out of debt. He had received a
slender advance, but the word of mouth on the slim paperback had
been incredible. Weston had it; he knew plot, and he knew how) to

sweep the reader along in a frenzy of 'and then what happened'.
Daisy wanted to jump up and down .....
'Edward, you beauty.'

He grinned. 'I rather thought you'd enjoy that.'


The small, dank alleyway that led up to the wrought-iron gates of
the Oxford Union was packed. Edward effortlessly managed to
thread a path through the crowd of undergraduates, a few of them in
white tie, most in jeans and sweaters.

'Officers,' he whispered in Daisy's ear. 'They always have to wear
penguin suits. I'm only a college rep, so I get away with this.'

Daisy was ushered through the building's doors, where a man
stood checking membership cards.

'Oh.' She blushed. 'I don't have one, I'm not actually at the
University. '

'Sorry, miss, members only. The event's very oversubscribed -'
'She's with me, Paul.'

'Oh.' The hefty man grunted and stepped aside. 'Very good, Mr
Powers. Come in, Miss.'

Daisy was impressed. Edward took her through the building and


lO5

out into a little garden, thronging with students. A gravel path led up
to another large gothic-looking building.

'The Chamber. It's meant to be an exact replica of the House of
Commons, but it hasn't seen a lick of paint for about twenty years.'
Edward shrugged. 'Doesn't stop people coming to speak, though.'

Daisy felt a pang of envy. 'You're so lucky, getting to see people
like Richard Weston in the flesh.'

'You have me.' Edward smiled at her gently. 'You can come as
my guest to anything you like.'

He was so gentlemanly. Daisy suddenly felt very happy. She was
lucky that Edward was such a good friend to her. Without him, she
might have felt swamped here. As it was, the bullying and teasing of
her miserable schooldays were already starting to fade into a bad

memory, like something that had happened to somebody else.
Maybe it was just that men were kinder than women.

Edward showed her inside the dilapidated chamber with its
wooden benches and ushered her to a spot near the front. The whole
room was filling up fast.

Daisy sat there breathless with excitement and squeezed Edward's
hand. Her eyes were sparkling. When the President, a young woman
in a burgundy ballgown, and her officers, in white tie, entered the
chamber, she could hardly breathe. Richard Weston followed them
in, wearing a beautifully cut dark suit, with a sober tie and
expensive-looking shoes. His watch was gold, and as he passed right
by her, she thought it was a Rolex.

Everything about him screamed money, far more than any
designer suit could have done. He was a step up from Hugo Boss or
Armani. She could tell that everything he wore was bespoke.

Imagine writing books, the best job in the world, and getting paid
a fortune for them!

Daisy felt like she was a groupie at a Bon Jovi concert. Her heart
was racing and there was a light mist of sweat on her palms. She loved
Richard Weston's stuff.

'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.' The Librarian, a stockylooking
young Yorkshireman, stood to introduce his guest. 'We are
privileged to have as our guest tonight the best-selling author ...'

Daisy watched Weston's face. His eyes twinkled and he was
watching the room carefully. The way he was observing them
reminded her of herself. He glanced over at her and caught her
looking.

Daisy blushed scarlet.


Io6

Weston winked at her.

'... Richard Weston!'

Weston got to his feet and started to speak. He had an open,
easygoing manner, but he was extremely charismatic. Daisy drank in
every word.

'I'm open to questions,' he said, when he was done.

Sixty hands shot into the air. Daisy tentatively stuck hers up, too.
'Yes?'

Weston was looking right at her.

'How do you feel about the critics sneering at popular culture, and
do you find that your work is ...'

Daisy shut her mouth. An eager and spotty youth next to her had
jumped in with his question. She'd thought Weston was looking at
her, but of course she wasn't about to be that lucky.

He answered patiently. A new forest of hands surged up. Daisy
didn't feel brave enough to try again. She sat and listened as the
undergraduates asked Weston to deconstruct his work, to comment
on royalty structures, to speak on the decline of the English novel,
and, rudely, to condemn what he did as pure trash that sapped the
minds of the British people. :

'Good God.' He laughed at that one. 'Sometimes you wantto
drink Chateau Lafite, and sometimes you want a Diet Coke. I'm'in
the Diet Coke business.' ....

The girl who had asked the question was slender and had a
severely cut dark bob. She gave Weston a sneering look. Daisy was
outraged. Snobby cow. If she hated Weston's books so much, why
had she come tonight?

'We'd like to thank Mr Weston very much for agreeing to address
the Society,' said the President smoothly. Tm afraid we're out of
time for questions this evening.'

'I can take one last one, Madam President,' Weston said. 'Young
lady.'

Daisy stared at her soft white hands.

'In the blue dress,' Weston said.

Daisy's cheeks flamed. She looked up. The?'

'Yes. You had a question, didn't you?'

'Urn, yes.' Daisy felt extremely shy, but he was smiling at her. Her
question seemed a bit stupid after all the complex ones the other
students had asked, but she thought it was what everyone secretly
wanted to know. 'Are you very rich?'

'Really,' said the President, disapprovingly.


lO7

Edward chuckled softly.

'Bloody god question,' Weston said. 'Yes. As a matter off:act I':n
phenomenally rich. I don't work much, I do something I enjoy and
that other people enjoy, and I've made so much money I never need
to write anything else in my life. But I still do, because it's so much

fun.' He gave Daisy a wink. 'You should try it.'

'Thank you,' Daisy said. 'Maybe I will.'

The President stood and ushered her guest out, and the rank and
file shuffled from the Chamber. Edward escorted Daisy through the
crush of young bodies into the garden. It was dark now, and the stars were clearly visible even through the ugly orange glow of the street
lamps. There was a mad run for the bar, but Daisy didn't feel like

drinking subsidised beer in a crowd of rowdy students.

'Did you enjoy it?'

'Yes. Gosh, thanks.' Daisy hugged herself. 'It was so exciting.'

'He liked you, obviously. He wasn't pleased when that undergraduate
took your spot.'

'I thought he was looking at me. But I suppose I was a bit crass...'

'Bloody hell, no. Everybody was wondering the same thing, but

didn't have the guts to say so. I think you amused him.'
'I'd love to be Richard Weston,' Daisy sighed.
Edward looked at her. 'I'm very glad you're not.'

There it was again. That awful feeling. Daisy stammered, 'Look,
Edward '

'Forget it. Do you feel like eating?'

'Uhm '

'Brad's asked me to meet him at the Bird and Baby.'

'Sure.' Daisy relaxed. 'Why not?'


The Eagle and Child - known to students as everything from Bird
and Baby to Fowl and Foetus - was a little walk uptown, and
Edward shepherded Daisy through the crowded streets. Oxford had
an incredible combination of beauty and electricity. After school, the
sense of freedom was like a drug. Daisy wondered what it would
be like to be here and actually be at the University. Like Edward
and like Brad. There was a slight regret in the pit of her stomach. If
she'd applied herself, she could have been there, too. She kind of
knew it.

Maybe I've been settling, Daisy thought. Unhappiness was a great
excuse to settle.
As she walked along, she could feel the first signs of her changing


IO8

body. Her thighs, which usually chafed uncoinfortably, weren't
quite so close together. She could feel a bit more definition in her
face. Small changes, yeah. But something. Brad's body was pure
muscle, thick, but not fat. She'd gone down to the river once to
watch him row. When the Merton eight came in first, Brad pulled
his shirt off. Daisy had stood on the wet, cold bank of the Isis and felt
something unfamiliar - the pull of real desire. Of course, she knew
she wasn't in his league; she was going to have to stop thinking
about him.

Easier said than done, though.

Edward took her into the pub and Daisy tried not to look too
eager. Where was he? Oh yeah, there, sitting by the fire and nursing
a Budweiser, a weak American beer. But Daisy forgave him for that,
because everyone knew Americans didn't drink. Edward lifted a

hand, spotting him, and went across the room.

'Hello,' he said.

'Ed. How's it going?'

Daisy laughed; she'd never seen anyone less 'Ed'-like than Edward
Powers.

'Hey, pretty lady,' Brad said to her, 'How you doing tonig?'

'I'm OK,' Daisy said, blushing lightly. She lowered her head'o
Edward wouldn't see.

'What you guys been doing tonight?

'We went down to the Union to see Richard Weston.'

Brad looked blank.

'A famous author; and Daisy here wowed him.'

'I didn't wow him, I just asked him if he was rich.'

'Getting right to the point, huh.' Brad grinned. 'I like a chick who
speaks her mind.'

He looked at her, and Daisy thought she could lose herself for
ever in those dark-lashed eyes; and then his eyes slid off her.

'I was thinking about trying out for the rugby team,' he told
Edward.

'You don't know the first thing about rugby,' Powers replied.

'True, but I'm built like a linebacker and I can play football.' He
flexed his biceps. 'Whaddaya think, Daisy?'

She gingerly felt his arm; it was hard as a rock. 'Ithink you'd be a
great rugby player,' she murmured.

'Piffle, rugby's an art,' Edward protested, and the two men started
talking about sports, which bored Daisy rigid. She just sat and nursed
her half-a-cider and tried not to be too obvious as she gazed at Brad.

109


He was just so hot. Of course, his eyes weren't on Daisy; he kept
checking out other girls around the pub as he talked. But it didn't
put her off. She couldn't help it, she just wanted him.

IlO


Chapter 1 5


I<ose qualified her tenants through an open house. She had
everything ready; the place was clean and sparkling, and she put fresh
flowers in each apartment. The response was encouraging. 1Kose was
polite and friendly; she didn't tell anyone she was the owner. She
selected tenants, took deposits, and ran credit checks. The ones with
the best records got the apartments.

Meanwhile, Rose moved into the basement. She'd had it fitted
out as cheaply as possible, getting her furniture from garage sales and
deep-discount stores, and even though it was gloomy, she added lots
of lamps and mirrors opposite the windows and had everythi,.ng
white, to make the most of the light from the small openings.

She banked her first month rent cheques and held her breath, bt
they all cleared.

Rose took money from the first and paid the mortgage; the
rest she had to live on. It amounted to over a thousand dollars a
month.

A fortune.

Her parents couldn't believe it. Rose made her father come out to
Maple Leaf Drive the first Sunday she moved in.

'You own it?' her father said. 'I don't understand.'

Her mother just burst into tears again.

Neither one of them minded her moving out, or if they did, they
didn't let lKose see it.

'I always knew you'd be spreading your wings, sugar,' Paul said
proudly. 'My daughter, a homeowner.'

1Kose didn't see them having to park the car around the corner,
sobbing in each other's arms, right after they droxie away.

She was tempted not to bother with Columbia. She had run the
numbers on :z2 Maple Leaf right after she bought it, adding in
projected rents, and she thought that right off the bat she'd probably
made twenty thousand. What she wanted to do was refinance, take


111

out fifteen, and buy something else. It was risky; she had no equity
cushion. But rents were going up everywhere, and one three-family
in Mount Vernon wasn't the glittering skyscraper she had pictured
on her walls.

But she didn't dare. It would upset her morn and dad. For all the

love they'd given her, Rose thought, she owed them.

So she showered in the tiny, tiled but windowless cubicle she had

down in the basement, got up at seven, and walked down to
Columbus Avenue to catch the bus for the city.


'Welcome to Orientation Week,' a student said brightly, a young
man with too-long curly hair and I'm-smart glasses. 'My name is
Sebastian, and I'll be showing you around the campus today ...'

Rose quietly slipped out at the back. She thought she could find
her way around without this guy. All she needed to know was the
location of the library and the classrooms for her various courses. For
the rest of it, she was going to be the loner she'd been at high school.
Student housing blocks - who cared? Community room? No thanks.
She regarded her fellow students not exactly with disdain, but with
total disinterest. Rich kids, bright-cheeked, with scarves trailing and
neat hair and new leather ankle boots under their 5oIs; no scuffs, and
being driven up to the door il shiny cars - Mercedes, Rolls-Royces,
Porsche 91 IS. Rose had nothing in common with them. She sighed,
and tossed her long fountain of raven-black hair behind her. Four
years of this. Maybe if she made enough on the side she could drop
out, and her parents wouldn't mind.

Rose started quietly at the history faculty. She took a spot in the
back of the class, listened politely to the professors, and took notes.
She never bothered to ask questions. What would be the point of
that? She understood what they were saying. Rose cared more about
getting out and taking the bus back home, walking around her
neighbourhood and looking for more properties.


'Miss Fiorello.'

Rose stopped, startled. Professor Bartlett was calling her. She

paused on her way out of the lecture hall. Had she done something

wrong? He'd seen her taking notes. She never talked in his class.

'Yes?'

'Come here, please.' Bartlett was in his late forties, a crisp, neat

and rather effeminate man, with a manicure and a piercing stare. He

was also her favourite lecturer. Rose never missed even one of his

112


talks on the R-enaissance. t,eluctantly, she walked up to the front of

the hall, where he was standing by the podium.
'You have an appointment? A job to go to?'
'Not exactly,' Rose said.

'I'm having a symposium tonight. Various students will be
attending. It's a discussion group on Elizabeth I. I would like you to
come.'

'I really-'

'It's an invitation-only group,' Bartlett said. He shrugged. 'If you
are not interested, it's not compulsory. This is extra work, without
credit of any kind. There's nothing in it for you except academic
interest.'

Td love to come.' 1Kose smiled at him. 'Thank you, Professor.'

'We'll be meeting in my rooms at five-thirty.' He gave her the
directions and turned back to gathering up his notes.

Rose walked out of the lecture hall and headed to the library. She
could sit and read there without having to spend a dollar on a cup of
coffee. Also, nobody could bother her. Rose didn't like to wait
around for guys to hit on her. Ever since William 1Kothstein, and

then Mike Chastain, she'd avoided boys.
	"

All they wanted to do was tfuck her, use her. She guessed that ")ne

day she'd meet a 'nice' man, whatever that was - somebody like r

father, just a little smarter. Rose blushed with disloyalty at the

thought, but she instinctively knew that intelligence was the single

most important thing for her. She shared a culture, a faith and a

childhood with her parents, but what she didn't share was genes.

She was cut from a different cloth, and it wasn't simply a matter of

her dusky skin and ice-blue eyes, her slanting cheekbones and the

tall, slim frame that could not have come from her mother. Her

father was hard-working, but he had no dreams, no ambition. All of

which, and the brains to achieve them, were millions of miles from

Paul and Daniella. Not from their daughter.

But there would be time to find this nice guy after she'd got

where she needed to go. When she was a millionaire and had ruined

lKothstein Realty, then she could get married. Right now, Rose

wasn't even looking.

She pored over her notes on the Papal States Until.five-twenty,

then grabbed her papers and headed off to Professor Bartlett's rooms.

Rose might have mistrusted the invitation, but she was pretty sure

Bartlett swung from the other side of the plate. Anyway, she loved

his lectures.

Rose grudgingly guessed that since she was at Columbia, she

might as well get a real education.

She knocked on the door.

'Who is it?' demanded Bartlett's soft, rather breathy voice.
'Rose Fiorello.'
'Come in, please.'

The door opened and IKose found herself in a room which would
have been spacious were it not for the books everywhere - stacked
in piles on the table, on chairs, on the floor, looking as though they
multiplied themselves when people weren't watching, like Tribbles
in Star Trek. There were two couches and two chairs ranged on a
rare book-free stretch of floor, and students were already sitting
perched upon them.

There were eight in total. Marion Watson was bookish and always
asked Bartlett questions; Rose wasn't surprised to see her here. Apart
from herself, Marion was the only woman. The others were all kids
whom she regarded as 'keen' - library hounds and lecture hogs who
signed up for courses they weren't even studying, just for fun: Keith
Jones, Tommy Crawford, Hank Javits, Peter Blake, Brad Oliver.
Two others she didn't recognise; one was small and skinny, the other
taller than herself, and muscular. He had brown hair and hazel eyes
fringed with dark, thick lashes, and a square, masculine jaw with a
touch of five o'clock shadow. Rose noticed his confidence - his
arrogance - first. Then her eyes flickered over the suit and the shoes.
She had seen suits like those before - in the front windows of Saks.

Her gaze darted to his wrist. Yeah, there was a 1Lolex there.
How predictable, Rose thought.

'Now we are all assembled, I'll make the introductions,' Professor

Bartlett said. 'Everybody, this is 1Lose Fiorello.'

There was a chorus of greeting.

'I know everybody,' Rose said, 'apart from these two ...
gentlemen.'

'This is Stanley Young,' Bartlett said, indicating the weedy kid,
'and this is Jacob 1Lothstein.'

'Hi,' Stanley said. Jacob nodded at her, his dark eyes examining
her in the way men usually did.

'Of 1Kothstein Realty?' Rose joked.

Jacob looked annoyed. 'I prefer not to talk about that, if you don't
mind.'

Rose sat down sharply. A flush of shock had hit her, creeping


II4

from her neck right up to her hairline. Her heart started to race and
she felt a sheen of sweat hit her skin.

	We

	entire group caught her reaction.

	'Ihdidn't mean to embarrass you,' Jacob said.

	Rose just managed to catch her breath, with a supreme effort of

	will. 'You didn't. It was - a - a - head-rush.'

	'This week's meeting is on Elizabeth I of England,' Bartlett said.

	'Last week I asked the symposium to consider how Elizabeth's

	childhood affected her policies as Queen.' He turned to Rose. 'You

	are our new member, but you'll pick it up. You can learn a good

	de,i,fmrOm these meetings.'

		sure,' Rose said softly.

	'Mr Rothstein,' said Bartlett. 'Why don't you start?'

II5


Chapter 16


'I feel therefore that this sense of danger, of being hunted, remained
with the Queen throughout her reign and that the diplomatic skills
she learned during her various confinements were put to full use in
the avoidance of marriage.'

Jacob Rothstein stopped speaking, setting a sheaf of neatly typed
notes to one side.

The room gave a collective sigh and leaned backwards in their
seats. Rose saw that they had been spellbound by watching
Rothstein talk. He had a soft, even voice, very confident, she would
even say polished. He had made eye contact with each one of them,
including the Professor, drawin.g them in to his argument, binding
them to him. He was obviously quite used to public speaking. She
had to force herself to keep looking away, so that nobody saw her
staring at him with loathing.

Jacob P,.othstein spoke like a man entitled. Entitled to their
attention, to their respect, to commanding this room.

'Jacob, that was wonderful,' Marion Watson purred. Rose
watched with disbelief as Marion fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Marion Watson, who hardly seemed to know men were alive!

Well, Rothstein was good-looking, 1-Zose conceded privately, if
you liked that obvious sort of thing.

She didn't. Rich Columbia jocks were two a penny.

'Yes, fascinating,' Keith agreed.

'I disagree with your conclusions,' Rose snapped.

Everyone blinked and looked at her. Professor Bartlett raised a
neatly plucked brow.

'Ah, Miss Fiorello; I was hoping a more informal setting might
bring you out of your shell. You have an alternative viewpoint?'

Rose nodded, holding Jacob Rothstein's gaze as he looked at her.
Evidently he wasn't used to being challenged here.

'I think Mr lothstein, and historians in general, are looking for

II6


neat little facts to fit neat little theses,' she said, coldly. 'But real life
doesn't fall into such patterns; or very rarely. And not in the case of
Elizabeth.'

'I believe,' Jacob said, equally coolly, 'that the facts I have
presented support my conclusions.'

'So do I.' Rose gave him a polite smile that did not reach her eyes.
'But what about the facts you did not present? If Elizabeth had such a
sense of fear, why did she react as she did to the preacher at Mary I's
funeral, who said, "Better a dead lion than a live dog?" If her dance
around suitable princes was evidence of such incredible diplomatic
tact, honed by years of sucking up to her father and brother and
sister, how come she put on madrigals insulting the French and
Spanish, and in her lifetime gained a reputation for sleeping around?'

Bartlett was now staring at her, fascinated. His eyes began to
twinkle gleefully.

'What of the Queen being suspected of the murder of the wife of
one of her favourites? When the Countess of Essex was killed by a
suspicious fall down the stairs, people thought Elizabeth was behind
it. This level of cavorting at Court - which, after all, endangered her
crown when the Irish rebellion was raised by Essex - does not;tend
to your view of a frightened monarch, desperately calling on all er
reserves of diplomacy.'

lose took a deep breath and settled back in her seat. The clas
gazed at her, as though they were watching a train wreck. She
instantly understood that Jacob was the big star of this group. Her
pale blue eyes challenged him.

	Rothstein squared his shoulders and regarded her.

'You cannot try to deny that Elizabeth was able to string her
various suitors along in a masterly way, before they finally gave up
hope. And, furthermore, this . . . tease,' he said, deliberately looking
her over, slowly, his glance travelling up her legs and flickering over
her breasts before rising to meet her stare, 'was applied not only to
foreign courts but also to the pressure from her ministers at home,
who looked for an heir.'

'I do not deny that,' P,,ose said.

	Jacob shrugged. 'Well, then.'

	"I

		challenge the causation you are trying to establish,'. Rose went

on. 'You assert that this skill was the result of the privations of her
childhood, and all the loyal protestations she had to make to her
father and siblings in order to keep her head on her neck. However,
it seems more likely that this skill was simply innate. If she'd felt

II7


Chapter 16


'I feel therefore that this sense of danger, of being hunted, remained
with the Queen throughout her reign and that the diplomatic skills
she learned during her various confinements were put to full use in
the avoidance of marriage.'

Jacob Rothstein stopped speaking, setting a sheaf of neatly typed
notes to one side.

The room gave a collective sigh and leaned backwards in their
seats. Rose saw that they had been spellbound by watching
Rothstein talk. He had a soft, even voice, very confident, she would
even say polished. He had made eye contact with each one of them,
including the Professor, drawin.g them in to his argument, binding
them to him. He was obviously quite used to public speaking. She
had to force herself to keep looking away, so that nobody saw her
staring at him with loathing.

Jacob 1Kothstein spoke like a man entitled. Entitled to their
attention, to their respect, to commanding this room.

'Jacob, that was wonderful,' Marion Watson purred. Rose
watched with disbelief as Marion fluttered her eyelashes at him.
Marion Watson, who hardly seemed to know men were alive!

Well, Rothstein uas good-looking, Rose conceded privately, if
you liked that obvious sort of thing.

She didn't. Rich Columbia jocks were two a penny.

'Yes, fascinating,' Keith agreed.

'I disagree with your conclusions,' Rose snapped.

Everyone blinked and looked at her. Professor Bartlett raised a
neatly plucked brow.

'Ah, Miss Fiorello; I was hoping a more informal setting might
bring you out of your shell. You have an alternative viewpoint?'

Rose nodded, holding Jacob 1Kothstein's gaze as he looked at her.
Evidently he wasn't used to being challenged here.

'I think Mr Rothstein, and historians in general, are looking for


II6

neat little facts to fit neat little theses,' she said, coldly. 'But real life
doesn't fall into such patterns; or very rarely. And not in the case of
Elizabeth.'

'I believe,' Jacob said, equally coolly, 'that the facts I have
presented support my conclusions.'

'So do I.' Rose gave him a polite smile that did not reach her eyes.
'But what about the facts you did not present? If Elizabeth had such a
sense of fear, why did she react as she did to the preacher at Mary I's
funeral, who said, "Better a dead lion than a live dog?" If her dance
around suitable princes was evidence of such incredible diplomatic
tact, honed by years of sucking up to her father and brother and
sister, how come she put on madrigals insulting the French and
Spanish, and in her lifetime gained a reputation for sleeping around?'

Bartlett was now staring at her, fascinated. His eyes began to
twinkle gleefully.

'What of the Queen being suspected of the murder of the wife of
one of her favourites? When the Countess of Essex was killed by a
suspicious fall down the stairs, people thought Elizabeth was behind
it. This level of cavorting at Court - which, after all, endangered her
crown when the Irish rebellion was raised by Essex - does not'tend
to your view of a frightened monarch, desperately calling on all "her
reserves of diplomacy.'

Rose took a deep breath and settled back in her seat. The class
gazed at her, as though they were watching a train wreck. She
instantly understood that Jacob was the big star of this group. Her
pale blue eyes challenged him.

P,.othstein squared his shoulders and regarded her.

'You cannot try to deny that Elizabeth was able to string her
various suitors along in a masterly way, before they finally gave up
hope. And, furthermore, this . . . tease,' he said, deliberately looking
her over, slowly, his glance travelling up her legs and flickering over
her breasts before rising to meet her stare, 'was applied not only to
foreign courts but also to the pressure from her ministers at home,
who looked for an heir.'

'I do not deny that,' Pose said.

Jacob shrugged. 'Well, then.'

'I challenge the causation you are trying to establish,'. Rose went
on. 'You assert that this skill was the result of the privations of her
childhood, and all the loyal protestations she had to make to her
father and siblings in order to keep her head on her neck. However,
it seems more likely that this skill was simply innate. If she'd felt


7

hunted and threatened all her life, she would not have been prancing
around with married men - her inferiors, men who could only hurt
her political alms. Nor would she have authorised pirate raids on
Spain . . .'

'Very interesting.' Bartlett's measured tones cut her off. 'I see you

two could engage in debate all night. Clearly we have added another
valuable member to our group,' he inclined his head slightly towards
Rose, 'especially as Miss Fiorello was not aware of the subject of
tonight's discussion. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Rothstein?'

Jacob Rothstein examined his rival and grinned very slightly,

which I<ose found extremely annoying.

'Yes, I would,' he said softly.

'For next week, we will discuss Renaissance literature. Miss

Watson, you will speak on Dante. I would like the rest of you to
study the topic in pairs and each pair will speak briefly after Miss
Watson. Mr Crawford and Mr Blake; Mr Javits and Mr Young; Mr
Oliver and Mr Jones; and Miss Fiorello and Mr Rothstein.'

Rose blushed with anger, but what the hell could she do, say no?
Bartlett was looking her way, with a hint of mischief in his eyes.
'That's OK with you, Rose?'

'Certainly, Professor Bartlett,' Rose muttered.

'Wonderful. See you all next'week.' And the class stood and filed

out of Bartlett's room in pairs.

The students pooled out on the stairwell, and Rose found herself

trapped by admirers.

'Wow, that was awesome,' Stanley Young said earnestly. 'How

could you argue like that off. the top of your head?'

'I've always liked Elizabeth,' lose mumbled, desperate to get

away.

Jacob tothstein glanced at her over the top of the crowd. Tll

rooms?'make an appointment to meet you, Miss Fiorello. Where are your
'Off-campus,' Rose said shortly.

He scribbled a note on a business card which she saw him pull

from a solid gold card-case. 'These are mine. Does noon tomorrow

suit?'

'Whatever,' Rose snapped.

'See you then.' Rothstein turned and walked down the stairs,

leaving Rose stranded in a throng of admirers.


The next morning, Rose did a little research.

II8


Jacob Rothstein. Star debater, pussy hound, jock - he boxed,
apparently - and top of his class. He was in the year above her, and
he had aced his exams. Women flung themselves at him, and, one of
the girls she occasionally spoke to told her in the bathroom, giggling,
'he's just too polite to say no'.

He had the charm of a Southern gentleman married with the
sophistication of New York. Add the fact that he was an heir to a
vast fortune - 'They're in Forbes,' Anna told her, with a wink. 'You
interested?' - and girls could not stay away.

'So he loves 'em and leaves 'em?' Rose asked.

'Yeah, but in a nice way.'

'How the hell can you do that in a nice way? Come on.'
'Look.' Anna fluffed up her blonde curls and reapplied her
lipstick, with liner. 'He doesn't promise anything, you know? That's
what the bullshitters do. He just promises you a real nice time. Reeaal nice. And when it's over, he sends you a nice piece ofjewellery.'
She sighed. 'He's very generous.'

Rose stared at Anna suspiciously. She was a short, luscious
looking chick, with porno lips and platinum hair and more than a
handful of T & A. She was carrying a few pounds, maybe, butlhe

was definitely attractive, in that easy sort of way.

'How do you know all this?'

'See these earrings?' Anna twirled her head. 'You should go for it,
too. He'd love a chick like you. Maybe you could even date him for
real, you know? It's worth a shot.'

Rose bit down on her lip. She wasn't going to say that she'd never
have casual sex with any guy, much less with arrogant Jacob
lothstein. Anna didn't see the world the way she did.

'He's really not my type. I just have to study with him,' she
explained.

Anna giggled again. 'Is that what they call it these days?'

Rose shut up. She couldn't convince her, and she didn't want to
try.


When she.turned up at Rothstein's rooms it was noon on the dot.
'Come in,' he called, to her smart rap on the door

Rose opened it, but did not enter. Rothstein's room was
sumptuously decorated; it looked like dorm-room via Ralph Lauren.
English country house chic.

'Why don't we study in the library?' she suggested.


9

'Urn, because we can't talk there?' Jacob Rothstein said. He

looked her over again, and she bristled.

'Don't look at me like that.'

'Like what?' Rothstein said innocently. 'You're an attractive girl.
What am I supposed to do, go blind?'

Rose entered his room and closed the door behind her.

'Let's get one thing straight. I don't like you.'

Jacob snapped his fingers. 'Damnation. And my first impression
was that you couldn't wait to .jump my bones, you were so bowled
over by my devastating good looks.'

'Save that for girls like Anna Kent, OK?'

'Ah.' Jacob's eyes lit up. 'Anna. She was lots of fun.'

'She returns the compliment. Now if you would.just get to work,
we can complete this assignment and I can get out of here.'

'Perfect.' Jacob turned to his books. 'Just out of interest, though,
enlighten me. What exactly have I done to make you dislike me
quite so much?'


God, she's gorgeous, Rothstein thought. She didn't want him staring
at her? Too bad; he'd already inventoried the hand-span waist, the '
long, lean legs in those sexy "blue jeans, the tumbling waterfall of
sleek, black hair that, amazingly enough, did not look as though it
had been dyed, the soft, olive skin, and those incredible eyes.

Of course, the eyes were fake. They had to be coloured lenses.
Nobody had palest-blue wolf-eyes like that, so intense and startling
under the soft lashes. He wondered if those tits were real, too, but
honestly - who cared?

She was the total package, and didn't she know it, he thought.
Rothstein liked chicks. His tastes were catholic, as far as bed went.
Short girls with lusciously slung hips and big tits - delicious. Tall,
lean girls with that arrogant model look - great. He didn't like
extremes of weight in either direction; apart from that, he really
didn't care. Rothstein enjoyed sex and wasn't looking for commitment.
He took pride in his lovemaking, regarding it as a form of art.
When women sobbed and scratched in his arms, Jacob thought he
was doing OK by them.

But Rose Fiorello would be nobody's one-night stand, even if it
weren't for the luck-you attitude and the general air of frigidity. It
was as though the ice in her eyes had spread little frozen tendrils all
over the girl's body. She was the polar opposite of come-hither


I20

beauty. P,,ose was stay-away beauty. Moral beauty. Which made her
all the more appealing.

Jacob had seen her before. Most of the males that studied history
had seen her before. She was always bolting out of her seat after
lectures, as though an errant wasp had stung her on the ass, carrying
her thick sheaf of notes with her, looking neither to the right nor
left, for all the world like a Wall Street banker barrelling through the
crowd on his way to work. She was pure New York, with that
don't-mess-with-me attitude.

You could not miss her. She was tall and spectacular. Her clothes
might be plain, but they did nothing to detract from her beauty. Her
long hair was, surprisingly in this heavy-metal decade, not teased,
back-combed, crimped or otherwise messed with; just sleek and
glossy, like an otter darting from a stream. Her eyes were just
startling. Her figure was lean, but not skinny; she had some tits and
ass going, he thought approvingly. And her face, from the
shockingly gorgeous eyes to the high, aristocratic cheekbones, the
full lips and the long, straight loman nose, was just ... perfect.

She was a million miles from Malibu Barbie, but really, so what.
Other girls at Columbia - and Bamard, which was across the wiy
- dressed more sexily. They had implants, mini-skirts, towerin'$
heels, Donna Karan, manicures, bleached-blonde hair. There wer
plenty of milk-fed, All-American, rosy-cheeked beauties hanging
around this campus.

Not one of them was like Rose Fiorello.

But asking her out was taking your ego in your hands. He knew
guys that had tried it - or at least attempted to try it. Mostly, they
never got further than 'Hi', or 'Excuse me, sugar -' before P,.ose cut
them off, and barrelled out of the lecture hall.

She didn't mingle. She didn't socialise. She wasn't in student
politics or dramatics or night-classes.

Her whole, gorgeous body threw off her lack of interest in
everyone around her.

Jacob had suggested to Professor Bartlett that Rose be invited to
join the symposium. He had studied her carefully. She seemed to pay
the most attention in Bartlett's lectures, according to his informants.

And he assumed she would appreciate a challenge.

Well, he thought dryly, I got that right.

'Let's see.' lose shut his door and sat down on one of his chairs,
perching on the edge of it as though it were contagious. 'Why don't


121

I

I like you? Maybe because I hear things. Cheap Lotharios don't
really do it for me.'

Jacob arched a brow. 'Honey, there's nothing cheap about me.'
'Don't call me honey.'

'And I doubt you heard anything before last night. You may have
asked afterwards. It was clear then that you didn't know who I was.'
He grinned. 'I like the idea that you had me checked out later,
though. Now tell me; what did I do to you last night?'

'Do? Nothing.' lose's eyes narrowed. 'Maybe your fancy suits
and watch that costs what some students here live off all year bugged
me. Maybe I noticed your cocky attitude and thought you needed a
little deflating.'

Jacob thought about making a joke on the topic of Rose not
being that likely to deflate him, but decided against it.

'Maybe I don't particularly warm to little princes who come to

college with Daddy's money and assume they own the place.'
'Maybe you should pull that stick out of your ass.'
'Excuse me?' Rose said, outraged.

Jacob looked at her evenly. 'Oh, get over yourself, kid. You can
dish it out, but I don't have to take it. I make no apology for the

success of my family. In fac.t, I'm very proud of it.'

'I bet you are.'

'Damn straight. And as to my being here on Daddy's money, I
made 4.0 and the ninety-seventh percentile on my SATs. Don't
make the mistake of thinking rich kids are all stupid, just because you
won a scholarship. I deserve to be at Columbia. In fact, I deserve to
be anywhere in the IW League. I'm in Professor Bartlett's class
because I am one of his best students and aced my midterms. And if
some girls like me' - he shrugged - 'you know what that is? None of
your business.'

Rose stared at him and tried to think of a decent retort. Nothing
sprang to mind. Shit.

'Now we've cleared the air,' Rothstein said after a second, giving
her a superior smile, 'if you want to storm out of my room in a
tantrum, can you please do it fight away? Then you can call
Professor Bartlett, and we can both get reassigned.'

'You're not as hot as you think you are,' Rose hissed.

Rothstein moved a fraction closer to her, staring her right in the
eyes.

'How do you know?' he said softly. 'If you want to find out,
there's a spot here for you anytime.'


I22

He patted his bed.

'You're making a pass at me?'

'Don't look so jumpy. I'm issuing an invitation. I don't take any
chick to bed unless she asks me to. And ...'

That lazy, confident gaze trickling over her again. Rose fought an
impulse to squirm.

'... you'd have to ask me at least twice.'

Rose deliberately settled back in her chair. He was attractive, she

admitted it to herself.

But not to her.

She thought of William Rothstein. Loathsome, ugly slug; very
little like the princeling in front of her, except in his arrogance. Rose
tried to recall William's features, but time had blurred them; she had
only an impression of revulsion, and the memory of the sound of his
voice, the cutting, contemptuous words.

She smiled thinly, despising him and his clan.

'Don't hold your breath. And as for me storming out of here, I
hate to break it to you, but you're really not that important. Shall we
turn to the subject? I've brought some books.'


,,

They worked through the lunch hour. Rose argued her poil?ts
quietly and methodically, but she was crackling with adrenaline. She
wanted to stare at Jacob Rothstein, the heir to the company she was
going to destroy. Not that he would know it. P,.ose wanted to
scream it in his ear, to hit him, to let him know without the shadow
of a doubt that she was after him, that it wouldn't be long now.

But she did not. She simply debated with him, took notes and
discussed the topic.

Pothstein was infuriating. After that introduction, he'd just
continued to work as though nothing had happened. He was smart,
too, and he knew his period. He could match her point for point. In
fact, he had insight. At the end of an hour, the two of them had
prepared a remarkable paper.

'It's been interesting,' he said, offering his hand when she stood up
to go.

Rose let it hang there.

'We aren't friends,' she said.

Rothstein shrugged.

'Your loss,' he said. 'I was looking forward to getting to know

yOU.'

Rose turned on her heel and walked out.

I23


'See you tomorrow, toots,' he called after her.

Rose's heart didn't stop pounding until she'd got out of his
building and two streets away from campus. Bastard, sexist,
womanising bastard! Patronising jerk! She was hot with fury, almost
fighting to get her breath.

It took twenty minutes of bus ride to realise she had made a
mistake.

Rothstein was a scion of lothstein Realty. If she was serious
about striking back at them, she should use him - the same way he'd
used all those chicks. He looked at her like a sex object, and he said
he was proud of the company. She shouldn't have any hesitation
about deceiving him.

When she saw him tomorrow, I<ose thought, she'd be nicer to
him.

The arrogant son of a bitch.

24


Chapter 17


'Yeah, baby,' Fiona crooned. 'Yeah!'

Poppy thrashed out the last chord on her bass and tossed her black
mane of hair into the red spotlight trained on her. That was it; last
song. She felt the sweat dripping from her body. Her leather pants

looked hot, but they also felt hot. She needed HO badly.
'Thank yew!' Fiona screeched. 'Good night!'

Poppy smiled out at the crowd who were clapping dutifully. A
couple of metal-heads in the front who had been leering at the band
all night stuck their fists in the air and whooped.

Make noise, make some noise, Poppy thought. " ,:
But she knew it wasn't working. Fiona grabbed one of her haft.&
and Lianne, their rhythm guitarist, the other. Behind the drum-Nt
Elise stood up and did her patented Nikki-Six drumstick twirl. T15e
band bowed and blew kisses to the audience.

'Hey man, they want an encore, let's do "Outcast",' Fiona hissed.
Poppy could see the crowd was already drifting off to the bar.
'No they don't. Let's go.'

To forestall further debate, she waved at the club and ran into the
tiny dressing room at the back. It wasn't much bigger than a
bathroom stall and didn't smell much better. Graffiti from a hundred
club acts covered the walls. Poppy thought about scrawling her own - Snaggletooth was here and we sucked ass. At least that would be
honest.

The other four girls followed behind her and went straight for
their pathetic rider, a bottle of cheap vodka and a carton of cranberry
juice. There were also some plastic bottles of water and Poppy
drained one of those instead.

'Dude! Did you hear that! We fuckin' rocked,' Fiona gloated.
'They were, like, so into it, man. And I sounded awesome, I
sounded like Lira Ford.'

Hoo boy, Poppy thought.


I25

'Yeah, we rule,' Lianne said. 'Those guys were totally staring at

US.'

'I thought we sucked,' Poppy said. 'We really need some new

stuff. And more practice.'
'You're so negative.'
'Shut up.'

'You don't know.'

'Ignore her, she's always like that.' Fiona scowled at her bassist.

'Maybe we need some other chick on bass.'

'She looks good, though,' Elise said.

'You're real lucky, Poppy. Lucky that not too many chicks play
bass,' Fiona said again, like she always did. 'Anyway,' she added,
tossing her long blonde hair and brightening, 'guess what? Fix your

make-up, ladies. Guess who's waiting to see us after the set?'
Poppy had a sinking feeling.
'Joel Stein, that's who.'

'Please tell me you're joking,' Poppy said.

'Who's Joel Stein?' Lianne asked.

'He's this big-time manager. And he's here to see us!'

The other gifts screamed, jumping up and down and clapping
their hands.

Poppy blushed from pure embarrassment. Her band, Snaggle
tooth, had only just started. The girls didn't want to rehearse
enough, their songs sucked, and they all thought they were about to
be discovered by John Kalodner and turned into the next Guns n'
Roses. Joel Stein, she knew who Joel Stein was. He ran the Dreams
management company. He had a huge stable of multi-platinum
bands and a handful of up-and-coming new acts.

She hoped Stein had not come to see them. They were nowhere

near ready. Poppy wasn't sure if they ever would be.

'We're gonna meet him at the bar. Let's go!'

'Wait!' Elise said. She turned to the small, grimy, cracked mirror
over the doorway and adjusted herself, undoing her leather zip-top
to show a generous amount of cleavage. The band tarted up;
lipsticks, liners, perfumes were all generously applied. Poppy
reluctantly checked that her mascara had not run.

'Wooh! Yeah!' Fiona was giving that annoying screechy cheering
she loved to do. 'Let's go, Snaggletooth!'

She flung open the door and raced out into the club. Poppy
followed. Girls ignored them totally; a few of the guys patted their
asses as they threaded their way through the packed darkness.

I26


'Hey, babes. Great band.'

	'You ladies are hot, you want a drink?'

	'What's up, sugar?'

'See?' Fiona turned around and looked disdainfully at Poppy.
'They love us, man.'

They reached the stairs that led up to the bar area. There was a
tiny, cordoned-off section in the back; the 'VIP' room, what a joke,
Poppy thought. A small cubby hole that only stank less than the rest
of this poorly ventilated cess pit because there were less bodies
crammed into it like human sardines. Oh no ... there was a guy there ...

Fiona flashed her laminate at the security guard and he drew back
the shabby red rope to let them in.

'Joel, dude, so nice of you to come,' Fiona purred. The other four
swarmed around him, batting their eyelashes and jiggling their
boobs. Poppy blushed some more; no matter, it was too dark in here
for that to show. She looked at Joel Stein. He was tall, well-dressed;
beautifully cut chinos, a pressed white T-shirt, a lKolex, a gold pinky
ring, and long hair in a pony tail, with Kay-Bans on top of his head.

Typical record exec, one of those fit forty-year-olds.
	:

	He glanced at her.
	"i

	'How do you do, Mr Stein,' Poppy said politely, and offered ler

hand. '

Stein shook it, crooking an eyebrow. Fiona kicked her, none too
subtly.

'So, hey, we rocked! Huh? Huh? We should talk contracts!' Fiona
screeched.

	Stein's face was impassive.

'I'm gonna have to pass, girls. You're a good band, but you're just
not what Dreams is looking for.'

	'Whaddya mean, pass? Didn't you see the set?' Fiona demanded.

'Shut up, Fiona. Thank you for coming to see us, Mr Stein,'
Poppy said.

'You always ruin everything, Poppy!' Fiona's voice was almost a
scream now. 'Keep your fucking trap shut!'

	'Um, good luck with finding management,' Stein said.

	'No, wait!' Fiona yelled, but he was gone.

	'Oh - shit!' Lianne rounded on Poppy. 'You just blew it for us!

We could have talked him into it!'

	'You're fired!' Fiona yelled.

	'No, man, we can't find another chick bassist,' Elise moaned.

I27


	'We'll get a guy then,' Fiona snarled.

'No, Fi-"

'Save youelves the trouble.' Poppy's disgust overflowed. 'Joel

Stein isn't stupid. He didn't think we were good, he was .just being
polite. We don't practise enough to be good. The songs suck and
Fiona has a voice like a barn owl. It takes more than long hair and
big tits to be a rock band. I quit.'

'You suck as a bassist! You're always off-beat!' Elise, the
drummer, accused.

Poppy considered this. 'You're right. I do. But yon know what

the man said - "If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again. Then

quit. No use being a damn fool about it."'

Fiona reached out and pulled the laminate off Poppy's neck. 'Fuck

you, bitch! You're out of Snaggletooth!'

Tll try to get over it,' Poppy said.

'Come on, girls. Let's get the hell out of this dump.' Tossing her

hair, Fiona stormed off with the others, leaving Poppy behind.

'If you don't have a laminate you can't stay in the VIP section,'

the guard grunted.

Poppy looked around her at the empty four square feet of ground.

'That's fine.' She bit back a smile and went to the bar. 'Jack and

diet Pepsi, please.'

'Diet?'

'Damage limitation,' Poppy said. She slid ten bucks across the bar

and waited for the glass to appear. This was her drink now. The
alcohol and soda and ice was cool and pleasant in the heat of the
club.

Poppy needed a drink. She'd have this one, then leave. So much

for her career as a rock star. And Joel Stein had actually seen that

disaster ...

Ugh.

'And now, please welcome Silver Bullet,' the PA said.

The nightclubs had opened now and the crowd was thinner,
unenthused. Poppy looked at the stage with sympathy. A quartet of
girls ran on, waving. They were cute; they looked a lot like
Snaggletooth.

This is gonna be bad, Poppy thought. She wondered exactly how

bad. Worse or better than her own shitty band? They couldn't be all

that much worse ...

'This one's called "Flying",' the lead singer said. Poppy saw that

she was cute and in her early twenties.


128

The band started to play.

Poppy blinked.

She couldn't believe it. They were awesome. They were
everything Snaggletooth wasn't; put together, on-beat, punk rock
with a nice dose of pop, and a singer with a rich voice. Kind of low
and husky for a girl. Great rock-star voice. Kind of Janis Joplin ...

Her drink lay untouched before her on the bar. Poppy watched
the whole set. Even the thinning crowd moved to the front of the
stage. People cheered and whistled.

It's a pity for Joel Stein he didn't stay to hear them, Poppy thought.
And then it hit her.

She tossed back her drink - it felt good - and slid off the bar stool,
moving down the steps into the main body of the club, trying to get
a good look.

The place was half-empty, but the electricity was still there.
Tunes. They actually had tunes. What a change from her own shitty
band; from .just about every other half-baked act that played this
dive. Excited, Poppy did an inventory in her head. Songs, check,
attitude, check - the bass player was a bit overweight and was
playing her instrument like she was Keith l<ichards, with a cigarette
hanging on for dear life out of the corner of her mouth - and loSks,
check - no matter if the bass player was overweight and the rhytl
guitarist had the jaw of a horse, the singer was hot, with long red
hair, and the lead guitarist was a pretty punk; her hair was spiked up,
but it was a disconcerting pastel-pink and the girl had the face of a
model. Poppy couldn't see the drummer. Chops weren't so great,
they weren't all that polished. But that didn't matter with a rock 'n'
roll band.

They were stars.

She could see it, right away. They were everything Snaggletooth
wasn't. And she had ideas for them, plenty of ideas.

Poppy wasn't interested in being a bassist any more. She watched
these chicks and she knew she had no talent. It didn't bother her,
though. She had a better idea.

She wanted to be a manager.

Silver Bullet ripped into another number.

Poppy turned her attention to the small crowd. They were going
mental. It was probably a shock to them to watch something that
wasn't a total suck-lest.

Poppy had found her vocation. She knew something was wrong
when her own band stunk the .joint out and she didn't really care.


129

Her heart hadn't been in it. But when she'd heard Joel Stein was
there, then she'd started to give a shit. Poppy had been so impressed
by him. The way he'd stood there, so calm. Such command. His

eyes had swept over everything, processing data like a computer.

She had wanted to be him. Instantly.

And maybe now she could. She wasn't sure how, but she'd think

of something.

'Hey.' The singer tapped the mike. 'Thanks. We're Silver Bullet.'

The whole band stood up and just walked fight offstage, ignoring

the baying cries for more.

Stylish.

Wait a second, Poppy thought, I know that girl -

The drummer was walking off. She had a cute haircut, very
distinctive, a platinum-blonde bob. Poppy had seen her earlier that
evening, up in the bar before Snaggletooth went on. She was getting
her rider - the plastic bottle of four-dollar vodka - to carry it
backstage, and had seen the girl then. She was tall and lean and
surrounded. A group of drunk guys were homing in on her; Poppy
had only noticed in the packed darkness because that blonde hair
caught one of the dim club lights and reflected it.

Poppy hadn't thought twice. She'd had her band laminate on, and

had strode into the men.

'Hey!'

'Ease up, sugar.' A brawny biker-type with tattoos was stroking

the girl's denim-clad butt as she swore at him and tried to get away.

'Unless you wanna join the party.'

Poppy was wearing her spiked-heel boots. She ground one of

them into the thug's toe and he yelped and stared at her.

'I'm with the club,' Poppy said. 'Leave the young lady alone or

get the fuck out.'

Her voice had so much venom they actually backed off.

'You OK?'

'I am now. Thanks.' The girl had looked shaken and moved off.

Poppy had headed backstage, feeling slightly virtuous, and then

forgotten all about it.

She grinned. That was a start, no? Managers were supposed to

make trouble go away. Now the band were backstage. Poppy
checked out the door that led back into the club. Nobody was going
to see them. She felt a tiny sense of relief. Mingled with nerves.

Was she really about to pitch these girls to let her manage them?

I30


She was younger than them. Poppy tossed her long black hair. It
didn't do to think too much about it.

They emerged. She saw they'd changed outfits. They were now
in jeans and T-shirts. Poppy's excitement grew. That was rad. Even

this early on, they had stage clothes. She loved it.
Poppy walked up to them.
'Hey.'

'Hi. Oh, hey.' The drummer thrust out her hand. 'This is the
chick I was telling you about, she saved my butt. How you doing?
I'm Lisa.'

	'Poppy Allen.'

'Kate,' said the singer. 'Molly.' The bassist. 'Claire.' 'Debbie.'
P,.hythm and lead. They were all smiling at her; that was a start.

'I watched your set,' Poppy said without preamble. 'You rocked.
I'd like to manage you.'


She took them to Luigi's.

	'I'm starving,' Kate had said.

	'Let's go get a bite. I'll buy you dinner.'

	'Really? That'd be great,' plump Molly said hungrily. 'I ,.can

normally only afford White Castle.'


	Which explains the size, Poppy thought.

'Can we go to Denny's?' Molly said, hopefully. The other girls
looked a bit embarrassed, but nobody contradicted Molly. 'We don't
get paid that much,' Lisa explained.

'The diner? We can do better than that. You guys like Italian?'
They were practically drooling.

Poppy fetched her car from the parking lot and tipped the valet. It
was a drop-top CheW. They looked impressed.

	'I'm afraid you're gonna have to cram in there.'

'Hey, no problem,' Kate said, looking pleased. 'I get the passenger
seat.'

Her band exchanged looks, but they clambered into the two back
seats, crouching on top of each other.

Poppy drove to Luigi's because it was close. Her father gave this
place a ridiculous amount of business.

'Signorina Poppy, ciao, cara,' Stefano said, kissing .her extravagantly
on the cheek. 'Ees so good to see you.'

'These are my friends, Stefano,' Poppy said firmly. He had been
looking askance at the .jeans and T-shirts and beat-up leather jackets.

	'Ah, si? No problem, for you no problem. This way, please.'


I31

He led them into the restaurant and seated them in a corner
banquette. Normally the place had a dress code: jackets and ties only.
The girls looked at the other diners in their Hugo Boss and Armani
and pearls.

'This is real fancy,' Kate said approvingly.

'The food here's not bad.' A waiter handed them their menus.
'Anything you want, ladies.'

Poppy saw their mouths were watering.

'Lasagne,' Molly moaned. 'Oh, man. Hey, thanks a lot.'

Poppy ordered a carafe of house red. 'And bring some champagne

cocktails to start off with.'

'Very good, madam.'

Now they were gazing at her with something close to awe. Poppy

felt a bit ashamed. She was buying all this with Daddy's money,
Daddy's connections. But she had nothing, herself. Fuck it. A
manager couldn't afford those kinds of scruples. Let them think she
was super-successful.

The cocktails arrived, Kir royals in crystal flutes. Poppy lifted hers

in a toast.

'To your success.'

'Success,' they echoed.

'This is awesome,' Kate said. 'You should definitely manage us.'
'Glad to hear that,' Poppy said confidently. 'You won't regret it.'
She talked a good game over dinner. Record companies, radio
stations, booking them into clubs which weren't pay-to-play. They
were obviously broke and hungry. They scythed through the food
when it came, relished the wine, sopped up the flavoured oils with
their bread. Poppy could see a warm glow, part contentment, part
alcohol, descend over the table.

But it wasn't quite that easy. The cute pink-haired punk, Debbie,

tried three times to ask her who else she managed, and how she
could do it so young. The other girls kicked her under the table, and
Poppy just smiled and refilled her glass. But she saw that Kate, the

singer, watched with keen interest.

The band knew they were hot.

She was going to need to convince them with more than a good

meal. But one step at a time. Right now, she just didn't want them

talking to anybody else.

'Thanks, that was awesome,' Molly said when she had settled up

and they were standing on the street outside.

Tll give you a ride home,' Poppy offered.


I32

'That's OK,' Claire said. 'We live right around here.'
'Give me your numbers.'
They looked at each other.

'We don't have a phone,' Debbie said, 'but I got a beeper. OK?'

Poppy understood at once. They were probably squatting
someplace. 'That's fine.'

'We're gonna need to talk with you some more before we sign a
contract,' Kate said.

'I know. I'll buzz you, we can meet up.' The valet parker pulled
up with Poppy's car and she jumped into it. 'See you girls later.'

That went well, she thought as she drove off. But she knew it
wasn't going to be enough.

She needed a plan. Bad.

I33


Chapter 1 8


'This is Kate.'

'Hi, this is Poppy. Where are you?'

'At a payphone on Wilshire. Hey, I'm glad you called. We had a

band meeting. You're really great, everybody likes you '
Poppy could hear the 'but' in her voice.

'We were, you know, kinda wondering what contacts you have at
the big labels and stuff.'

'I know people at college radio, people at venues, and I can get
you guys great deals at '

'Um.' Kate sounded awkward. 'That's the kind of thing we
thought, but that's not really, enough ...'

'Oh, that's not all.' Poppy laughed. 'I'm gonna call you gifts back
tomorrow. I have a few meetings. Just wanted to touch base and see
if you were OK.'

'We're fine, but-'

'Talk to you tomorrow,' Poppy said firmly. 'Bye.'

She hung up. Damn.

Oh well. She'd expected that. They were all older than she was. It
was always going to be a rough sell.

Poppy felt in the pocket of her coat. She had the demo tape that
Kate had given her last night. And now she had exactly twenty-four
hours to do something with it, or give up the whole idea.

The band may have been starving musicians, but they weren't
naive. They had probably been together a few years, been around
the block, just never got discovered. Poppy knew what they were
looking for: a major label deal, money for recording time, a
professional producer, a support slot On a big tour. The usual. The
Sunset Strip dream.

She had to deliver it or she'd be out before she'd even got in.

Poppy had no contacts. Last night she'd thought about Daddy, but
his roster of clients was all film and TV. Snaggletooth had never


134

made so much as a ripple in the music scene. It was a mystery to her
how Fiona had managed to get Joel Stein to come and see them.
And she could hardly ask Fiona.

.Joel Stein.

Of course. That was it. Her first instinct was always the right one.
Pity Joel Stein couldn't see them, she'd thought.

Dream Management. Big offices on Wilshire Boulevard, near the
Whisky and the Rainbow, right in the heart of the scene. Mercedes
and Porsches always parked out front in its lot. They managed so
many big stars; they'd know everybody, forget it; the promo guys,

MTV, the Monsters of Rock people, and all the major labels.

I could take them to him. And go to work for him.

Poppy dialled 4 . 'Dream Management, Hollywood, please.'


It was exactly what she had expected.

The office screamed money. It had polished marble floors, a giant
mock-up of the cover of Sergeant Pepper on the walls, a kidney
shaped reception desk, a receptionist in Donna Karan, and framed
gold and platinum records everywhere. There were coffee tables in
front of the couch laden with Billboard, Music Week from the IK,

Variety, and other trade publications. "
'I don't see you in the book, Miss,' the receptionist told heril
'Check again.' Poppy was wearing her most expensive clothes, a
gorgeous vintage black Dolce & Gabanna suit, with Wolford hose,
Calvin Klein shoes, and the gold Patek Philippe she'd been given for
her last birthday. 'I'm with Reckless Records. Poppy Allen? We made the appointment two weeks back, at least.'

She opened up her Hermes bag and handed the girl a business
card.

It said: 'Poppy Allen. A & R Director, Reckless Records.' The
script was embossed in black. Poppy was quite proud of it, for
something she'd knocked up at Kinkos in ten minutes flat

'Let me see what I can do,' the receptionist said, warily.

She punched a button on her phone bank and talked low into the
receiver for a few minutes.

'He says you can go straight in. It's right ai the. end of the
corridor.'

'Thanks,' Poppy said, trying not to reveal her joy. She turned and
pushed open the glass doors. There was a long corridor with offices
at either side; some of them had two or three people inside, shouting

135


into phones. Fax machines were spurting, there was rock music

playing in the background, the whole thing was electric.
Poppy's pahns started to sweat.

This is rock 'n' roll, she told herself. Just do it.

Stein's office was at the very end of the corridor. The door, like
the others, was open. He had large windows and a Persian carpet and
the sun glittered off all the records which covered his office, floorto-ceiling,
like multi-platinum wallpaper. He was sitting behind a
desk; antique, she recognised at once.

'Hey.' He didn't get up, but beckoned her in. 'Take a seat.
Poppy, is it?'

She walked over to the Louis XIV-style chair, must be a repro, in
front of his desk and sat down. Stein was looking at her curiously,
with that same assessing manner he'd had last night in the club.

'I don't recall Susie booking this meeting in. She's at lunch now.
What is this about?'

Poppy made an instant decision. She wasn't going to snow him.
At least, not much.

'It's about this.' She pulled out the demo tape and laid it on his
desk. She was gabbling. 'This band I manage. They're young, they
look good, the tunes rock. And I can't take them any further, they
need to move up a step. It was a lie about me being in a record
company. We had no appointment. But you don't need to call
security, Mr Stein, because I'm leaving right now. I wrote my phone

number on the tape. If you're interested you can call me.'

She got up.

'And why should I listen to a tape of some baby band? Do you
know how many tapes this oNce gets in every day?' asked Stein.

He hadn't pressed any buttons or lifted his phone. Poppy hovered
a second.

'Because you're impressed with my ingenuity in getting in to your
office?'

He laughed. 'I guess I am impressed.' His eyes narrowed slightly.
'Do I know you, kid?'

'Not really. You met me last night. I was in that band you came to
see, Snaggletooth.'

Stein's expression changed. 'This tape's your band?'

'No. Don't worry, I left the band. They absolutely sucked. And I
have no chops.'

He laughed again. 'You're an interesting young woman.'


36

'This band is also girls, but nothing like us. They're good. Punk

pop. It won't cost you anything to listen to them.'

'You don't manage them, do you?'

'Not as such,' Poppy admitted. 'But in the sense that you don't

know who they are or how to contact them, I do.'

Stein was grinning broadly.

'You know what "chutzpah" is?'

Poppy grinned back and fished out the small gold Star of David
she always wore around her neck.

'Uh-huh. I should have guessed. Well, you've got it, toots, I'll tell
you that for nothing.'

'Thank you, Mr Stein.'

'I remember you,' he said suddenly. 'You're the one that wasn't

shaking her tits at me.'

'Wm, yes.'

'Don't worry, that never works. I'm gay.'

'Ah.' Poor Fiona, Poppy thought.

'Well, I'll listen to your band, toots. Since we're being so honest,
let me tell you that they'll probably suck. Ninety per cent of

everything is crap. That's rule number one.'

'OK,' Poppy said.

'Thanks for dropping by,' he said, dismissing her.

Poppy said, 'Thank you, Mr Stein,' again, and walked out. She
felt slightly let down. She'd expected him to put the tape in instantly,
be wowed, and offer her a job on the spot. Ninety per cent ofeverythin2 is crap. Well, at least that was upfront. But it didn't make her feel any
better. She felt down when she got home. It was a mad scheme, he
was never going to go for it.

'Hi, honey.' Her mother gave her a kiss.

'Hi, Morn.'

'You're on your own for dinner tonight, your father and I are out
at the opera house benefit.'

'No problem,' Poppy said.

'Conchita dropped off your dry cleaning.'

'Great.' She really felt down about it. The phone wasn't ringing.
She thought she'd have a hot bath, then call Kate and tell her she
couldn't do anything for her. Damn it.

'Oh, and a Mr Joel Stein called. He left a number.'
'Is that a joke?'
'Why would it be?'
'When did he call?'

I37


'Ten minutes ago. Here's the number-'

Her mother looked at her daughter in amazement as Poppy
snatched the piece of paper and rushed out to the phone. Teenagers.
Oh well, she suspected it was love.

I38


Chapter


It started out as a perfectly ordinary Oxford day. Daisy came back
from the library with some books on Monet, put the kettle on, and
hit the red light on her blinking phone; the message didn't sound
important.

'Daisy, darling, it's Mummy.'

Sally Markham's voice was distant and tinny. It usually was, as
though she hadn't quite come to terms with something as new

fangled as the telephone. Much less the answering machine.
'Can you call home? Daddy and I want to talk to you.'

Daisy punched in her parents' number, guiltily. She'd been having
too much fun, hanging out with Brad, enjoying college. She hadn't

called her parents for weeks.
'Mum, it's me.'

'Oh, hello, darling. Let me just go and take the cakes out of the
oven, or they'll burn.'

She heard her mother clattering about in the kitchen and felt a
sharp pang of homesickness. Mum always made cakes on Sunday
afternoon. Daisy thought she could do with a little hot cake and a
cup of Earl Grey with two sugars right now. Diet or no diet. Sod

fruit. There were only so many Granny Smiths you could eat.
'Darling, it's Daisy ... hold on, Daddy wants a word.'
Quentin Markham came on the other end of the line.
'Darling, I've got a bit of bad news for you.'

Daisy's heart sped up instantly. Oh God.. Had Granny died? Oh
God.

'It's all .fight, nobody's dead.' Her father read her mind. 'But

we've had a bit of bad luck financially.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Lloyd's of London has crashed.'

'Hmm, yes.' Daisy thought about it. 'I saw something about it on
the news. Edward Powers told me about it. All the poor Names.'

I39


cancelled her standing order to Foxworth's. It made her feel slightly

more in control. Then she called on Brad.
He opened the door slightly.
'Can I come in?'

'Sure.' Brad let the door open a little wider. 'As it's you. Just let

me go and put some clothes on, OK?'

He had just got out of the shower. There was a towel wrapped

around his waist. Daisy stepped inside his hallway, trying not to stare.

Damn. He could talk. Daisy felt weakened by the rush of heat to

her belly. Brad's body was just incredible. Tanned, even in winter,
thickly muscled, his chest and shoulders huge, his biceps ...
chiselled wasn't the word for it. And he had a dark, lush trail of hair,
gathering down from his chest and matting just above the towel.
Little droplets of water had been trickling all over his body. She was
distracted. Daisy went into Brad's living room and sat down on the
sofa, twisting her fingers.

'So.' He came back in and sat opposite her. He'd just pulled on a

pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and he looked incredible.

'What's up, babe?'

'I need a place to live. Can't stay in my apartment any more.'
'That's a great little space.'.
'I know, but-'

She paused. She didn't want Brad to know about her parents. His

family were rich, and Daisy was suddenly embarrassed.

'I had a fight with the owners. I don't really want to go into it.'

'You picked a real bad time to start looking. Accommodation's a
nightmare in this town.'

Daisy looked around. Brad had a four-bedroom place just to

himself, now he'd moved out of Edward's rooms.

'I guess I thought I could stay here?'

His gorgeous brow furrowed. 'I dunno. I don't think that'd be

cool. You know, having a girl here. But I'll keep an eye out for you.

Want a drink?'

'It's ten a.m.' And he wasn't much of a drinker, was he?

Brad got up and walked into his kitchen, returning with an

opened bottle of Pouilly Fuiss&

'I know. It's great, being at college, isn't it?'

Daisy accepted a glass of wine. She felt like she needed it.
Disappointment mingled with longing in the pit of her stomach.
There was plenty of room in this house. Yeah, she had to respect
Brad's space, but ...

I42


A tiny part of her thought he should have been there for her. She

suppressed it.

'Thanks.'

He sat across from her, and his eyes travelled lazily over her body.
She was wearing a heavy black skirt, ankle boots, a push-up bra and
a low-cut black camisole under a cardigan. She'd dressed nicely this
morning, working on the assumption that she might see Brad today.

Of course, that was before the phone call.
Lust had been driven out of her head.
Now it was back.

She took a large hit of the wine, which calmed her.

'You really do look great. You've lost a ton of weight.'

'Have I?' Daisy said absently. 'I suppose my clothes are a bit
loose.'

'Not everywhere,' Brad said. His gaze lingered on the slopes of
her cleavage, swelling up from her bra, soft and sexy. She really had
great tits, he thought.

'Hey.' Daisy had wanted him to notice her in this way for so long,
but now she was at a loss. 'Cut that out, dude.'

'Dude?' He grinned. 'That's cute. Very American. And :why

should I cut it out? You look hot.' The ?' Daisy said, stunned. She blushed.

'I'll show you. Get up.' When Daisy just sat there, he got up arid
pulled her to her feet. His strong hand was finn. She could feel all his
strength. Brad shut the living room door and showed her her

reflection in the full-length mirror.

'So what?' Daisy scoffed.

Brad stood behind her, his height towering over her. Her
shoulder blades pressed against his chest, her hair hung loose against
his neck. He put his arms around her body, holding her. His grip
was iron.

'You don't see it? Take a look. Almond eyes, that white-blue.
Your face is so beautiful, sugar.' His voice was low, his breath hot on
her neck. 'You got cheekbones. And a waist.' His left hand splayed
against her ribcage, caressing it with his fingertips. Daisy started to
squirm, but his arms held her locked in place. The hot feeling in her

belly was starting up with a vengeance. Her breath shortened.
'Brad '

'And these,' he said, stroking a finger across the tops of her breasts.
It was like a line of fire trailing over her skin. Daisy bit down on her
tongue to stop from panting.


143

'You're teasing me,' she said, gritting her teeth. 'Cut it out.'
'Who says?'

He spun her around and tilted up her head to face him. Daisy's
eyes were moist, her lips parted. Brad thought idly that it wasn't
bullshit; she was turning into a pretty girl.

He was getting turned on by her heat. She was brimming with
desire. Brad lowered his head to her full lips and crushed them in a
kiss.


'Man.'

Daisy lay snuggled against Brad, her soft, out-of-shape body
against his unyielding muscle. He was as gorgeous now as ever. She
thought, detachedly, that he should be lighting up a cigarette now.

But of course Brad was a healthy American and he never smoked.
Thoughts like this helped her not to cry.

She'd wanted Brad. Longed for him. But the sex had been painful,
teeth-gritting stuff, and he'd acted all shocked when he'd discovered
she was a virgin, and Daisy had buried her face in the pillow so that
he wouldn't see that she was crying.

It was nothing like she'd read in her books. It hurt. And it felt all
wrong.

But she loved Brad, didn't" she?

'Wow, honey, that was great.' He looked down at her with what
she could only describe as a friendly smile. Which ripped her heart
out. 'I can't believe it was your first time.'

'I went to an all-girls' school,' Daisy said, shortly.

'I never popped anybody's cherry before.' He looked as proud as a
rooster.

Daisy blanched. Suddenly she imagined him laughing, telling this
story to the boat club. 'Look, Brad. This is between us.'

His chiselled face looked hurt. 'I wouldn't tell. You're my friend,
OK?'

She was, yeah. But, she noted, not his 'girlfriend'.

All she wanted was to take a shower. 'I have to run, can I use your
bathroom to freshen up?'

'Absolutely,' Brad said. He beamed at her, with his white, healthy
teeth.

Daisy got up, clutching her clothes to her self-consciously. Brad
regarded her still too-plump bottom with fondness. She was the
perfect woman, he thought. He liked her, and she'd jumped right
into bed, and now she wanted to leave ... no 'cuddling', none of


I44

that bullshit. She couldn't wait to get out of there. Daisy's just like a
guy, he thought, approvingly.

She shut the bathroom door and ran the water, stepping into his
shower and scrubbing the spots of blood from her leg. Daisy helped
herself liberally to his shower gel, some pine-flesh manly thing.
Washing the smell and the sweat of Brad from her, and trying not to
feel dirty.

She wasn't a virgin any more. Daisy wanted to cry, but forced it

back. Years of public school came into their own.

You can't waste time with this, she thought.

She turned the water off, briskly towelled herself down, and

pulled her clothes on.

'Hey.'

Brad was still lying there as she re-emerged into the bedroom.
'It'll be better next time. Won't hurt.' He winked at her. Tll make
sure of it.'

'Yeah, sure. See you,' Daisy said, with a forced brightness.
She half ran down the stairs and back out into the street.

It was still daylight. She glanced at her watch. She hadn't been in
there more than an hour and a half.

Daisy took a deep breath, and headed for Edward's rooms.

I45


Chapter 20


'But why would you want to move?'

Edward sat across from her in the armchair in his rooms. Now
that Brad had moved out, he had the place to himself. Daisy saw
evidence of his taste everywhere: oil paintings on the walls, rush
matting on the floors. Even though these were cramped undergraduate
quarters, he made it look like a reading room in some
upper-class London club.

Daisy looked at him. Edward actually cared.

'My parents were Lloyd's Names.'

He grasped the situation instantly. 'Oh. I'm sorry.'

'I have to give up the flat,' .Daisy said. 'I already broke my lease.'
She twisted her hands in her lap and bit down inside her mouth,
trying not to cry.

Edward sensed her mood. 'The situation,' he said gravely, 'calls
for a cup of tea. Earl Grey or Lapsang?'

'Either is fine.' Daisy looked at his back gratefully as he got up and
went over to his kettle, giving her time to compose herself.

'I have somewhere for you. We have a flat on Walton Street.
Two bedrooms, rather nice.'

'What's the rent? I can't afford very much.'

'Two hundred,' Edward said, 'but if that's too much we can come
to some arrangement.'

Two hundred a month. She knew right away that he had named a
desultory sum so that she wouldn't feel it was charity. The lump in
her throat rose up again.

'Thank you,' she said, and she couldn't keep her voice from
breaking.

'Oh, come on, now, old bean. Everything will be fine. You just
have a job to do.'

'What are you talking about?' Daisy said, miserably.

Edward passed her the tea, black, no sugar. 'We all have to look


46

after our aged parents. Your time for doing that has just arrived a
little earlier. You aren't as helpless as you like to think, Daisy. You
just need to work out what your talents are, and act on that. Focus
on something else. It will help.'

Daisy smiled weakly. 'Give me an illusion of control, you mean.'

She took a sip of the tea. Edward was great; he knew exactly how
to settle her.

'Can I be frank?'

She laughed. 'Why the hell not. Give it to me straight.'
'You've been coasting. I know you're too intelligent to be at
Rackham. And History of Art?' Edward's thin, patrician features
creased in disdain. 'What on earth is that? Why not the history of
pottery?'

'Philistine.'

'It's hardly a real subject, Daisy. It's what nice girls pick to read
when they can't be bothered to work, and are only planning on
looking for a husband. And you aren't dull enough to be one of
those girls. Now,' he methodically added three level spoonfuls of
sugar to his tea with a precise motion of the wrist, 'you've received
something of a shock, which only means you have to stop mes,ing

	about, and do something.'


	She considered this.
	"

	'You can write,' Edward suggested.
	"

	'Oh.' Daisy shook her head. 'I tried that, it didn't work.'

'You failed to win one competition.' Edward was firm. 'You
should try again. You told 1Kichard Weston you would. If his kind of
trash made him a millionaire, why shouldn't you do the same?'

Daisy shook her head. 'It's a pipe dream. Do you know how
many people want to be writers?'

'As a matter of fact, I do. Mother belongs to a writing circle. But,
you see,' Edward leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially,

'she's no good. Most of them can't write at all.'

'And what makes you think I can?'

'The girls liked your stuff, you told me. Anyway, the point is not
whether you can or can't. The point is that you should at least try. At
some point, 1Kichard Weston was an unpublished author. Jilly
Cooper, too.'

'Hmm.' Daisy smiled at Edward, incredibly grateful. She almost
felt excited about it. 'I suppose I could rework my old idea ...'

'I wouldn't do that. Start with something fresh. You'll be better
the second time around.'

147


His words chimed with Brad's, reminding her of this morning. The mood was shattered. Daisy put her bone-china cup down. 'I
think I should get going.'

'Wait a second.' Edward pulled open a drawer in his walnut
coffee-table and handed her the keys. '89 Walton Street, Flat 2.
That's the front door, the other one opens the flat'

'I don't have two hundred right now,' Daisy admitted. It brought
a pink spot of embarrassment to her cheeks.

'That's fine. Any time before the end of the month.' Edward
stood and walked her to the door. 'Let me know if there's anything
else you need.'

Daisy wanted to thank him profusely, to pour her heart out, but

she knew if she did she would start to cry.

'Thanks,' she muttered.

'See you soon, 1 trust,' Edward said.


She didn't go home. She went straight round to Walton Street and
let herself in.

Brad would have called it a perfect 'space'. It was spacious, with
lead-panelled windows, antique furniture in dark oak, and red fabric
on the walls. It was unbelievably sumptuous, a little weekend retreat
for Edward's family. Far better than the flat she was giving up.

The very beauty of the place made Daisy wretched. She was
imposing on her friend. But what choice did she have?

Writing. That was a joke. But she was going to try it. P,,ackham
had computers with word processing software... Edward was right;
she'd been coasting, she had to try something,. Meanwhile, in the real
world, she could look for a part-time job. That might help her afford
a commercial rental, and get out of Edward's hair.

She decided she would think about that. She would think about
getting on her feet, helping her parents.

Anything but Brad.


Daisy sat at the mahogany dining table in Edward's flat and breathed

out.

There it was, laid out neatly before the lead-panelled window
with its view of Walton Street and the driving rain that was lashing
it. Her submission. One chapter, a synopsis, and a bunch of letters.
She had printed up thirteen of them, addressed to agents whose
names she had found after combing through a large yellow-covered
reference book. Daisy had craftily changed a couple of sentences at


I48

the start of each letter to reflect the person to whom sloe was writing.
She loved so-and-so's work, whom they represented. Or she knew
of the agency's reputation for romance. Your basic sucking up. Apart
from that, she had kept the letters very short.

This went against what she read in the thin, overpriced magazines
they published for aspiring authors. You were supposed to do a tapdance
in your 'query letter'. Something boastful and snappy,
something that would grab the overworked agent's attention. 'Don't
give him a reason to say no,' they advised.

The problem was that when Daisy read those sample letters they
made her cringe. Her cheeks would pink in purely empathetic
embarrassment. 'Dear Sir, What if Queen Katherine Parr had kept a
diary? Now you can read what it was like to have been married to
Henry VIII - and survived. My novel The Merry Widow is a gripping
tale of romance and treachery in the sixteenth century ...'

Ugh. Ugh. Daisy didn't have a 'high concept', and she wasn't
about to start writing stupid letters. She put in her age, the genre,
and the fact that she'd had no experience apart from a mention in the
Compan)/ competition. Then she asked the agents to read: her
material and get back to her if they were interested in seeing mor of
it.

Of course, it was all hopeless, and she didn't see why she sho, d
embarrass herself.

Daisy picked up her twenty-six envelopes and started to address
thirteen of them to herself. She could make the ten-thirty post, then
she was due at work by eleven. It was a four-hour shift at Frederico's
today. She was dreading it, as always. But at least she was starting to
get some real money.

Her life had changed. She'd only been living at Walton Street a
month, and her papers had started to get As. Edward might have
been right about History of Art, but now she was doing it, she
needed to get a First. She was working constantly; either writing
essays, or doing lunch and evening shifts at the Italian restaurant that
had given her a job. Minimum wage, of course, but students and

townies were pretty cool with the tips. Daisy had a great smile.
And she was starting to get really pretty.

Even she herself had begun to notice it. The irony was that after
Brad, she'd been so down, so depressed, that she had stopped
watching what she ate. But Edward Powers had lit a fire under her.
Daisy wanted to help her parents. So she worked, she waitressed, and


I49

she wrote. Between all three activities she'd had no time to stuff
hersel£

The distracted diet. It worked wonders. That, and the depression.
She saw Brad around. He kept calling, asking to hook up again,
but making it clear that he wasn't interested in having her as a
girlfriend.

Daisy had cracked, gone out with him one more time. He'd plied
her with drink, but it wasn't necessary. She intended going to bed
with him anyway, just to stop that first time from being a one-night
stand.

It didn't hurt. At least, not physically.

'Hey, man, check you out.' Brad had run an approving hand over
her tighter, smaller butt and thinner thighs. 'You dropped even more
weight. A ton.'

'I don't think it was quite that much,' Daisy said dryly.

The irony went fight over his head.

'Hey, you're really hot. I could do this every night,' he
murmured, surrounding her with his strong arms.

She couldn't quite suppress the ray of hope. 'So am I your
girlfriend now?'

'Sure, hon. You're my girlfriend,' Brad said expansively, 'but it's

not like we're exclusive or anything. I mean, we're young. Pight?'
'Pight,' Daisy muttered.

Since that night she had avoided him completely.

She finished stuffing the envelopes and got up. Her navy coat was
worn-out, she really needed a new one. But she was saving her
money for more important things than that. Daisy quickly twisted
her hair, which was down past her shoulders now, up against the
nape of her neck. She didn't bother with make-up, apart from a
quick slick of rose-tinted chap stick. Her skin needed nothing; it was
soft and dewy as a child's. Anyway, she thought the other girls at
Frederico's made themselves look like clowns, with too-thick
foundation settling into the fine lines around their eyes and mouths,
and chalky-blue eyeshadow that did nothing for them.

Daisy walked down the stairs and out into the street. It was
freezing. She held her umbrella against the wind, hoping it would
not turn inside out. She half ran down Cornmarket towards the Post
Office, her nose and the tips of her ears turning red against the cold.
She hated weather like this, it made her fingertips turn white. The
thought came into her mind that her natural parents couldn't be

British, she just wasn't equipped to handle all this foul sleet and icy
wind . . .

The Post Office felt ridiculously warm, just because it wasn't
exposed to the elements. Daisy walked up to the counter and paid
for her packages to be sent first-class. As she shivered, she had a tiny
thrill of accomplishment. At least she'd tried.

	She bundled up in preparation for another blast of cold air
	'Hey.'
Daisy glanced up. It was Brad, walking into the Post Office. She
instantly registered that he was embarrassed to see her. A second
later, she realised why.

There was a girl standing next to him - tall and lanky, very skinny,
with a tan and a cascade of platinum-blonde hair. She was wearing a
pair of expensive-looking leather trousers, matching jacket, and a
Burberry scarf. Her eyebrows were plucked and her nails manicured.
Obviously American.

Daisy's heart started to thud. Maybe it was a sister, or something.
Come to visit for Thanksgiving.

Then her eye was drawn downwards to the stack of pretty little
envelopes in the girl's hand, creamy, stiffpaper, with little silvei" bells

stuck on them.


	She knew the situation before he said anything.

'Daisy, hi. Honey, this is my friend Daisy Markham.' Brad Was
gabbling, tripping on his words. 'Edward's friend. Daisy, this is Elise
Mariano, my fiancee.'

	'Hey,' the girl said, with a disinterested stare.

'We're just mailing some invitations. Elise has picked Merton's
chapel, so that's where the ceremony is ...'

	'I just luurve those old windows,' Elise said.

	'You should come,' Brad mumbled.

'I'd love to,' Daisy said brightly, her eyes glittering with tears she
was determined not to shed, 'but I just remembered I'm busy that
day. Nice to meet you, Elise.'

As she barged past her out into St Mdate's, Daisy heard the
American girl say, 'But I never said what the date was ...'

Daisy raced up towards Cornmarket, sobbing. Oh, God. She
really had been nothing to him. He was sowing his wild oats. One
last fling before he married the blonde, perfect American cow with
the handbag perfectly matched to her shoes. And now she was off to
be a waitress. She thanked God she had never told anybody about
this job. Not Brad, not even Edward.

She rested at the corner of the street and fished a tissue out of her
bag, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. No way she wanted to
let that bastard Frederico know she'd been crying. He was a surly
jerk who always tried to cheat his waiting staff o£their tips and make
them work overtime without pay. The only reason she'd been able
to land a job here was because he had such high turnover. Nobody
wanted to work for him. He'd accepted Daisy, without any
experience, because he had to.

The clock said it was bang on eleven. Daisy rushed miserably up
to the restaurant's side door and let herself into the kitchen.

'She finally arrives,' Frederico said. 'I think you are going to be
late again and I will dock your pay again.'

'Right on time,' Daisy said firmly. A quick glance out front told
her they were already busy; older couples taking advantage of the
early-bird specials and the happy half-hour (her boss would never
stretch to an hour).

'So get you uniform on. You working the front section today.
Hurry up.'

Daisy felt another sob rise up in her throat, but choked it back.
She needed this job. At least the work would give her something to
do.
'P,,ight away, Frederico,' she said obediently.

152


She was woken by the doorbell ringing.

It had an old-fashioned chime rather than an electric buzz, but it
was still insistent. Daisy's eyes flicked open. She was sleeping in the
gorgeous oak four-poster in the main bedroom; linen sheets and
dark woods, with the scent of lavender and pot-pourri in the air.
The William Morris curtains were slightly drawn back from the
lead-paned windows. Enough for her to see that bright light was
streaming into the room, catching motes of dust which shimmered
like miniature galaxies.

Sod it. How late was it?

pastDaisYtwelve?Squinted at the grandmother clock across the room. Half
Ding-dong, said the bell again.

Shit. Shit. She jumped out of bed, the cobwebs swept away.

'Coming, coming,' she said. Daisy grabbed her old towelling robe

and raced downstairs, yanking the door open.

Edward stood there in a suit.

'Edward! Come in,' Daisy said, blushing.

He hesitated awkwardly. 'I fear I've disturbed you '

'No! Well, yes,' Daisy admitted. 'But I overslept... I don't know
what happened, must have slept through the alarm. Come on in, I'll
be two seconds.' She ushered him into the small living room and ran
back into her bedroom, tugging on some underwear and a pair of
jeans and a T-shirt, shoving her feet into her shoes.

She felt faintly ashamed; Edward was so disciplined and well
dressed... he'd never be opening the door in a shitty, greying robe.

She grabbed her bottle of scent and spritzed herself.

'Hey.'

Edward looked surprisingly ill at ease. He was never uncomfortable
with her; Daisy thought of him as her one true friend here.
Yeah, she had other people she hung out with, P..ackham students


53

she ate lunch with, girls from the restaurant she occasionally took to

the pub. But Edward she cared about.

'Is something wrong?'

'Not at all.' He smiled gingerly. 'I wondered if you'd heard Brad's

news.

She couldn't suppress a smile. He was so delicate, treading
carefully around her feelings. Nobody else had ever bothered to try

and prevent her from feeling pain like this. No man, at least.
'Yes.' Daisy smiled crisply. 'I'm happy for him.'
'Are you? I thought you had ... feelings for him.'

'Brad? Not at all. I liked him,' Daisy said firmly. 'That was about

lt.

'Ah. Well. That's good.' Edward twisted a bit. 'I, um, I've met
someone too.'

The room seemed to spin. Daisy gripped the arm-rests of her

chair. What? Edward had found someone? lake-thin Edward?
Her Edward?

'That's a surprise,' she managed.
'She's at St Hilda's.'
The all-girl college.

'How nice.' Daisy could riot understand why her heart had started
to race. She felt almost dizzy. 'Tell me about her.'

'Oh, well.' Edward's eyes lit up. He started to talk enthusiastically,
like someone who could not believe his luck. 'She's a brick. I met
her in 'the Union bar one night, she was coming to the speaker
meeting for Sir Georg Solti. She loves opera ...'

'Perfect for you,' Daisy muttered. She herself was more Madonna

and Wham. But Edward went for the classical stuff.

'She's called Edwina. Can you believe that?'

'It's obviously fate,' Daisy agreed. 'Edwina who?'

'Edwina Latham. She's Monty Latham's daughter,' Edward said.
The name rang the vaguest of bells. Oh God, yes. Some Tory
frontbencher in the House of Lords. Daisy felt the pit of her stomach
give way. She pictured Edwina, a horsey, upper-class girl who loved
opera and was at Oxford proper and had a title. Jolly hockey-sticks,
and all that.

An ideal future Lady Powers.

Daisy should have been happy for Edward, but she wasn't. She
realised instantly that she was insanely .jealous. How pathetic!

'How long have you been seeing her?'


154

'We had dinner a couple of times. Went to her parents' place last
weekend.'

	'How nice,' Daisy said. 'You must introduce me.'

	'Oh, I shall. You'll love her.'

It was so fourth-form, for her to think her friend shouldn't have a
girlfriend. After all, it wouldn't stop him being friends with her. This
Edwina would never be .jealous, because Edward had asked Daisy
out, and she'd always turned him down. She didn't like rail-thin
men, she liked muscles, and ...

'Do you love her?' Daisy asked. Her own voice sounded tinny
and far-away, as if it were coming up from the bottom of a cave.

'Bit early for that.' Edward looked all bashful again. 'But, you
know, she's a peach, and we do seem to get on OK.'

A huge wave of nausea rocked through Daisy. This made what
she'd gone through with Brad pale into total insignificance.
Immediately, fatally, she understood her mistake.

She didn't .just like Edward. She loved him. She was in love with
him.

	And now he was in love with somebody else.

	'Isn't that wonderful,' Daisy said.


	Please, she thought. Please go away.

	'Oh, no.' She looked at the ornate gold mantel-piece clok.

	'Edward, you're going to think me amazingly rude, but I've gota

	.job, and I'm going to be late ...'

	'Not at all.' He stood up, and it was hard to tell which of them

	looked the more relieved. 'How very enterprising of you to have

	found a .job. What is it?'

	She was beyond being ashamed. 'Waitressing.'

	He didn't flinch. 'Well done. Do you make decent money?'

	'Yes,' Daisy lied. 'Mmost enough to get a place of my own. I'll be

	out of your hair soon.'

	'I hope never,' Edward said, with his old politeness. He gave her a

	slight bow. 'Perhaps you can meet us later for a drink? I'll be with

	Edwina at the Union tonight.'

	'Sounds great. Eight suit you?'

	'See you then,' Edward said. Tll let myself out.'

	Daisy waited till he had gone, then raced to get ready. She had

	coped with too much in the past week to pretend to be strong. She

	burst into tears.


When she finished her shift, it was already 4 p.m. Daisy gathered up

155


her tips; not much today. Eighteen quid and change. She pulled her
coat on and shivered her way back to Walton Street. At least it
would enable her to buy the ghastly Edwina a drink.

Daisy unlocked her door and walked into her living room. The
answer machine was blinking; she'd check it later. She felt so
exhausted, her weariness had seeped into her bones, along with the
aching cold.

At half past four she had a lecture on the Iackham campus.
Sod it, Daisy thought. She could call her girlfriend Lucy and crib
from her notes. She just could not drag herself out to do one more
unpleasant thing. Daisy walked into the bathroom and peeled offher
rain-drenched clothes, running a hot bath, pouring her Iadox under
the tap and watching the white, scented clouds of bubbles rise up the
sides of the ancient tub. Fantastic. She jumped in, washing herself,
making it as warm as she could bear it.

It got so cold here in the winter she sometimes thought she would
never get warm. Baths were a help, and, right now, her only real
pleasure most days.

She knew she should wash her hair. Not let the Edwina cow see
her like this. But she was just too exhausted to spend forty minutes
blow-drying it. Fuck it, she qould just keep her hair twisted in this
French pleat. All she needed to do was look respectable ...

The misery of it engulfed her soul the way the warm water was
lapping at her body.

God, Daisy thought, tears prickling at the back of her throat, will
anything ever go right for me again?

She'd once thought that if she could lose weight, she'd be happy,
and everything would be OK. What a laugh. Now, sadness and
overwork had managed to do what willpower couldn't, and she was
a perfectly respectable size I2.

And she didn't think she'd ever felt more worthless in her life.
But Daisy wasn't going to let it show. She owed it to Edward to
turn up tonight. He'd always looked out for her; she wasn't going to
ruin his happiness now.

She reached for one of the big white towels that came with the
place and swaddled herself in it. Maybe she'd go out and get a bottle
of wine or something; no, one of thoge ready-mixed gin and tonics
they sold in the individual bottles. She was gonna need a drink just
to get up the courage to go to the bar!

Daisy dispiritedly reached out to her answer machine and pressed
play.


56

'You have one message,' said the electronic voice soothingly. It
beeped. A woman's voice came on.

'Hi, this message is for Daisy Markham,' she said. Daisy could hear
the sounds of a busy office in the background. 'This is Gemma
Brown in Ted Elliott's office. Mr Elliott received your material and
he'd like to talk to you about representation. Can you call us back on
oi 555 5764? Thanks very much.'

I57


Chapter


'I've got something I think you should see,' George Benham told
he

	fr l°se looked at him with her unreadable expression. She sat in

	. %t of him in a well-cut, vintage Chanel suit that belied her youth,

	her ......

	dark fountain of hair twisted behind her head in a sleek chignon.

	Sh kept her make-up light; startling beauty like hers needed no

	hell, anyway.

	]enham tried not to obsess over the plum lips, the endless

	turbling legs, or those she-wolf eyes. It didn't matter how

	reSectably Rose Fiorello dressed. All he thought about was pulling

otf .
	• .

	hat jacket, slipping those,pumps off her slender ankles, reaching

	up to loosen that glossy waterfall of hair. He imagined her naked

	whenever he saw her. She made him as horny as a teenager.

	lie didn't dare let it show. One false move and the ice-queen

	W°ld fire him. And he could not afford to lose her business. He

	°Wd his new Mercedes to it.

	tenham remembered the first time he had seen Rose. She had

	s°Uhded so straight-laced on the phone he'd been shocked when a

	stUqent walked into his office, wearing skinny jeans and a plain white

	shir.

	'(ou're R.ose Fiorello?'

	her.Shat's right,' she'd said, those pale eyes daring him to disbelieve

	'lut Rose Fiorello owns four buildings ...'

	is voice had, trailed off.

	light again. She had laid a cardboard folder in front of him.

	Insi%. it were neatly typed-out operating statements, with rental

	ifrnCqmes, costs and taxes laid out as professionally as any spreadsheet

	o, a real company.
	,

TOU seem very young to own so many, units, Benham mumbled.
he cold look in her eye said she didn t appreciate the comment.


I58

'I only own fifteen. I was hoping you would work with me to
find some more.' The vision had sprung to her feet, preparing to
storm out.

'Wait a second - ma'am. I'm sorry. Benham Realty would love to
do business with you. Won't you have a seat?'

Since that day a year ago they had worked together.

Well, he had pretty much been working for Iose. It meant total
dedication, late nights, credit checks, hours of phone calls to lawyers
and hours of negotiations. But he'd fast learned to do whatever he
was told. The commissions made everything worth it.

In the first six months, he'd closed five more deals.

P,.ose Fiorello was a powerhouse. She now owned nine buildings,
with a total of thirty-one units. She had occupancy at TOO per cent,
with a waiting list, for her apartments. She raked in over fifty

thousand a year in profits, and paid peanuts in taxes.

And she was still at college.

P,,ose discouraged talk about her personal life. Benham wondered
if she really had one. But look at her - she must be fucking some
lucky bastard.

'What is it?'

She had that sceptical look. He hated that look. P,.ose Fior'llo
rejected 90 per cent of the deals he brought her. But it only took oe
deal to get that fat commission he loved.

Even his wife was into it, nagging him less and screwing him
more. He hastened to convince her.

'That last foreclosure you brought me was a real dog, George.'
'Yeah, well. This is a little different. It's not what you've been
doing up to now.' He knew the one thing that would convince her.

'It's a bigger deal. The next step. You might not be ready for it...'
The wolf-eyes glinted. 'Let me be the judge of that.'

'Of course, Ms Fiorello. Well... This isn't in foreclosure yet, but
it will be. It's a motel. The guy just doesn't know how to run a hotel
business . . .'

Benham didn't know if P-,ose would, either. It was a long-shot,
but he gave her all his long-shots. She turned down almost
everything so he plastered her with deals. Benham !ealty specialised
in foreclosures. He had tentacles everywhere. Now people were
coming to him, because word had leaked out that Fiorello gave more
money to owners than anybody else. If you had something worth
selling, she threw you a lifeline.

'Are you interested in the hotel business, Ms Fiorello?'


I59

Chapter


'I've got something I think you should see,' George Benham told
her.

Rose looked at him with her unreadable expression. She sat in
front of him in a well-cut, vintage Chanel suit that belied her youth,
her dark fountain of hair twisted behind her head in a sleek chignon.
She kept her make-up light; startling beauty like hers needed no
help, anyway.

Benham tried not to obsess over the plum lips, the endless
tumbling legs, or those she-wolf eyes. It didn't matter how
respectably Rose Fiorello dressed. All he thought about was pulling
off that jacket, slipping those.pumps off her slender ankles, reaching
up to loosen that glossy waterfall of hair. He imagined her naked
whenever he saw her. She made him as horny as a teenager.

He didn't dare let it show. One false move and the ice-queen
would fire him. And he could not afford to lose her business. He
owed his new Mercedes to it.

Benham remembered the first time he had seen Rose. She had
sounded so straight-laced on the phone he'd been shocked when a
student walked into his office, wearing skinny.jeans and a plain white
shirt.

'You're lose Fiorello?'

'That's right,' she'd said, those pale eyes daring him to disbelieve
her.

'But Rose Fiorello owns four buildings ...'

His voice had trailed off.

'Right again.' She had laid a cardboard folder in front of him.
Inside it were neatly typed-out operating statements, with rental
incomes, costs and taxes laid out as professionally as any spreadsheet
from a real company.

'You seem very young to own so many units,' Benham mumbled.
The cold look in her eye said she didn't appreciate the comment.

'I only own fifteen. I was hoping you would work with me to
find some more.' The vision had sprung to her feet, preparing to
storm out.

'Wait a second - ma'am. I'm sorry. Benham Realty would love to
do business with you. Won't you have a seat?'

	Since that day a year ago they had worked together.

Well, he had pretty much been working for P,.ose. It meant total
dedication, late nights, credit checks, hours of phone calls to lawyers
and hours of negotiations. But he'd fast learned to do whatever he
was told. The commissions made everything worth it.

	In the first six months, he'd closed five more deals.

Pose Fiorello was a powerhouse. She now owned nine buildings,
with a total of thirty-one units. She had occupancy at too per cent,
with a waiting list, for her apartments. She raked in over fifty

thousand a year in profits, and paid peanuts in taxes.

	And she was still at college.
Rose discouraged talk about her personal life. Benham wondered
if she really had one. But look at her - she must be fucking some
lucky bastard.

	'What is it?'
	:

	She had that sceptical look. He hated that look. P,.ose Fiorllo

	rejected 9o per cent of the deals he brought her. But it only took oe

deal to get that fat commission he loved. '

Even his wife was into it, nagging him less and screwing him
more. He hastened to convince her.

'That last foreclosure you brought me was a real dog, George.'
'Yeah, well. This is a little different. It's not what you've been
doing up to now.' He knew the one thing that would convince her.

'It's a bigger deal. The next step. You might not be ready for it...'
The wolf-eyes glinted. 'Let me be the judge of that.'

'Of course, Ms Fiorello. Well... This isn't in foreclosure yet, but
it will be. It's a motel. The guy just doesn't know how to run a hotel
business . . .'

Benham didn't know if Rose would, either. It was a long-shot,
but he gave her all his long-shots. She turned down almost
everything so he plastered her with deals. Benham -Realty specialised in foreclosures. He had tentacles everywhere. Now people were
coming to him, because word had leaked out that Fiorello gave more
money to owners than anybody else. If you had something worth
selling, she threw you a lifeline.

	'Are you interested in the hotel business, Ms Fiorello?'


I59

The thick black lashes flickered. 'No.'

'Oh.' Disappointment. 'Well, I have some other nice properties to

show you, an eight-family in Red Hook -'

'I didn't say I wasn't interested in the property.'

She extended one manicured hand.

George Benham was confused, but he handed it over. He
watched, almost holding his breath, as Rose skimmed through the
details. She was like a very chic hawk, hovering above her prey,
waiting to pounce.

With every deal he had seen her outward appearance change. As

soon as R.ose had money, she had appeared in his office in new
shoes, with a matching bag. There followed suits and dresses, each
outfit a little more upmarket than the last. It was like she couldn't
wait to shed her working-class skin. And now she was wearing
Chanel, with a slim gold watch on her wrist and a good string of
pearls.

The one thing which hadn't changed was the sense of the deal. Or

the drive. Benham had expected she would make some money, then
settle down and marry an investment banker. But if anything, success
had only made her hungrier.

'This is interesting,' she said finally.

His whole face brightened. 'You want me to make an offer?'
Hell, Benham's commission on this one - three per cent of the
lego Park hotel ... six hundred thousand ... three per cent ... thirty-six thousand dollars. A fine mist of sweat broke out on his
forehead.

'It's really a jewel of a property ...'

'It's a dump, George. A roach-infested dump.' Rose tapped the

papers. 'I'm going to have a look at these.'

'I have more for you -'

'I don't need to see them.' She stood up, and the expensive hose

she was wearing slithered against her skin. 'I must go; I'm late for

class. '

Rose Fiore]lo walked out of George Benham's office, leaving

nothing behind her but the faint scent of lavender.

He thought he would have traded the thirty-six thousand for five

minutes between those long, lean thighs. But who was he kidding?

She was so hot, he probably wouldn't last thirty-six seconds.


'Oh! Jacobhhh! Ohhhh!'

Emily Clarkson raked her French-polished nails over Jacob

6o


lothstein's chest as her back arched in orgasm. He felt a surge of
pride mingling with the pleasure as he exploded inside her, as if he
had just scored a walk-off home run. Emily's breasts jiggled stiffly.
They were implants, but Jacob really didn't care about that. He just
enjoyed watching another prim and proper Boston Brahmin sobbing
with pleasure, her three-hundred-dollar hair cut plastered to her
forehead.

'Oh ... oh ...' Emily panted, as he slipped out of her, reaching
to take off his condom. She'd said she was on the pill, but Jacob
didn't take any chances. His father and uncles were always lecturing
the Rothstein boys.., no glove, no love.., the family fortune was
just too large, they said, for women to resist trying to trap them.

Jacob had no intention of being a parent before his time. Bringing
up a child with a woman you didn't love, didn't even like much...

what a ffigging nightmare. No thanks.

'Jacob ... you're incredible.'

'Thanks, sugar.' He gave her a friendly pat on her ass, which was a
touch too skinny. 'You're gorgeous.'

'You think so?' She blushed crimson with pleasure.

Rothstein propped himself up on his elbow. This was the rcky
bit, but he was a master at it. How to make it clear to a girl that tl.ere
was no future in it, but on the other hand, leave them with their slfrespect.
"

Jacob had nothing against Emily. She was a great luck. She was
also a nice girl. Kind to animals, that sort of thing.

But she was as bland as tap-water, and he was a whisky-sour guy.
Besides, Jacob believed every woman could be a great fuck. You
just had to work them up the right way. He was an egotist, and
loved watching women's bodies leap and arch under his touch, loved
feeling them writhe against his chest muscles, loved how they rippled
around him when he made them convulse in helpless climax.

'Sure. I've been watching you for months. I remember that blue
dress you wore to the polo match in June ...'

'You noticed,' Emily breathed. She pushed her floppy fringe out
of her eyes.

'Of course. I always notice a beautiful woman with an independent
spirit.' Jacob gave her a friendly smile. 'I knew we'd get on great.
I'd like to see you again, if you're ever free. A gorgeous chick like
you will get snapped up by some boyfriend soon ...'

He could see by the sharp flash of annoyance in her brown eyes
that she'd registered this.

'Aren't you gonna be my boyfriend?' Emily asked, in a little-girl
voice.

Jacob flinched inwardly. She wasn't marriage material; he
employed the double standard: he wanted a modest wife. And
anyway, he hated women who pretended to be helpless. They were
no challenge, not like ...

No. He wasn't going to think about her.

'I'm no good to anybody as a boyfriend. I'm not really ready for a
relationship, and I don't want to cheat anybody . . . especially a girl
who's so pretty she can do better whenever she wants.'

'I guess. When you put it that way,' Emily said uncertainly.

Jacob rubbed her thighs. 'Doesn't mean we can't see each other,
though. If you want to of course.'

She felt a little of the heat returning. 'Yeah, I'd like that ...'

He heard the footsteps a fraction too late. His bedroom door was
v.,ide open, and P,.ose Fiorello was standing in front of it.

'Oh! Excuse me,' l<ose stammered. She gently closed his door,

and Jake heard her footsteps running away.

Damn it. He grimaced in annoyance.

That was another mistake. Emily was looking at him with that
furious, hurt look chicks always got when they realised they weren't

the only female he was interested in.
'Maybe that's your girlfriend?'
Her petulant tone was grating.
'She's a study partner.'

Emily got up from the bed, grabbing her clothes as she went.
'Sure. That's what they call them now!'

'It was my fault. I forgot we had to meet for an essay class... She

came here, I didn't lock the door.'

'Convenient,' Emily hissed.

'Believe what you want,' Jake said neutrally.

Thankfully, she was getting dressed, tugging on her chinos and
mules.

'Right, because so many students wear Chanel,' Emily snapped.
She picked up her coat and bag and stumbled toward the door.
'Maybe you can give me a call when you finally grow up, Jake.'

He sat there as she slammed the door, muttering curses. Jake
breathed out in relief. Don't hold your breath, baby.

How could he have forgotten lose was coming here?

Jake grinned. Woman trouble. His usual.

He slipped out of bed and into the shower. Most student rooms


162

didn't have them, but his father had slipped Columbia such a large
donation that Jake Rothstein had whatever he wanted. These rooms
had previously belonged to a tenured professor. They had a neatly
tiled bathroom and even a small kitchenette area, which he never
used because he preferred to eat out.

The shower came in handy, though, when you had as much sex as
Rothstein did. Plus, it was a bonus to be able to go running in the
mornings and not have to queue to use the communal showers
afterwards.

'Why do you even want to room there?' his father had asked.
Jake shrugged. 'Student experience.'

'You have the place on Eighty-fifth Street.' For his last birthday,
his father had handed him the deeds to one of his many apartments: a
glorious pre-war duplex with views of the river, eighteen-foot
ceilings, marble floors, and an obsequious doorman. Fred Rothstein
had heard of his son's reputation as a stud from the irate parents of
several young debs in his social circle. It was the one thing about his
child that really pleased him. He had imagined Jake fucking his
brains out in the Upper East Side place. Money like that made
women drop their panties at the drop of a hat.

'It's great, Dad. But I want to be like the other students.'

Well, up to a point. Fred Rothstein wasn't having his kid treated
like cattle. That was for the poor.

He had compromised on the best student rooms money could
buy. Jake didn't fight him. A private bathroom was a necessity.

In his shower, Jake let the water sluice over his chest, soaping
himself off briskly. He was tickled. It was good to get rid of Emily.
And he liked the idea of Rose Fiorello catching him in bed.
Arrogant bitch. He wanted her to see other women with him, to be
jealous.

Jake 1Lothstein was egotistical, but he could usually back it up.
Women flung themselves at him. Even the ones who played hard to
get eventually wound up squirming underneath him. And after they
broke up, he would still get calls.

Jake's private theory was that most guys sucked in bed. Otherwise

why would his girls always be ready and willing?

All except Rose Fiorello.

She had started out acting up. Insulting him regularly. Jake had
taken it as a mating call. There was a certain type of woman that
liked to provoke, to challenge. They wanted reassurance that he was
a dominant male.

I63


Jake always gave it to them. He never stood for bullshit from a
female.

It was his way or the highway. Jake thought the aggressive types
were his favourite. It was a particular pleasure to pin those girls to the
bed, to make them explode in ecstatic submission.

But lose had not followed her stand-offish signals with comehither
ones. Instead, over the last academic year, she had become
polite - almost friendly, but not quite. She went out of her way to be
helpful, as far as their studies went. She was an indispensable research
partner. But it was as though she couldn't bring herself to be really

W arlTl.

He wanted her.

Despite the fact that he'd just had Emily, he wanted Rose. It
aroused him to think of Rose walking into his bedroom.

But he couldn't do anything about it right now. Jake turned the
water to cold, blasting himself. That was better. He couldn't walk
into lose's room with a hard-on. Never let them see you're
interested.

Jake dressed himself quickly. She was almost too beautiful. Most
girls on campus were somewhat insecure; they always had to have a
man, or they'd start talking fibout how they'd just dumped some
poor sucker. It was still considered embarrassing for a chick to be
single. Even at the start of the Nineties.

Not for Rose Fiorello, though. She was just too beautiful for it to
matter. That slender figure, that fountain of hair, the she-wolf eyes,
the high, arrogant cheekbones. Every man wanted her. She didn't
need a status symbol.


'Rose?'

'Um, yeah.'

She opened the door to his knock. Pink Chanel, Gucci shoes,
expensive-looking hose. Completely incongruous in a college
setting. Emily had been right. Why was she dressed so smartly?

If you crossed a senator with a superrnodel, she'd look like this.
'Come in, Jake.' P,.ose gave him that smile of hers, the empty one.
She was as pleasant and as impersonal as a doctor's receptionist.
'Sorry about earlier.'

He noticed the discreet flash of gold at her wrist.

How the hell did she afford this? A year ago she'd worn jeans and
beat-up sneakers. She'd castigated him for being a rich boy.


164

'I thought.., the door was open.' The faintest tint of red was on
her olive-skinned cheeks.

'My fault. I forgot to lock it.' He grinned at her. 'I was a little
distracted.'

Rose refused to let the picture flash back into her mind. Jake
Rothstein, with his muscular chest, its smattering of hair, sitting up
in bed, those dark-lashed eyes staring at her. And the girl, her skin all
sweaty and mottled from sex, squealing, glaring at Rose with jealous
hatred. Like lose wanted her precious stud!

You're only one in a long line, honey, she'd thought. Didn't the
bimbette know that?

OK, so he had a certain animal charm. She was a realist. She
couldn't deny that. He was square-jawed, dark-eyed, and well-built.
He had a smattering of hair on his chest, and he was tall and
imposing. And he carried himself with total confidence.

She also knew first-hand how intelligent he was. But that was
OK. She wanted a worthy adversary.

It would make retribution all the sweeter.

There was a lot wrong with Jake Rothstein. She hated how he
treated women. Like toys, playthings. Girls around campus code,d in
the bathrooms about his stamina in bed. But so what? Rose was sttill a
virgin, not that she admitted it to anyone. Wasn't sex just friction? It
couldn't matter that much. "

And he had the best rooms, drove a Ferrari to school, and pretty
much paid his exes off. A pair of diamond earrings, or a Mikomoto
pearl necklace. Not uncommon for Jake's ex-girlfriends who didn't
make a fuss.

The dreadful thing was that women seemed to love this!

Rose despised Jake, and she despised the girls that idolised him.
He was nothing but a playboy with brains. And the heir to
Rothstein Realty.

They were coming up to the end of their time at college. Rose
was beginning to worry. She hadn't been able to bring herself to
make friends with Rothstein, and she needed him. He was her
entree to Rothstein Realty.

He was. the key to her revenge.

'Doesn't matter.' She smiled softly at him now. 'Let?s just get on
with it, OK?'

I65


Chapter 23


'Impressive.'

Jake looked at the paper she had presented to him, the neat system
for revision, the work on their two theses. Her arguments had been
so interesting he had briefly forgotten how much he wanted her.

But now it was done with. Their term papers were due next
week.

P,.othstein pushed the paper back and regarded Rose Fiorello. For
once, she was sitting there awkwardly, her fingers twisting in her lap,

as though she didn't know what to do with herself.
'Your work, too,' she said.
'Thanks.' He knew it had been.

'So, I guess this is it for us,' Rose said.

'Not necessarily.' Jake grinned. 'This is it for college. I like that
suit, by the way.'

She smoothed down her skirt. 'It's new.'

'If you don't mind my saying so, it looks expensive. Very
expensive.' He waited for the rebuke for getting too personal, but
she didn't say anything. 'Did you get a job, or win the lottery, or
something?'

'Other people in this world are allowed to have money,' Rose
snapped. Then she bit her lip and looked away, flushing. 'I - I'm
sorry. Yes, I've made some money.'

'You don't have to tell me how, if you don't want to.'

'No! I want to.' She was suddenly eager. He was surprised at how
she blew hot and cold. 'I actually bought some property. I own a

couple of rental houses.'

'You?'

He regretted it as soon as he'd said it. His expression was one of
disbelief. Everyone knew she'd come here without a cent to her
name.

'Yes, me,' P,,ose said, a touch of steel underneath her polite smile.


166

'You own rental houses. Well, that's the American dream.'

'You're Jake Rothstein of Rothstein Realty, aren't you?' Rose

asked.

Jake laid back in his chair and looked her over, slowly.

'So,' he said. 'You did notice me.'

'Hard not to,' Pose almost whispered.

Jake felt a sense of power flood him. Now he knew how his father

felt, sometimes. He was more than just another student to Fiorello;

he was a player. Instantly his focus shifted, away from history and

into the real world. Where he was about to become a senior, stock

holding Vice President in a billion-dollar company that would one

day be all his.

Most girls knew about his wealth and his reach by reading the

society pages. Rose Fiorello had not come by it that way, he

thought. She'd gotten into property, in a tiny way. Maybe she

owned a couple of condos, rented them out.

He was impressed. Jake didn't really rate women when it came to

business. He instantly saw that Rose must be savvy; she had managed

to get financing somehow when she'd been dirt poor. FHA loans,

maybe. And she'd made enough to afford a Chanel suit and Told

	watch.
	.

	That was very nice, he thought. But hardly important.

	In his pond, she wasn't even a minnow.
	'

Rothstein knew Rose Fiorello. She was a queen of research, very
thorough. He pulled the picture together. She'd made a deal here

and there, gotten a taste for it, and started reading up.
And, of course, found out about Rothstein Realty.
'Guilty as charged,' he said. Ironic answer.

'I wondered if... if I could ask you for a favour,' Rose said.
It almost came out as a mumble.
Jake grinned.
'You want a job?'

'No.' The wolf-grey eyes regarded him coolly. 'Just some
information. To learn, that kind of thing. Maybe study what you do.

That is, assuming you actually work there.'
Tve run projects every summer.'
'What kind of projects?'

He shrugged. 'Luxury condos in Westchester, a high-rise in Soho
... about eighty units in that one.'

'What was your budget?'

167


What could that possibly matter? This was out of her league.
Rothstein w-as enjoying himself now. Flexing his muscles.

'Over a hundred million. They had a project manager, but he
reported to me.'

Rose was quiet for a few seconds. She hated herself for this, but
she was getting turned on. Jake Rothstein was handsome, in an
obvious sort of way. And he was looking at her like he was a pasha,
and she was the latest addition to his harem.

'You were in charge of a nine-figure budget?'

Her hostility tickled him. 'Sugar, I've been running projects since
I was sixteen. I supervise architects and contractors. I deal with the
unions. I pay off the Mafia.'

'And how do your projects come out?'

He leaned across towards her, so Rose could feel the warmth of
his body, see the muscles under his shirt. A pulse of animal lust
flooded her belly. She looked down, but she could still sense him in
her space, breathe in the masculine tang of him.

'On time. Under budget. And making money,' he said.

Her head was down. Her lips were parted. He thought he could
feel the desire rising up out of her skin.

Another guy would have grabbed her head, kissed her.

Jake moved his mouth closer to hers, half an inch, so their lips
were almost touching. But not quite.

Her mouth widened just a fraction more.

He had her. He pulled back.

'If you're interested in learning the business, I can get you an
internship.'

Rose sat up, confused and embarrassed. Had he been going to kiss
her? God, she'd nearly kissed him.

Her body was a traitor. Little tendrils of desire crawled over her
skin, hooking into her belly and breasts.

Jake was still talking. 'To be honest, though, I don't know that
you'd want it. We get hundreds of applicants. I wouldn't apply that
standard to you. But once you were in, you'd have to behave like all
the other interns. Otherwise it really wouldn't be fair to them. At
work, I have to be professional.'

'I can be professional,' Rose said shortly.

'You'd have to report to my department. You'd work for
somebody that works for me.'

'Fine by me,' Rose insisted.

Jacob said, 'You'd have to call me "sir".'


I68

He thought he saw a muscle twitch in her face. Yeah, she
wouldn't like that. Arrogant, stuck-up beauty that she was. But he'd
enjoy it.

Jake made plans to have Rose work near him. He wanted her to
see his power, the extent of his slice of the empire. He wanted to
make her pant for him.

'I can do that.' Rose dropped her head. 'I - I really would like to

learn the business. I'd appreciate it.'

It cost her to have to ask him.

'No problem,' Jake said. 'Give me a number where you can be
reached.'

She wrote it down and handed it to him. 'Thank you, Jake.'
'No problem, honey,' he said.


Rose seethed all the way back to Tribeca.

She had bought herself a great apartment. A foreclosure in an old
industrial building, it wasn't considered the best area. Rose had
picked it up for a mere hundred and fifty.

Her place had everything. First, she liked the location. Manhattan
prices were rising everywhere. In a few years, she was confident
there would be nowhere on the island that was 'unfashionable'. lve
it a decade, and even Harlem would be through the roof.
Restaurants and diners had started to open up down here, and th&e
were film-makers and models moving into nearby places. This was
going nowhere but up.

Second, the old warehouse had space. Lots of it, in a town where
a broom cupboard could be let for more than most people could
afford. Rose had a loft, with huge industrial windows. The place had
an elevator; old and creaky, but it worked. She was on the secondto-top
floor, with great views of the Financial District.

Clusters of skyscrapers. She loved it. It made her want to own
them all.

Rose had hired the contractors that worked on her house. There
was no mystery about renovations, and nobody ever ripped her o..
She had sanded the old floors, painted the walls a soft cream,
dismantled the fluorescent lights and put in sconces, and added an
upper level, where she kept her Queen-size bed and Moroccan rug.
The kitchen she spent money on, but a good kitchen and bathroom
added value to a place. The look of the place was sleek, modern,
very luxurious, lose decorated everything in soft shades of white,
with just a few splashes ofcolour to break things up: a crystal vase of


I69

yellow roses, the red tones of" her rug, a candy-striped cushion in
royal blue.

It was her haven.

Like everything else, it was an investment too. If she sold it today,
she'd clear at least double what she paid for it. Rose had got over the
need to nickel-and-dime herself.

She was going to be a real estate mogul. It was time she started
treating herself like one.

I70


Chapter 24


'Wanna room? We're all-suite here.'

Rose looked at the receptionist. The girl was about her age.
Young, cracking bubble-gum as she talked. She had too much
make-up on and smoker's fingernails.

At least she was wearing a uniform. It was an ugly green-striped
vest over an olive-coloured shirt. Rose noticed wrinkles and
smudges.

She felt contemptuous. Being poor was no excuse for being a slob.
Rose had been poor, her mother had been poor. But they had both

	dressed neatly at all times.
	:

	'How much?' she said.
	"

Today she was wearing a pair of old jeans and a clean white tip
T-shirt. No need to call attention to herself. The pearls and the gotd
watch were in her mini-safe in the apartment.

'Forty dollars. If you'd waited till tomorrow, you could have

gotten the weekend special.'

'How much is that?'

'Thirty-five.' The girl blew a pink bubble and popped it.
'Yeah, well. I need a place to stay tonight.'
'Smoking or nonsmoking?'
'Non,' said Rose.

'How you gonna pay? If it's cash you can't have a key to the

minibar or connect the phone. For that we need a card, OK?'
'Sure,' said Rose. She handed one over..

'Awright,' said the girl. 'Here's the minibar key, sign here.' She
pushed over two keys. 'This one is for your room, number sixty
eight on the sixth floor, elevators is over there. Need help with your
bags?'

Rose glanced at the leering doorman. 'Um, no thanks.'

'Enjoy your stay,' the girl said automatically, turning back to her
magazine.


I7I

'Oh,' said l,ose, 'I will.'

She took her overnight case to the elevators. There were three of
them. The lobby was quite small and somewhat gloomy; it had a bad
case of Seventies carpeting. Why had people ever thought orange
and brown was a good colour combination? Rose wondered. The
walls were white, but covered with that ugly textured paint. Very
depressing.

It excited Rose. The windows were large. She imagined the place
repainted, smooth-white, with a plain beige carpet, some plants and
statuary. Maybe a water feature. They were cheap to run, easy to
maintain, and looked fantastic. She glanced at the elevator when it
arrived. It was brass.

The sixth floor was more of the same. Hallways were a little
narrow; well, you couldn't have everything. She walked to the end
of hers and looked out of the grimy window. Residential area, lots of
traffic. Not a problem for what she wanted to do. There was a
parking lot, that was very important, and some browning grass at the
front. It was never going to be Park Avenue.

The key was figuring out what people needed in the price
bracket. Clean and safe would sell here. It wouldn't cost a lot to
fence the place in with ten-foot-high industrial fencing, and put a
guardhouse at the gate.

New York was a dangerous city. Security would sell.

Rose opened up her room and shut the door behind her. The
doors were heavy, with double locks, chains, and fish-eye peepholes.
They could stay.

Breathless with anticipation, she glanced around.

Oh, man. This was perfect.

A Queen-size bed was perched on a raised area, about two feet up
from the living room. There was a large living area with a
kitchenette. Of course, it was filthy; peeling paint, debris in the
kitchen, probably infested with roaches. A bluebottle fly was buzzing
lazily and hopelessly around the windows, and the bedside table was
dusty.

But the fundamentals were there. Seven-fifty in the square
footage. A decent-sized bathroom. Big built-in closets, and light
from large windows.

Rose picked up the phone by her bed and punched zero.
'Veah?'

'This room is kind of dusty,' Rose said. 'Got any other ones?'
She heard the receptionist bristle. 'It was cleaned this morning.'


I72

	'I think I'd like another room,' Rose said.

	'I don't know if I got any.' The girl was hostile now.

'You didn't look all that busy to me. Plus I'd like something
bigger.'

'All the rooms are exactly the same size. Exactl},' the receptionist
snapped. 'Except on the top floor, they're bigger, but they're the
honeymoon suites and they cost, like, hundreds of dollars. You can

have one if you want. Do you want one for hundreds of dollars?'
'No, that's OK,' said Rose.

	'Thank you,' said the girl, with a long-suffering air.

Rose checked the place out. She ran the shower, noted the water
pressure. There wasn't much to do.

She had an instinct about property. This was the one. This would
make her.

Five minutes later, Rose picked up her overnight case and rode
the elevator back downstairs.

	'Here.' She handed both keys to the receptionist.

'You can't just change your mind,' the girl said defensively. She
glanced at the doorman to see if he was blaming her for this.

'Your service is dire, your rooms are filthy,' Rose told her' She
looked at her name-tag. 'Tracy. Nobody cleaned the kitchen gr
changed the sheets on my bed. Do you want to be a receptionist fr

ever?'
	'

	Tracy stared at her. 'Excuse me?'

'Because if you don't, you could always go to your boss with
some ideas. You know, like cleaning the place up. Or wearing a
fresh uniform. That way you might not be going out of business.
And you could get a promotion.'

'I'm gonna charge your credit card. You didn't give me any
notice.'

	'That's fine with me.' Rose gave her a wink. 'It was worth it.'

	She turned and walked out, and the receptionist stared after her.

	'Weirdo,' she called.

	Rose grinned.


lose called George Benham the next day.

'Have you thought more about the hotel? The hospitality industry
is up and coming-'

'I'm not interested in the hospitality industry. Can you set up a
meeting with the owners?'

	There was silence at the end of the phone.


I73

'Maybe you should just make an offer.'

Rose blinked. Since when did George Benham go against
anything she said?

'I want to do it in person, George.'

'But ... but, Miss Fiorello ...'

She got annoyed. 'I don't pay you to ask questions, George. Just
set it up.'

He called back fifteen minutes later. 'You got an appointment in
Park Slope in Brooklyn in half an hour.'

'Half an hour! I can't get myself together that fast. It will have to

b

e --'

'That's the only time he has to see you. If I were you, I'd take it.
And Miss Fiorello, make sure to be very, very polite.'


She pulled up outside a nondescript brownstone with barely two
minutes to spare. The neighbourhood was rough; broken window
panes in some of the houses, trash littering the gutters. The address
Benham had given her was an island in the street. Its windows were
intact, its step was swept clean, and the car parked right in front was
a gleaming Cadillac.

There was a restaurant on the lower level, a trattoria. Rose looked
around for the door that led up to the rest of the building, but
couldn't see it.

Benham had been so mysterious; she didn't want to be late.
Rose pushed open the door to the restaurant. A little bell rang.
The place was very clean, but somewhat gloomy; all dark wood
panelling. It had tables with red chequerboard cloths and candles in
empty Chianti bottles shrouded in straw.

It was half past four. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner. But
there were a few men sitting at some of the tables, drinking wine and
coffee.

She felt conspicuous.

'Excuse me.' Rose walked up to the barman. 'I'm meant to meet
someone in this building, but I can't find the way upstairs ...'

He didn't look up from the glass he was polishing. 'Who you
meeting?'

'Vincent Salerni,' P,.ose said.

The man's head snapped up. He looked her over, curiously.
'Wait there a second,' he said.

Rose stood at the bar while he lifted the partition and went over


174

to the group of men sitting at the tables. He bent down deferentially
and whispered in the ear of one of the men.

They all looked over towards her. P,.ose heard laughter. Then one
of the smaller men shrugged.

The barman straightened up and beckoned her over.

Pose walked across the restaurant. She felt herself straighten and

shook out her hair as she went.

'This is Mr Salerni,' he said.

Rose suddenly understood. Adrenaline flushed through her body,
prickling on the palms of her hands. She felt herself dew with

perspiration. She thanked God it was dark in here.

'You're Rose Fiorello?'

The man's eyes were intense. He was small and wiry, and very
frightening. The huge-chested men who sat around him didn't scare
her half as much as Vincent Salerni did.

Salerni's eyes swept her slim, young frame, with the usual male
interest. In fact all the men were staring at her body in a way that
made Rose incredibly self-conscious.

'Yes,' she said. 'Piacere, Don Salerni.'

'You know me?'

Rose tried to control her racing heart. She forced herself to app.ar
calm.

'No,' she said. 'I worked it out.' '
Salerni chuckled. His henchmen chuckled after him.
'You are Italian?'
'Yes, Don Salerni.'

'And you are here on behalf of a husband? A boyfriend?'
The dark, piggish eyes were keen with interest.

'No, Don Salerni. For myself, alone. I - I wish to do business with
yoH.'

'So I was told.' He spoke to a lieutenant without moving his head.
'Get the young lady a seat.'

A bull-necked man pulled a seat up at the table for lose. She sat
down, feeling very small, very conspicuous, in the crowd of men.
Her father would have forbidden her to ever get involved with these

people. Her mother would be terrified to see her here.
But lose had come. It was too late now.
She had to be very, very careful.

P,,ose lowered her eyes. 'My respects, Don Salerni. I wish to
apologise for arriving improperly dressed.'

Salerni gave a surprised grunt of approval.


75

'I did not want to seem conspicuous at your hotel. And when I

told my man to set up an appointment with the owner '
'Your man?' Salemi laughed.

Rose shrugged, in the way she had seen the men do. 'He wets his
beak on my deals.'

Salerni's eyes danced.

'He told me I could not be late. So I had no time to change.'
'You want to buy the hotel?'

'I do. It cannot be of interest to you, Don Salerni. It makes no
money . . .

'I have uses for everything I own. The Rego Park hotel handles a
lot of cash.' He was telling her he used it to launder money. 'And it

is a convenient place for a man who may not want to be at home.'
A love-nest for Mafiosis and their bits on the side? Rose blinked.

'Pardon me, Don Salerni, but I would not have thought the P,.ego
Park was good enough for the second mode of use.'

'You haven't seen the penthouse suites,' Salemi said mildly. 'Why
are you asking these questions? You are a young girl. You cannot do
business with us. You have no idea what you are asking.'

'With your permission -' Rose said. She opened her briefcase and
produced a slim file. 'I have been investing since I was eighteen. I

own nine buildings, thirty-one units '

'You?'

'Yes, sir,' Rose said, respectfully.
'Your family is in real estate?'
'No. Just me.'

'Humph.' Salerni glanced over her figures. 'You have done well
for yourself.'

'I would like to do a little better. I can make more use of that
hotel than you, Don Salerni. I understood the business was on the

market, but I don't want the business. I want the building.'

'To do what with it?'

'To convert it to condominiums,' Rose said truthfully. Lies to
Salerni could get her dead. 'Of course, I would use your people to
do the work. And I can provide you with another cash business as
part of the deal.' She thought about it. 'Benham has a Chinese
restaurant for sale. Then, as to the matter of the suites, I would, of
course, retain one floor for your exclusive use, Don Salerni. Free of

charge. Just permit me a month to outfit it to the proper standards.'
Now they were all staring at her.

'How will you cover the cost of the work?'


I76

'I will sell what I own and do a to28 tax-deferred exchange,' Rose
said. 'Of course, I cannot offer you your asking price.' She named a

sum that was 30 per cent below Benham's quote.

Salemi laughed uproariously.

'Salud,' he said, when he had finished wiping away tears of
laughter. He raised his glass of anisette to Rose. 'You are a brave
little girl. You should have been a man.'

'That would have been a waste of all this,' Rose said flirtatiously,
tossing her long, dark hair.

He laughed again. 'True, bellissima. But you are brave. Still, one
does not bargain with Don Vincent Salerni.' The piercing eyes
glittered. 'I am not angry.'

Fortunately for you hung in the air unspoken.

A fresh mist of perspiration dewed Rose's brow. 'I do not wish to
waste your time, sir.'

'Good.' Salerni reached over and laid a claw-like hand on her
knee. Rose fought with every ounce of will not to shrink from his
touch. Salerni was like an animal; she knew he could smell fear.
'Then you get to walk out of here intact, no?' .

'But,' Rose said; her voice sounded very small, but she could hot
stop herself, 'I can make up the deficit to you by using your firm to
do the work. Then, with the profits, I will buy more buildings all
over the city. And of course, I will work with Don Salerni's people
exclusively.'

He did not reply, and she hurriedly got up to leave.

'Don Salerni, I am twenty-one years old and I already have more
than a million dollars. I know this is small stuffto you. But if you will
consider doing me this favour, I will be able to repay your generosity
in the future.' Her voice was almost a whisper now. 'Many times
over.'

One of the goons stood up and folded his muscular arms across his
chest. Despite the expensive suit, she could see the hard brawn of his
biceps. Butcher's arms.

Rose muttered, 'Goodbye, Don Salerni,' and fled.


Outside, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small linen
handkerchief, dabbing the sweat from her brow as she walked to her
car. Her heart was beating wildly. Man, she was dumb. Thinking she
could negotiate with a scorpion.

Please God, may she not have offended him.


77

Rose parked the car near her own apartment. She had managed to
calm down. She might have annoyed Salerni, but surely she had
been as humble as a peasant petitioning a prince. Which in a way, she had been.

It was terrifying, but Rose forced herself to be logical. He wasn't
going to hurt her. Not if she did not bother him again, anyway. All
she had lost was Rego Park.

And that had been a stretch, anyway. She wasn't even thirty. Who
was she to start doing big-time deals? Donald Trump in a skirt? She
should go a little slower, buy some more four-families ...

Rose ran a bath and poured in some L'Occitane lavender bath
oils. Great clouds of fragrant steam rose up and filled her room. She
peeled off the T-shirt and jeans and stepped into the warm,
comforting water.

The phone trilled.

'Damn it,' Rose swore. She jumped out, dripping, grabbed a
towel and padded into her living room. 'Yes?'

'I'm looking for a Rose Fiorello,' said a haughty voice.

Rose clenched her fist. Yess! It was Don Salerni, calling her back!

He was going to do the deal with her! It was all going to happen!
'It's Rose,' she said.

'This is Ella Brown in JacOb 1Kothstein's office,' said the voice.

'Hi,' Rose replied, not bothering to keep the disappointment out
of her voice.

'We understood you applied for an internship with lKothstein
Realty. I'm happy to tell you that your application has been
accepted. You'll be starting in the office of Mr lKichard White.
Arrive at reception at eight-thirty sharp on Monday morning.
Interns do not have parking privileges. Smart business dress is
required. Any failure to arrive on time or arrival in incorrect attire
will result in your termination as an intern with Rothstein 1Kealty. Is
this clear?'

Rose trembled with annoyance.

'Perfectly.'

'Good, then we'll see you at eight-thirty on Monday.'

Ella hung up without further pleasantries.

Rose stumbled back into her bath. It was still nice and warm, but
she couldn't enjoy it. She lay there wondering ifJake had listened to

that conversation. How he must love having her as a supplicant.
Yeah, well. Not for long.

This was the second step towards her vengeance, Rose thought.

178


The first had been to establish herself, get a little money. Now she
had to move up to the majors. And learn how to destroy lothstein
at the same time.

lego Park hadn't come off, but it wouldn't be the only deal in
the world. To find deals like that, you needed to be where the action

was.

Rothstein Realty.

Rose thought of her father. She needed to call him, to go back to
her parents, have dinner, remind herself why she was doing this. So
she didn't get distracted by Jacob. A pair of predator's eyes, a square
jaw and a well-built chest ... she couldn't let it stand in her way.

He was an arrogant fuck. She was going to destroy him.

I79


Chapter 25


She wasn't going to be too impressed, Poppy told herself.

She was standing in Joel Stein's office. Summoned by the master.

Her little stunt had paid o it was a classic piece of record industry
chutzpah. If she could just get through this interview, he was gonna
hire her.

Her music business career was off and running.

'How old are you?'

'Twenty-one,' Poppy said breathlessly. She was standing in Stein's

office, trying to keep the huge grin off her face.

He sat there, tapping the Silver Bullet tape against his desk.

'Not at college?'

Poppy grimaced. Mom and Dad had tried to talk her into going to

college. Her grades had been outstanding. But she had no intention

of wasting three years.

'No. Not my speed. I want to do things.'

'You'll have to start at the bottom.'

'Not as a secretary. I brought you this band '
'No, not as a secretary. Not as a manager, either.'
'But '

'You don't know enough to handle an act, honey. You don't

know shit about contracts, about deals, about promotion. You may may
- have good ears. In which case the sky's the limit. Or this could
be a fluke. But in either case, you have to learn. Got it? Good,' he

said, without waiting for her answer. 'How's your math?'
'Pretty good,' Poppy muttered, crestfallen.
'You organised?'
'Yes,' she lied.

'Like Green Dragon?'

Poppy glanced up at the huge tour poster for Green Dragon. One

of Dream Management's hottest acts. They were crude, rude, and
multi-platinum. She'd had a crush on the singer for ever.


18o

'Are you kidding?' Poppy's eyes gleamed. 'Oh, I love them. They rock. They're tad'

'- and they're on tour with Mission Status. Arenas. We're getting
back to the people,' Stein said with a touch of irony. 'I need an
assistant tour accountant.'

He picked up the autographed Sid Fernandez baseball that was
sitting on his desk and tossed it at her without warning. Poppy had
great reflexes; she snapped out her left hand and caught it.

	'You're up, rookie,' Stein said.


Poppy brought the band in that afternoon. They had washed their
hair and put on their stage clothes. They were nervous, but they
looked great. Kate thanked Poppy all the way in.

'Poppy, man, how can we ever thank you, we'll be with you for
ever, you've just changed our lives . . . You don't know how long
we've been plugging ...'

They stared at Dream's glittering offices with hungry eyes. Stein
let Poppy sit in while he sketched out a future plan for the band.
Support slots, studio time, the works.

	'Go home, get ready for a showcase,' Stein said finally.


	The band were all over it.

	'Wow, thanks-'

	'Thank you so much '
	'

	'We can't believe this '

	'Thank Poppy,' Stein said. 'She's the one that found you.'

	They signed management contracts on the spot. Once they'd left

the office, Stein turned to Poppy.
'Got a passport?'
She nodded.

	'Good. The tour's in France. You're flying out tomorrow.'


Her parents insisted on driving Poppy out to the airport.
'Really, Morn, I'm gonna be OK,' Poppy insisted.
'All those junkies and punks,' her mother twittered.

'Poppy, you just say no. You don't have to do any drugs.
Honestly, I .can get you a great D-girl job over at Artemis Studios,'
her father added.

'Look, I'm not going to do anything. The record business is really
clean these days. All water and going to bed early.' Poppy stepped
out of the car, hoisting her red cases with her. Tll be fine. Honestly.
Love you both.' She kissed her parents and hurried into the airport;

goodbyes made her cry, and throe was always the possibility that her
nose had grown out a foot or two ...


'Welcome to Continental,' the stewardess said. '4F? Just over there.'

The flight attendants stared at Poppy. Who was she, a movie star
or something? They didn't recognise her. But she was wearing tightfitting
black pants round that tall, slim frame, she had a fountain of
glossy raven hair - Poppy had dyed her hair black, and was growing
back her natural hair colour - and a black leather jacket.

She looked like she'd just stepped out of a rock video. The
Metallica shirt was the last straw. They wanted to serve rich

businessmen, not a teenage girl in leather and studs.

'Can I get you some champagne, ma'am?'

'I'm not old enough,' Poppy said sweetly. She didn't want to give
them the chance to demand some id. Never mind about the petty
humiliations. She was on her way to France.

Poppy settled back into the luxurious leather comfort of her wide
seat and reached into her carry-on, pulling out the tour schedule. It
was stapled together and printed in black and white, with a drawing
of a skeletal dragon. 'Fight or Flight Tour, I993.' It had plenty of
dry-as-dust instructions on m.aking the bus, hotels, venues, and
phone numbers for the production ofce.

Poppy thought it was the most exciting thing she had ever read.
She accepted some freshly squeezed orange juice and leaned back,
flicking through the pages. Her stint with Snaggletooth had been
nothing more than the occasional van ride to some gig in the LA
suburbs. This was completely different. This was the big time.

As the plane lifted off and they pulled away from the city's
glorious smog-bound sunset, Poppy felt the plastic laminate around
her neck. She couldn't stop smiling.

This was it. Her life as an adventure was finally starting.

This was Paradise.


'I don't care how you get me there. Just get me there,' Poppy
snarled.

The guy looked at her. He had a face as tough and brown as old
leather, his cab stank of cigarettes, and his mean little eyes were

hostile. He shrugged in that particularly Gallic way.

'Voila, Nancy,' he said.

'I know it's Nancy, goddammit.' Poppy was exhausted. The flight
had been eleven hours, and even in business class, that sucked. She


182

had practically memorised her tour schedule, watched three bad
movies, and got cramp. Now all she wanted was to get to her hotel
and go to sleep. What time was it here? She was utterly
disorientated.

The bastard cab driver was pretending he didn't understand
English. Poppy had forgotten how much the French hated the
Americans. He'd taken her to Nancy, but not to her hotel; the guy
wanted to drop her in the town square.

'L'kdtel Reine Catkerine,' Poppy insisted.

He shrugged again.

Poppy pulled out her wallet and produced three hundred-franc
notes.

'Ah oui, La Reine Catherine, je le connais,' said the driver, his face
creasing into a fake smile.

'Yeah, that's what I thought,' Poppy said.

Fuck him. He wasn't getting a tip. She hoped her day was about
to start getting better.


The 1Keine Catherine was a soulless block of concrete. It reminded
Poppy of a Novotel. Despite the blazing French sun, there"was
nothing exotic about the place. Coaches were parked in the
forecourt, tourists were dragging their wheeled cases inside. The davy
was very hot. She felt sweaty and disgusting. She wanted to get th
her room.

Poppy walked in through the revolving door and up to reception.
'Wait a minute, please,' said the snotty receptionist. He was on a
phone call, and it sounded like it was personal. The guy laughed and
chatted while Poppy just stood there.

She looked around the lobby. Green and purple industrial
carpeting, a plastic ficus tree in a pot, and a little row of leaflets in
plastic containers advertising local sights. But there were also lobby
chairs and a bar in one corner. A group of loud American guys were
sitting on the chairs. They had crew cuts, sun-beaten faces, keys
jangling, tell-tale little red strings around-their necks that were

tucked into their T-shirts.

Road crew.

Two of the guys looked over at Poppy appreciatively. One
whistled, the other one said, 'Ooh la la.' Then they all laughed.

The hotel porters and the receptionist said nothing. They had
clearly seen it all before. Nobody reproved the men or asked them to
stop ogling Poppy.


I83

'Hey, she's in the wrong hotel,' one said.

'No need to tell her that. Maybe they sent her over here on

purpose. Added bonus.'

It was clear none of them thought she could speak English.
They all laughed again. The receptionist was still chatting away.
Poppy snapped. She leaned over the counter and put her finger on
the phone.

He looked up, shocked.

Poppy pulled the laminate out of her shirt.

'Monsieur,' she snarled, 'I'm with Green Dragon. Actually, I'm

with Dream Management. I'm a tour accountant and I'm going to
be settling the bill at this hotel. So unless you want to make an
appointment for me to speak to the manager, I strongly suggest you
give me my fucking key fight now.'

'Oooh,' said the crew guys, chuckling.

Poppy ignored them. The receptionist flushed and hurriedly

fished out a little paper wallet with a plastic rectangle tucked inside.

'Mademoiselle, ah oui, I see you 'ere, you are on ze third floor,

room 346. Do you want some 'elp with your bag?'

'From this hotel? No,' Poppy snapped. She grabbed the key and

stormed off towards the elevators. She had to stand right next to the

crew guys.

'What's up, sugar?' one of them cooed.

'Hey, baby, you showed those Frenchies,' said another.

Poppy saw nothing but annoyance and hostility in their faces. She

was too tired to think about that now.

'See you guys later,' she muttered.

Mercifully, the doors hissed open. Poppy rode up to her room,

slipped the electronic key in the door. The tiny light switched to
green. She threw her bag on the floor, tempted to just collapse on to
the bed. No, it was more important to get the sweat off her. She
staggered into the bathroom, so tired she felt drunk. It had one of
those tiny tubs you couldn't stretch out in. Never mind, she'd just
take a shower. Poppy thought wryly that if she could stretch out, she
might just fall asleep and drown.

She peeled off her clothes and dropped them on the tiled floor.

Then she ran the water. The instructions were in French and her
shower was only lukewarm. Poppy couldn't be bothered to figure it
out. Mechanically she sluiced her body down, lathering it with the
cheap soap. Then she reached for a towel; this wasn't America,


84

obviously; the hotel towels were scratchy little white handkerchiefs.
Her parents had a bigger towel than this for the dog.

Poppy stumbled into her room. The windows had thick curtains
with white chiffon panels floating across them. She didn't even have
the energy to pull the curtains closed. Poppy set her alarm for two
hours and flopped on to the bed. She was asleep in minutes.

I85


Chapter 26


The taxi dropped her off at the end of the street which led to the
arena. It was an open-air gig; kids were parking in a lot, in fields, in
streets, and walking down.

'You get out 'ere,' the cabbie said. 'I cannot '

He gestured at the mass of humanity streaming towards the gates.
It was more crowded than rush hour in Tokyo: leather, studs, teased
hair everywhere; T-shirts ranging from Slayer to Cinderella,
Megadeth to Bon Jovi; naturally, a ton of Green Dragon jackets and
shirts. The rock 'n' roll uniform.

Poppy was wearing a black T-shirt, leather jacket and leans. She
figured that was the professignal way to go. She had selected her
ankle boots, wore no make-up except a slick of concealer to hide the
dark circles under her eyes, and had tied her hair back in a severe
pony-tail. No time to wash it; thank God for baseball caps. Her
laminate was tucked safely inside her bra. Last thing she needed was
some deranged fan to snatch it from her.

Her sleep had only taken the slightest edge offher tiredness. Jet lag
and the time difference made her feel spaced-out; when she'd
woken, for a few seconds she'd had no idea where she was or how
she'd got there.

She paid the cab and stepped out. No time for weakness fight
now. Anyway, the procession of teenagers and twenty-somethings
was better than any cup of coffee; it jolted her senses and made her
feel alive.

The excitement started to build up as she trudged towards the
stadium. Already she could hear the sound of one of the support
bands, the cheering of the crowd already inside. She felt slightly
dizzy. She had an insane impulse to lump up and down and clap her
hands wildly. She was a part of this. She was actually a part of Dream
Management.

The box-office loomed in front of her. Gates A-E, F-K ...


I86

Poppy found a security guard.
'Where's the backstage entrance?'
He looked at her blankly.

She fished the laminate out. Access All Areas. Her photo beamed
out from under the coiled Green Dragon logo. He examined it with
a grunt, then reluctantly pointed to a small iron turnstile to her left. It
had four security guards and a posse of groupies, all in high heels,
wearing fishnet tights and low-cut tops, standing outside pleading
with them.

Poppy marched up to it and flashed her laminate. The surly looks
of the guards disappeared; they opened the gate and let Poppy
through, forcing back the chicks that tried to slip in after her.

She was standing backstage. Laminate-wearing crew were everywhere.
There were tents and signs in English. Catering. Press.
Production Office.

Poppy breathed in deeply. She stood still for a second.

She felt absolutely overwhelmed with pure joy.


'Hi,' Poppy said

She had stuck her head in at the production office. People w/ire
sitting around wooden tables, on the phone or shouting into walkie
talkies. Nobody paid her any attention .....

She said loudly, 'I'm looking for Mike Rich.'

'I'm Mike,' said a man. He wore chinos and a white shirt, a gold
Rolex, and a string with several laminates, the Green Dragon one on
the top. 'You with Special?'

That was the name of the promoter.

'Nope, I'm here from Dream.' Poppy held out her hand. He
didn't take it.

'Fucking Joel. Like I need a fucking kid.' Rich looked her over,
unimpressed. 'You're a girl.'

'You're perceptive,' Poppy said.

'Idon't like women on the road.'

'Too bad,' Poppy said. 'What do you want me to do? I'm
supposed to be your assistant tour accountant.'

1Rich handed her some envelopes. 'Go give the band their per
diems. And then bring us all coffee.'

Poppy told herself the hostility was to be expected. They always
hazed you on the road, right? That was part of rock folklore. She got
the coffee first.


87

'That's great,' one of the men said. 'We could use our own
waitress.'

She ignored this. Pick your battles. The vital thing, Poppy told
herself, was that she was about to meet the band. Excited, she
grabbed the envelopes full of hundred-franc notes and headed offfor
the tented area signed 'Band Only'. It was set up like an enclosure at
some mad garden party. A security guy was outside; even people
with laminates couldn't get in here, she knew.

Poppy had Green Dragon posters on her closet door. Blaze, the
singer, with his fountain of dirty blond hair, had been one of her first
crashes. She also fancied Drake, the bassist. Blaze, Drake, Tony and
Mark; four names well known to Jack Daniel's-swilling frat boys and
horny teenage girls across America. They had tunes as well as looks;
they rocked. And now, now she worked for them.

Poppy forced herself not to grin. She had to make these men take
her seriously. It was a man's world. She had to be the ultimate pro.

'You can't come in here,' the guard said. An American; band
security.

Poppy showed him her laminate. He just shook his head.

'Mike Rich sent me over. I've got something for the band,'
Poppy said.

He grinned. 'Another one, huh? Go right in, honey.'

Poppy walked into the enclosure and froze.

Five or six good-looking girls were sitting around with their tops
off, leaning over the band. She recognised Blaze at once; he was the
one standing up, pants around his ankles, being expertly serviced by
a girl whose face she couldn't see.

'What are you waiting for, baby?' Mark said. 'Get 'em out.'
Poppy screamed. Then she turned and fled, through the little
corridor of fabric, out to the main backstage area. Her face was the
colour of a tomato, her entire body hot with shame.

She stormed back into the production office. The men saw her
and started to laugh.

'You fucking asshole,' she spat at Rich.

'You're gonna let her talk to you like that?' said the man who had

made the waitress comment. He had a coarse English accent.
'Who the luck are you?' Poppy snarled.
'Leo Ross. Tour manager,' he said flatly.

'Oh,' Poppy said. That took some of the wind from her sails. The
tour manager was God as far as a roadcrew was concerned. He ran


	I88

the show. However, he was also hired and fired by management,
Poppy reminded herself.

'Sugar baby, you gonna cry?' Rich asked. 'I told you, the road is
no place for a woman. Why don't you just get on a plane and go
home? Save us all a major headache.'

'I'm here because Joel Stein sent me,' Poppy said, forcing herself
to be calm.

'And are you gonna ring him and start crying about the big bad
boys on the crew?' 1Ross asked.

'I can handle myself,' Poppy said. 'Of course, I won't guarantee
not to spit in Mike's next coffee.'

The other men chuckled at that.

'Why don't you give me something to do? There's got to be at
least some grunt work you can't be bothered with,' Poppy said to
Mike.

He was still hostile, but she had raised a grin from 1Ross. He
shrugged.

'Might as well let her stay till she fucks up,' 1Ross said.

'That won't take long,' 1Rich told him. He looked at Poppy..OK,
toots. Go find Jacques Remy, he's the promoter. Ask him to ive
you the latest expenses. Bring them back here. Don't drop anything.
Then call the band's hotel. Get the bill for last night. They were
complaining. Tony doesn't want to pay an extra five thousand. Take
care of it.'

'OK,' Poppy said. That was something to do, at least. She took a
breath. 'OK.'

She got out of there before they could screw with her some more.


She tried to go over the primer that Joel had given her.

'Bands are on a percentage of the net. Tour accountancy is all
about verifying gross ticket sales, subtracting promoter costs, then

take a percentage of the net. Our percentage is ninety.'

'That's a lot.'

He ignored her. 'You also settle the hotel bills, give out per diems,

check band and crew in and out of the hotels ...'

'Plural?'

Stein smiled faintly at her naivety. 'You think the rock stars sleep
with the catering crew? Not exactly. And then you take care of
certain expenses. Be creative.'

'Like what?' Poppy asked, mystified.


I89

In answer, Stein bent close to his desk, pressed a finger against one

nostril, and snorted up an imaginary line of blow.
'I see,' Poppy said faintly. His eyes narrowed.

'Can you handle this, kid? I don't have time to play nursemaid.'

'No problem,' Poppy had said brightly. Tll take care of
everything.'


She made herself useful. The promoter handed her a sheaf of papers
without comment. Poppy delivered them, then got herselfa fold-out
wooden chair in the production once. Her stapled tour book told

her the band were staying at the Hotel Charlemagne. 'Parlez-vous anglais?' Poppy tried.

'Certainly, we speak English, madam,' said the woman on the
front desk soothingly. Poppy could hear the sound of running water
faintly in the background. A fountain. She could tell instantly that
this hotel was a classy joint.

She was aware that the men in the room were listening as she
spoke.

Tm with Green Dragon. Dream Management. I'm calling to
check on the bill.'

'Hold on, please,' said the 'woman, a little more coldly.

Poppy was put on hold for a second. An older man came on, and
his tone was severe.

'You are responsible for the Green Dragon bill? It comes to fifty
eight thousand francs.'

She did a quick conversion in her head. That was over seven
thousand US dollars.

'Furthermore, I'm afraid I must ask you for immediate payment
and for one of your representatives to come back here and remove
the luggage from the rooms of these guests.' She could almost see his
lip curling. 'They have destroyed two rooms, and I can no longer
admit them to our property.'

'Can you hold on a second?'

'Very well.'

Poppy hit the hold button. She turned to Mike lich. 'This is the
hotel manager, Mike. He says he wants the band checked out, that
he's throwing them out of the hotel, and that the bill is seven
thousand dollars ...'

P, Ach just stared at her. 'Well, sort it out. You're supposed to be a
tour accountant, right? Fix it.'

I9o


Poppy picked the line up.

'Monsieur, I wilt be right over. I will need tO see you personally
to settle the damages.'

'That is fine, madam.'

Leo Ross walked in. 'We got a problem with the PA. Somebody
get over to the band, clear the tarts out. The wives' limo just pulled

up.' He glanced at Poppy. 'How you doing, kid?'

'I'm gonna go sort the hotel thing out.'

P, oss laughed. 'Oh, are ya? I'm afraid we're gonna have to eat that


Tll be fight back,' Poppy said.


It was everything she had expected. The Charlemagne was central,
elegant, formal, and, quite obviously, expensive.

Poppy walked into a marble lobby. There was the water feature, a
Japanese-style flat fountain mounted against the wall. Gold rails and
soft white carpeting were everywhere. She told the receptionist she
was there to see the manager.

He materialised. He was about fifty. .
'If you will follow me, mademoiselle,' he said.
They rode the elevator up to the top floor.

'These are our presidential suites,' the manager said.

He opened the doors and showed them to Poppy, one by one.

They were wrecked. Poppy was actually quite impressed. She
hadn't thought this kind of decadence was still out there.

TVs were overturned, wine had been spilt on the carpets, lamps
were broken, there was glass everywhere, stains on the walls. The
bathrooms stank of vomit. In one particular room, Tony's, she
assumed, the TV had been smashed to pieces and the curtains were

blackened where somebody had set them on fire.

Poppy looked grave.

'Monsieur,' she said, 'can we talk about this in your office?'


He had a picture of his family on his desk. Poppy studied it as she

eased herself into the chair. Two teenage daughters.

She spoke confidently.

'Monsieur' - she read his name tag - 'Souris, I am a lawyer in a
firm in Beverly Hills in the United States. We manage a great many
clients, including film stars. I know your hotel has a record of
hosting many of our clients.' She nodded at a signed headshot of

Tom Cruise that was mounted on the wall. 'I would hate for that
relationship to be adjusted.'

He swallowed hard. 'But the damage '

'Yes, the damage is significant. But not seven thousand dollars'
worth. How long have you had those televisions? Those curtains?
Many years. I am not paying brand new prices for them. Lamps? A
few francs. If you present me with that bill, I will pay it, and then I
will sue. I guarantee you, Monsieur, that you will spend many more
times the amount in legal fees than you gouge from my clients in

COSTS. '

He was staring at her. Poppy ploughed on. 'As you can see, I
brought this camera with me to meticulously document everything
and prevent false claims. Make no mistake, we will sue for a
fraudulent bill.'

'But, my maids will not dean that '

'If I take them into court and ask them if you have ever asked
them to clean up vomit, what will they say?' Poppy smiled. 'Give me
their names and I will personally give them such a generous bonus
they will be glad to do it.' She made a little gesture at his family
photo. 'Monsieur has two lovely daughters. Will they be at the
concert this evening?'

He sighed. 'I could not ge tickets '

'I can take care of that.' Poppy beamed at him. 'There is no need
for unpleasantness, Monsieur. Two thousand, the band stays, I
personally call the Chairman of your company with a glowing report
as to how helpful you have been, five hundred to split between the
maids, and I will escort your daughters and two of their friends to the
concert as guests of the band. Teenage daughters can be hard to get
along with, no? Just think, Monsieur, what a hero you will be - both
to them and to your boss.'

He smiled back. 'Mademoiselle is very persuasive.'

'I thought you'd see it that way.' Poppy tapped his computer. 'If
you'll .just put that in writing.'

Back at the stadium, she turned up in a taxi with four ecstatic
French girls in the back. Poppy escorted them backstage, stuck them
in a generic hospitality area, and then picked her way through the
dusk to the production office. Mike Rich wasn't there, but Leo Ross

was.

'I fixed it,' Poppy said simply.

tLoss grabbed the paper from her and scanned it.

'Well, fuck me,' he said.

Poppy grinned. 'No thanks.'

'Out the way, out the way,' came a man's voice from the crackle

of a two-way radio.

'Leo '

Poppy drew back. Surrounded by ferocious-looking bodyguards
the size of bears, Green Dragon had entered the room. The men
around them yelled into their radios as though they were the
President of the United States. Poppy blushed scarlet.

'Well, look 'oo it is.' Mark's famous English accent. He and the
band were staring at Poppy. 'The squawker.'

'What, the band's not good enough for 'er but you are?' Blaze
laughed. 'That's a turn-up, innit?'

Leo said calmly, 'Lads, Poppy here works for Joel.'

'Didn't know Joel was that way inclined,' Tony said, to laughter.
'She's your new tour accountant. Gonna help Mike.'

Drake looked sceptical and as though he was about to say
something, but Leo ploughed on.

'You know that bit of bovver at the 'otel?'

'Don't go on about that again, mate,' said Tony, but he looked

sheepish. 'It was only a few fucking TVs and that.'
'They wanted to charge you five grand.'
'Seven,' said Poppy automatically.
Leo glared at her. 'In pounds, doll.'

They were all Brits, of course. 'Oh yes,' Poppy muttered.
'Lippy little bit, ain't she?' said Blaze.

'I'm not fucking paying five fucking grand, luck that,' said Tony,
getting furious.

'Well, you don't have to, now.' He passed Tony the piece of
typed paper. Poppy held her breath as he looked it over; then his
face broke into a wide grin.

'That's one thousand pounds.'

'For the whole band, not just you, Tony.'
'How the 'ell did Mike pull that one off, then?'
'Not Mike. Poppy here.'

The band, who had been following this conversation carefully, all

lifted their heads and looked at Poppy again. There was silence.
'I hope that's OK, Mr Watson,' Poppy stammered.

'Mr Watson!' said Tony, to laughter. 'You call me Tony, honey.
Great job. Nice work.'

'Yeah, well done,' said Drake. The others nodded. Poppy felt as
though she'd just won an Olympic gold medal.


I93

'I still want: to see your tits, though,' said Mark.

She froze, not sure what to say. But then the guys laughed, and
Poppy felt the tension dissipate. Mark slapped her on the back.
'Welcome to the road.'


They put her up on stage during the gig. Poppy watched from the
wings, in the gloom, staring at the band running around out front
and the crew running around out back; how the drum tech
crouched behind the riser, periodically fiddling with things, how the
lighting guys sat up in the rigging, double-checking the large

coloured spotlights. She'd seen stages before, playing the bass.
But nothing like this.

Those had been sweaty, stinky, tiny little dives with a handful of
teenagers out front and a tiny, cramped stage with a crapped-out PA.
This, this was ...

Poppy hugged herself. This was heaven.

It was dark outside now. The set was the famous Green Dragon
logo. There were more lights than Times Square. The PA was so
thick and rich and heavy that the sound was almost 3-D. Out front,
the French summer sky was inky black, but the lights from the gig
blocked out the stars.

And then there was the cr(wd.

They stretched out in front of the band almost endlessly, a great
throng of humanity. They cheered and screamed so loud you could
hear it over the crash of bass and drums and guitar; the electric
excitement crackled from the crowd to the stage and back again, so
that Poppy gasped and her skin prickled. Lighters were waved,
punctuating the blackness, and spotlights swept across them, so she
could see the fists thrust in the air, the forest of hands, the wave as
sixty thousand kids all fought to get just a step closer to the stage, to
the band, to the magic ...

'This one's called "Force Ten"!' Blaze yelled.

A roar from the crowd.

Poppy sighed in sheer bliss. Her favourite song.

I'm with the band, she thought. I'm with the band!

I94


Chapter 27


For the first month, Poppy kept her head down.

She learned the basics. Checking expenses, giving out per diems.
Mike let her check the band and crew in and out of the hotels. She
made coffee, she ran errands, she subtly disappeared when rows of
groupies and strippers turned up. Poppy knew at once that that was
important, if she wanted to stay on the road. Rock stars liked fucking
easy women, and the girls liked to screw the rock stars. Sometimes,
to get to a rock star, they would give head to the crew. There was
nothing so debased that some chick wouldn't do it; half the guys had
albums full of Polaroids to prove it.

As a woman, she had two choices. Be disgusted and quit, or

ignore it.
Poppy chose the latter.
There was a double standard. The men on the tour regarded
themselves as players but the women as whores. Poppy learned fast
that there was no point in bitching about this. Nobody forced these
girls to do what they did.

She rememberd her own teenage fantasies about sneaking
backstage and making wild love to every guy with long hair and a
platinum album and shuddered, just a little. But the truth was, rock
was all about sex. And drugs. And she still loved it.

Poppy found creative ways to write off the cocaine and poppers
and other junk the band liked to use. At least they weren't doing
smack, she thought. There was no point pretending the stuff wasn't
out there. Some acts were destroyed by it. Not Green Dragon, at
least not so far.

The first time she was offered blow on the crewbus Poppy shook
her head.

'No charge, honey,' said the lighting guy, perplexed.

'Not for me,' Poppy said simply.

She had discovered something else. Drinking and drugs didn't


I95

offend her, even groupies didn't bother her all that much. But what
excited her was the business of music. Taking the flights, organising
a big tour, like a marching army fighting battles. She was part of the
logistics. Watching an expert crew raise the same stage with
mechanical precision in thirty different venues, watching the
production office being built like an ants' nest, sorting the problems,
climbing into the bus, rocking the house, then ripping it down
again. Partying happened after the gig, not before it; a roadie who
drank pre-curtain was unceremoniously fired.

Poppy drank it all in. She learned. And she loved it.

The crew tolerated her. Giving out per diems was a good job;
people were always happy to see her. Docking a guy for every
minute he delayed the crew bus was not so good. But they
understood. The tour ran on a schedule, calibrated down to the
minute. Joel Stein, the manager, was due to turn up on one of the
Spanish dates; he'd review and check everybody's time sheet, make
sure they were running on time and under budget. Nobody wanted
to run foul of Joel, when he did turn up. So if Poppy had to dock
the daily allowance for lateness, the guys didn't even bitch that
much.

Poppy also made sure the band would like her. She reduced all
their personal hotel bills. They loved that; never underestimate how
much rich people like extra money, Poppy thought. She also phoned
ahead to warn their security when the wives and girlfriends were on
their way in to the stadium. Sometimes a wife would 'surprise' her
husband. It was Poppy's job to see he was never so surprised he
couldn't get the groupies out in time.

But there was one person who didn't like her at all, and that was
Mike R.ich.

Mike made her life a living hell. Poppy didn't say anything about
it to Joel. He called in to Production often, and she just told him
everything was fine.

The road had its own rules. One of them was that you didn't
squeal.


'Hey.'

Poppy looked up from her table in the production office. They
were in Barcelona tonight, one of the last gigs on this stretch.

Joel Stein had just walked in.

'Hey. I forgot you were coming tonight.'

'Wouldn't miss it,' Stein said. He pulled up a chair, turned it


196

around and straddled it, looking her over. 'You having problems,
kid?'


'So it's your last gig.'

	Poppy nodded. 'Yeah.'

Drake smiled at her. He had a new crew cut which was driving
the gifts crazy. They were sitting in the band's enclosure backstage,
in a field near Milan. Another open-air show.

Poppy was leaving the next day. She didn't smile. She was going
to have a chance to get some rest, to do her laundry properly as
opposed to washing her panties in the sink with handwash liquid, to
report triumphantly back to Joel Stein. And all she felt like doing was
crying.

The crew hadn't stopped ragging on her once. There were
obscene songs on the bus.., she knew most of them by heart now.
She'd been tossed fully clothed into swimming pools, had eighty
pizzas charged to her room, and her butt had been patted and
squeezed and generally assaulted. They called her names, 'Miss Priss',
'the Virgin Mary', whatever. And now she felt like crying.

	It was pathetic.


	Drake saw the redness in Poppy's eyes and grinned.

'Always the way, babe. First tour? Forget it. You think yoi'll
never forget these guys, that they're your brothers in arms,
whatever...'

	Poppy nodded and shook her head to get rid of the nascent tears.

'Yeah, well. One week back at home and you won't even
remember their names. Trust me. It'll all be a blur, until the next

orle. '

	'I guess,' Poppy said.

'You can't go on the road, anyway. Not like this. They should
find you something else to do.'

	Drake was in the band, which meant Poppy had to kiss his ass. He

was a client of her boss. But she fought to stop bristling.
'I'm damn good at it,' she said shortly..
He chuckled. 'Prickly little pear.'

	'I didn't mean anything by it ...' Poppy said, panicking.

	'You don't need to worry about me, love. I'mnot gonna tell on

you. You did fine. But that's not the point.'

	'Then what is? That I'm a woman?'

'That you're a gorgeous woman,' Drake said. 'That won't work
long-term. Trust me.'


I97

Poppy blushed richly.

'Soundcheck,' said a runner, poking his head into the enclosure.
'Later.' Drake walked out.

Poppy went to the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Evian from
the ice. The band liked her enough that she was allowed to pick at
the food in their area. Normally that was absolutely off-limits. Being
on the road was like a court that followed a king around; the band
were royalty, and the others were .just servants.

The familiar sounds of soundcheck drifted back from the giant
stage. 'One-two. One-two.' Why couldn't roadies find something
else to say? There was a definite lack of imagination ...

The sun beat down on her face. She was leaving tomorrow.
Poppy felt a lack of something, as if she had failed in some way.

Not by anything she'd done. She knew her record was very good,
for a rookie. The crew accepted her, even if they tormented her, the
band was pleased, she'd run her errands with efficiency and even
some flair.

But it wasn't enough.

She desperately wanted to go back to Joel Stein in a cloud of
glory. To show him why he should give her an act of her own to
manage under his umbrella.

The record business was a man's world. Period. If you were a
chick, you had to be more than .just competent. You had to knock
them out.

But what could an assistant tour accountant do, exactly?

She'd had an uneasy feeling about Mike Rich from the start. His
hostility couldn't be explained by her mere presence. Poppy knew all
about soothing egos, and she'd done everything he asked, promptly
and obediently. She even made his goddam coffee, `just the way he
liked it.

She sat and thought until the first support band was announced.
Then she got up, and tucked her laminate into her T-shirt, so
nobody could rip it off her, and headed out of the backstage
compound into front of house.


It was early, but the place was already three-quarters full. This gig
had sold out in half an hour when it went on sale four months ago;
the promoter told Poppy it had melted a local phone bank. She

remembered him rubbing his hands together gleefully.
'Ch'e fantastico,' the guy had purred.
Fantastic. Yeah, a bonanza for him.


I98

Poppy stared out at the sea of people. They were crowded into
the standing area and filling the seats at the back. They were nodding
politely as the first support, a local act, desperately ground out their
best tunes in front of a backdrop of plain black drapes, set up to
cover Green Dragon's set.

There sure were a lot of them. Queuing up at the food stands,
thronging the T-shirt stall, drinking the overpriced, watered-down
beer.

A little bell rang in her head. Something wasn't right. What was

it?

Something's wrong with this picture, Poppy thought.

Then she found it. A section had been added. The crowd
extended to the right of the stage, to the left of the stage. She focused
and brought up the seating diagram in her head. No, they hadn't
intended opening those seats up. You were at a really bad angle, you
couldn't see a thing, and the PA sound would be tinny and off
because of the acoustics.

Other bands liked to gouge every dollar from their fans. Not
Green Dragon. Not Dream Management. Not her boss.

Poppy's heartbeat accelerated. She marched back inside "the
backstage compound and threaded her way through the chaps
directly to the production office

Mike Rich was sitting there with the promoter, drinking. He was
laughing, too, as though he'd made a big score. Poppy saw there was
a wad of notes in an envelope sticking out of his pocket.

Surreptitiously she glanced at the seating diagram on the wall.
Those seats weren't there.

'Hey, Mike.' Poppy kept her tone light and calm. 'Where are the
ticket stubs?'

The two men's expressions changed instantly.

'Honey, wha' you wan' stubs for?' the promoter purred. 'All is
done auto, the band is gonna get paid, you think I don' pay Green
Dragon?'

'I lust like to be thorough,' Poppy said pleasantly.

'I already counted the ticket stubs,' Mike said shortly. 'Everything
matches.'

'That's nice,' Poppy said. 'What's up with the seating at the side of
the stage?'

'All accounted for. Not your business. I don't like your tone,
missy,' Mike blustered. 'You report to me, so why don't you take


199

that tight little ass of yours and get the luck out of the office? You're
in the way.'

She held her hands up. 'OK, OK. As long as you counted it all, I
guess I have nothing to say ... see you guys later.'

She went to catering to kill half an hour, then came back to the
production office. There was a little dusting of coke on the tables
where they'd been sitting, Poppy recognised the white powder

instantly. Her heart was in her mouth as she dialled the office in LA.
'Dream Management.'

'It's Poppy. Let me speak to Joel.'

'He's in a meeting.'

'Just put me through, Lisa.'

That aggravated sigh at the end of the phone. Poppy didn't give a
damn.

'Is this an emergency?' Joel's voice snapped. 'I'm in a meeting
with ICA.'

'Mike's ripping you off,' Poppy said succinctly.

A pause. 'Extra seats?'

'Extra sections, I think a kickback.'

'Document it,' Joel Stein said. Then he hung up.

Poppy smiled to herself and. reached for a camera. She knew what
was about to happen. She was gonna climb the second rung of the
ladder, after only her first road trip. Six weeks to a promotion,
Poppy thought.

She loved the record business.

200


Chapter 28


'So,' Ted Elliott said. The super-agent spun slightly on his modern,
sleekly ergonomic chair, which perfectly matched his sleekly
ergonomic offices. They overlooked the Thames, with vast floor-to
ceiling windows; interior design that looked as though it had come
from someone hipper than Terence Conran; a kidney-shaped couch
on which an utterly overawed Daisy was perched; a glass coffee table
laden with copies of The Bookseller and Publisher's Weekly and
publishers' catalogues; a kilim rug, and a chrome-covered espresso
machine.

Daisy thought it was rather incongruous, because Ted Elliot .was
about her father's age, and as upper-class as they came. He reminted
her of Edward Powers, many years down the line. An old-fashiontd
gentleman. But the thought, for once, did not stab at her heilt,
because she was too jumpy to think about anything other than
getting through this.


'Ted Elliott of Elliott & Russell?' Edward had asked, when she'd
finally met him in the bar. 'You're not serious, Daisy. But that's
fantastic!'

'Is he a big agent?' Daisy had asked nervously, looking around for
Edwina.

'She's not here, had to run,' Edward said, answering her unspoken
query. 'But as for Elliott, he's the biggest agent in London, bar none.
Represents ...' and he ticked off a list of gargantuan bestselling
authors. 'No romance, though, as far as I'm aware.'


And now Daisy was here. She'd jumped on the bus to London, and
she was actually in an agent's office. A really big, important agent.

Ted Elliott could make her dreams come true. If only he'd take
her on.

'Have you had any other interest?' he asked.


201

Daisy nodded, blushing. It had been a week since the summons to
Elliott's office, and three other agencies had written to her asking to
see more of her work. It was a great response to the chapter she'd
mailed out.

'Curtis Brown, ICM, William Morris,' she mumbled.

His eyes were polite, but rather steely.

'I'll tell you what I am not interested in,' Elliott told her, 'and that
is a beauty contest.'

'Pdght,' Daisy agreed, not sure what he meant.

There was a silence. She had no idea what she was supposed to
say.

'So we'll get this out to a few people. I know a couple of editors I
think could be right for the material.'

Daisy had no idea what was going on, and the super-agent was
pushing back his chair like the meeting was over. She couldn't let it
end like this.

'Will you represent me?' she blurted out. Subtle as a brick, but she
had to know. This was torture. She had no idea if she was supposed
to walk out of here despondent or elated.

'Yes, of course.' He looked at her as though she had just arrived
from the planet Mars. 'We'll get contracts out to you tonight. What
are you crying for?'

'I'm sorry,' Daisy mumbled, because she wasn't being remotely
cool. 'I'm just so happy.'

The older man's face crinkled into a broad smile. 'No need for
tears just yet, I imagine. Do you have a job?'

'Yes, I'm a waitress,' Daisy said fiercely, 'and I can't wait to pack it

in --'

'Over my dead body.' Now he really did look like her father.
'You have no idea if the book will sell.'

'Oh,' said Daisy, yanked back down to earth. She hated her
crappy job in Oxford.

'Never give up a job until you know your future is secure; and
that can take years.'

'Oh,' said Daisy gloomily.

'Just go home. We'll call you,' Ted Elliott said, and the meeting
was over.


Daisy went back to Oxford and tried to concentrate on her studies.
She was six weeks away from her final examinations. After the
agency contracts arrived, she signed them, and that was about all that


202

happened. The strange thing was that the lack of news about her
manuscript concentrated her mind.

She rented herself a new place - away from Edward Powers. To
be around him hurt too much. It was a nasty little dump on the ringroad,
modem, with a handkerchief-sized patch of neatly clipped
lawn out front boasting a garden gnome showing his workman's
bum. She had to share it with a glue-sniffing teenager called Spike,
which actually wasn't too bad as he was never home.

But more importantly, the rent was as tiny as her room, and she
was out of danger; he was never going to 'drop in' with Edwina
here, and she wasn't surrounded, every day, by reminders of him.
Daisy told Edward that she needed to buckle down, to get her
degree. He understood that, and didn't pressure her into going out
for a drink.

'After finals. Quite right,' he said.

Sometimes she wondered if he knew how she felt about him. But
she tried not to obsess about it, else she'd go mad.

Daisy went to the library for her course, pulled out books, buried
her head in them. It was strange how she was actually starting to find
it interesting. Even though there were no calls from London, e
ver fact that a big agent had signed her gave her a new zest for lille,
something that had been missing for so long she almost felt drunk.

A sense of achievement. How strange; she looked at herself
differently now.

She started to lose more weight, without noticing it. She was too
busy to think about eating, and quite often she'd grab a Boots
Shapers sandwich for lunch, not because it was low-cal, but just
because it was there. And fast. The last few pounds of puppy fat were
melting from her thighs. Daisy had to walk a mile each day just to
get to and from her nearest bus-stop; the inaccessibility of the nasty
suburban house was one reason even she could make the rent. And
then she'd be on her feet at night. Waitressing.

As she dropped the weight and started to like herself a little, Daisy
found she was making more money. She would make up her face
with something cheap such as No. 7, just a dab of foundation and a
black eyeliner. And her tips increased dramatical]y.

Pretty girls made more money. She resented it, but she needed the
cash; it didn't hurt to smile, Daisy told herself.

Some of the diners, emboldened by cheap house red, asked her
out on dates, but that was a bridge too far.


203

'I'm taken,' she'd reply, grinning in a friendly way. That was
usually good for a river.

Daisy met Edward for a last drink, still no Edwina, thank God,
and promised to keep in touch.

'You don't think I'd let a famous author slip out of my clutches,
do you?' Edward joked.

Daisy laughed gently. 'I suppose not.'

That was a rough night. All she could think about was how much
she loved him, but there was absolutely no chance of telling the
truth. Even though the girl was not in town, Edward talked about
her constantly. He was smitten, and Daisy was history.

She sat her finals, and left Oxford without looking back.


Daisy was out in the garden, helping her mother pull some
bindweed out of the fence. Her parents had managed to find a flat to
rent; nice enough, but hardly their old house. It had two bedrooms,
was part of an old Victorian schoolhouse, and had its own small
patch of garden. Daisy was thankful for that; her mother loved to
garden, and she had planted roses and clematis around the trellis
fence.

She hoped it would keep .them distracted.

Her arrival had been enough for two weeks' worth of conversation.
She had lied merrily to them about prospective boyfriends and
chatted about her course, her friends; anything to make them feel
that her time in Oxford had been nothing but bliss. Her degree had
been a good one - she'd got a First. Daisy might have told her
mother about Brad, or even Edward, under other circumstances. But
her parents needed to hear nothing but good news, so that was what
they got. Daisy didn't comment on the silver-grey streaked through
her father's hair, or the fact that her mother had lost fifteen pounds
and now looked gaunt.

She also didn't tell them about her agent, and her possible book.

'DaisyF Her father was calling from the kitchen, with a cup of tea
in one hand. 'Phone for you. Some chap named Elliott.'

'Daisy!' her mother huffed, because Daisy had trodden on one of
her newly planted petunias as she raced for the kitchen. Mrs
Markham smiled, watching her daughter go. A reaction like that, it
had to be young love. She hoped to heaven the boy was a man of
means.

'Thanks, Dad.' Daisy grabbed the receiver, palms sweaty.
'Daisy?' It was Gemma. 'Can you hold?'


204

'Sure,' she said, breathlessly. They piped the Four Seasons down
the line till she thought she was going to scream.

'Hi, Daisy,' said Ted Elliott finally. 'How are you?'

'OK,' she said. Who the hell cared how she was?

'I've sold your book,' he said casually. 'In fact, I've also sold the
next one.'

'But I haven't written the next one,' Daisy said, feeling stupid.
'How much did you think these books were going to go for?'
She paused. The important thing was that she was going to be
published. New writers got very little, Daisy knew that much. But it
would still beat six months of waitressing.

'About two thousand pounds?' Daisy suggested tremulously.
'Ha! I think you'd better sit down,' he said, a touch smugly.
'Ted, just tell me, please!' shouted Daisy, losing it completely. Her
father was giving her a concerned stare across the kitchen. He set his
cup of tea down on the countertop.

'I've sold this book and a sequel for seventy thousand pounds,'
Ted Elliott said.

205


Chapter 29


The tube pulled into Leicester Square and Daisy got out, electrified
with excitement. She was due to meet her publishers for the first
time.

Her editor had spoken to her on the phone and said nice things,
but Daisy wasn't listening; it all felt like a blur, .just a huge blur.
Today would make it real.

Not even six months out of college, she had traded a waitress's
apron for being a writer. A real writer, with a proper contract.

Daisy felt slightly scared they would think they had made a
mistake. She was nobody, really, not Jackie Collins, nor Jeffrey
Archer, nor Jilly Cooper. She was going to be a real author,
published by the same firm that put out Richard Weston.

She glanced at her watch. It was still only ten. She had fifteen
minutes before she was due at her meeting but she hadn't wanted to
be late.

'Nothing to be worried about,' Ted Elliott told Daisy. 'They love
your writing. Fenella said it had sparkle she hasn't seen for years.'

Fenella Granger, a publishing titan, apparently. Her new editor.

'And they'll all be very glad to meet someone as young and as
glamorous as you.'

Daisy burst out laughing.

Her agent crooked an eyebrow. 'What on earth is so funny?'
'Glamorous! Me? Have you taken a good look at me, Ted?'
He steepled his fingers and regarded her. 'I think perhaps the
question is have you taken a good look at yourself?' Ted pointed to
the gold-framed mirror hanging behind her. 'Check yourself out.
Isn't that what the young people say?"

Daisy looked. The girl standing in front of her was beautiful. She
hadn't been paying attention to her transformation. She was slim; her
clothes were actually hanging off her. Was it possible? Could she
have dropped to a size ten? She'd always loved her eyes, but now


206

you could actually see them, as they weren't hidden behind folds of
fat. She had real cheekbones - high, aristocratic cheekbones that
seemed to go on for ever - and her hair, because she hadn't bothered
with it, was tumbling down around her shoulders in a rich, dark and
glossy mane. She had full lips that were ... well, pretty sexy. Her
jeans and T-shirt didn't exactly fit, because they were both too big,
but the natural curves of her body were still impressive. She had a
high, tight butt, full breasts, and she wasn't too skinny, and ...

'You look amazed,' Ted Elliott said. 'Most girls your age can't
keep away from the mirror. My nieces, for example. The only time
they get out of the bathroom is to get on the phone.'

'I've never liked mirrors,' Daisy said truthfully. The mirror had
been her enemy. Who wanted to be reminded of being a lump?

'Well,' Ted said, losing interest, 'it never hurts to be young and
pretty when you're selling something. Perhaps you should go
shopping and buy something, um, funky.'

Daisy had taken the advice to heart. She'd popped down to
Harvey Nicks - how she'd always longed to say 'popped down to
Harvey Nicks' - and bought herself something flattering by Ghost, a
cute dress in dusty pink with a matching lace cardigan, wedges frQ, m
Dior, and a little Kate Spade pink-leather handbag. The price th.g
almost made her faint, but Daisy told herself it was business.

She wavered between not wanting to count her chickens and'a
steely determination to make this work. It was so hard not to think
of herself as unworthy.

But I am, Daisy told herself, I am worthy. They didn't sign me for
fun. They think I can succeed.

She smiled. She was starting to value herself.


Artemis Publishing was located on Tottenham Court Road, right in
the heart of book country. There were gleaming modern booksellers
and mazy little specialist shops, antiquarian dealers and feminist
presses up and down the length of the street, mingling with the odd
record business building, like the Astoria, EMI publishing, and the
instrument sellers on Denmark Street.

She wandered up towards the Royal George pub, ducking into
Waterstone's on the way. The rows of pristine books on.the shelves,
the posters, the tables of bestsellers and new releases ... she felt as
though she was floating. Daisy picked up Savage Outcome, the latest
Richard Weston thriller. It had big gold letters on the cover, fantastic
reviews on the back - quotes from Company and Elle and the Daily


207

Chapter 3o


'So.' Fenella shuffled her notes and looked at Daisy brightly. 'That shouldn't be too hard, now should it?'

They were sitting in the kitchen of Fenella's glorious Cotswolds
manor house. There was a gleaming red Aga in the corner, bunches
of dried hops and beaten copper pans hanging from the ceiling, and a
collection of chipped mugs hanging from nails driven into a beam. It
had lead-paned windows and warm stone floors that were cool in the
summer heat. Outside, there was a large garden with lavender-lined
paths and wild roses climbing riotously up a trellis. Daisy had no idea
how Fenella ever got any work done.

'I suppose not,' Daisy respo.nded gloomily. She had just finished
hearing all Fenella's editing suggestions for her book, The Lemon
Grove. There were so many of them she wondered why Artemis had bought the manuscript in the first place.

'Don't look so upset.' Fenella grinned. 'I told you, you've got
huge talent and your characters sing, but the plot just needs some
tweaking.'

'Tweaking!' Daisy protested. 'You want to get rid of Carl
altogether and change the firm from clothes to make-up -'

'If one rival runs a store, clothes isn't different enough. And Carl
just isn't likeable enough. He's not necessary. Think about it.'

With a bit of resentment, Daisy considered it. She supposed
Fenella might have a point.

'It's going to mean a page-one rewrite, you know.'

'I know. That's where the work part comes in.' Fenella handed
her a cup of coffee, stirring in the sugar. 'This is your launch, and we
only launch a writer once, so let's getit right.'

Daisy sighed. 'I hear you.'


At home, in the rented flat, her parents gave her her own room and
let her lock herself away. Daisy would watch her mother in the

210


garden from her small, neat, double-glazed frame as she planted and
mowed and began to make something interesting out of the small
space. Her parents were motivation enough, even if this hadn't been
a dream of hers.

Daisy wanted this book so badly. She wanted to see her name in
print, pick her own book up at W.H. Smith's, in the station's Menzies, maybe even see somebody reading it on a bus. She also
wanted to get her parents out of this rental situation, but they
wouldn't hear a word of it.

'Darling, you only have thirty thousand pounds for this book.'
'Thirty's a lot, and there's forty for the next one.'

'Yes, it's a lot of money for a twenty-two-year-old, but you'll
have to make it last. Get yourself a house. Your father and I are
going to be fine. He has that new job at the bank.'

'And he gives all his extra money to bloody Lloyd's,' Daisy said
resentfully. Her father was far too honest, too damn noble for his
own good.

'It's a debt, darling,' said her mother proudly.

Daisy was filled with a mixture of rage and pride whenever she
thought about it. She would have expected her father to insist ,on
doing the right thing. But she could not bear to see him do it.

She felt responsible, and the thought was strangely exhilarating.
Daisy knew that opportunity was knocking for her fight now. '"

She was not about to let the moment slip.


She worked furiously. At first there were problems. Daisy turned in
some chapters and got worried phone calls from Fenella.
'This isn't working, Daisy. It doesn't have any of the zest I found
when I first bought the book.'

Daisy felt fear close a clammy hand around her heart. She couldn't
lose this, she just couldn't. What if they said the book was
unacceptable and refused to pay her, to publish it? Would she have
to go back to waitressing? She felt nausea rise in her throat.

'Let me give you a bit of advice,' Fenella said. 'You're over
thinking it. Go out to the bookshop, buy tons of the sort of books
you like to. read, and curl up with them for a week.'

'A week,' Daisy said horrified. 'I write three thousand words a
day, that's going to put me six chapters behind '

'You need to remind yourself what it is you like. Honestly. Trust
me on this one.'

Obediently, and still feeling scared, Daisy went into town and


2II

found a Books Etc. Now, the gleaming gold-spined rows of
blockbusters didn't seem so exciting, they seemed intimidating,
mocking.

Resolutely, Daisy marched up to 'Popular Fiction' and pulled out
her favourites. If she was going to learn, it might as well be from the
masters. Kane and Abel. Best trashy novel ever written. Riders. Close
second. Lace. Close third. She piled up her arms with fantastically
plotted classics. Judith Krantz's Scruples. Sally Beauman's Destiny. Penny Vincenzi's Old Sins. Hmm, she was actually starting to enjoy
hersel£ Ken Follett! Pile it on... and finally, of course, her personal
hero: 1Kichard Weston. Daisy bought Savage Outcome with delicious
anticipation.

She tumbled her purchases on to the counter in front of a jaded
shop assistant, who paused from cracking her gum long enough to
blink.

'Bored, are ya?' she demanded. 'Or are ya flying to Australia or
something?'

'Or something,' Daisy said sweetly.

There were plenty of places that offered creative writing courses;
even universities. But Fenella was right, she could do no better than
immerse herself in the kind of.stuff she wanted to write. If you read
the complete works of one writer, you usually started pastiching
them. Especially with people like Jilly Cooper - one had to be
careful of that. But Daisy thought this way was safe, just to read the
best of the best and let it all sink in. She loved to be whisked away
into the hearts of dark rivalries, strong men and gorgeous, cunning
women, to read about the LA sun and the Siberian ice and World
War Two and Argentinian polo matches ...

She spent the next two weeks on the living-room couch, reading
through one pop fiction legend after another. Her mother kept her
supplied with hot tea and packets of Hob-Nobs. When Daisy was
finished, she'd put on eight pounds. Ugh. But she was also prepared.

She could hardly wait to start writing again. Whenever she booted
up the computer, Daisy got a buzz. And now her fingers were flying
across the keyboard.

She faxed the new pages to Fenella and held her breath.
'This is great, Daisy. This is exactly right. Keep it coming.'
Daisy did. She also pulled on a pair of old shorts and started
jogging in the mornings. She had no intention of sliding back to the
way she had been before. Maybe Edward wasn't in her life, but that
wasn't the point.

212

Daisy had no interest in men right now, not even Edward Powers.
She didn't have time to brood and mourn over him. Her career was
all that counted. If she wanted romance, she worked it out in the
pages of her novel. She didn't care about looking good for men. She

cared about looking good for herself.

It was a fun summer.

Everything was coming together. Daisy felt the sense of achievement
every day, when she finished her run, when she finally ran the
last word-count of the evening. Maybe it wouldn't work, after all,
but she knew that she was giving it everything that she had. It might
not have been blood, sweat and tears, but it was bloody hard work,
and it was the best she could do.


'So this is the cover. Or covers,' Tony Morris told her. Tony was the
Artemis Art Director, andhe was known for being one of the best in
London.

'Ahm, very striking,' Daisy said uncertainly.

The Lemon Grove had been packaged up like a boiled sweet in two
flavours. The book was laid out before her in two covers: neon lime
green and neon hot-pink, both with the title in block silver letters.
Daisy loved the silver letters; that was proper blockbuster stuff. But
neon green?

'It's meant to be striking.' Tony smirked. 'I know what you're
thinking, love, but watch this.' He picked up the two books and
balanced them against the bookshelf on the far wall. 'Now take a step
back.' He pulled Daisy over to stand by the window. 'See?'

She did. Even with the other books' brightly coloured covers,
there was no mistaking Lemon Grove. It screamed back at her as
though it had been on fire. The two different acid colours were even

more obvious when they were contrasted next to each other.
'Ah,' Daisy said, thrilled. 'I'd pick them up.'
'And that's half the sale,' Tony informed her.

213


Chapter


It took Daisy six months of rewrites, and when finally, exhausted,
she handed the book in, Fenella told her it wouldn't be published
until next year.

'But why?' Daisy asked, disappointed.

Fenella smiled gently at Daisy's gutted face. 'Look, it takes about
nine months for copy-editing, type-setting, promotion, proof copies,
marketing ... about the same time as a baby. We'll start planning
and writing book two. And publication will be here before you
know it.'


The Lemon Grove was published.in July, just in time for the August
holiday season. Fenella told Daisy she had written an instant classic;
'the ultimate beach read'.

'Wow, I just hope you're right.'

'I'm always right,' Fenella said with supreme confidence.

And she was. Artemis was excited about the book, and the
marketing push got it out there. Tony's neon covers screamed at
browsers in chains across the country; there were dump-bins, point
of-sale material, posters, and even ads on buses.

'That won't work by itself,' Fenella warned Daisy when she rang
up, thrilled, because she'd seen a bus with her book cover plastered
across it. 'It only means the book has a chance. People will see it.
After that, the work has to stand by itself. Which it will.'

It didn't take long for the company to know they had a success on
their hands. Daisy got her first phone call from Fenella within a
month.

'Daisy? It's Fenella.'

'Hi,' said Daisy, desperately trying to appear casual. Her fingers
were white-knuckled, gripping the receiver. She was a first novelist.
If it didn't go well for her now, her new career, her new life would
be stillborn.

214


'I have good news.'

'OK,' Daisy said, but there were tears in her eyes. She exhaled
raggedly.

'You're a hit. Our first printing has completely sold out. We're
reprinting right now.'

'That's wonderful,' Daisy said, gleefully.

When she hung up, she danced around the room.


A week later, it was Publicity who were calling.

'People are surprised. This kind of novel is supposed to be dead.
It's all murder mysteries and financial thrillers out there right now,'
Helen Moxie told her. Moxie was the head of the Artemis publicity
department, and she was on the phone telling Daisy her publicity
schedule. 'They find it strange you're having such success with a
romance. So, you have the itinerary?'

'Yes,' Daisy said, feeling a bit fraudulent.

'There'll be a first-class ticket to London waiting for you, and I'll
be there half an hour before your first interview, just to make sure
things go smoothly, OK? Don't worry, you'll be great.'

'I suppose I don't see what the point is,' Daisy said tremulously, 'I
mean, it's a fictional story, what's interesting about talking to te
writer?'

'Just think of it as free advertising. See you Thursday.'

On Wednesday afternoon her father drove her to the station.
'We're so proud of you, darling. Doing all the interviews, it's
marvellous. You're a big star.'

'I'm not, Dad, shut up,' Daisy said, but the truth was she was
excited.

'Have fun. See you soon.' Her father kissed her and handed her
her little suitcase.

Daisy walked into the station and picked up her first-class train
ticket. She didn't think she'd ever travelled first class in her life. The
carriage was mostly empty and had slightly wider seats, which were a
different colour, and had little tissue things-on the top.

Big fat hairy wow, Daisy thought, but she still revelled in it. Why
not? Artemis was footing the bill.

When the drinks trolley trundled past Daisy ordered a gin and
tonic. To hell with it. This was a celebration.


Her hotel was the Halkin, very upscale, with a Japanese d&cor
mingling with funky Jackson Pollock-esque abstract paintings. Not


215

Daisy's cup ofea but, just like the train, that really wasn't the point.
The point was her publishers thought she was worth spending the
money on.

Fenella had taught her a lot more than good storytelling. She had

educated Daisy on the realities of publishing and Daisy knew now
that every penny they spent on promotion and publicity showed
their commitment to her.

She was being groomed to be the next big thing, and she loved it.
Helen Moxie arrived bang on time the next morning, but Daisy
was already waiting for her in the lobby. If her publishers were going
to be this helpful, she at least wanted to show willing. It couldn't
hurt to be professional.

'Mm, very nice.' Helen took in her outfit: boot-cut black Joseph

trousers and a cute little silky top, teamed with Daisy's long, loose
hair and a pair of dangling Moroccan silver earrings. 'I wish it was

TV and not radio. You look cute. Are you ready?'

'Ready as I'll ever be,' Daisy said.

She spent the morning having desultory interviews with bored

reporters from the tabloids and the Evening Standard who kept asking

her about her sex life.

'Your men really like that, D. aisy?'

'Into bed-hopping, are ya?'

'Jason's a bit of a strong man, ain't he? You into bondage, then?'

Daisy tried not to get flustered, but she couldn't help it. 'I'm sorry,

I don't discuss my private life' didn't seem to cut it.

'Try to be quotable,' hissed Helen. 'Say, "I read it in Cosmo, that's

my story and I'm sticking to it."'

'Right,' Daisy said, trying not to get upset.

After lunch a taxi took her to That Radio Place. They signed in in

the lobby, got little laminated badges that said 'Visitor', and then
Helen led Daisy up in the elevator to an anonymous warren of
corridors that looked and smelled like school. She had the surreal
experience of being 'interviewed' down-the-line; Daisy sat in a
booth with headphones over her ears and a mike in front of her and
nobody else there, while they piped a show from ladio Scotland or
P,.adio Tyneside into her ears and she had to interact with some
phantom DJ. She didn't think it was too bad, apart from the watery
coffee in the plastic cups, and she had just about recovered from the
morning's nastiness when she was taken to Max Radio 96.3 in
Camden.

'This is the biggest thing we've been able to get you,' Helen said.


216

'It's Mutt and Jeff It's really important. They go out almost
nationally, you can get this station in Oxford.'

'I know, I used to listen,' Daisy said, feeling slightly worried.
Mutt and Jeff were 'shock jocks'. The UK's answer to Howard
Stern, they had a huge audience, they were always getting bleeped,
and they were funny but mercilessly cruel to a lot of their guests.

'I think you can take them on. Just flirt with Jeff. Mutt's gay, so
that won't help you any.' Helen took in Daisy's anxious look. 'It's
the audience, Daisy. They're such huge publicity. You couldn't pay
for it. Just plug the book every chance you get.'

'No problem,' Daisy said, though she thought it might be.


'Well luck me,' Jeff said.

Daisy, with the headphones on, was stuck in the Mutt and Jeff
booth. It was decorated with posters of girls with their tits out,
presumably not Mutt's choice.

The two radio superstars were small men who had spots and
looked mean as hungry ferrets.

'No thanks, mate, not my type,' Mutt giggled in that famous

high-pitched squeak.


	'She's gorgeous, isn't she? A right bit of totty. Want to pose'for

	the Jeff cam, sugar? I wouldn't mind looking at those jugs all da}.'

	Daisy wondered if she should get up and walk out, just cut her

	losses.

	'No thanks, Jeff...'

	'But sex is your thing, ain't it?' Daisy saw with horror that he had

	Lemon Grove open in front of him. He flipped to a pre-marked page

	and started to read out loud one of her hottest sex scenes. 'Bugger

	me! Went to Oxford, didn't you?'

	'Not the University.'

	'Is that what they teach you there? Sex Ed?' He was ignoring her.

	'No, for that I tuned into the Mutt and Jeff show,' Daisy said.

	He hadn't expected that. 'Faithful listener, were you?'

	'Sure. Nobody does puerile sarcasm like you two. Students love

	that kind of thing.'

	'And nobody does sex like Daisy Markham?' needled Jeff.

	Well,' said Daisy, 'if everybody buys The Lerno Gro'e they can

	find that out for themselves.'

	'But your book is full of sex. You otta be a sex maniac. I bet

	you're great in bed. Why do you think you got on this show?'

	'Most trashy novels have sex in them,' Daisy said firmly, 'because


217

people do have sex. Not people that look like you two, obviously.
But other people.' She leaned closer to her mike. 'I wish you guys
out there could see what a couple of skinny pizza-faced bastards
these two are. Reading from my book is probably the best sex Jeff's
had all year.'

Behind the glass partition she could see Helen Moxie gaping at
her in utter horror. Daisy looked defiantly at the DJs, but they didn't
seem to mind.

'Ooh,' said Mutt, delighted. 'It's got teeth.'

'Make a lot of money, do ya?' Jeff said. His tone was fractionally
less mean now.

'Why don't you find another hot passage and read it out on the
air? Then I'll make even more,' Daisy said, grinning.

When the bit went off air for commercials, skinny Jeff reached out
and shook her hand.

'Well done,' he said, 'great radio.'


The papers were full of it the next morning. Daisy had been just
about the only girl ever to take Mutt and Jeff on. The following
week, sales of The Lemon Grove, which they plugged for three days,
doubled.

'Daisy, my love,' said Fenella when she called her with the latest
figures, 'I think a star has been born.'

28


Chapter


So here she was again.

It was eight-twenty on Monday morning. There was a crisp chill
in the air, and New York was bustling with the Fall's back-to-work
energy. Business men and women scurried past her in their dark
suits, clutching paper cups, with the Greek key design on them, full
of steaming coffee; a little warmth and caffeine to kick the day off
right. Lots of Brooks Brothers navy and black out today, Rose
thought. Ambition in the air.

And plenty of it here, at Rothstein Realty.

She had been sixteen when she came here last, scamming her,yeay
in to see William Rothstein. Six years later she had turned twefl, ty
two. But she remembered everything about that day. Was William

still in PR, still at extension II567 '

The office buildings had not changed one bit. The sleek granite
casing of the midtown skyscraper still glittered in the thin sunlight.
Rose took a deep breath and walked into the lobby.

Yes, it was as she remembered. Marble streaked with the palest
pink. Receptionists in pearls, oriental rugs. They'd changed the art,
but it was the same sort of stuff. Stuff that screamed dollars.

A group of kids her own age were clustered around reception.
There were about twelve of them; only one was a girl, a keen
looking chick in a nondescript fawn dress and cardigan. Rose was
xvearing a Donna Karan navy suit, cut beautifully, with a skirt that sat
just above the knee. She had teamed it with a pair of CK pumps,
plain gold studs in her ears, neutral make-up, and a leather-strapped
watch.

It had been a rookie error to let Jake see her in Chanel. No need
to draw attention to the money she had. Rose didn't want anybody

at this place noticing her until she'd got what she wanted.

She walked over to join the others.

'Hi.' Rose smiled at them briskly. 'I'm Rose Fiorello.'

219


people do have sex. Not people that look like you two, obviously.
But other people.' She leaned closer to her mike. 'I wish you guys
out there could see what a couple of skinny pizza-faced bastards
these two are. Reading from my book is probably the best sex Jeff's
had all year.'

Behind the glass partition she could see Helen Moxie gaping at
her in utter horror. Daisy looked defiantly at the DJs, but they didn't
seem to mind.

'Ooh,' said Mutt, delighted. 'It's got teeth.'

'Make a lot of money, do ya?' Jeff said. His tone was fractionally
less mean now.

'Why don't you find another hot passage and read it out on the
air? Then I'll make even more,' Daisy said, grinning.

When the bit went off air for commercials, skinny Jeff reached out
and shook her hand.

'Well done,' he said, 'great radio.'


The papers were full of it the next morning. Daisy had been just
about the only girl ever to take Mutt and Jeff on. The following
week, sales of The Lemon Grove, which they plugged for three days,
doubled.

'Daisy, my love,' said Fen¢lla when she called her with the latest
figures, 'I think a star has been born.'

BI8


Chapter


So here she was again.

It was eight-twenty on Monday morning. There was a crisp chill
in the air, and New York was bustling with the Fall's back-to-work
energy. Business men and women scurried past her in their dark
suits, clutching paper cups, with the Greek key design on them, full
of steaming coffee; a little warmth and caffeine to kick the day off
right. Lots of Brooks Brothers navy and black out today, Rose
thought. Ambition in the air.

And plenty of it here, at Rothstein Realty.

She had been sixteen when she came here last, scamming hr.way
in to see William Rothstein. Six years later she had turned twenty
two. But she remembered everything about that day. Was William
still in PR, still at extension II56?

The office buildings had not changed one bit. The sleek granite
casing of the midtown skyscraper still glittered in the thin sunlight.
Rose took a deep breath and walked into the lobby.

Yes, it was as she remembered. Marble streaked with the palest
pink. Receptionists in pearls, oriental rugs. They'd changed the art,
but it was the same sort of stuff. Stuff that screamed dollars.

A group of kids her own age were clustered around reception.
There were about twelve of them; only one was a girl, a keen
looking chick in a nondescript fawn dress and cardigan. Rose was
wearing a Donna Karan navy suit, cut beautifully, with a skirt that sat
just above the knee. She had teamed it wi.th a pair of CK pumps,
plain gold studs in her ears, neutral make-up, and a leather-strapped
watch.

It had been a rookie error to let Jake see her inChanel. No need
to draw attention to the money she had. Rose didn't want anybody

at this place noticing her until she'd got what she wanted.

She walked over to join the others.

'Hi.' Rose smiled at them briskly. 'I'm Rose Fiorello.'

219


P,.ose suppressed a laugh.

'This way.' The doors slid open and Joan marched ahead of her

down a corridor. They entered a large, sterile room with a projector

screen, a long, empty table, and a few chairs lined up in the front.

The male interns were already seated. They had left open two

chairs at the very back. Rose slid into one, and almost as soon as she
had sat down -Joan's body stiff with dislike beside her - a man
entered the room and dimmed the lights, walking up to the
projector screen, so that only his corpulent frame was lit up from the
machine.

Rose gasped.

It was William lothstein.

'Shh!' Joan hissed.

'My name is William J. P,.othstein, and I am the Senior Director

of Public Relations at lothstein Realty.'

'Good morning, sir,' chorused the young men. 'Honoured, Mr
P,.othstein,' chirped Joan inaudibly.

Rose said nothing. She knew a little more about the business now.

William must really have no talent, she thought, if they'd shoved
him into PlY. That was a ghetto job. Of course, he 'ran' the division,
with a million women reporting to him. Like that busty secretary
he'd had when she'd gone to see him.

'You're here today because you're very fortunate. Or very

ruthless. Either one works.' lothstein smiled at his own joke. 'This
is one of the most prestigious firms in New York, with a portfolio
valued at over a billion dollars. Our yearly turnover is routinely in
the hundreds of millions.'

He clicked his fat thumb on a button, and pictures of buildings

flashed up. A prestigious hotel, skyscrapers, a row of luxury
Brooklyn brownstones.

'You'll be assisting the executives who do deals like this. It is an
incredible opportunity to learn, fought for by hundreds of applicants.
You won.' P,.othstein's eyes narrowed. 'You will be expected to be
punctual and to do whatever you are asked to do. You will address
your bosses as "sir", unless told otherwise. Files on your performance
will be kept in Human Ikesources and will determine your future
employment here.'

Joan shot Rose a nasty look.

'This is an expansion period for Rothstein. Many of our new deals

have proven to be extremely lucrative.'


222

He clicked up a few more pictures, then stopped on one gleaming
skyscraper.

'This deal was one of our most successful in the last five years.
After sales were completed, it netted the company twelve million in
after-tax profits.'

Rose stared. She recognised the image flickering on the screen. It
was her father's old building. In the space where Paul's Famous Deli
had been was a nice, corporate little Starbucks.

'Well.' William Rothstein clicked the projector off and turned up
the lights. 'Remember that only two of you will wind up hired.
Now get to work.'

Rose stood up with the rest, lowering her eyes, just in case he
recognised her.

Get to work, huh? My goddam pleasure.


'Mr White, Rose Fiorello is here.'

The secretary hovered in the doorway of her boss's office. She was
nothing like Joan; petite, large-breasted, wearing a skirt that was
about an inch too short, platinum-bleached hair, and three coats of
mascara. Her name was Maw-Beth and she was from Texas:. 5he
regarded tose as though she were a rattlesnake.

'Oh, yeah. Show her in,' Richard White responded without
enthusiasm. '

Mary-Beth turned to Rose. 'You can go in,' she said, unnecessarily.

lose walked through the door and gasped.

White's office was nothing short of spectacular. It had huge floor
to-ceiling walls with breath-taking views of midtown. She could see
St Patrick's cathedral on one side, people sitting on the steps eating
their packed lunches like little ants, and the P, ockefeller Center on
the other, the ice-rink glittering in the pale autumn sun like a huge
diamond, surrounded by flags. On the two walls that were not made
of glass hung huge canvases, modern art; P,.ose hated abstract art, but
it certainly reeked of money. The floor of the office was buttery, soft
beige carpeting with a tventy-thousand-dollar Turkish carpet
thrown over it, and the desk was carved of mahogany, with a state
of-the-art computer and a phone system that looked like it belonged
on the Starship Enterprise. P,.ose recognised the chairs in front of the
desk and behind it as being Eames, ergonomic, top-of-the-line.

Sitting in the best chair behind the mahogany desk was Richard
White. P,.ose made an instant assessment. He was young for an office

223


like this; maybe thirty-eight. He had a soft face and manicured
hands, a little effeminate, a little cruel. The hazel eyes were set above
a smallish nose, a weak jaw and fleshy red lips, a bit rubbeW. His

well-cut suit hid a body that was not fat, just weak, Rose decided.

She fought back a shudder of revulsion. Gross.

'Come here,' White said. He crooked a polished fingernail,
beckoning her over, like a pasha with a slave.

Oh well, he wasn't gay, then, Rose thought. Pity. She fixed a

brisk, impersonal smile on her face and walked obediently up to his

desk.

'Good morning, Mr White.'

'Good morning, sir,' he corrected her.

Rose swallowed hard, clenching a fist. 'Good morning, sir.'
'You're very lucky to get this assignment, 1Rosa,' White said.
'It's Rose, sir.'

'It's whatever I say it is - Rosa. Why didn't they assign you to

Human Resources?'

'I'm interested in real estate.'

White rolled his eyes. 'This is aveW serious business. My area of
expertise is sales. What do you think sales involves?'

'Selling,' Rose snapped, before she could stop herself.

White's piggish eyes were "undressing her. They travelled with

approval over her figure before resting squarely on her tits.

'Ah . . .hah . . . I see why Jake decided to put you with me,' he
sniggered. 'What a clown that boy is! Great sense of humour.
Sometimes women can be useful in sales ... conferences, meeting
clients . . .'

The phone on his desk buzzed. White pressed the button.

'Is this important?' he hissed.

SuddeMy Rose felt a bit sorry for Maw-Beth. This guy must be a
nightmare to work for. She knew a bully when she saw one. And

yet, Mary-Beth was still guarding her turf. Why did women do this?

She froze.

White was resting one small palm casually on her butt.

Rose twitched away immediately.

White cupped the receiver. 'It's important to play nice,' he said
smoothly. 'You want to get ahead, don't you?'

'Yes, sir,' Maw-Beth said nervously. 'Mr Jacob Rothstein is here

to see you.'

'Oh well.' White's tone instantly changed from bully to syco

phant. 'Show him in at once.'

224


The door swung open andJake walked in. White straightened and
smiled widely, ignoring Rose, rushing over to him and pumping his
hand.

'Good to see you, Jacob, excellent to see you. How are you? Get
my memo on the Walker Building leasing? Sixty-five per cent
already.'

He was like a dog fawning over its master, Rose thought, but
without any of the real affection.

It was freakish. This was Jake, whom she had competed against at
college as an equal, Jake, to whom she was so rude, whom she was
always challenging. Even though she could destroy this place, it had
hurt her to have to pretend to ask him for a favour ...

And now look. He was treated as a god, or as a prince at the very
least. She half expected to watch this miserable little shit in the superfancy
office bow from the waist when Jake walked in.

White preened and scraped, and Jake glanced up over his head at

Rose and winked at her.

No, lkose told herself.

A wash of heat licked mercilessly at her lower belly.

Stop that. It's not sexy to watch everyone fawn over him. Y,0u
shouldn't respond to power like that. This man is your enemy. [

'You shouldn't take the trouble to come down here, Jacob. I'!l
always come up to you, just say the word,' White was gushing."

Jake extricated his hand.

'I see you have an intern with you, Richard.'

'What? Oh, yes.' White's plump face snapped round to Rose,
annoyed. 'Get out. Can't you see Mr Rothstein is here? We're going
to talk business.'

Rose blushed furiously.

'That's OK. I actually came to see how she was settling in. Rose
Fiorello is my special pick for the intern programme. I selected her
myself.'

'Fine, thank you,' Rose said.

White stared at her.

She was forced to add, 'sir'.

'Ahhh,' White said, in the tone of a man who sees how it is.
Rothstein wanted the chick for himself. He had tO back oft. 'Rose
will be fine, we're happy to have her in the department, Jacob.'

'Good. Show her the ropes, would you, Richard? I want her to
get a decent grounding in what we do here. Leasing, sales, all that
sort of stuff.' Jacob looked over at Rose. Ah, she was so delicious, in


225

that cute business suit. And she obviously loathed calling him sir. He
didn't think he'd ever enjoyed his authority more.

'Urn, of course, Jacob. A thorough basis.' White was aggravated.
'Of course, you're OK with her doing the normal intern stuff?
Filing, that sort of thing?'

'Absolutely. She's here on the same basis as the other candidates,'
Jake said gravely.

'Fine.' White turned to Rose. 'Go make us a couple of coffees.
Black, no sugar. Mary-Beth will show you the kitchen.'


Breathe deeply, Rose told herself.

'There you go, sir,' she said sweetly, passing Richard White his
coffee.

He was sitting on one of the chairs in front of the desk, chatting
with Jake. 'And there you go, sir.'

'Thanks, Rose.' Jake took the coffee, enjoying her bent over him,
those splendid breasts near his face, the spectacular wolf-eyes
downcast, probably, he thought, so he couldn't see the desire to rip
his throat out which was, doubtless, there. Of course, he was only
teasing her a little bit. He'd made it clear to White while she was in
the kitchen that she was not to be touched. Jake was actually looking
forward to seeing what Rose could do.

He wanted to try something radical with this company. He was
going to need radical thinkers, to sweep out the dead wood. He
thought maybe she could be a part of that.

Jake knew she had great instincts. A little training might be all it
took. But he didn't see why he shouldn't tease her a little first.

He wanted Rose Fiorello to ache for him. When she finally came

to his bed, she was going to beg him for it.
'Great coffee,' he said, sipping it.
Rose's skin was scarlet.

'Rose, Maw-Beth, my assistant, will show you around,' White
said. 'You'll be required to assist with some filing and photocopying.'

'Yes, sir,' Rose said, meekly.

She withdrew from the room, gently closing the door behind her.

'... So I got a four-year commitment from Ellison Broadcasting.
Inked yesterday '

'Yeah, I heard.' I know everything that goes on in this company,
Jake thought. 'And that's great. Good work, Richard. But I don't
want you riding Rose too hard, OK? Don't waste her time with


226

menial work. The odd bit of filing, whatever, but I want her taught.
Any problems, call me and I'll handle it.'

'No menial work?' White blinked. He blustered, 'You want me
to really let her in on our deals? What is she, something special?'

'Actually, yes.' Jake's eyes narrowed. 'She's a friend of mine. Now
you can handle that, can't you, Richard? Or maybe you'd rather not
do me this favour, and I'll have her work for me direct?'

'No! No, of course not. That's not it,' White gabbled. 'Delighted

to help, Jacob, of course, always ready to be of service ...'
'Good man,' Jake said. 'Later.'

He walked out. The secretary was standing with Rose, lecturing
her on the filing cabinet. The two girls straightened up as he passed

them, the secretary falling into a reverential silence.
'See you later, Rose,' Jake said casually.
'Sure, Mr P,.othstein,' Rose muttered.

Mary-Beth poked her in the ribs. 'Sir,' she hissed.

'That's OK,' Jake said magnanimously. 'She can call me Mr
Rothstein.'

He walked off down the corridors, chuckling quietly to himself.
He didn't see Rose's pale eyes boring furiously into his back:

227


Chapter 3 3


It was freezing.

New York was big on everything, and it was especially big on
cold. Winter had Manhattan in its grip. There was a fresh sprinkling
of snow atop the large grey piles of slush, and black ice and frost
glittered over the roads; municipal salting trucks could barely make a
dent in it. Chill winds howled down the hard glass canyons of
Tribeca, and a late dawn was breaking, weak and miserable, in the
east.

Rose Fiorello didn't give a damn.

She tugged on her clothes with a sense of rising excitement.
Today she selected another smart, modest outfit; a neatly cut suit that
tapered to the knee in charcoal grey with a cream silk shirt, a string
of cultured pale grey pearls, and a spritz of Chanel perfume. Classic,
classic, classic. She teamed it with Wolford hose and a neat pair of
mock-croc pumps. Of course, it was far too cold to go out like this,
but Rose had a warm woollen coat that swirled down to the ground,
silk-lined and very comfortable, and a thick cashmere scarf and
gloves. Most New Yorkers didn't move out of their front doors
without a balaclava and ear muffs, but she didn't see why she had to
sacrifice style completely, just to be warm: she selected a 920s
flapper-style cloche hat in a matching charcoal flit, and tugged it on.
A Hermes handbag was a tiny extravagance; just a little too rich for

an intern, but she was confident Richard White would never notice.
'Dick' White, as she thought of him.

He was too egotistical to notice what other people did. Especially
women, of course. Mary-Beth flirted with him every day as she
slavishly made his coffee; he watched her boobs as she leaned over
his desk, obligingly putting them on full display. Rose was sure that
Dick was fucking Mary-Beth in a broom cupboard somewhere.
Screwing a secretary was a perk of the .job for most Rothstein


228

executives, as far as she could see. But Rose was off-limits to White,
and therefore useless.

He was useful to her, though, and that was what counted.
Going into Rothstein Realty was a blast. Rose woke up before
her alarm every day, she was so excited. Getting dressed, she felt like
James Bond suiting up, going down to Q to get his equipment.
Because she was a spy in the house of her enemy.

She was like a sponge, soaking it up. Rose had spent the last
month photocopying and filing- and making extra copies for
herself. Every day the picture got a little clearer for her. At first it was
simply how Rothstein worked, how the principles she applied in her
tiny morn-and-pop properties translated to corporate tenants, net
leases, and millions of dollars. A market valuation approach gave way
to more esoteric numbers, to cap rates and replacement costs.

She wished she were in acquisitions. But leasing was good too.
Those were the two departments Rothstein was built on: buying
skyscrapers, and renting them out.

Rose relished every scrap of knowledge.

Real estate was thrilling. Behind the cold numbers, the filed
reports on each transaction, she perceived the adventure; the tirt
stopping moments when financing notes were called, unions p,id
of and the cold sweat of the billion-dollar landlord as each daya
floor of some costly tower stood vacant. '

You had to buy right. With these prices, you couldn't afford
mistakes. You had to build right. Every 'i' had to be dotted, every 't'
crossed; make a zoning error, fail to get a permit, and you were
sunk. In reality, this meant bribes. Oh no, wait, she thought,
grinning to herself, 'campaign contributions'. Rothstein donated to
everybody. Democrats, Republicans, cops, you name it. The price
of doing business. And, lastly, you had to lease right.

Manhattan businesses wanted everything for their money. And
you had to give it to them, before one of your competitors did.

She was learning leasing. Learning about Rothstein's big clients,
the ones they had trouble with, the building spaces that didn't sell.
Rose wondered now how to get into Acquisitions. She wanted to
get her hands on some of that fiscal data.

She had a nose for these things. The large numbers.didn't scare
her, they thrilled her. Sometimes gleaning information was more
than reading reports; sometimes it was listening to the way
executives talked.

And Dick White sounded scared.

229


'Liar,' Jake said.

He grabbed her by the waist, pulled her to him, and kissed her.
His mouth was on hers, his strong lips crushing her soft, full ones,
his teeth raking over them, like he wanted to devour her. Waves of
desire for Jake pulsed through her; Rose felt her hands come up, but
they didn't push him away; they curled gently against his collar.
Traitors. She felt as though time had slowed down, and she was
seeing everything through a blood-red mist. Her heart was thudding,

crashing against her chest, her palms were sweating.
Oh, fuck. She wanted him so much she ached.
lose's brain tried to rein her in. It was that small part that let you
know you were drunk when you were drunk, not that her control
had ever slipped far enough to get drunk. P,.ight now, it was a small
voice telling her to get out of Jake's arms.

But she wasn't listening. Her body was lifting to him, almost
helplessly, pressing against him, so she knew he could feel the hot
blood pooled in her belly, hear her heart racing ...

Jake took a step back. Almost a step. He was struggling with
himself. He wanted to rip her clothes off right there in the file room,
but that was no good.

Control yourself, lothstein thought.

She excited him. Her resporses were profound, her mouth was
soft and yielding, her pulse was light, fast.., she was so soft, so slight
• . . he wanted to push her down on the floor and take her. But this
was work. A public area. For a wild second, Jake considered
dragging lose upstairs to his office, locking the door, and thrusting
her over his desk ...

But no. No. He breathed in, hard, forcing his blood to slow. Not
for l<ose Fiorello. She was a prize, a quarry, he thought. She was
different from the other women. He wanted to take her home to the
penthouse, and spend a long time on her total and abject conquest.
An entire weekend, making love to her hard, slowly, a hundred
different ways, until she lay nestled in his arms, utterly spent and
ready to beg him to see her again.

Jake snapped out of that pleasant fantasy and looked at Rose. She
was panting, gulping little breaths, fighting to snap out of it. He saw

her pupils were slightly dilated, her plump lips parted just a touch.
'You know how long I've been waiting to do that?' he asked.

'I've got some idea,' P,,ose said. Then, enchantingly, she blushed.
He couldn't remember when he'd last seen a woman blush.

'I want to take you out to dinner,' Jake said.

Tm busy,' Rose said instantly.

He chuckled. 'No, you're not. Or are you about to retreat back
into pretending you don't want anything to do with me? It's really
not going to fly, you know.'

She hesitated. Goddammit, he was right. If she turned him down
now it would look real odd.

'I meant I'm busy tonight ... maybe later in the week.'

'Friday night.' His dark eyes drilled into her. 'Come over to my
place.'

'Great,' 1Rose said weakly.

Jake reached out and traced the line of her jaw, which almost
made her knees buckle. Then he said, 'See you then,' and turned
and left her.

Rose steadied herself, leaning against the filing cabinets. She had
to get a grip. It was crazy, getting a crush on a Rothstein. This
Rothstein, the crown prince, no less. She was here to crush him, not kiss him.

Never mind. I can lull him into a false sense of security, Rose told
herself.

She wanted him. Badly. ...

Disgusted with herself, Rose strode into the women's bathrooID
and splashed cold water on her neck.

Her pager buzzed against her side. Rose lifted it out and looked at the number.

It was nothing she recognised. She went into Maw-Beth's office the
coast was clear, she was probably in with P,.ichard White, leaning
over his desk, giving him his schedule for the day in that fake,

breathy voice. Quickly, Rose lifted Maw-Beth's phone and dialled.
'Yeah?'

'Somebody paged me.'

'Who is this?'

'This is Rose Fiorello. Who is this?' Rose asked, but she already

knew. Her heart started to race again, but this time it wasn't desire.
'Don Salerni wants to see you.'
'I can be there after five-thirty '
'He wants to see you now, chickie.'

'Right.' Rose breathed in sharply. 'Of course. I'11-be right there.'
'Hurry up,' the voice said, and hung up on her.

Rose hadn't noticed Richard White's office door opening. MaryBeth
stood there, her face a picture of rage. Rose realised she was
still holding the receiver in her hand.


:33

'You aren't allowed to answer my phones!'

'It wasn't an incoming call.'

Mary-Beth's lips tightened with pleasure. 'You mean you were
making an outgoing call on the company phone lines? Well! That's a

dismissal offence for an intern. I'm gonna tell Mr White.'
R.ose smiled. 'I wouldn't, if I were you.'
'You're not me.'

'Not unless you want me to go to Jacob Rothstein about it. He
asked me out. We're having dinner on Friday night.'

Mary-Beth's face was a picture. Rose had to admit she enjoyed
watching the emotions sweep across it. Disbelief, then envy, then
fear.

'I - I - might have been a little hasty. I guess it's OK. Actually, it's
fine. No hard feelings, Rose?'

'No hard feelings,' Rose replied.

Mary-Beth was still staring at her as though she'd just been told
Rose had won the lottery.

'Jacob never asks any of the girls at work out,' she said. 'Oh, my.
You're soooo lucky ...'

'Actually, I think he's the lucky one,' Rose said. 'Will you tell Mr
White I was taken sick with 'a migraine? I'll be back tomorrow.'

'Oh sure thing, 1Lose, sure thing,' Mary-Beth said deferentially,
but she couldn't do a very good job of hiding her rage. Jacob the
lucky one! Who the hell did this arrogant minx think she was? She
glared at 1Lose's retreating back. It just wasn't fair! She, MaryBeth,
had been making eyes at Jacob for ages, like every other girl around
here, and this un-feminine harridan had managed to snag him
instead.

Mary-Beth stamped a high-heeled pump. Bitch! Jacob Rothstein
must be a weirdo, that was about all there was to it.

Rose's cab deposited her in front of Salerni's brownstone fifteen
minutes later. She hoped to heaven that was fast enough. Rose paid
the guy, and grabbed a Kleenex out of her purse to wipe her
sweating hands.

She hoped they meant her no harm.

Surely they meant her no harm.

It would be crazy of Salerni to do her this way. He could have had
her jumped at any time, if he were really mad. She had no doubt at
all that George Benham would have told them whatever they
wanted to know. All her personal details.


234

Her hand trembled on the restaurant doorknob. Maybe she should
run.

No point, P, ose decided. If they were going to rub her out, they
could find her wherever she went. She lifted her head. She was Paul
Fiorello's kid, not a coward.

She walked into the restaurant. Yep, same as before. There was
Salerni, seated at his table, his goons around him, glasses of wine on
the table. This time she didn't go up to the bartender. She marched
straight up to him; the conversation at the table died.

	'Don Salerni.' Rose gave a slight bow, feeling awkward. At least

today she wasn't in a T-shirt and jeans. 'You summoned me.'
'That's right,' he said.

He drew a cigar out of an inner breast pocket and lit it up.
Fragrant smoke curled up as he puffed at it, regarding her. Rose felt
like an insect under a magnifying glass and wanted to scuttle back to
the darkness, away from him.

	'I accept your offer,' Salerni said.

	'You . . .'

	It took her a second to get his meaning. Then a wave of

excitement swept across her.
	' .

	'You're going to let me buy the hotel?'

	'Subject to certain conditions, to which you will not object.' Tit

was a statement, not a question. ."

'Of course,' Rose said, thrilled. 'Thank you, Don Salerni . . . you
will be very pleased with the results of this deal, I guarantee it . . .'

'I'm sure I will,' Salerni said. He seemed amused; his men
chuckled. 'You made me curious. I want to see for myself just how
good you are.'

	'Oh, I'm good,' Rose said confidently. 'You won't regret it.'

'Well.' Salerni puffed out smoke at her. 'iF i do, you will. Now, sit
down - Louis -'

He made the slightest motion with his little finger, and one of the
fat-bellied men sprang up and awkwardly pulled out his seat for
P, ose. Nervously, she thanked him and slid into it as gracefully as she
could.

'Tell me about yourself,' Salerni said. He leaned forward. 'I want
to know everything. And I do mean everything.

235


Chapter 34


Rose went to work early the next morning.

She got up at five. It was pitch black outside her windows, and
desperately cold, but she hardly noticed. Rose tugged on her clothes
and rushed out of her apartment, forgetting her gloves. The frozen
air sent hundreds of tiny daggers into her skin, but she didn't notice.
Her heart was pumping blood, like a smuggler walking past customs.

This would be her last week. If she was going to destroy
Rothstein, this was it; her last chance.

She had used her internship, studied well. Rose thought she had a
wonderful overview of the company structure; she knew their weak
spots. They didn't consolidate,, and they were overpriced. Sure, the
buildings were nice, but so were the competition's.

From what Rose could work out, it was the perks that filled most
of these buildings. Dick White and his leasing team were world-class
ass-kissers. As long as Rothstein's prices were market-comparable, he
could get clients to take leases out by schmoozing the managers.
Gifts, hookers, booze ... probably drugs, she thought ... everything
was supplied. Lunches at Lutece and 2I, tins of caviar, a
diamond ring for a wife, a high-class call girl.

None of it was listed on the balance sheets, but White wasn't as
discreet as he thought.

Now Rose had to get specific.

George Benham had received his phone call at 3 p.m. yesterday,
after Salemi had done probing her. He was already rolling over her
other properties. She was starting to think of them as chicken feed.

Rose had no doubt. This was it, right here. Everything she had
built up was on the line.

This was her last week at Rothstein. She had to make it count.
Rose stood outside of the revolving doors and pressed the nighttime
bell. After a few seconds, the security guard appeared. Rose
flashed her security pass, and he buzzed her in.


236

'It's not even six a.m.,' the guy said, looking at her approvingly.
His professional caution was mitigated by the fact that the chick had
a willowy figure and a great pair of tits. Damn, she looked like a
model. He could hardly take his eyes off that tight little cashmere
sweater she was wearing. Gawking at the secretaries here was one of
his favourite job perks.

Rose pouted. 'I know, but they want me to catch up on some
filing ... you know how it is.'

'Absolutely,' the guard said. 'Just sign in at the desk.'

He wanted to see her butt when she bent over. Great pins, too.
Man... he wished he were one of those fancy executives. What he
wouldn't give for just five minutes.

Rose waggled the tips of her fingers the way the Southern belles
did as she jumped into the lift. She wouldn't have any trouble from
him.


Maw-Beth's area was deserted. P,.ose passed her desk and tugged at
the drawers. They weren't locked. White's office was locked, but
this was good enough. Her heart beating wildly, she ran to the
photocopier. Rose's hands shook as she fed the papers through'ghe
machine. What if Mary-Beth decided to come in early? Or anybodff,
for that matter? Were there more guards, doing their rounds? ,[

She carefully slotted the papers back together and fitted them back
in Maw-Beth's desk drawer. Next up, the filing room.

Rose checked her watch. Ten past six. She had a lot more papers
to get through. Better speed this up ...


Maw-Beth watched Rose Fiorello through narrowed lids, artfully
done in a wash of green-and-gold shadow.

She couldn't stand her. Look at her, that little cow. Thought she
was better than Maw-Beth, better than all the girls here. Her wellcut
clothes and minimal make-up felt like a reproach to the Southern
girl. She reminded Maw-Beth of her sister Louisa who was always
going on about being a 'career girl'. Maw-Beth didn't like Louisa all
that much. either.

And somehow, this chick had scored a date with-Jacob P,.othstein!
Jacob. Maw-Beth sighed. She had been concentrating her fire on
Richard White, because she knew to pick the easy target. Richard
was lousy in bed, though, despite the pretty trinkets he bought for
her, and he showed zero signs of moving the relationship forward to


237

the ring stage. But Jacob would have been a much bigger prize!
Water-cooler consensus was he didn't soil his own doorstep.

If only she'd known.

Jacob's reputation had reached tLothstein Realty. Some of the
girls avidly kept scrapbooks of his appearances in the press; the
gorgeous society chicks he was seen out with seemed to change
every other week.

Legendary between the sheets, gave awesome jewellery, goodlooking,
and heir to ... everything she saw around her.

And he wanted this little workaholic. Why, she was half a dyke!
Mary-Beth glared at Rose.

She wondered if there was any way to get back at her ...


Rose worked tirelessly. She sat in White's office, as usual, taking
notes, but excused herself every chance she got. She'd been assigned
a little cubicle in front of Mary-Beth's desk, and she sat in there
shovelling photocopied documents into the briefcase she'd brought
with her.

There were coffee breaks, a lunch hour .... She snuck off down
the hall to the filing room whenever she could. Rose cursed herself
for being lazy. She should have done this copying before now, but
she hadn't wanted to attract at{ention, and she'd thought she'd have
much longer at lLothstein. Supervising the Rego Park deal was not

something she'd be able to do after hours ...

'Excuse me.'

Rose spun around, flushed with guilt. Shit. She'd been working
too feverishly, had gotten careless about checking to see that the
coast was clear.

Mary-Beth stood there, her arms folded across her chest, one skyhigh
heel tapping away furiously.

'I'm just wondering what y'all are doing in here.'

Rose froze for just a second.

'I'm getting some stuff for Jacob Rothstein,' she said.

Maw-Beth sniffed. She didn't believe her for a second, but what
could she say? Just in case it was true.

Tm going to have to report this to Mr White,' she said, and
pirouetted away.

Shit. Shit. Rose had over thirty confidential leasing agreements in
her briefcase, including names and addresses of some of Rothstein's
biggest customers. Hurriedly she snatched up her latest batch of
papers and stuffed them into the briefcase.


238

Then she stood and thought.

Come on, Rose. Come up with something. Fast.

She raced back to her cubicle. White's door was open; she could
see Mary-Beth in there, gesticulating wildly to her boss. White was
looking angry, standing up ...

Rose went over to Mary-Beth's desk and flipped through the

company directory. Rothstein, Rothstein ... here he was ...
She punched in his direct number and crossed her fingers.
Please be there. Please be there ...
'Jacob Rothstein.'

Rose breathed out. 'Jacob, I need your help ... it's Richard

White ... can you get him off my back?'

'What?'

'I can't explain fight now, but I will in a second.'

'Rose, I don't interfere in employee things,' Jake said flatly.
'Jacob . . .'

White was at the door now. He was frowning thunderously at
her. 'What the goddam hell are you doing on the company phone,
missy?'

'I'm just talking with Jacob,' Rose said sweetly, covering,,the

	receiver with one hand.


	'With Jacob Rothstein?'

	She saw White hesitate.
	"

	'Hand me the phone,' he snapped.

'Mr White wants to speak to you, Mr Rothstein,' Rose said
demurely.

'Rose ...' Jake sighed. 'Put him on. You'd better have a real
good explanation for this.'

Rose handed White the phone, and stepped back.

'She was sneaking about in the file room,' White almost bellowed.
'My girl caught her ...'

Rose flushed a rich, hot red. Her fingers clamped around her
briefcase. The executive fell silent.

'She was? Oh, she was.' He glanced murderously at Rose. 'If you

say so, Jacob. Sure, I'll send her right up.'

White hung the phone up.

'He wants to see you. And in future, if you need to do something
for Mr Rothstein, clear it with me first. We have a chain of
command in these offices, Rose. Don't think you can make an end
run around me.'

'Yes, sir,' said Rose meekly. 'Sorry, sir.'

239


She grabbed her case, and ran to the elevators. So much for seeing

out the week; she wouldn't be coming back here.

One down, one to go.

The lift was mercifully empty. As soon as the doors hissed shut,
1Lose dropped the case, stepped out of her shoes, and ripped off her
hose and panties as fast as she could. Fumbling, she stuffed the hose
into a pocket of her knee-length, bias-cut skirt, and then dropped
the snatch of caramel-coloured lace into the top of her briefcase.

She had just managed to get it closed when the doors hissed open
and she almost jumped out of her skin.

Jacob was standing there. And he looked furiously angry.
'Come here.'

Rothstein grabbed her by the arm. His grip was strong, almost
painful. He hustled her into his office, past a gloating Ella, and slammed the door.

'I can't have this, Rose. I don't run my office that way.
Favouritism.' He passed a hand through his hair, his eyes glinting
With fury. 'I don't want people pulling out their influence with me,
bullying my employees, especially a senior Vice-President. You may
not like him, but he's been here years and he -'

'Jake. I couldn't let him see what I was putting in the briefcase.'

'You shouldn't be putting anything in a briefcase. Why do you
even need a briefcase for the notes you take ...?'

Rose snapped open the brass locks and flashed him a look of the
tiny scrap of lace.

1Lothstein blinked.

'I was changing in there ...'

He grinned and looked at her. 'Mmm.' Then he reached into the

briefcase and dangled the panties between his thumb and forefinger.
'Jake!' Rose hissed. His office had glass walls. 'Cut that out.'
'You were planning something?'

He pulled her closer to him and ran a hand up her skirt, caressing
the bare flesh.

Rose felt his touch as though it were white-hot. She stiffened and
pushed him away.

'Not here, OK? I was just going to . .'

She couldn't think what she had just been going to do. She hadn't
expected him to touch her. Now she felt vulnerable and exposed
before him. Demeaned. She wanted to ran.

'To do what? Flash me?'

24o


'Yes.' Flash him, right. 'I wanted to warm you up for Friday
night.'

Jake chuckled. 'You thought that was necessary?'

Rose dug him in the ribs and pointed to Ella, who was sitting at
her desk outside Jake's office, staring at them jealously.

'You're making such a big deal, you're kind of causing a scene. I

better go back to work. See you on Friday night.'

'Yes, you will,' he said.

She pirouetted on her heel to leave and Jake slapped her lightly,

possessively, on the butt.

Rose fled.

As soon as she got into the lift, she punched the button for the
next floor down. P,.othstein was laid out on one plan; the women's
bathrooms - small, cramped affairs - were always in the same place
on every floor, in the c6rridors that stretched to the left of the
elevator bank. Terrified that she would trip or catch a gust of wind
or something, Rose bolted out of the lift and raced for them.

A secretary saw her and started to shout. 'Hey! What are you
doing here?'

Rose knew she looked guilty, and that she wasn't acting like "in
employee. But that was too bad. She had to pull her panties on. Sl-if
bolted into the bathrooms and raced into a stall, locking it quickl}{i

Frantically, she flicked open the briefcase and retrieved her
underwear, pulling it on. She wasn't going to bother with the hose.
She snapped the case shut, concealing the precious data, and let
herself out, walking out into the corridor to find the secretary, a
petite redhead with a blouse open one button too low, just reaching
it.

'I don't know you. Who are you? Shall I call security?'

'I'm tose Fiorello, I work in Dick White's office,' Rose said
calmly. 'I got off on the wrong floor.'

'Richard White,' the girl said, shocked.

'I think of him as Dick,' Rose replied, enjoying herself. 'I was just
seeing Jake Rothstein upstairs, I got off on the wrong floor.'

The girl scowled. Rose saw she had correctly assumed that the
gossip bush telegraph had informed everybody about her putative
romance with the boss.

'Then why were you running like that?' she demanded.

Rose put her fingertips to her forehead and made a face. 'Sudden
wave of nausea. I think it might be morning sickness. See ya.'


24I

She retreated to the elevators and hit the button for the lobby.
That would give them something to talk about.

She did like leaving on a high note!


Her pulse didn't properly slow until she got home. Rose took the
papers out of her briefcase and locked them in her safe. Then she
went out to the liquor store along the street and bought herself a
bottle of chilled vintage champagne; Veuve Grand Cru. She popped
the cork and poured a flute of the icy-cold wine, taking a big gulp,

letting the alcohol calm her and the bubbles fizz on her tongue.
Well. This was it.

Rose drained the first glass, then set it down and dialled Rothstein
Realty.

'I want to talk to Joan in Human lesources.'

'This is Joan,' came the response after a second. Rose pictured the
mousy girl sitting at her desk. This conversation would have to be
handled subtly; she wanted to still the alarm bells for as long as
possible.

'Joan, this is Rose Fiorello, the intern in Richard White's office?'
'Yes?' came the unenthusiastic reply.

'Joan' - Rose pretended a ,sob had caught in her throat - 'I'm
afraid I'm going to have to resign as an intern. The pressure's too
much - I just don't understand a lot of what's going on and I don't think I'm cut out for real estate.'

'Uh-huh. Thought you might.' There was undeniable relish in
the other woman's voice. 'I did tell you that this is hard for women,
you know.' A note of reproach crept in. 'There were a lot of guys
who applied for that intern spot who didn't get it... it'll be too late
to start anyone new on the programme now.'

'I know. I feel really awful,' Rose whimpered.

Yeah. How terrible that another spoilt frat-house king wasn't
gonna get his shot at Rothstein Realty, to learn greed and sexism

from the masters. She was all cut up about that.

'You'll need to send in your pass.'

'I'll drop it in the mail today,' Rose whispered contritely. 'Thank
you for being so understanding.'

'Yes. Well.' The young woman sniffed. 'You should have tried
Human Resources or PR, Rose. Those are more up your alley.
Leasing is very business-oriented.'

Tll remember that next time,' Rose said solemnly.

She hung up and poured herself another glass of champagne. So


242

what if it was only eleven and she hadn't drunk in years? This was a
celebration . . .

She took a bath, got changed into something warm and
comfortable, and drank half the champagne before getting totally
bored.

Face it. She just wasn't cut out to be a lady of leisure.


Rose drove out to Queens and parked opposite the hotel.

Mmm. The potential. Great access to Manhattan, to Long Island
City ... Rose drew the complex in her mind. Definitely gates; a
high, thick wire fence with a guardhouse. That would be much
cheaper than wrought iron or brick. She would have to be careful
not to over-improve, to keep her costs at a minimum.

The secret to being a wealthy seller was to give buyers what they
wanted, and nothing more.

Here, that was going to be a matter of large, cheap apartments
with fresh paint and linoleum, security outside, and maybe some
new kitchen appliances. Every condo comes with a microwave,
Rose thought, and brand-new ovens and freezers. She could get a
great discount deal, and it would pay for itself many times Over.
There would be a luxurious-looking lobby - she'd keep those brass
railings - and there were so many apartments that maintenan@
charges to pay for a doorman and security guard would be minimal.

Then she was going to sell them at fifteen per cent below market
value. And just hope it worked.

Otherwise, she'd be in the hole to Salerni for millions. And the
Mob weren't known as the most patient bankers.

Rose shivered, and it wasn't from the cold. She had an urge to
start right away. She stepped out of her car and walked into the
hotel.

Time warp. It was exactly like the last time she'd been in here,
months ago. There was the same air of furtive shabbiness that came
with being a pay-by-the-hour joint for hookers and drug dealers and
people who couldn't afford anything better. And there was the same
gum-cracking receptionist, on the day shifts, no doubt, sitting
behind the .desk.

Rose dug deep and retrieved the information.

'Hello, Tracy,' she said.

Tracy looked up blankly. Rose could see the little hamster-wheels
going round in her mind.

'Oh, it's you,' she said.


243

'Don't you think you should say "Good morning"?' Rose asked.
'"Good morning, ma'am" would be even better.'

Tracy scoted. 'You're just here to make trouble again. I'm

gonna have you banned. Jason!' She yelled for the security guard.
'I don't think so. I own the place.'

The girl laughed out loud. 'Yeah, OK. Vincent Salerni owns it.
You don't look nuttin' like him.'

'He sold it to me,' Rose said, coolly.

'Sure,' Tracy said, but she sounded a bit nervous. Rose tapped the
phone in front of her. 'Give him a call, he'll tell you. Do you want
the number?'

The girl paled. 'No. No, ma'am. Wh - what can I get for you?'
Rose grinned.

'A set of skeleton keys,' she said.

244


Chapter 3 5


Jacob lothstein smiled to himself as he dialled MaryBeth's
extension.

'Mr White's office.'

'Mary-Beth.' Rothstein's voice was low, caressing. It was that way

with almost all women; he did it automatically. 'This is Jacob.'
'Oh, Mr Rothstein. Yes, sir?'
'Put lose on, would you?'

'Rose Fiorello?' The breathy, little-girl voice gave way to a snap
of triumph. 'Why, sir, I do declare you're behind the times; didn't
you know she left?'

'Already? It's only ten a.m.

'No, sir. She left. She resigned yesterday.'

'What for?'

'I really don't know, sir. But I can help you with anything you

need,' Maw-Beth added hopefully.

'That's OK,' Jacob said.

He hung up and thought for a few moments.


Friday night was unseasonably mild; muggy and wet, with none of
the crisp iciness Rose was used to. She selected her outfit with care.
Something sexy, but not too sexy. This date was going to have to be
very carefully played.

She'd let him touch her.

It had been necessary. 1Lose told herself that, But now what? Now
what?

She was nervous.

R, ose hadn't thought of men. She'd been way too busy. The fury
that had driven her had been all-consuming. At Columbia, she had
barely noticed any of the boys that swarmed around the lecture halls
leering and whistling.

Except Jacob.


245

She'd noticed him.

She liked to tell herself it was because he was a Rothstein. Her
enemy. The gatekeeper. But she knew that wasn't true. She never
had dreams about his uncle William, even though her hatred of that
man still burned. I'm Italian, she thought. I can keep a vendetta in
my heart for a generation, waiting until I can strike. And it probably
would take a lot less time than that.

Jake disturbed her in other ways. Of course, there were those
looks. Obvious good looks, she thought disdainfully. The square
jaw, the muscles, the dark eyes and hair, the thick black lashes. But
that was only the wrapping. A man could have all that, and still be
effeminate.

Not 1Kothstein.

Rose was too smart to dismiss it as the money, True, Jake threw it
around. Diamonds for his girlfriends, a Ferrari, the whole bit. Money
might give you some confidence, she supposed. But Jake's came
from two sources. His womanising and his intelligence.

She was forced to admit that retro and sexist as it might be, she
found both attributes attractive.

Rothstein had a mind like a scalpel; cutting and precise. Unlike
others she'd met, he didn't cower when faced with her own. He
competed with her. He might,'he might.., the thought burned her,
but there it was all the same . . . he might actually be brighter than
she was. But lKose had a different edge. She was driven in ways he

could not imagine. Brains or no brains, she was going to crush him.
And then there was the womanising.

Rose had not been immune to his reputation. All the girls talked
about him. Hushed tones, fanning themselves. And the way he
looked her over, as though he were peeling the clothes right off her
back. He had confidence, arrogance and power, and he took none of
her shit, and he was a full-on dominant male and he wasn't even
ashamed of it.

God help her, she found that amazingly attractive.
His kiss had made her weak at the knees.
lKemember who he is, 1Kose told herself as she pulled on her dress
of pale-green silk, modestly long but clinging in all the right places.
t.emember the family he comes from.

lKothstein. IKothstein. lKothstein.


Jacob had set up his place well. He'd called the caterers; almost a
thousand dollars for dinner, but it was money well spent. A magnum


246

of Cristal was chilling in the Tiffany silver ice-bucket by the
mahogany table in his dining room; he had dimmed the chandelier
and placed candles around the room, lighting up the oil portraits of
other people's ancestors his father had bought for him. The pre-war
arched windows looked down Fifth towards St Patrick's, with
Manhattan glittering in the dark, the neon lights matching the
sparkle of the service at his table; champagne flutes in Waterford
crystal, napkins of crisp Irish linen, napkin rings and cutlery of silver,
and bone-china plates. He had thought about sushi, but that was too
risky. Instead, there was a heaped pot of beluga caviar with blinis and
chopped egg and delicate bone spoons by Rose's place. That was to
be followed by roast pheasant with chestnut sauce and an individual
poached pear with ginger ice-cream. Silver bowls crammed with
very short-stemmed yellow roses were dotted around the table next
to his antique candelabras, and they were matched by vases of roses
everywhere, the freshest blooms in a pastel medley of pale pink,
white, yellow, blue, and even green; the apartment smelled like a
summer meadow in the depths of winter.

He hoped she liked it. Not that dinner was the point, of course,
but he wanted to impress her.

The bedroom was also full of flowers. Jacob had considered
having the florist strew rose petals across the bed but he decide,
against it. No point in trying too hard.

If last week was any indication, Rose Fiorello was a done deal.
Something about that whole thing had made him uneasy. Not
touching her; she had been a fantasy of his since he first laid eyes on
her in the lecture hall. Maybe the fact that she had quit.

Was she embarrassed by what she had let him do? Scared because

White had shouted at her?

It wasn't Fiorello's way.

During the months she'd been there, he'd heard nothing from
her. No ideas, no reports. Jake had half expected something every
day; he had thought he might walk in to a folder on his desk
containing some neatly typed, earth-shattering idea.-Such as how to
restructure his company from the ground up, a suggestion for a stock
buy-back, or even a project proposal to buy some building or other.

He had always marked her down as that ambitious, and that
bright.

And that cold.

Instead, what did he have? An intern who had made no waves

247


until the last day. He knew the secretaries didn't like her. But she
was beautiful, so that was to be expected.

She had come upstairs naked under her skirt and flashed him.
The kiss had not surprised Jake. She wanted him, he knew that.
Once he had her in his arms, her resistance was always going to
crumble. And yeah, she had been hot. But one of the things he'd
found most delicious about Rose was how she fought it. What
happened to her hot contempt for him, her belligerence? One kiss

and now she was ripping off her panties?

It didn't fit.

He was, in fact, disappointed.

Ah, don't be a dumb-ass. You've been wanting to get in there for
years, Rothstein told himself. Tonight she was coming over and
tonight he was gonna get laid. What the hell was he crying about it
for?

The bell rang.


'Let me help you with that,' Jacob said.

Rose shrugged off her coat. Expensive, a cashmere blend. He saw
that the label was Donna Karan. Underneath she had on a stunning
dress in close-fitting silk, a delicate pale green colour that picked out
her startling eyes. The girl had curves everywhere, except that

narrow waist. R, othstein smiled; he approved.

'Do you like the place?'

Her eyes swept over the fantastic windows, the ornate mouldings,
the portraits, the marble mantelpiece, the antique furniture, the
view...

'I've seen better,' Rose said.

He lifted an eyebrow. 'Where?'

'The Met,' Rose admitted. She grinned.

Jacob was charmed. 'You look beautiful, you know.'

Rose shivered, even though he had a fire crackling in the grate

and it was seventy degrees inside. 'I need a drink.'

He poured her some champagne. 'Cristal OK?'

'And there I was thinking you were going to offer me a
Thunderbird,' Rose joked.

'The stuff that's three bucks a litre?' He laughed. Most women
were so keen to impress him with their sophistication, as though
every date was a casting session and they were auditioning. 'Maybe I
should have. Just to make you comfortable.'


248

She could hardly look at him. He was wearing a tuxedo and black
tie. Combined with the muscles, it made him look like James Bond.

R.ose wished he would be foul to her. She couldn't find anything
to reproach him for, apart from being a Rothstein. Maybe, maybe
she should give him a pass ... some kind of out.

'I think we should talk ...'

Jake enjoyed her awkwardness.

'Before dinner? It ruins my appetite.' He indicated the dining
room. 'Shall we?'


'Mmm.' Rose sipped at her champagne, her fourth glass. The meal
had been exquisite; his conversation light, about nothing, really, just
banter. And Jacob was very good at banter. He deflected any probing comment, he held her gaze until she was forced to drop her
eyes, and he ate his meal as though he wasn't nervous, not even
slightly.

Goddam confident bastard.

She needed the alcohol. As delicious as everything was, lose
found it hard to eat. She had no appetite. She was torn between
wanting Rothstein and loathing him. Every expensive bite was a
reminder of how his family had built the wealth to pay for all ts.

How many other Paul Fiorellos were out there? Men who did/l/'t
have a smart Italian daughter to come and take their revenge fSr them. Maybe thousands, she thought. And how many women had
wanted to get ahead at Rothstein and been fired, shunted aside? In
his company discrimination was a way of life.

She also felt defensive. She wanted this. The oak-panelled walls,
the furnishings that looked like a page from a Sotheby's catalogue.
Her modern apartment in the old factory was nice, and a good
investment. But this place would cost twenty times more. Jacob had
not earned this. It had been handed to him on a plate, and it wasn't
even the best his family had. This was nothing but a pied--terre for
the Rothstein boys. Rose knew this because the bimbos in the office
talked up their wealth, creaming their little .lace panties over every
unmarried P,,othstein in the place.

'Glad you enjoyed it,' Jake said. 'Are you done? I could have got a
butler to clear the plates away, but I didn't want u to be disturbed.
Just leave it; I have coffee and a digestif in the drawing room.'

Rose nodded and walked into the room next door. Her heart
sped up a little. Oh shit. Now she was going to be expected to put

out.

249


'Digestif? I think you're trying to get me drunk.'

Jacob poured an espresso into an exquisite, tiny royal-blue bone

china cup from a silver pot and handed it to her.
'Drunk's no fun. I just want you to relax.'
If only you knew, she thought.

'Do you normally make this much of an effort?'

She indicated the flowers, the crystal.

'No. I usually don't have to. Women tend to come to me.' He
said this flatly, as though it was a statement of fact. Which Rose
knew it was.

'Fortune-hunters,' Rose said, with contempt. The alcohol was
starting to work its magic; she felt less small in his presence.

'Yes,' he agreed without rancour. 'We have a lot of money. Most

women find that very attractive.'

'It doesn't bother you?'

A shrug. 'That's been the way of the world for as long as it's been
spinning. Back when we lived in caves, women sought out the guy
with the biggest kills. It's instinctual in a female. Why should I resent
it?'

Small red spots of outrage coloured her cheeks.

'Because you should want somebody to want you for yourself.'

'Ah. But this' - he indicated the apartment - 'is me. I come from a
high-achieving family, and I'm going to make more money.'

'It isn't just women. Men hang out with rich women too. And
men also hang out with rich men. How many people do you know
who hang around your family because of their wealth? There are

plenty of male hangers-on too,' Rose said.

'True, up to a point.'

'What do you mean?' Rose demanded. God, he was arrogant!
'I mean that while that is true - men do hang-on, as you put it,
and some men try to marry women for money - the vast majority of
cases of fortune-hunting are women chasing men. Because society
accepts a woman who does not work, but condemns a man for
trying to do the same.'

Jacob flipped open the antique cigar box in front of him. 'I usually
smoke after dinner, but I won't, if it bothers you?'

'Go right ahead,' Rose said. She wasn't interested in his damn
cigar. She went back on the attack. 'You sound like you think less of
women.'

He considered it for a second. 'Depends how you define it.'
'How do you define it is the question,' Rose said.


250

'I think men and women are equal in that they are equal souls
before God. But if you are asking me about levels of achievement,
then men are clearly superior. The history of the world is the history
of men.' He cut the end of the cigar deftly and lit it. 'Modern-day
history teaching is a joke, quite frankly. Women's historical studies
... Marie Curie and whoever else they can dredge up ... but the
odd female achiever here and there cannot wipe out the fact that
almost every great advance in every field has been made, built, or

discovered by males.'

Rose seethed.

'Because women are physically inferior, and that meant men could
control them. The technological age has levelled the playing field.'

'Then today we should see equality. And we don't. Because many
women prefer to be kept by their man.'

'Some women regard motherhood as a full-time occupation.'
'Do you?'

Rose shook her head. 'I regard it as a relationship, not a job
description.'

Jacob smiled. 'You're one of these "having it all" types?'

'Yes. I intend to strap my babies on my back and go right bgck to
work. I'll have a playpen in the office. Whatever it takes not to cteat

my children or my career.'
'And what employer do you think will allow you to do that?
Rose shook her head. 'Good office day-care should be mandatory.
A happy worker is a productive worker. But I won't be one of
those poor women scouring the streets for an understanding
employer, because I intend to work for myself.' She glared at him. 'I
don't know how you can talk that way.'

'Because, quite simply, I am not afraid of the truth.' Rothstein
moved towards her, so their knees were almost touching; Rose half

shrank in her chair. 'Not all women are like you.'

'And not all men are like you.'

'Women are not interested in equals. They are interested in
superiors.'

'Then I suppose I shouldn't be interested in you,' Rose snapped.
'You seemed pretty interested last week. When I kissed you.'
'Maybe it was all an act.'

Jacob shook his head. 'Part of it may have been, Rose, but not all
of it.'

She felt her skin priclde. Part of it may have been.., could she have
underestimated him? Had he not bought in to her act?

251


'Not all of it,' Rose admitted.

'Why don't we conduct a little field experiment?'

Jacob moved closer to her on the couch, put his two strong hands
on her knees, leaned in towards her, and kissed her.

Rose felt the fires start again. They licked along her skin, up her
belly, across her breasts, making her light-headed. His mouth on hers
was gentle, but relentless; his teeth lightly raking her lips, his tongue
probing, not too deep, feeling her lips part and open to him, her
head tilt, the stiff aggression in her body release, until all her bones
were liquid and she wanted to melt ...

Jacob loved it. She was a slow conquest, not clawing back at him
like he was used to. A girl usually had one hand in his buttons, the
other in his hair, if she was that modest. Fioretlo was awkward,
nervous, old-fashioned. Even inexperienced, he thought. It was
startling. And charming.

And sexy. He loved to master women. The longer the seduction,
the better he liked it. Sex could sometimes leave Jake feeling empty,
a little sordid. He had waited for Rose, and now he was going to
have her. It felt all the more delicious.

She'd be very hot. He couldn't wait.

'Stop.'

He felt a small, manicured' hand against his chest, pushing him
back.

'What?' P,,othstein blinked, stunned. 'What the hell is it now?'
'I can't do this,' Rose said.

'You - you what? You can't do this? You came up to my office
naked. You peeled off those little panties for me right in public.' He
knew he was being cruel, but he was frustrated and furious. 'And
now you want to be modest, act like a lady? A little late for that,
don't you think?'

'You goddam bastard. Nobody could see.'

Jacob got to his feet. 'What are you, some kind of virgin?'
'Yes,' Rose stammered. 'Actually.'
'Bullshit,' Pothstein said coldly.

Rose stood up, walked out to the hall, grabbed her coat and purse,
and fled.

252


Chapter 3 6


'You like it?' Joel Stein asked.

Poppy looked over her office. It was small, but functional. It even
had a window looking out towards the gleaming Mercedes and
BMWs that drove down the Sunset Strip, sparkling in the sunlight.
Stein had provided her with a computer, a phone, a printer, a fax,
and even her own couch, a funky kidney-shaped thing in burgundy
velvet.

Poppy grinned. 'I love it.

Joel handed her a business card. 'And how about this?'

Her heart skipped a beat. It had her name in neat black ink )n it,
very grown-up, very businesslike: 'Poppy Allen, Dream Man pounds ement'.
Then it had her direct phone and fax number next to te
Dream logo, a cloud picked out in embossed gold .....

'No job title,' Stein said. 'Nobody has titles here but me.'
'And what's yours?'

'Boss,' he said simply. 'Now listen, toots. You did good. Better
than good. Which is why you're not a tour accountant any more.

I'm going to see what you can do. I'm giving you a band to handle.'
'Green Dragon?' Poppy asked hopefully.

Stein laughed. 'Yeah, right. What are you, crazy? You get to
handle Silver Bullet. You brought them to me, let's see what you can
do with them. You'll find people will take your phone calls when
you're calling from Dream.'

'OK,' said Poppy. It wasn't a big band, it.wasn't even a real band
yet. But it was her band. 'OK.'

'There are people who don't like you,' Stein said.

'What? Why?'

'Because they've been working here longer than you have. Years,
in some cases. And who still aren't getting a shot like this. Plus,
you've got a serious enemy in Mike Rich. And you're going to get
others. This business is not for shrinking violets.'


253

Poppy squared her shoulders and looked her boss in the eye.

'I got in to see you. That shows initiative. I found a great band for

you. That shows talent. I survived a road trip. That shows stamina.

And I stopped a crooked guy ripping off your client. That shows

smarts. I'm in this office because you think I deserve to be. And the

fact is, you're right.'

'Hmrn.' Stein crooked an eyebrow. 'Chutzpah, yet. Let's see if

you can back it up with action.'

He made to leave the room. Poppy let him go. She wanted to ask,

'Now what?' but she didn't. She knew that was up to her.

	,

'You're going to manage us?' Kate said.

Poppy sat in her office behind the desk, with the girls on the

couch. They looked somewhat underwhelmed. She knew they were

disappointed, that they thought Joel Stein would be handling them

personally. And now they were right back with Poppy; a kid from a

failed band, a kid their own age.

She had to inspire confidence.

'That's correct. Me for Dream Management: The first thing

Dream is going to do is get you signed. I have a showcase gig

booked in two weeks, girls. 1Leps from all the major labels will be

attending.'

Now they sat up. Poppy watched the band exchange glances.

'What I want you to do is two things: rehearse till you can

perform the songs in your sleep, and get even prettier. Molly,' Poppy

turned to the plump brunette, 'you're going on a diet. I know it's

sexist and it sucks, but these are men, all men, and they'll be looking

at you guys. No White Castle this week. You're strictly on Slim
Fast.'

Molly
looked as though she were about to argue the toss, but

Poppy ploughed on. Tve got a stylist booked for tomorrow

afternoon. She worked wardrobe on the Green Dragon tour last

Fall.'

'Wow, Green Dragon,' Claire muttered.

'Just think of this as a makeover.' Poppy leaned forwards. 'I'm

gonna to get you guys signed, I'm gonna get you on the radio. I'm

gonna make you stars. And all you have to do is listen to me.'

'How long is the showcase going to be?'

'Half an hour. You're only going to do five songs.' Poppy passed

them the set list.

'I think we should do everything we've got,' Kate argued.


254

'No. Just the best stuff. These are your best, wouldn't you agree?'
l<eluctant nods. 'Then we hit them with this. All killer, no filler.'


The next day Poppy called the stylist. She told her it was a personal
favour for Joel Stein. She called the record companies and told them
this was Joel's hottest new act and she was .just able to slip them in
before a general submission went out. Then she called the lighting
director from the tour and asked him for the name of a friend, and
the same for the sound guy ...


It was a buzz. It was even better than the road. Poppy felt as though
her phone had been permanently welded to her ear. She lied, she
dissembled, she pleaded, she got things done. She didn't sleep all that
much. When she finally got to go home at night, she instead went
straight out to the broken-down warehouse where the band was
rehearsing, and stayed up with them, making sure everything was
perfect.

It wasn't just sound. That had to be slick, but so did the moves.
Even the way Lisa twirled her drumsticks.

Most every new act was rough, unpolished. Not her bibjes.
Poppy wanted them to be groomed, to look like pros.

'Manicures?' Molly groaned.
'Manicures. Eyebrow waxes. Get your teeth whitened.' Popp3
spun her bassist around to look in the mirror. 'You've dropped
about eight pounds.'

'My clothes don't fit,' Molly grumbled, but she looked pleased.
'I don't see why we have to do all this work,' Kate said petulantly.
'We'll be playing in the middle of the day. There'll be no
atmosphere . . .'

'Actually,' Poppy said quietly, 'I got a pro lighting guy and a
sound mixer coming. It'll be dark and you'll be spot-lit, multiple
colours, big sound, everything perfect.'

Kate gaped. 'But do you know how much those guys cost?'
'In your case, nothing.' Poppy shrugged.. 'I arranged it all.'
'You're incredible,' Lisa said.

Tm just. the manager,' Poppy told them.

The day before the gig, Poppy marched them into the hairdressers.

'You're
getting a new look,' she said. 'Lisa, you're going to have
brown hair. Kate, you're going blonde. Claire will be a redhead and
Molly's going raven-black.'


255

'But I like being blonde,' Lisa protested.

'Doesn't matter. It's a gimmick. One of each hair colour. Once
you're signed, you can go back, if you still want to. The singer is the

front woman, she has to be blonde.'
'Sounds great,' Kate purred.
Lisa scowled, but she submitted.

They were beginning to do everything she told them.


The day of the gig, Joel was there. Poppy had made sure the little
club was packed with executives. She had radio guys there,
promoters, local TV stations, even some pony-tailed Armani
wearing suit from MTV.

Silver Bullet came out to dimmed lights, even smoke from the dry ice. Poppy had taken pro headshots of each girl, heavily made up,
and had them blown up to gigantic size. They hung around the walls
of the club. Spotlights swirled over the excited crowd even before
the first note was played.

And then her act burst on to the stage. They wore semi-matched
outfits in black and silver PVC, very Barbarella. Their hair colours
looked fantastic. Kate's hair was a gleaming fountain of platinum.
The lights were bright, ama,zingty flattering and soft. And then,
through a wall of professionally mixed speakers, they started to play.

For twenty minutes they ripped through the set. Just the best
songs, performed fast and sleek. When they finally left the stage, hair
flying, Kate blew little kisses, waggling her fingers like a cheerleader;

Molly shoved her fists in the air like a biker.
Huge applause.
House lights up.

Poppy was surrounded by drooling talent scouts, pressing cards on
her, telling her to call them.

She looked over at Joel Stein, standing at the back. For once in his
life being ignored.

He winked at her.


After that it was gravy.

Poppy signed the band to Musica records for an advance of a
million dollars. She didn't let them spend more than five grand of it.
She rented them an apartment, found them a producer, booked
them on tour with Diamondback, one of Dream's mid-size acts. By
the time the record was out, Silver Bullet had already been on three
magazine covers.

256


Their first single went in at number 5 in the rock charts, number

t5 in the Billboard Hot TOO. It broke out on radio like a rash and
peaked at number 7

Silver Bullet were stars. And so was Poppy.

257


Chapter 3 7


Poppy was good at it. Better than Joel Stein had expected. Better
than she had expected.

Nobody wanted to take her seriously, but that, Poppy thought,
was their problem. She wasn't gonna tone herself down for anyone.

She was young, and she wasn't going to try to dress old. No red
power-suits with gold braiding and shoulder-pads. She wore jeans
and Metallica shirts with high, strappy heels; little black dresses that
clung to her curves; denim shorts with a Daisy Duke-tied shirt over
the top. Poppy liked to wear her hair loose, to go light on make-up
and perfume. Most days she wore nothing except sunscreen and a
little scent, Hermes perhaps..She didn't need much else.

Several times Poppy got turfed out of offices. MTV told her: 'We
don't let fans in the lobby, miss.' Record company receptions called

security. Bank managers rolled their eyes.

Not for long.

Poppy was armed. She carried her business card like a weapon.
And she had Silver Bullet.


'I can't believe it,' Kate said.

'Believe it.' Poppy grinned at her singer. 'The cover of Rolling,
Stone.'

Molly looked as though she wanted to cry. They were in the back
of the limo, riding towards the losebowl, where Silver Bullet were
third on the bill at the Monsters of Rock Festival, behind Skid Row
and Guns n' loses. Her girls looked great; Poppy had worked out a
black-and-silver theme for the set, to coincide with the band's name.
She'd come up with a new look for them, which would be featured
in Jan Wenner's prestigious magazine. Ironically, the once-rebellious Rolling Stone was now as establishment as it got.

Gracing the cover was an industry stamp of approval. One that
said: 'Made it.'

258


'I have some more good news for you.' Poppy said. 'Our
marketing campaign really worked and "Hellacious" is going to
debut at number one.'

Claire made a strangled sound in the back of her throat.

'I'll take that as approval.'

Poppy felt a small thrill of pride. She liked these kids; she thought of them as 'kids' somehow, even though they had a year or two on
her. And she had been instrumental in changing their lives.

A good manager did a little bit of everything. Jill of All Trades.
She helped pick the producer, the artwork, the set designer, the tour
manager. She supervised how the record company did their job; she
breathed down Promotions' back, making sure her girls were all over
the radio; she took the calls at 3 a.m. when Molly was drunk and
needed bailing out of a holding cell.

And this was the reward: her band in demand, albums flying off
the shelves, video on Headbangers' Ball on MTV, fans outside the
hotels, great slots on tours. T-shirt sales weren't great; teenage boys
wouldn't wear a shirt with the name of a girl band on it, even if they
wore leather and studs. But the picture was rosy.

And now they had a number one record. Poppy
tried not to get too cocky. After all, she wasn't in the band..
It wasn't her music on KNAC. It wasn't her twirling the drumstick,
flirting with the front row, posing for sexy shots next to Harley
Davidson bikes. Silver Bullet were talented.

But not, said a little voice in her head, that talented. The fact was,
talent alone didn't guarantee you big sales -just ask Mott the
Hoople. And sometimes you didn't need talent at all. Just ask Milli
Vanilli. A Grammy award, and they hadn't sung one note on 'their'
record.

You needed a man with a plan. Or a girl.

Like me, Poppy thought.

She looked at the band high-riving each other. No way could
they have done it without her.


'We're Silver Bullet!' Kate flung her arms in the air, gave her
patented fists-thrust-skyward salute. 'Thank you and goodnight!'

The band bounced offstage to cheering and whooping and a surge
towards the lip of the giant festival stage. Poppy watched it with a
clinical eye, to check security was on it and no kids were going to
get injured. 1Koadies were there with bottles of water, white fluffy


259

towels, so the: girls could mop their sweat offbefore heading into the
shower.

'Poppy.'

There was a hand on her shoulder. Poppy.jumped out of her skin.
'Dude, Joel, you scared me.'

'Great gig,' Joel Stein said. He was wearing a gorgeously cut suit
and a platinum R-olex that cost about four times her yearly salary.
'My girls are doing fantastic stuff.'

Your girls? Poppy thought, but didn't say it.

'Rolling Stone shoot's tomorrow,' Poppy said.

'I know, I spoke to Jan personally. They're going to go with
Annie Liebowitz for the shots.'

Poppy nodded, but of course she already knew that. She'd been
negotiating this for over a month now.

'I've got some very exciting ideas for the band,' Joel said. 'I'm

gonna take a band meeting after they get out of the shower.'
Poppy stared at him. 'You are?'

Silver Bullet was her band. She took the band meetings.

'You can sit in if you like,' Stein said, easily enough.

Poppy debated internally, with the chaos all around her, as crew
guys ran on to the stage to rip down the Silver Bullet set and set up
for Skid low. Stein was sen'ding her a clear signal, and she didn't
care for it. The best thing would be to suck it up and say nothing.
That was clearly what he expected.

'Silver Bullet are my act, Joel. I set up Rolling Stone. I've been
handling them for a year now. I take the band meetings.'

'Last time I looked, they were a Dream Management act.' Stein's
eyes warned her not to go any further. 'You did a great,job, Poppy,
but the girls '

The girls, right.

'- are at a stage now where I can be of more use to them than
you. They're ready to go to that next level. What I want you to do is
to start thinking about our roster, maybe pick another band to work
with closely. How about Highway? They need refreshing, you
might be `just the girl for the `job.'

Highway? Fucking Highway? Joel's teen-pop act, his manufactured
answer to New Kids on the Block? Highway were two years
too old and on the way out. Their fifteen minutes were up.

She smiled briskly. 'I'll think about that, Joel.'


Poppy left the gig early. She was too angry to trust herself to stay.


260

Arguing the toss with Joel wouldn't do anything for her, it would
just make her look weak. She didn't want the band to see her upset.

She wasn't overly worried. Silver Bullet would be loyal to her,
would stick with her. After all, it wasn't Joel, busy with Green
Dragon and his other multi-platinum giant acts, that had broken
Silver Bullet, and they would know it. If necessary, Poppy thought,
she would just lay it on the line with Joel. The group would want
her, not him, and the customer is always right.

She tried to think of it as 'just business'. But she was fuming.
Poppy took her new BMW right back to her office. She marched
inside, slammed the door and grabbed a yellow pad and a Bic biro.
Every crisis hides an opportunity, they said. Very well; Joel was
forcing her into something she might have waited on. But no longer.

She wanted a bigger slice of the pie. She wanted to be credited
separately on all the albums: not just 'Dream Management' but
'Poppy Allen for Dream Management'. A bigger percentage of the
management cut. And no more interference from Joel.

I might be young, Poppy thought, but look at the way I've
performed. Silver Bullet love me. He can't say no.


'No.'

Stein shook his head. Once. Firmly. 'Anything else, Poppy?
love to hear the ideas you have on Highway.'

Poppy struggled not to lose her cool. She was standing in her
boss's office. It was a typically mild and gorgeous day in LA, with a
cool breeze to temper the sunshine. The fronds of the palm tree
outside his window rustled gently.

Inside this office, however, the atmosphere was getting very cold.
Very fast.

'You want to come in just when my act -'

'Dream's act.'

'I've done all the goddam work, Joel. My act suddenly hits
number one, is on Rolling, Stone, and now all the heavy lifting's been
gotten out of the way,' she could not stop. the sneer in her voice, 'uber manager Joel Stein comes in and takes all the glow? No way.
That's not. fair.'

'That's not fair,' Joel mimicked. 'Listen, kid. I gave you your shot.
Don't think you're some magical hotshot who waved her wand over
this act. You wouldn't have gotten any place without the name of
Dream, without my expertise. They weren't taking your calls. They
were taking Dream's calls. My company and my reputation broke

26I


this act. Now, you did a good job with the tools; I want you to do it
again with Highway.'

'You want my advice to Highway? Quit. It's over,' Poppy
snapped.

'Defeatist?'

'I don't want to manage bands that suck. I want to manage my
own act. The one I found.'

'And I signed.' Joel jabbed a manicured finger at her. 'It's my way
or the highway, princess. No pun intended.'

'The band don't even know you. They won't stand for this.'
'On the contrary.' His smile was crocodile-wide. 'I explained my
plans for a switch in the day-to-day handling, for me to take them to

the next level. And they're all for it.'

'Bullshit,' Poppy almost shouted.

'Now, now, dear.' Joel pushed his phone towards her. 'Don't get
your panties in a twist. Call them yourself. You'll see.'

262


Chapter 3 8


The 747 began to judder and shake slightly as the wheels lifted off

the tarmac.

Poppy settled back in her seat and tried to focus. She was heading

to New York for the weekend. She'd told Joel she had urgent family

business, but the truth was she just needed to be out of LA. And out

of touch.

Betrayal.

Poppy could hear those voices still. Kate's awkward pleasantries:

'Yeah, Joel told us about the new arrangements. Sounds pretty good,

like some other band will be lucky enough to have you work, ing

with them, Poppy ...'

'You don't want me working with you?' Poppy demanded. "
'Seems like a waste to have you and Joel, ya know ...' ....

The acid in her stomach had started to seethe. Kate had never
wanted Poppy, not really, not from the first moments she'd talked to
the act. She'd always wanted Joel, Poppy suddenly realised, with a
flash of insight.

Poppy had been second best.

'Do the rest of the band feel that way?'

'Yeah,' Kate mumbled.

'Even Molly? Let me talk to Molly.'

'Sure, hold on.' Poppy heard Kate covering the receiver with her
hand, heard muffled girls' voices. Then Kate again, still awkward.
'Um, Molly just stepped out for a second, she can call you back in a
little while ...'

Poppy closed her eyes for a heartbeat. When she opened them, Joel
was still there, sitting in front of her, with a look that gaid 'I told you so.'

'No,' Poppy said, 'no need, hon. I think this will work out
wonderfully for Silver Bullet. Joel will help you guys to the next
level.'

A small, thin smile from her boss.


263

'It's not like you're never gonna see us again, or something, is it?'
Kate asked brightly.

'Hmmm,' Poppy said, making a non-committal grunt. 'Later,
OK?'

She had hung up, bright spots of colour high on her cheekbones.
Joel Stein chuckled. 'Honey, don't take it so personally. You
really are a greenhorn. Bands aren't your friend, they're your client.
First lesson.'

'A good one,' Poppy said grimly.

'Second lesson.' Stein waved the piece of paper. 'A couple of
successes does not make you Tom Zutaut, sugar. I hired you to be
smart and inventive. You've delivered. You're gonna get a bonus.
But Dream is my company and I divide up the roster. Always
remember that.' He shook his head. 'I'm not looking for a partner,
but you keep going like this, you could wind up my number two.
And be very well rewarded.'

'I'd like to take a vacation,' Poppy said on impulse. 'I got some
family business to deal with ...'

She'd spun him the story and he'd accepted it. Why not? Poppy
thought bitterly. You win a major victory, you can afford to toss the
loser a bone.


'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Continental Airlines flight 4I to
JFK'

The man next to her was sarcastically mouthing the words of the
tannoy announcement under his breath. He suddenly looked at
Poppy.

'Oh, I'm sorry.' It was a rich Southern accent, which slightly
surprised her, because the man was so urbane; wearing a discreet
tailored suit, very expensive - probably from Europe - handmade
shoes, and a plain gold watch. He was older, with salt-and-pepper
hair and blue eyes and a square jaw. Muscular, too; good-looking,
Poppy decided, in an ultimate capitalist pig-type way.

The voice sounded as though it belonged to someone with a
stetson and cowboy boots. 'It's a bad habit. I can't stand that

yapping. Cruising at 35,ooo feet - who cares. You know?'
Poppy nodded, smiled at him. 'I'm Poppy Allen.'
'Henry LeClerc.'

The name sounded faintly familiar, but she couldn't place it.

'You looked kind of upset, if you'll pardon the intrusion. Don't
like to fly?'


264

'It's not that. It's business,' Poppy said.

He chuckled. 'Business?'

Poppy frowned. 'Why is that funny?'

'You look too young to be in business,' he said, frankly. 'You
look like you should be in college.'

His eyes were dark-blue, very confident.

'I'm flying business class,' Poppy pointed out.

'So do lots of rich kids.'

Arrogant sod, she decided. 'Well, it's not like that. I work in a
business with ... a global reach.'

'Ah,' he said. 'So do I, I suppose.'

Poppy didn't like his tone. 'People think you can't do shit because
you're young. But that's bull. Alexander conquered the whole world
before he was thirty.'

LeClerc grinned. 'I'm sure I try not to underestimate the young,
ma'am.'

'Champagne?'

A flight attendant was hovering, one of the prettier ones. She was
made up to the nines, and she was staring at LeClerc with an
incredibly submissive air and ,a brilliant smile. She ignored Poppy.

'I'll take some champagne, Poppy said. She had paid plenty 'or
this seat.

'How old are you, miss?'

Poppy flushed. 'Twenty-three. OK?'

The woman looked sceptical.

'You can serve this young lady,' LeClerc said softly.

The flight attendant instantly handed Poppy a crystal flute of
champagne. 'There you go, ma'am. Sorry for the misunderstanding.

And for you, Congressman?'

Poppy blinked.

Tll just take an orange juice,' he said.


It was a bumpy flight, but Poppy took no notice of it. She felt like
she was fighting a rearguard action, trying to .get back a little dignity.

'So I'm stuck with a politician,' she remarked when they served
the food.

'Afraid so.' He waved away the lunch tray.

'Congressmen don't eat?'

'Not that swill.' LeClerc reached into his carry-on luggage and
brought out a small, elegant silver box, monogrammed with his
initials. 'I do too much flying. I insist on eating decent food.' He


265

flipped open the box, and Poppy's mouth started to water. Inside
was a ripe peach with a heavenly scent, a small tin of Sevruga caviar,
some fresh blinis, and a set of sandwiches, very thin brown bread,

smoked salmon, and lemon slices.

'Take some. I insist.'

'Absolutely not,' she said, but her mouth was watering.

He opened the tin of caviar, spooned a little on to a blini. 'Open
your mouth.'

She did. It was heavenly.

'Tell me about your business problem,' LeClerc said.

So she did. She spilled her guts. But he seemed to be taking her
seriously, and he was a congressman. Poppy told herself it was
flattering, and not just because he was a good-looking guy old

enough to be her father.

'Resign.'

'Resign? But this is one of the biggest management firms around.

What am I gonna do, move to New York and work for Q-Prime?'
'Start your own firm.'

'But I don't have any acts,' Poppy objected.

LeClerc shrugged. 'Find some. You did before. Now you're a
proven quantity, to some extent. It seems to me that you're always
going to be wanting more thah a boss will give you. Only one thing
for it: start your own firm.'

Poppy considered it. Starting up with Silver Bullet would have
been perfect, but she would pretty much have nothing. And she was
barely old enough for this champagne. But it wasn't totally unheard
of. Ron Lafitte managed Megadeth and he was, like, twenty-five.

The thought was terrifying. And somewhat exciting.

'That takes a lot of work, lot of contacts ...'

'Lot of guts.' LeClerc looked at her. 'Course, y'all can make

excuses, take the bonus, manage Headway ...'

'Highway.'

'Or you can make up your mind now to do what needs to be
do ne. '

'You're very annoying,' Poppy said mutinously.

'So the Democrats are always telling me.' LeClerc inclined his
head slightly.

'You're a Republican,' Poppy said, disapprovingly.
'Yes. Low taxes, low spending. Strong defence.'
'Militaristic build-up, no education spending ...'
'Interested in politics?'


266

'Not really,' Poppy said. 'But I'm a Democrat. I believe in a
woman's right to choose.'

'I believe in a baby's right to life,' he answered, not in the least
perturbed.

'Doesn't anything raze you?' Poppy demanded.

LeClerc considered it a moment. 'Losing,' he said. 'That's why I
don't do it.'

She felt a small thrill of admiration and interest. Something she
hadn't had for a long time, at least it seemed like a long time. Since
her last bastard musician. Crazy! LeClerc wasn't her type. He was
about fifteen years older than her. And a Southern gentleman. And
his hair was a military cut. There was not a rock 'n' roll bone in this
guy's body

'Don't look at me like that,' LeClerc said, softly.
'Like what?' Poppy blushed.
'You know like what, miss.'
'My name's Poppy.'

What the luck are you doing? LeClerc asked himself. She's a child . . all right, with those tits and that body, not a child, but come on .. he was thirty-eight. And in politics. His staffwould not lik his
at all. A leather-jacketed co-ed in a T-shirt with a skull on it.

'So.' He heard himself say it. He couldn't help it. 'Where are You
staying in New York?'


What the blue hell am I doing? Henry LeClerc asked himself.

At that moment, he was sitting up in bed in a suite at the exclusive
and, more importantly, very discreet Victrix hotel in midtown
Manhattan. The reddened light of early dawn was spilling through
the bay windows; his balcony, fringed in climbing roses, a fragrant
spray of blossoming pink, beckoned invitingly; the immaculate Louis
XlV-style furniture of the suite was covered in clothes, strewn where
they had been ripped off last night; and, nestled in the white silk
Pratesi sheets of his incredibly huge and comfortable bed, was a girl.
A girl barely old enough to drink. A rock .chick, for God's sakes.

And the most incredible lay he'd ever had in his life.
LeClerc .found the situation disturbing.
Very disturbing.

He hardly wanted to move, because then she'd wake up. The
congressman from Louisiana shook his head. Why was this bothering
him?

Henry LeClerc was used to women. Even the occasional woman


267

as young as this one. All of them achingly beautiful, too; nothing
remarkable about that. LeClerc had had women throw themselves at
him since he was thirteen. The only son of an old Bayou family, he
had lost his father when he was twelve, which had meant that Henry
had grown up master of a crumbling mansion, supporter of his
mother, and sole guardian, as his white-gloved, incredibly proper
mamma never failed to remind him, of the LeClerc family tradition.

He'd been forced to grow up fast, and that had given him
confidence.

White Gables, his family home, was Henry's first love. It didn't
die on him like his daddy, and it didn't have a never-to-be
mentioned drinking problem like his mamma. Unfortunately, the
house had its own problems. The 'romantically' crumbling faqade
had plenty of ailments, including termites and rot from the wet,
soupy Louisiana air; and while he laboured to fix them, he also had
to find a way to pay off the government tax liens which threatened
to take away the place his own granddaddy had been born in.

Henry LeClerc hadn't cried about it, whined about it, or even
talked about it. He'd just set himself to fixin' it.

The years of struggle formed LeClerc into the most independent
young man for miles, and the *girls loved it. Even the bureaucrats in
Balieu, Louisiana, had to respect the serious, intense young man that
turned up in the County Assessor's office with a business plan. He
called everybody 'sir', he wore a suit, and he argued persuasively that
historic buildings should be cherished by the town of Balieu, not

forced into condemnation. He wanted a deal on the tax.
'How old are you, son?' the Assessor asked.
'Fourteen, sir,' LeClerc said.

The older man didn't ask where Henry's daddy was. It was a small
town, everybody knew already. Instead, he thought of his own kid,
getting high all the time and growing his hair long and listening to
the Stones.

He signed the papers. LeClerc kept the house.

He also got interested in the law. He needed money, so he took a
job as a paralegal in Balieu. Saving his wages, he invested in the stock
market. LeClerc was quiet and savvy. He put himself through law school, graduated, and became the youngest-ever partner in Davies
& Polk, New Orleans's largest law firm.

Money had been his drive, his focus. And he'd made a ton of it.
LeClerc drove an imported lolls loyce, wore tailored suits, tipped

268


his hat to ladies in the street; he was a real Southern gentleman, a
relic of a bygone age.

Everybody adored him. Men wanted to drink with him
bourbon on the rocks; women wanted to marry him, or, at least, to
bed him. But LeClerc had not been easy to catch. He remembered
his parents' unhappy marriage from his childhood, and the idea of
having somebody else messing with White Gables - it was deeply
distasteful. Plus, he wanted a lady. Not a modern, go-getting,
money-hungry career chick. Not somebody who'd sleep with him at
the drop of a hat.

LeClerc was a big figure in Louisiana. He did pro bono work for
the Historical Society; he had personally saved sixteen of the state's
beautiful old mansions and estates from disrepair, graffiti, and the
death tax, preserving the culture. It had been a very short hop from
man-about-town to the Honorable Gentleman from Louisiana. The
Republicans had recruited him, and they thought they had a star.

They were talking Senator now. An old, incumbent, yellow-dog
Democrat was retiring. They had LeClerc all groomed for the slot.

He wanted it. Senator. Then Governor. Then, who knew how
high Henry LeClerc could rise? "

But soon the Senator-to-be, they had told him, drawing him a)ide
in various oak-panelled club rooms thick with pungent cigar smog,
would need a wife .....

Somebody pretty, feminine, ladylike and inoffensive. Somebody
with a manicure and white gloves, like his mamma. A lady who
would not smoke, drink, swear, or, obviously, work ...

Poppy stirred in his bed. Her glorious, heavy breasts, firm and
dusky, sprinkled with a sexy dusting of freckles, moved with her
silky caf4-au-lait skin. The tiny gold Star of David she wore round
her slender neck glittered in the morning sunlight.

A twenty-something career girl. A .Jewish girl. And a Democrat.

What the hell had he been thinking? Well, no matter. He'd given

her a roll in the hay; that wasn't exactly the same as proposing.
So why did this feel different?

Poppy opened those spectacular, wolf-blue eyes and stared up at
him, and Henry LeClerc caught his breath in his throat. Goddammit,
she was beautiful.

'Good morning,' he said.

'Isn't it?' Poppy replied.

Oh, shit, Henry, LeClerc thought. You're in trouble now, boy.

269


Chapter 39


Poppy thought that maybe she had lost it.

Twenty-three was a little young to burn out and go crazy, but
here she was, doing things that could have her certified. She had.just
spent practically an entire weekend in bed with a man she hardly
knew, a man way too old for her, too goyishe, too right-wing. And
instead of being glad to be rid of him, Poppy felt as though someone
had stabbed her through the heart with a knitting needle.

All she could do was think of when she was going to see him
again.

Love at first sight? She didn't believe in it. This had to be lust. She
had a crush, like a teenager drooling over Axl 1Kose.

But Henry LeClerc had not called her. She had come home,
waited. Expectantly. Then angrily. And finally, with a level of
disappointment which shocked her, Poppy had stopped waiting for
the call.

I'm getting over it, Poppy told herself firmly.

His rejection made her feel dirty, made her feel as if she had given
up something precious, and been tricked for it; the way he'd made
her body feel she'd taken for love. But it wasn't. It was no different

than drunken sex in a motel with a guitarist. And that pissed her of E
She was gonna make a real effort to forget the .jerk.
But business first.

Poppy was at home, in the new house she'd bought for herself,
just off West Third Street, near the Beverly Center. It was tiny, set
on a little side-street, with a handkerchief-sized garden of manicured
green lawn and a fragrant bougainvillea bush, but it was all hers. One
good-sized bedroom with a walk-in closet, a bathroom with a sit
down shower and long tub, a small, modern kitchen, and a large
living room. The house was Mission-style, and she loved it. It was all
hers.

She was standing in the little alcove off the living room which she


270
had set up as a home office. She had a computer, a fax machine, a
copier and a phone. The receiver was in her hand; the dial tone was
buzzing.

'If you'd like to make a call,' a mechanised voice said, 'please hang
up and try again. If-'

Poppy took the advice.

This was hard. Harder than she'd thought it would be. Much
harder than the obvious solution it had seemed while she was draped
over Congressman LeClerc's hard, muscular body, drinking in the
scent of fragrant cigar smoke and the musk of his skin. His advice in
New York had sparked something in her. Heady excitement, a
longing to get started.

Maybe he wasn't interested in seeing her again. Poppy smarted at
the insult. But she also knew that she was going to follow LeClerc's
advice. He might be a jerk, but he had at least left her with one
thing: this plan.

Her own firm. Her own acts. Her own rules. Poppy didn't want
to be a number two woman, one of the myriad loyal female
executives that littered Los Angeles, highly paid wage slaves without
any real power. The back-up. The lieutenant.

Joel Stein had made it clear he wasn't sharing the limelight th

Poppy or anybody.
So why was this so hard? ....

Poppy knew the answer. Because Joel was right. People hadn't
taken her calls, they'd taken Dream's calls. And she was twenty-three
years old right now. The same age, or younger, as the people she
wanted to represent. Joel had sworn she'd be nothing without him,
and Poppy was afraid he might be right.

It didn't matter. She didn't have a choice.

Poppy picked up the phone again, and this time she dialled the
number.

'Dream Management.'

'Yeah, it's Poppy,' she said. 'Is Joel in?'


'You have to understand '

'I don't have to understand shit,' Stein said, nast-ily. At least he'd
stopped screaming. 'Your stuff is already in the garbage out back,
Allen. Just like your career. You know how many goddam
ungrateful brats come through the record industry every year, think
they know better than the guys who find them, train them? One
good year with one of my acts and you think you're fucking Yoda.


27I

You're just a kid. A stupid kid. Unless you find some mogul to
screw, you'll never get another job. Believe me.'

'So, no use in coming to you for a reference then?' Poppy joked,
although she was feeling queasy.

'Go luck yourself,' Joel snarled, and hung up on her.

Poppy replaced the phone. Her hands were shaking. She had once
thought how much she'd hate to be on the wrong side of the desk
from Joel Stein.

Whatever. Feel the fear and do it anyway.

She called her bank and checked her balance over the phone.
Twenty-five thousand, four hundred dollars. Not a whole bunch of
money when you needed to start a new business. Plus, she had no
college degree, no job she could use to get employed. There was her

parents' money, of course, but Poppy wasn't going to touch that.
No, this had to be all her.

She refused to be cowed. Everything would be OK. She even had
a name for the new business: Opium, Inc.

It was sinful and rebellious. Just like rock 'n' roll. Poppy loved it.
She had gone to a cheap business-card place and picked out her own
logo: a stock image of a red poppy, with 'Opium Management'
underneath it in blood-red letters, and 'Poppy Mien - President' in
black. '

She put a few business cards in her wallet and got ready to go to
work.


Man, it was depressing!

Poppy went to club after club, gig after gig. The first thing she
needed was an act to manage. But there was nothing out there.

She began to have the sick feeling that Silver Bullet had indeed been a fluke. What a parade of losers! Lipstick-wearing poison clones
with thinning hair and thinner songs. Thrash-metal acts who
obviously believed that speed and volume were all it took to make it;
never mind about a tune. About a hundred Guns n' Roses copy acts;
one girl band who managed to get called back for an encore only by
flashing their plastic tits at the crowd.

Not one band who had a song she could recall three seconds after
they'd stopped playing it.

Poppy started to have a new-found respect for A & t men.
Musicians liked to call the industry the enemy, but the enemy was
the lack of talent out there. Nobody seemed to get it, that this was all
about tunes.

272


Poppy wanted to shake them all, the ]junked-out denizens of the
Sunset Strip with their rock 'n' roll dreams, and scream, It's all about
the tunes!

Look at thrash. Only one band had survived out of the entire
genre, only one act was still making money: Metallica. And that was
because every headbanger in the world knew Metallica's tunes by
heart. Sometimes, when that band played, the crowd was so loud
singing the songs that the group was almost irrelevant. Slayer,
Anthrax and Megadeth would never be able to match that. Ever. All
the other bands had three or four hit songs at the most.

Poppy was desperate. She had to do this. It was her.joy, her bliss.
What she wanted in life. But she couldn't invent talent where none
was to be found.


She found the answer in.a way she had never expected.

'What you fixin' to get, honey?'

Poppy looked at the waitress hungrily. The girl was a Texan, in
her late thirties now, but still with the body of a cheerleader and big,
teased blonde hair.

She was sitting in a late-night Southern restaurant, a cheap [51ce
off Melrose. It served big steaks and lots of chilli; generally, the kihd
of artery-busting cuisine she liked to stay away from.

But she had come in here ]just to hear a Southern twang. Poppy,
was Jonesing on Congressman LeClerc. He wasn't calling, and she'd
headed to this place to stew in her memories. Was she nuts? Eating
in a dump like this .just to remind herself of some salt-and-pepperhaired
politician with a fancy suit?

'Barbecue spare ribs,' she said, 'Jack Daniel's and a Diet Coke.'
She handed over her ID; in LA they checked thirty-year-olds.
'Comin' right up, sugar,' the cheerleader said.

Poppy was suddenly starving. She hadn't eaten since a low-fat
Yoplait at lunchtime, and that was no kind of fuel for a depressing
trip around LA's dank nightspots, listening to band after band and
singer after singer that stunk. The burgers and steaks were sizzling in

the kitchen, and they smelled good.

She missed LeClerc.

Of course, she wasn't going to call him.

'Here you go, honey.' The girl put what looked like a bucket of
JD and coke in front of Poppy. 'Food'll be right along in ]just a
second now.'

She disappeared, and Poppy took a relaxing sip.


273

'Good evening, Los Angeles," said a voice.

Poppy spluttered with dismay. Oh God. A mike was set up in a
little stage area tight out front. She'd come in here to get away from
acts that sucked. Now she was trapped with some diner crooner. She
looked around for the waitress, wanting to cancel her order and get
the hell out, just go home.

But the girl was nowhere in sight. Poppy drooped visibly. She felt
defeated.

'Got a couple new ones for y'all tonight,' the voice said. It was
male and husky, with that tich country twang she thought was so
sexy. 'My name's Travis Jackson.'

And then he started to sing ...

'... Blue ... I can't stand the thought, another day ...'

The song was a lament. His voice was soft, heartbroken, exquisite,
like the strings of a bluegrass guitar, or a wail of Patsy Cline. Poppy
glanced around, her food and booze forgotten. Couples had stopped
eating; women had tears in their eyes. A lot of hand-holding was
suddenly going on.

She focused on Travis Jackson. He wore beat-up, faded blue jeans,
cowboy boots, a plaid shirt, and a bandanna. The shirt had short
sleeves; the boy was muscled,, and covered in tattoos. He had a
smattering of silky black hair visible at his collar, a square jaw, and
five o'clock shadow. Plus a way of looking at women that made
them melt inside.

Poppy felt her heart thud.

She was stating at Travis. He locked eyes on her, sang right to her.
Gave her a wink.

Poppy felt her heart flutter.

But that was tight where she kept her wallet.
She beckoned the waitress over.
'What's his story?'

'Cute, ain't he?' The woman leaned low. 'But honey, trust me -
you'll have to take a number and stand in line. We got women come
eat here every day just to be in a room with him.' Her blue-lined lids
took in Poppy's youth and slim figure in that Azzedine Alaia dress.
'Hmm, but you got a shot, though.'

Poppy scrawled her number on a piece of paper and gave it to the
woman in a twenty.

'I really want to speak to him,' she said. 'Like, really. Give him the
number, OK?'

'Sure thing, sugar,' said the waitress, eyes widening at the tip.


274

Poppy threw some more money on the table to cover the bill,
then stood up, leaning forwards so Travis would get a good look at
her breasts. He continued singing, with that angelic voice, but he'd
got a devilish look in his eyes.

Poppy blew him a kiss and headed towards the door. The waitress
grabbed her sleeve.

'One thing, honey, lemme warn ya. You're from Call. You gotta
know, these Southern boys.., they look real good and they sound
real good. But they'll break your heart.'

Poppy looked and saw the woman was talking from experience.
Tll be careful,' she said.

She took one final look at Travis Jackson. But she was thinking
about Henry LeClerc.


Poppy went home, washed her hair, and carefully selected an outfit.
It had to say money and class and record-industry nous. She picked
out black Levis, Manolo Blahnik strappy heels, a Green Dragon
roadcrew shirt, and an Armani black leather jacket. She made up in
neutral tones, designed to make herself look gorgeous and sophisticated,
but still young. There would be no point at all in tryingTo
pretend she was something she wasn't.

The phone rang at eleven-thirty. Poppy had no illusions; she was h

hot chick, one of the hottest. She'd known he wanted her.
'Who's this?' Poppy asked.
'You know who it is, ma'am.'

Damn, you are sexy, Poppy thought. Total confidence; the guy
acted like he was the prize here and she was the huntress. Which was
truer than he knew.

'Travis,' she said, breathily.

The smile in his voice was almost visible down the phone line.

'Mm-hmm. And what's your name, sugar?'

'Poppy Allen,' Poppy said.

'Now ain't that about right? Cause youlre just as pretty as a
flower.'

Lord Almighty, Poppy thought, with an adrenaline rush of
excitement, the man was perfect. He was a babe, hewas .talented, he
had songs, and he was a pussy hound. And if anything sold records to
men and to women, it was a guy that liked to fuck. Indelicate, yeah,
but the way it was.

Girls wet their panties for guys who liked women. It was always


275

the bad-boy womaniser they ,vent for. It had been that way since
Errol Flynn, or Elvis Presley.

'I'd love to meet you for a cup of coffee,' Poppy said. 'If you have
the time.'

'I always have the time for a girl as pretty as you,' Jackson

answered. 'Where you at, sugar?'

'Third Street.'

'You know the Rattlesnake Bar?'

'Yeah.' The Rattlesnake was a few blocks away; a dimly lit,
cheap-but-charming little bar, decorated in a Southwestern theme.
Poppy was duly impressed. The guy probably had a romantic hangout
in every part of town.

Tll see you there in twenty minutes, honey.'

'Can't wait,' Poppy said truthfully.


He was sitting up at the bar when she got there, nursing a beer and
looking as masculine as a walking Y chromosome. The beach babes
were staring at him, heads together, giggling in their little groups.

Travis stood up and touched the brim of his stetson. Out of the
corner of her eye, Poppy saw the girls swooning.

'Jack,' he turned to the guy behind the bar, 'get us a table, would
ya?'

'You got it, dude,' the man said, and led them into a booth for

two right at the back, nice and secluded.

'Regular?' Poppy asked.

'They know me here,' Travis admitted. He grinned that bonemelting
grin. 'Glad you could make it. You're a fine-lookin' young
lady. You know that, right?'

Poppy grinned back. 'So I'm told. And you seem to have the
votes in from the female contingent.' She stuck her tongue out at a
table of long-haired blondes who were fluttering their eyelashes at
Travis, and they hastily looked away.

He laughed. 'Cute. You the jealous type, baby?'

'Actually, not at all,' Poppy said. She took a deep breath; she had
to be six years younger than this guy. 'I have a proposition for you,
and it's not to do with sex.'

'How disappointing,' Travis said.

'I'm interested in your music. I want you to hear me out. My
name's Poppy Allen, and I want to manage you.'

He stared at her a second, then burst out laughing.


276

'Who, sugar? You? You don't look old enough to get a beer
without givin' the waiter a kiss.'

Poppy nodded quickly. 'Hear me out, OK? If you don't want to
know, I'll buy you that beer and leave you to your fan club.'

He smiled, but it was just polite. She could see he wanted to call a
halt to the conversation. So she ploughed on.

'I found Silver Bullet. You've heard of them?'

'The rock band.'

'That's right. I signed them to Joel Stein at Dream Management.
Then I was a tour accountant on the Green Dragon tour, saved that
act a bundle.' She opened her purse, pulled out her tour laminates
and tossed them to Travis. 'When I got back, they handed me Silver
Bullet. The gifts didn't even have a label, nothing. I signed them to a
record deal, I set up the showcase, I changed their look, I designed
the set. Just last month, they hit number one and had the cover of Rollin2 Stone, and Joel Stein, my boss at Dream, told me he was
taking over the act.'

'So what did you do?' Jackson asked.

'I quit,' Poppy said simply. 'And I started my own company. I
want to manage you.'

'I dunno,' Travis said. 'I ain't a rock act, hon.'

'Doesn't matter. You've got songs. You've got the voice. Y

play cool. And you're hot enough to fry eggs on.'

His grin turned rueful.

'I wish the record company folks thought like you do.'

'They will,' Poppy said, confidently. 'If you give me a shot. Look,
I'll be right upfront - Dream's a big company, and everybody wants
to take their calls. And I'm just one person. But people know me. I
can get you seen. Sign a six-month contract with me. After that' she
shrugged - 'if you want to split, I won't stop you.'
He took a swig of his beer, thinking about it.
'Get you folks something?' said a waitress, brightly.

'Jack and Diet Coke,' Poppy said. Maybe this evening she'd get to
finish one.

'Are you two staying for dinner?' the woman asked, perkily.
Travis tipped his beer towards Poppy.
'Yes, ma'am,' he said. 'We are.'


'I want to know how long you've been out there,' Poppy asked.

He sighed. 'Try eight years. I guess I'm just a damn fool. Been
doin' this since I was a kid. Getting that restaurant gig is about the


9.77

best job I've ever had. Tips are good, and they feed you for free, and
let me use the washroom in the back. They got an old shower there,
place was an apartment once, I guess.'

'A shower? Why don't you do that at your place?'

'Honey, my place is the back of my banged-up old Chew,
outside,' Travis said. 'Or whichever lovely lady I happen to be
crashin' with that night.'

'Well, the first thing I'll do for you is rent you an apartment. Six

months, rent-free to you unless we get a record deal. If you'll sign.'
She held her breath.

'Miss,' Travis Jackson said, 'I'm all out of options. I was gonna
sign with you anyway.' He stuck out his hand. 'Partner.'

278


Chapter 40


'Not interested,' Clayton Roberts said. He pushed back his chair, to
indicate the meeting was over.

Poppy didn't move. 'Excuse me? You were all over me when I
worked at Dream. Remember? You said anything Silver Bullet
needed . . .'

The banker smirked. 'Anything Sillier Bullet needed, yes. I deal
with multi-platinum acts, baby.'

'Ms Allen,' Poppy said, acidly.

He grinned at her lazily. 'Whatever.'

'I have a new act,' Poppy began again. 'Somebody I'm Xery
excited about. I have experience '

He chuckled. 'You're twenty-three.'
'I still have years of experience. Rock music is a young person"s

game.

'Baby,' the banker said, being deliberately insulting, 'you're a fiery
young chick, but you're too young for me to write a loan to, and
you've got no capital.'

'What are you talking about? I own my own house.'

'Not interested,' Roberts told her.

Poppy finally stood up, defeated. 'You're going to want to do
business with me some day, Clayton. And it'll be too late then.'

'Yeah... sure, honey.' He opened the door for her. 'Have a nice
day.'

Poppy walked out on to the sunlit expanse 0fWilshire Boulevard,
a red mist of rage seething in front of her eyes. Fuck him. Son of a
bitch ...

Clayton Roberts wasn't the first banker to turn her down, just the
most insulting. Just one of the guys who'd liked to press the flesh at
record company junkets last year. The music business had its own
bankers, guys that looked after the private accounts of rock stars and


279

moguls, managers and promoters. They understood the needs of the

industry, the way things worked.

And how they'd all sucked up to Poppy last year, when she was a

prized lieutenant at Dream!

And how quickly they'd told her to get lost this week!

A real lesson.

Well, no matter, Poppy told herself. She was learning, and she was

doing it fast.

She found a cheap studio apartment near her own, in the Park la

Brea complex. Only $850 a month, and it came furnished. The
complex was a nice one, Travis's rental even came with access to a
gym and a pool. That was important; she wanted him to keep lean,
keep hot.

He was grateful, but gave Poppy the sense he'd be almost as happy

crashing in the CheW. All Travis was interested in was getting a deal.

Poppy wondered if Joel Stein had made some calls, tried to spike

her before she started. Yeah, she thought, as she headed into

Starbucks for a bagel and some caffeine, maybe he had.

She needed to think laterally. Take Travis where people could

understand his talent, not some place Joel Stein could stop him even

getting heard.

LA and New York were the places all the acts got signed, and

Nashville for country music acts. However, the A & 1< men who
scouted new talent were bombarded in those cities. They were
invited to a million showcases each night, and blew off99 per cent of
them. Unless you were a big manager, like Joel Stein, it took months
of pleading to get ten seconds of a junior scout's time.

She did not want to go that route. Travis Jackson was Poppy's first

act, and you only got one chance to make a first impression.

Poppy sipped her walnut mocha and pondered. It would come to

her. It always did.


'Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, Chicago?'

Jackson looked warily out of his window seat at the concrete

forest of Chicago glittering below him.

'We're almost there,' Poppy said reassuringly.

He snorted. 'Like I care.'

But Poppy could see he was nervous, fidgeting in his seat,

checking his watch, his strong hands gripping the armrests whenever

there was turbulence.

'I guess you're more comfortable on a horse?'


280

Travis's face softened. 'God's own mode of transportation,
ma'am.'

'You really are a country boy.'

'And this is the city,' Travis said with disdain. 'It looks real grimy

and dirty. And nobody big is here, record company wise ...'
'That's the whole point,' Poppy said.

He raised a brow. 'It's your dime, honey. I hope you ain't
throwing it away.'

Poppy thought about the cost of two round trips to Chicago with
four nights in a hotel, separate rooms.

She hoped so too.


Poppy set up the showcase at Zadar's. The club was downtown, and
it was a rock fixture. Metal-heads loved it; every inch of wall was
covered with graffiti. It specialised in punk rock and hardcore thrash
metal.

Dispirited A & I< scouts were here every night, looking for
something, anything, to justify their low-level salaries. They usually
stayed for less than one song. That was all it took to establish that
yeah, yet another act was up on stage and in the middle of a (al
suck-lest. Chicago had even less talent than LA or New York..

Poppy wanted to do what Travis had done to her; shock them of

of their complacency. '
She called every scout in town.

'Yeah, hi, this is Poppy Allen, calling from LA. I think I met you
last year on the Monsters of Rock tour, when I was working with
Silver Bullet? No? Maybe when I was on the Green Dragon tour?
Well, anyway, I got something for you. Tonight, and tomorrow
night, at Zadar's. Limited crowd.'

And the hooked rep would always ask, 'What is it?'

Poppy said mysteriously, 'It's something different. I got Warner's

coming, CBS, RCA, Atlantic, shall I put you down?'

'Sure,' they'd answer.

It was a small white lie, the kind they told every day in this
business. In New York or LA it might not have worked. In
Chicago, tley had nothing better to do.


Travis performed on a chair, with his guitar plugged in. No lights,
no Silver Bullet-style pyrotechnics. Poppy knew he didn't need any
of that crap.


28I

Before the end of the set, she was clutching a bunch of business
cards.

The second night, the audience was bigger. There were the
original scouts, and now their bosses, who had taken the shuttle from
New York city. Poppy grinned. The old flies-on-shit principle; they
all saw the other big boys there, and now they were fighting for a
piece.

She signed Travis Jackson to a three-album deal with Musica
Records at twelve midnight on the third night they were in
Chicago. When they flew home, Poppy upgraded to first class.

Travis was going to be a star, she told him, and the star treatment
started now.


Congressman Henry LeClerc sat at the dinner table and tried to
concentrate. His spin doctors were giving him good news, after all;

his opponent's numbers were crumbling ...

'Sixteen points since August, Henry.'

'Nobody likes her stand on defence. She actually said our troops

were overpaid.'

'Henry, I think we got her, I really do. Her campaign team's in a

real scrabble for funding. They just took a big donation from

TexOil, so they must be deslSerate.'

'Uh-huh,' LeClerc said absently.

He was eating with the Three Stooges, as he liked to term them.

Keith Flynn, Jacob Harvey and Tim Greenwood. They ran the polls,

they interpreted the numbers, they formulated 'media response'.
Apparently, his campaign for Senate was off to a good start.
But LeClerc wasn't interested. He was thinking about Poppy

Allen. He'd been thinking about Poppy Allen for six months.

He didn't understand it.

She had been a great piece of ass. Even sensational. But so what?

Lots of women were great in bed. Henry thought that there were no
bad lays, only bad lovers. Any woman could be turned into a

scratching, moaning animal. It just took the right man to do it.
He was confident, even arrogant - but he could back it up.
LeClerc loved women. He didn't even have a type. He liked
short, curvy girls and lean, aristocratic beanpoles. If they were smart
and passionate, that was for him. He had even been known to date
plain women, because often they turned out to be the hottest
between the sheets; sobbing and bucking and clutching.

Best of all was dating a woman that hated him. A political rival,


282

say. Seducing her, then forcing her into wild and ecstatic submission
after hours of careful love-making. LeClerc enjoyed teasing a
woman. Most men could not be bothered with foreplay, then
wondered why their girls lay there inert as tapioca pudding. He liked
to stroke, and kiss, and lick, and pin down with one hand, until they
were aching for him.

Poppy had been amazing, but weren't they all amazing? Smart,
but he only dated smart women. Beautiful ... but ...

He was crazy. Losing it for some tween. Wasn't that what they
called the twenty-somethings these days? Teens and tweens.

The most utterly ridiculous thing of all was that when he tried to
compare her to his other women, he felt odd. Not right. Like one of
his most enjoyable leisure-time pursuits was actually a little seedy.

He wasn't so much thinking of fucking Poppy Allen again as of
talking to her. Damn it, she had been interesting, when most
everybody was boring. She had some kind of life in her little subculture.
Henry LeClerc liked Mozart; Metallica to him might be
from outer space. But he'd enjoyed her passion. Her fire. Her raw
ambition.

	'You know what would really help, Henry? Port?'
	:

	'Yes, thank you,' he said.
	"

	They poured the Cockburn's reserve into his small glass.
	"

	'A lady. Somebody we can introduce as your wife.'


	'Even fiancSe would be good.'

'But make sure she's suitable. She has to be suitable, Henry.
Nobody with a past.'

	LeClerc paused and nodded.

	'I hear you.'

But it was no good. He had to meet her again. To talk to her, to
see her. It was an obsession. Once he physically saw Poppy, she'd
stop being this young goddess, and he could get on with his life
again.

	'I have to go, gentlemen,' he said.

He would find out a little more about Poppy Allen. Maybe go see
her, have one more round.

	Just to get her out of his system.

:z83


Chapter 41


Six months had changed Daisy's life. Her book was a success.
Royalties were pouring in, and Artemis wanted to extend her
contract. Ted Elliott renegotiated the advance. Daisy was now
earning six figures instead of five.

She decided to do something special with her money.


'I've got a present for you,' Daisy said. 'Get in.'

'Darling,' her mother said, 'this is so silly, you don't need to buy
us any more presents.'

'Just humour me,' Daisy pleaded.

'All right,' her father said, ighing.

Daisy had made them both wear blindfolds. Her parents got
awkwardly into the back of Daisy's new car. It was a gleaming
racing-green Bentley, drove as smooth as silk and handled like
thistledown.

The Lemon Grove had been a runaway bestseller. Daisy was up to
nearly a million sales in paperback. Suddenly, she had a fleet of
advisers around her: a specialist accountant, a stockbroker, a money
manager. She had bought a loft-style modern flat, the penthouse of a
new development in Camden; she had a wardrobe full of Joseph and
Prada and Armani; she had membership of all the hot clubs in
London - the Groucho, Soho House, you name it.

And Daisy loved it. Her whirlwind of promotion, book-signings,
and sales conferences had hardly stopped long enough for her to start
work on the sequel. Money and success were transforming her life,
and it was very sweet.

This morning, though, would be the sweetest moment of all.
Daisy hit the accelerator and drove like Nigel Mansell through the
leafy Sussex roads, the narrow, twisting lanes overhung with trees so
that light made dappled shadows under the emerald leaves, glowing


284

in the sun. She felt giddy with pleasure. If there was one thing she
had wanted to do for her parents this was it.

'How much longer, Daisy?' her father demanded.

She turned the steering wheel and crunched on to the familiar
gravel path to the left.

'We're here. Now no touching the blindfold until I get you out of
the car.'

Daisy got out, opened the car door, and helped her parents out,
standing them in the drive facing the house. Then she walked

behind them and pulled off the blindfolds.

'Ta-da,' Daisy announced.

They were standing in front of their old house. Two brand new
Mercedes were neatly parked in the garage by the gnarled apple tree;
red for her father, silver for her mother.

'I don't understand,' Mrs Markham said unsteadily. But her father
did. 'Oh, Daisy,' he murmured, and stumbled against the car.

'I had to pay them an extra ten thou to get out,' Daisy said, 'and
they painted the den orange so you'll have to take care of that, but
it's all yours. Actually, it's in a family trust, so you couldn't Nve it

away to the bank even if you wanted to.'

Her mother burst into tears.

That, Daisy thought when she got home, had been one of te
high points of her life. The toys, the fame, it was all very well, but it
was also ephemeral. Doing something nice for her mother and father
had meant something.

So why was she suddenly feeling so down?

Her flat was immaculate; the maid came on Wednesdays. Daisy
had chosen a colour scheme in oyster-white. She kicked off her
shoes and padded across the soft, springy carpet to the cream couch,
curling up on it in front of one of her floor-to-ceiling windows with
a spectacular view of the London skyline. The last moments of sunset
were fading from the sky; dying streaks of orange against a deep-blue
background. The serenity of twilight was rather sad, Daisy thought.
Her apartment had soundproofing; there was no drone of traffic to
disturb heg, nothing but the neon street lights and the orange and
yellow of the cars on the road below, a constant river of artificial
light. A low silver bowl was crammed with the heads of ivory roses,
and the air inside her apartment was fragrant with the blossoms.

Daisy's usual routine was to open a bottle of chilled white wine,
pour herselfa glass, and switch on the Macintosh to do some writing.

285


She was almost done with her chapter plan for The Orange Blossom,
her next book, but tonight, she wasn't interested.

She wanted to cry. Why? Why was that? Everything in her life
was perfect. This was ridiculous.

Daisy picked up her copy of Hellot. magazine and started to flick
through it. Nothing like a series of mindless puff pieces to distract
her.

And then there they were, on page two. Not featured, of course,
Edward would never have allowed that; just pictured as guests at the
wedding of some young earl and the lucky American model about to
become his countess.

'Mr and Mrs Edward Powers,' said the caption. Edward,
resplendent in a morning suit; had he even put on a little weight,
Daisy wondered? But it was Edwina she couldn't take her eyes off.

Daisy had, thank God, been in America when Edward had got
married. She had sent him a gift and a card, a lovely set of Pratesi
sheets. He'd written to thank her and to invite her up to his house in
the country, but Daisy hadn't seen Edward since the day she left
Oxford.

More importantly, she still had never seen Edwina, until now.
What do you know? Daisy t,hought dispassionately. The woman's
not horsey at all. She's stunning.

Edwina Powers had long blonde hair, an aristocratic nose, blue
eyes, and no curves to speak of. She was the epitome of cold,
patrician beauty, miles away from Daisy's hot peasant curves. She
kind of looked like Gwyneth Paltrow. With the equally skinny
Edward, they made an ideal couple.

Daisy breathed in. Her heart had sped up violently. She felt dizzy,
almost like a panic attack. She dropped the magazine on to the
carpet, and felt a hot tear trickle down her cheek.

Oh God, oh God. She was still in love with him.


She woke early after a sleepless night and stumbled into her
bathroom. It was large, like the bathroom in a good hotel, with a
snowy marble floor, heated towel rails, a jacuzzi, and plenty of
Diptych scented candles ranged around the tub, but that wasn't
going to help her achieve serenity this morning.

Daisy needed to see him. Edward. With a wedding ring on. After
all, if you were away from someone for a good length of time you
started to idealise them. Edward Powers was just on some kind of
mental pedestal.


286

Daisy climbed into her stand-alone shower, lined with blue
enamel tiles splashed with gold daisies, a whimsical notion of her
designer's. More importantly, the shower had three heads that
pummelled and massaged her back. Jets of hot water blasted away her
sluggishness, and she washed her hair carefully with John Frieda and
soaped herself down with L'Occitane lavender bath and shower gel.
After she had swathed herself in fluffy white towels, blasted her hair
dry, and pulled on some of her best clothes, she felt a little better, but
not much.

For one thing, there were dark circles under her eyes that no
amount of Touche Eclat could wipe out; her eyes were bloodshot,
and her skin felt dry with stress. But no matter. She still had to see
Edward.

Daisy dug out her Wayfarers and put them on. Yeah, much
better. She was wearing a long, figure-hugging Katherine Hamnett
skirt in dark-blue velvet and a white silk shirt, and she teamed it with
a strand of platinum-blue Akoya pearls she'd picked up in
Manhattan, light, sheer make-up, and a spritz of Amarige on her wrists.

She was beautiful. More beautiful than Edwina? Probably rt.
Certainly not so bloody well-bred. Daisy inventoried her outrageo!.s
curves: her butt was firm and tight, but it still stuck out there, o
question.., and her breasts, well, at least she was no longer trying to
hide them. She had a trim enough waist, her thighs were strong but
not stocky, and her arms were toned. Daisy considered her hair and
skin critically. Olive-ish, with rich, dark locks ... And those wolf
blue eyes, hidden away behind the glasses ...

I wonder, she thought suddenly, who my real parents were.

But she didn't dwell on it. Her real parents lived in Sussex. Still,
she bet her birth mother had had good genes ...

Daisy went to the phone and dialled Edward's home number. It

was disconcerting that she still knew it by heart.
A woman answered.
'Hello?'

Daisy's heart hammered. Edwina. Speaking to her, she struggled
to sound calm.

'Hello, is that Edwina?'

'Yes, it is. Who's this?'

'Hi, Edwina, this is Daisy Markham,' Daisy said, smoothly
enough. 'I was a friend of Edward's at Oxford.'

287


'Daisy Markham! Of course. The famous novelist, how exciting.
Edward's just in the garden, hang on a mo, I'll get him for you . . .'

There was a pause. Daisy's knuckles were white around the
receiver. She thought she could yank it from its socket at any

minute. Edwina hadn't been a bitch, or nasty ...

Daisy was almost faint with jealousy.

'Daisy!' Edward's voice came on the line, warm with pleasure.
'How good to hear from you.'

'It's been a long time,' Daisy agreed. 'I meant to get in touch, but
I've been so busy.'

'Of course you have, tremendously exciting. You've done
splendidly.'

'I thought perhaps we could meet up for a drink.'
'Love to. When?'
'Today?'

Edward called out, 'Darling ...' and she heard him cup the
receiver. Then he came back on. 'Wina can't make today, how
about tomorrow?'

Tm leaving on a trip tomorrow,' Daisy lied. 'How about just you,
can I see you today? I'd love to catch up.'

There was a pause. She held her breath. Then he came back.
'Three-thirty suit? At the club?'

'Fine.' Daisy was giddy with relief. 'I know it, near Chafing
Cross. See you there.'


The Jugglers was just the sort of thing Daisy associated with Edward
Powers. It was gentlemanly, discreet, tucked away, and very, very
luxurious. The club was housed inside an old Georgian townhouse
in the heart of Covent Garden, with a courtyard full ofP,.olls P,,oyces
and Aston Martins, a guard at a gatehouse, and a splendid wrought
iron fence. There was a blue ceramic plaque outside the front
entrance that said Disraeli had once lived in the house. When she
stepped into reception, she saw that there was a stone floor and a
wooden board on which were the names of members of the club

who had died in the Second World War.

'Can I help you, madam?'

A uniformed receptionist smiled impersonally at her. Daisy smiled
back. 'I'm meeting a Mr Edward Powers.'

'Ah yes, Mr Powers. Of course, madam. He's waiting for you in
the Drawing Room. If you just walk down the corridor it's the third
room on the left.'

288


The Drawing Room was hung with red fabric wallpaper and lined
with what looked like original Regency chairs, chaise-longues and
sofas. Hung around the walls were solemn oil portraits, all of men,
and men in suits, with just one or two women, were sitting around
at little tables, drinking, smoking cigars, and talking in a muted hush.

Daisy scanned the place. Yes, there he was. Tall as a long drink of
water, as the Americans said, and in his usual three-piece suit. He
was occupying an ancient burgundy leather armchair, comfortably
broken in by hundreds of similar men, she had no doubt.

Edward saw her and shot to his feet. He came over, smiling
broadly, and shook her hand warmly.

	'Daisy, splendid to see you, splendid.'

'Hi, Edward,' Daisy said, kissing him on the cheek. Did he blush a
bit? Behind the dark glasses she couldn't tell.

'Come and sit down.' He led her back over to the burgundy chair
and waited until she had settled in a skinny mahogany chair covered

in nineteenth-century gold silk before taking a seat himself.
'Something to drink, madam?'

	A waiter had materialised silently. 'A cup of tea would be lovely.

Lapsang, if you have it.'
	,

	'Of course, madam.'

'It's so good to see you,' Edward said. His eyes flickered over hr.

'But you've lost too much weight, Daisy. Any skinnier and you'll o

down the plughole next time you have a bath.'

'You can talk,' Daisy said, and felt some of the tension drain out of

her. It was just as though she'd last seen him yesterday. She was so

relaxed, so comfortable with Edward. She felt that it was fate, and

nothing should keep them apart, especially not some inconvenient

little marriage ...

'I'm upset you have to leave. I can't wait for you to meet Wina.

You'll love her, she's such a doll.'

'You call her Wina?' Daisy asked numbly.

Pet names! She couldn't bear it.

'Edward and Edwina was a bit much.' Still is, Daisy thought. 'But

tell me, how is fame and fortune? Of course, I always knew it was a

matter of time,' he added politely.

'Splendid,' Daisy said brightly. 'I do enjoy it. I bought my parents

their old house back.'

'But that's wonderful,' Edward said, with genuine enthusiasm and

warmth. 'What an amazing thing to be able to do.'

The waiter arrived with her tea and poured it out into a bone289


china cup. The whole scene was so civilised, so restrained. Daisy
longed to take the delicate vessel and smash it against one of the
gloomy portraits and shake Edward by his bony shoulders. Didn't he
see? Didn't he see? This had to be a mistake, she was sure of it.

'It truly was,' she said. 'But never mind about me. Books and
publishing is very boring. Tell me all about you and Wina. You
married very quickly, Edward, I was a bit surprised.'

'Well so was I, rather.' He shrugged. 'But once you meet
somebody who's the right person, you want to get on with it. I
daresay I'd have proposed to you had you given me the slightest
encouragement.' He laughed cheerfully.

Daisy started to burn. Her cheeks reddened. 'Well, don't you
think people can change? That you shouldn't rush into things? I
know I've changed, for one.'

He ignored her implication. Deliberately, or did he just not get it?

'I don't think you've changed a bit, old bean.'

'I have,' Daisy said mulishly.

'Yes, you've got far too thin. But Wina and I just clicked. She
likes all the same things, we have similar backgrounds, ambitions,
she's a Catholic, and she's a very pretty girl. What she's doing with
an old stick like me I have .no idea. But we're extremely happy.
Newly-weds, I suppose,' he said, charmingly bashful.

'I see,' Daisy said, forcing a smile. 'Well, that's wonderful. What
does Wina do?'

'Do? Keeps house for me. Gives the menu to the cook. You
know. Ah. You mean work. Well, she doesn't. We're quite well-off,
and I prefer having her around, so there's no need for her to work.'

'I never thought of you as trying to keep women down,' Daisy
said.

'Good God, nobody could keep Wina down.' The way he talked
about her, Daisy thought, it was like he had a smile in his voice. 'If
she wanted to do something, I shouldn't give a damn, but she
doesn't, and we don't need the cash, so I suppose there's no point.'

'I suppose not,' Daisy was forced to agree. There was a lump in
her throat, but she forced it back with a scalding gulp of Lapsang.

Change the subject, change the subject, Daisy thought. 'And do
you see many people from Oxford?' '

They talked about nothing for twenty minutes, until Daisy
thought she could decently leave.

'Well, lovely to see you again,' Daisy said. She didn't kiss him on
the cheek this time, .just shook his hand.

290


'And you. Where are you off to?'

She looked blank, then remembered her excuse. 'Oh, New York.
I'm going to do some shopping.'

'Have fun. And you must come down to meet Wina soon. You'll
probably have to come down to the country, because she won't be
doing too much travelling.'

'Why's that? Is she a country person?' Daisy made herself ask.
'Very much so,' Edward said. 'Pather like me, in fact.'


Daisy was proud of herself. She managed to flag down a taxi and
make it all the way back to North London, and into her own flat,
before she burst into tears.

Edward was happily married. And he would never, never be hers.
But she wouldn't accept it. No way. Hadn't he said he might have
proposed to her? Edward had been the one, at Oxford, who had
loved her for herself, made her feel like she wasn't lust fat Daisy, that
she was worth something. Edward had tried to steer her right when
Brad got married; Edward had looked after her when she lost her
flat; Edward was her protector and her ideal and her destiny ...

Anything could happen, still! There had to be a way rourid, it.
This situation was all wrong!

She couldn't face talking to her editor tomorrow, couldn't fd¢e
her parents, couldn't face even being in the same country as Edward.
The pain was too fresh. Well, she'd told him she was going away,
hadn't she? New York? Why the luck not, Daisy thought. I do work,
and I'm rich. Sod it.

She dialled up her travel agent. In ten minutes, she had booked
herself on a first-class flight to JFK, leaving at eight the next
morning.

29


Chapter 42


The plane banked and dipped towards Manhattan. Daisy looked out
of her window; the city glittered in the warm afternoon sunlight.
She had been sitting here for six hours, but it hadn't been a bad
flight, and, if anything, she felt energised. It was good to get out of
London.

'May I take that for you, ma'am?' said the steward, giving her a
warm All-American smile.

Daisy handed over her last crystal split of champagne. 'Sure.' She
didn't drink much on flights, because it dried out her skin, but she

liked to have a couple of glasses just before landing; a celebration.
'Meeting anybody special?', he asked.
Daisy thought about it. 'Maybe,' she said.


It was strange to be here and have no plans. She had booked a suite
at the Victrix, supposedly the most glorious hotel in a city which
specialised in glorious hotels.

It didn't disappoint. A towering Art Deco building, the hotel
commanded a splendid view of Central Park, and when Daisy had
checked in, wandering through an exquisite lobby with marble
pillars, fountains, and topiary hedges, her bags were already laid out
neatly by her four-poster by the time her elevator arrived at the
twenty-third floor. She had a set of huge bay windows that
overlooked the sun, only now sinking down behind the lush green
trees of the park, and looking towards the skyline of upper
Manhattan; she had an Aubusson rug, 1Kegency-style furniture, a
bath big enough to swim in, a working fireplace, and enough fax
machines to run a business empire.

Daisy picked up a ripe, scented nectarine from the complimentary
bowl of organic fruit and took a bite. It was delicious, exactly as she
had expected.


292

Well, if she was planning on getting over Edward Powers, this was
the place to do it.

Daisy padded into her marble-lined bathroom to shower. The free
shampoo was from Bumble & Bumble, the skincare lotions from
Clarins. Very nice. It would certainly do to wash away the dust of
travelling and set her up for an evening out.

So what if I don't know anybody, Daisy thought defiantly. This
was the Nineties. A single girl could go out by herself and not be
embarrassed about it. She would call the concierge. In a place like
this, they'd have some suggestions.


	She knew as soon as she sat down in the bar that every man in the

	place was looking at her.

	All the magazines said that New York was a nightmare; one single

	man for every five single women, with desperate divorcees and ring
	hungry
debs all competing for the same small pool of smug

	commitment-phobes.

	Didn't bother Daisy. Her heart had already been broken, so what

	was the point in guarding it any further? She knew she looked good,

	and she had her own money. If they like me, great, if they ddia't,

	great, Daisy told herself, selecting a stool right in the centre of t)e

bar.
	,

She was at Le Spinasse, an extremely expensive midtown
restaurant, decorated like Versailles and almost as costly. Appetisers
were twenty bucks here and a glass of wine about the same. Well,
fuck it; money was no object on this trip.

Daisy stared defiantly at the crowd of suits eyeing her up. She had
blown her hair straight and picked out a simple, elegant sheath dress
in platinum-silver silk, to complement her eyes, with a pale grey lace
cardigan from Ghost that matched it perfectly, strappy sandals, and a
cashmere pale-pink pashmina that was resting in the cloakroom. She
had tickets to Les Miserables in her velvet evening bag, and she
planned to enjoy a cocktail, a light snack,, and an evening at the
theatre. What did these men think she was? A high-priced hooker,
maybe? So.me of them probably thought just that.

Well, sod you all, Daisy thought. She smiled warmly at the female
bartender. She was starting to feel very anti-men.

Tll have a Kir royale,' Daisy said, when the girl stopped serving
the businessmen in their R.olexes who were standing next to her.
'Certainly, ma'am.' What was it with Americans and their


z93

'ma'am'-ing all the time? It made her feel like the Queen. 'I'll just
need to see some ID.'

Daisy blinked at her. ID? Oh, of course, Americans didn't let you
drink until you were twenty-one. Ridiculous Puritanism. Tm
twenty-three,' Daisy said helpfully.

Tm sure you are, ma'am, but I'll need to see some ID.'
'Like what?'

'Driver's licence, passport.'

Daisy started to flush. People were looking at her now. This was not what she had intended when she had planned her rebellious solo
evening on the town. The barwoman's eyes were unyielding.
Stroppy cow, Daisy thought.

'Look,' she said reasonably, Tm not American, so I don't have my

driver's licence with me, and my passport is back in the hotel ...'
Tm sorry,' the barwoman said, turning away.

Daisy flushed crimson. She couldn't believe it. She was dressed
like this and she was about to get thrown out of the bar! Everybody
was looking at her. She wanted to tell herself it was just one of those
things, but there was a hot flush of total embarrassment. She should
get up from the bar stool and walk out, but she was rooted to the
spot.

'Katy,' said a low voice n£xt to her.

The barwoman spun round immediately. 'Yes, Mr Soren?'
'This young lady is twenty-three. I can vouch for her.'

Daisy looked at the speaker. He was young, about thirty-five, and
tanned, with a muscular torso hidden under a well-cut charcoal grey
suit. He had dark-blonde hair, and looked almost Nordic; tall, with

something of the Viking about him.

'Of course, Mr Soren.'

He was very attractive, but Daisy didn't want some rich guy's pity.
She was utterly humiliated. 'I don't know this man,' she said sharply,
and slid off her bar stool.

The girl was waiting, looking at Soren to see what she should do.

'And I don't know you, at least not yet,' Soren said easily, 'but I

can vouch for you, because you must be Daisy Markham.'

Daisy stared at him, rooted to the spot.

'Kir royale,' the girl said, 'coming right up, and it's on the house.
Sorry for any trouble, ma'am.' She turned nervously towards Soren.
'Mr Soren, sir, I do hope I haven't caused any offence ...'

Who the hell is this man? Daisy wondered. Did he own the
restaurant, or something?

294


His name was Magnus Soren. She had pegged him fight; he was
from Sweden originally, he told her, but he had been working in
New York for ten years and was a naturalised citizen.

'My company works in media. We have broad interests in
publishing, films, TV, some magazines. I make it my business to
keep up on new trends. You made quite a stir last month. I see
reports on things like that. Your photograph was with your bio, and
it was ... quite striking,' he said dryly.

'I can't believe you would remember one photo,' Daisy said.
'Well ... thank you.'

'You're drinking with me,' he said. 'Quite thanks enough.'
'You haven't asked me what I'm doing here alone,' Daisy said.
'Because it's none of my business.'

Daisy lifted her glass to him. 'You're very smooth. You know
that?'

He laughed out loud. 'And you're very funny.'

'I was going to go to the theatre,' Daisy told him, 'after supper,
which I wouldn't have stayed for if they wouldn't let me have the
Kir royale.'

'And I have just finished a long and boring meeting and wason

my way home. What were you going to see?' '
'Les Mis.'
'But that's so mainstream. You're not a Les Mis type of girl. More
like Chicago. Maybe I can persuade you to change your plans and go
there with me?'

'I heard tickets were impossible to get,' Daisy said.

'Nothing's impossible except the Red Sox winning the World
Series.' Soren picked up his cell phone. 'Excuse me a second.' He
speed-dialled somebody and had a brief conversation, then turned

back to her. 'It's done, we have a box.'

Daisy said, 'I'm impressed.'

'Good.' He grinned. 'That's the general idea.'
'What's the name of your company?' she said.
'Soren Enterprises,' he said.


They stepped out of the theatre at nine. Daisy had enjoyed herself
thoroughly, but she was now exhausted, and felt herself slipping in
and out of sleep where she stood.

Soren had somehow magicked up a box for them; they had
skipped supper, but they had been plied by waiters with trays of little


295

thin-cut smoked salmon sandwiches on brown bread, chilled
champagne in a silver bucket, miniature pizzas, and caviar and blinis.

She had kept her eyes fixed on the show, and Magnus hadn't tried
to engage her in conversation. Daisy felt a bit nerve-racked, now she
was here; she was on a real, proper date with somebody who had as
much juice as Rudy Giuliani, apparently. But she had started to fade
by intermission.

'You look like you're all in,' Soren remarked. 'Shall I have my
driver take you home?'

'I can manage the second half,' Daisy said. 'Aren't you supposed
to be hitting on me now? My defences are low.' She swayed gently
as she spoke.

'Ah. No.' He winked at her. 'That's no fun. I only want women
saying yes to me when they're in their right minds.'

She was still expecting him to pounce on her when he showed her
inside his limousine; a long, sleek black monster that was waiting for
them when the crowd poured out of the theatre. But instead, he
ordered his chauffeur to take her to the Victrix.

'You'll sleep, you'll feel much better.' He handed Daisy a thick
card, with small gold-embossed letters, which she slipped into her
purse. 'Normally I wouldn't expect a girl to do the phoning, but if
you're up for brunch tomoi:row, you let me know. I know a
wonderful restaurant.'

'Thanks,' Daisy said sleepily.

The limo pulled up outside the hotel, and Soren helped Daisy out,

with the aid of a white-gloved doorman. He kissed her hand.
'See you tomorrow at brunch,' he said.

'Rather sure of yourself, aren't you, Mr Soren?' Daisy asked.
'Yes,' he agreed, getting back into the limo.

Daisy staggered into the elevator, let herself into her room, and
only just managed to peel off her clothes before she flopped on to
her goose-down coverlet and instantly fell asleep.


The next morning, she woke early, when the light began to stream
into her windows. For a moment, she didn't remember where she
was, and then it all came back to her. The drink... Magnus Soren.

Daisy smiled slowly. Goodness, wasn't that romantic? Magnus
Soren, huh? She remembered him as being very good-looking and
very well-connected. But you couldn't be sure when jet lag was
making you see double.

She was chilly. Oh yes, she hadn't even got under the covers last


296

night. She was sprawled naked over her bed. Hell, ',hat meant she
hadn't even taken off her make-up. Or brushed her teeth. Ugh.
Daisy ran to the bathroom to check on the damage. Thankfully it
wasn't too bad; hastily she ran a bath and dug out her tube of
lembrandt, scrubbing herself clean of that dead-parrot feeling.

Once she was washed, blow-dried, and made up, Daisy unpacked.
She had a pretty white floral dress from Miu Miu, and she teamed it
with a crocodile-strap Patek Philippe and a pair of white-leather
Dior slides. It looked fresh and attractive; Daisy twisted her hair into
a French pleat and put on nude Shu Umera lipstick and Shiseido
blusher together with white eyeliner to make her look awake. That
was sexy, she thought, kind of a Sixties vibe.

Good enough for Magnus Soren? Certainly. Daisy went to her
abandoned velvet purse and dug out the card.

Magnus A. Soren, it said. President and Chief Executive Officer,
Soren Enterprises.

It was only 7 a.m., but in England it was already noon. Daisy lifted
her phone and dialled Ted Elliott's number.


'just for a break, Ted. No, the book's not behind. Tall me
something, have you heard of a firm called Soren?' She liste:ed.
'OK, thanks. Just curious. Talk to you when I get home.' "

Interesting. Magnus Soren was apparently self-made. He had
started with a small film-editing business in Stockholm, taken over a
commercials house, and expanded his empire from there. He was
regarded as a young Turk; only thirty-seven.

She'd wanted to ask if he was married, but held back. After all, she
wasn't about to jump into bed on the rebound. Edward was the one
for her, not Magnus Soren. He was altogether too slick, Daisy
thought righteously.

Still, it wouldn't do any harm for her to have a boyfriend ... a
rich, powerful boyfriend. Somebody to provide a cover while she
thought about what she could do to break up Wina and the man she
really loved.

Daisy tapped the business card against her thumb, then made up
her mind. She'd call. It was brunch, and she was hungry.


'Soren Enterprises,' said a woman's cool, professional voice.
'Can I speak to Magnus Soren, please?'

'Who's speaking, please? I'll see if I can transfer you,' the woman
said, a touch sceptically.

297


'This is Daisy Markham.'

'Miss Markham,' she said immediately, 'of course, madam, hold

OFf.'

Daisy was flattered. Magnus must have left word that if she called
she was to be put right through.

'Daisy,' Magnus said. 'Sleep well?'

'Wonderfully.'

'Glad to hear it. We'll meet at eleven, then. The Beaux Arts, that
OK?'

'It's just fine,' Daisy said.

'Perfect, see you then,' Magnus said, hanging up.

Daisy's neatly manicured fist curled against her palm. Was this
crazy? She knew, in her heart, that she was still in love with Edward
Powers.

She looked at her svelte, curvy, gorgeously groomed reflection,
and flashed back to that dreadful night when she, fat Daisy,
unpopular Daisy, had waddled out of that bus to the derision of the
public schoolboys clustered around it, rating her out of ten. Her
palms went clammy, just thinking about it. And who had asked her
to dance? Who had saved her? Edward.

Surely that was her destiny. The man who had found her attractive
when she was a fat, ugly duckling.

Daisy sometimes felt like a fraud. She'd been so used to rejection,
it was in her blood. Writing had saved her, but not from these
sneaking feelings of inadequacy. No wonder she came back to

Edward, he'd been there for her when nobody else was.

And surely he'd loved her at Oxford.

But now he was married to somebody else.

She had to at least try to stop obsessing over him. Magnus Soren
was dynamic and gorgeous. Maybe she could make a go of it with
him. She tried not to think, 'But I doubt it.'


The Beaux Arts restaurant was a little jewel of a place on the Upper
East Side, with a sunken courtyard garden and wrought-iron tables.
Magnus was waiting for her when she got there.

'You're just as beautiful in daylight,' he said, standing up and
kissing Daisy on the cheek. 'Remarkable.'

Daisy smiled at him. She had been thinking the same thing. He
really was ridiculously attractive. His eyes were a light-green flecked
with hazel, and the blondness of his hair was countered by the broad
shoulders, the strong chest, and the set, square jaw. He didn't wear


298

any jewellery, like many American guys; no tie-pins or diamond

pinky rings. And no wedding band.

'So what do you recommend?'

'Everything.' He waved the menu. 'They do great health food, if
that's what you're into. Fruit salads, egg-white omelettes with herbs
and capers.'

'I suppose I should,' Daisy said.

'You should eat whatever you normally eat, because whatever
you've been doing to that body, it's working.'

Daisy blushed. 'I thought you weren't going to hit on me?'

'Of course I'm going to hit on you.' He smiled wolfishly. 'It's

morning, you've had a chance to recoup. It's now open season.'
'Well.' She laughed. 'I'm glad you warned me.'

I'll have the bacon fried to a crisp, grilled tomatoes on toast, fresh

orange juice, cinnamon coffee,' Soren rattled off to the waiter.
Daisy's mouth watered. 'Same.'

'My kind of girl.' The waiter brought them a pitcher of freshly
squeezed juice, and Soren poured glasses for them both and raised
one to her. 'My kind of girl. Now tell me all the things I don't know
from reading your sales figures. You have brothers and sisterg?',

'No. I'm an only child. In fact, I was adopted,' Daisy said.

She instantly wondered why she'd said it. That was private,
something she never brought up. ."

'How interesting.' He studied her face. 'Of course, nobody could
hide that from you. Those incredible eyes. Do you have any contact
with your birth parents?'

'No, why should I?' Daisy said. 'They never had any contact with
me.'

'Of course,' he said, politely, moving on.

'No, it's OK.' Daisy could see he had stopped himself talking. 'I'm
not going to be offended, what were you going to say?'

'My father was adopted. He was always angry about it.'

'I never give it a thought, really,' Daisy said.

'Eventually he found out that my grandparents had smuggled him
out of the Jewish ghetto. They had both been killed in the
Holocaust. . It gave him a kind of peace when he found out they'd
originally loved him.'

Daisy was taken aback. 'That's ... that's an amazing story.'

Soren shook his head. 'I didn't mean to lay the heavy stuffon you
until at least dinner tonight,' he said.

'So we're having dinner?' Daisy enquired.


299

'Of course. You don't have anything better to do, and if you do,
you'll cancel it.'

She shook her head.

'You're a very arrogant man,' she pronounced.

'Possibly.' Magnus Soren smiled at her. 'But I believe in giving
destiny a helping hand.'

300


Chapter 43


Daisy spent an incredible weekend with Magnus Soren. He was
everything she thought of as American, everything she thought of as
New York; big, brash, unashamedly extravagant.

The word 'subtle' was obviously not in his vocabulary. He picked
Daisy up in different limousines; took her on a chopper ride for
Sunday lunch at his estate in Dutchess County, where his cook
served up a meal worthy ofLes Quatres Saisons; he tried to buy her a
necklace of Mikimoto pearls the size of marbles; he insisted on
picking up the bill for everything, including her ridiculously
expensive hotel. .

'You're too much. It's all too much,' Daisy complained. 'Magnus,
really. You're making my head spin.'

'But that's where you're wrong. It's really not enough. You aren't
letting me spoil you properly.'

'I don't want to be spoiled,' Daisy said.

'That's a character flaw. You have to conquer it.'

They were sitting on the balcony of his farmhouse in Dutchess,
sipping mint juleps. It was sunset, and Daisy was staying over before
her flight in the morning. Magnus had provided her with her own
room. She loved this house; it was old, for an American house,
anyway, dating from the eighteenth century, with some modem
additions. Magnus had filled the place with antiques, many of them
Swedish, and it felt rustic - very, very luxurious, but rustic. He had
stables and horses, fields full of clover, and, endearingly enough, two
mongrel dogs imaginatively named Brown and Yellow. Brown was
part-terrier, and Yellow was part-Lab and all enthusiasm. The dogs
bounded on to the deck, almost knocking over thh original Quaker
table their drinks were resting on.

'If I ever had a burglar they'd lick him to death,' Magnus said,
scratching Brown behind his ears.

'Would you ever have one?'

3oi


'Not up here. People don't bother locking up their cars.'

Daisy sighed. 'Gorgeous, but I suppose that's what you get when
you live hours and hours from the city.'

'It's only twenty minutes by chopper,' Magnus explained reasonably.

Daisy sipped at her mint .julep. It was delicious. 'Magnus, you are
disgustingly rich and you have an insane amount of toys.'

'Yup.' He grinned. 'Isn't it great? All you have to do is buy and
sell companies and then one day you wake up and you have all this.'
He waved. 'Of course, it would be nice to have someone to share it
with.'

'I hear you have someone to share it with every week.'
'Well, you can't expect me to be lonely and bored, can you?'
Daisy laughed. 'At least you're honest about it.'

He looked her over. It was a stripping, assessing look. Daisy felt
some heat between her thighs. She put down the mint .julep. Now
was not the time to weaken. Magnus wasn't the one for her; she
didn't want to end this weekend in his bed, when her heart belonged
to Edward Powers.
'Look, Magnus ... I'm not going to sleep with you.'

'How disappointing,' he sai,d, easily enough. 'Or it would be, if
you meant it.'

Daisy bristled. 'I do mean it.'

'No. You mean you're not going to sleep with me this weekend.
But you are, in fact, going to sleep with me. I want you and I mean
to have you.'

He said this with such seriousness that Daisy didn't know where
to look.

'And I don't.just mean to have you in my bed. Although that will
be a good start.'

'Are you about to tell me you think we should get married?' Daisy
scoffed. 'Come on, Magnus. You're young, you're single, you're
rich and powerful.'

'You forgot handsome.'

'You've already admitted you play the field,' she said, ignoring
the last remark. Handsome, was he ever. 'And I don't intend to be
one of those girls who drape themselves over the arm of some
billionaire '

'I'm not a billionaire. At least not yet. Maybe next year if the
R.aton deal goes through '

'And then gets dumped for a newer model or something. I'm not


302

interested in your money. I have my own. It may not be this much,
but it's more than enough for me. And I'm also not interested in
being, what do you call them '

	'Trophy wives, arm candy,' Magnus said helpfully.

'Yes. Exactly.' Daisy had the uncomfortable feeling that Magnus
was laughing at her, even if he wasn't doing it out loud.

'I have a career. I write romance novels. I'm good at it, I sell
well '

	'Yes, I remember the marketing reports.'

'And I intend to continue doing it. Work is very important for the
soul, even when you don't need to work.'

	'I agree completely. I don't need to work.'

	'So, you know you'd be better off with somebody different.'

'If you'll be so good as to allow me to pick out my women
myself,' Magnus said. 'I tend to do the best job in that regard.'

Daisy looked at him. He had been nothing but a perfect
gentleman. Showing off wasn't a crime, and he was sexy and he
made her laugh.

	'Look, Magnus. You're very nice, but I think I should be honest

with you.' She sighed. 'I'm in love with someone else.'
	'

	'I don't care,' he said, calmly. 'Eventually, you won't be.'


Daisy flew back to London first class; the only part of her trip she'd
wound up paying for. Maybe just as well, she thought, as she
accepted a chilled glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She had to
be careful; her money was great, but it wasn't like Magnus Soren's.
Next time she felt miserable and needed a break, she should go
somewhere cheaper, like Rome.

She was decidedly better for the long weekend, she thought. Her
ego had needed a boost, and Magnus had been perfect. And she'd
been honest with him, she hadn't used him, even though the
temptation to do so had been strong. She'd told him straight out
there was somebody else, somebody she was tied to through destiny
and fate. He could not overcome those odds.

But he'd said he still wanted to see her. Well, she couldn't object
to that. He knew that she wasn't going to be Mrs Magnus Soren.

Daisy found herself hoping that he would call. S0ren .was a lot of
fun.


When she got home it was pitch-black. She paid the taxi, then went
into her building to see if she'd had any post.


3o3

'No letters,' Enriquez, the receptionist, said. 'But something come
for you, something very nice. Hold on a sec.'

He reached behind his desk and pulled out a gigantic bouquet of

dark-red roses, almost as big as Daisy.

'Wow,' Daisy breathed.

'I count them.' He winked. 'Six dozen. Very nice. Who they
from?'

Daisy didn't bother to open the card. 'Magnus Soren,' she said.
'Who's he?'
'Just a friend.'

'Some friend,' Enriquez said. 'Goodnight, Miss.'


Magnus waited until lunchtime to call her.

'Thanks for the roses, they were beautiful.'

'Six dozen roses are not as beautiful as one Daisy,' Magnus said
gallantly.

Daisy groaned. 'That's terrible. Stick to Brown and Yellow.'
'You're the wordsmith, no?'

'Thanks for calling. I really had a good time with you,' Daisy said.

'Don't make it sound so final. I'm going to be in London next

week. I'll be seeing you then.',

'Magnus -'

'Gotta go,' he said, hanging up.

Daisy shook her head. He was stubborn, that was for sure. But
after all, he wouldn't have got to be so successful so young without
being bull-headed. She didn't mind; but she hated to see him waste
his time like this.

She went to her computer, switched it on, and started to write.
The words tumbled out of her; it was a Zen-like experience, the
flow she got when she was really cooking. For a while, she could
forget about Edward and Magnus and lose herself in the world of her
new book, where everything worked out the way she designed it.
But in the back of her mind, the thought simmered below her
consciousness: it was time to come back to England, back to reality,
and start thinking seriously about Edward Powers, and how to make
him see he had made the wrong decision ...

304


Chapter 44


'Get me the files on Rose Fiorello,' Jacob said.

'Files?'

Ella was hovering in the doorway, nervously. Jacob had strode in
to the offce, flung his coat on his chair, and started to bark orders.
She had never seen him like this. Angry. It made her want to run

away.

'Yes. Personnel, whatever we have. Do a search. Talk to Dick
White's office. I want complete results on Fiorello. Whatever she sat
in on, whatever she did.'

'Is something wrong, sir?' ,
'I don't know.' Jacob was grim-faced. 'But I'm going to find ott.'


The winter winds whipped down across Queens. The mild snap wis
over; it was back to normal, New York weather at its most
unforgiving. Rose stood shivering in her boots at the construction
site. Nothing could keep the bone-chilling cold from her skin; not
the luxurious cashmere cloak, the fur muffler, the soft pashmina, or
the supple black leather gloves. Inside her Jimmy Choo boots, her
toes were frozen.

She didn't think she'd ever been this happy.

'No time to waste.'

Rose had selected her construction firm after diligent research.
Paul Igorsky was the foreman.

'I want this job done in four months.'

'That's almost impossible.'

'Nothing's impossible, Mr Igorsky. The skeleton of the building is
going to stay intact. You're just constructing a fence and a gatehouse,
and doing some minor cosmetic work. Your firm has a good
record.'

Igorsky, in his fifties, looked askance at the young woman. How
could this tootsie possibly know what she was doing?


305

'That's because we build quality, Miss Fiorello. You want this
place real nice, it's gonna take some time.'

'Yes. Four months. There'll be a bonus in it for you when you complete on an early schedule.'

He sighed. Save me from amateurs.

'Everybody offers our firm an early-completion bonus. That's just
standard practice. But four months '

'I'm not talking about the firm, I'm talking about you,' Rose said.
'Look out of the window.'

He glanced outside his office and saw a sleek red Ferrari parked in

the lot. The very sight of it made him drool.
'I'll see what I can do.'
'I thought so,' Rose said.

Now the trucks were parked in the lot. Already the dumpsters out
front were full of debris; acres of run-down carpet and broken
fixtures. Workers poured in and out of the front door like little ants.
Electricians for the re-wiring, painters, guys to strip the floors. She
loved it. She almost wanted to grab a sander herself, and rush in there
and get that ugly black glue blasted off one of her precious hardwood
floors.

But she had better things to .do. P,,ose got back into her car and
drove home to Manhattan. She could stay there all day, but if you
rest on your laurels, Rose thought, they become funeral wreaths.


'These are the results, Mr Rothstein,' Ella said. She leaned over his
desk, giving him the undone-button special. This was her big
chance!

But, aggravatingly, Jake didn't even notice her.

'Here are the projects lose sat in on. And here's her entire file.'
Jake flipped through it. 'What's this?'

'Oh, that's some other Fiorello. I just ran the name through the
company records to be extra-sure. The IT manager gave it to me
every time the name "Fiorello" appeared. I guess that's some other
person ...

'Thank you. That will be all,' Jake said.

He stared at the memo in front of him for a long time, an icy chill
running down his spine that had nothing to do with the soft
snowflakes tumbling outside his windows.

Then he picked up the phone and dialled his father's extension.
'Dad, hi, it's me. I think we may have a problem.'


3o6

'Sure, I remember her.'

William Rothstein sat in his brother's office, his fleshy body
almost completely filling the leather armchair he was wedged into.
Fred Rothstein was looking mildly aggravated; William's nephew
Jacob was dark-faced.

Lot of fuss about nothing. Jacob was a kid, way too keen.
Worrying about everything. William knew his nephew held him in
contempt; he really didn't care. Spoilt brats thought they were too

good for the men who had brought home the bacon.
'You shoulda seen her, Fred. Great piece of ass.'
'There's plenty of cooch in this town.'

'I know, but this one ...' - William's tongue snaked out and
moistened his fleshy lips - '... young, real young, like sixteen.
Looked like a model, but with tits, nice little ass, too. Would have
done anything to save her father's shitty lease. I got mad because she
tried blackmail.'

'You should have banged her. We could have gone a little
higher.'

Jacob struggled with himself. He wanted to tell his father to stop
talking that way about Rose. But she was, after all, an enemy:

'I should have.' William shrugged. 'Ah well. She was gonna e
difficult, threatening to go to the press. Too much trouble for a pie@

of pussy, you know?' ,
'So what did you do?' Jacob asked shortly.

'Whadda ya think? Sent her away with a flea in her ear. And we
ran her father out of his lease without a payment.' William blew a
smoke ring out of the cigar he was puffing on. 'He should have
settled.'

'Fricking tenants. Always think we're gonna hold up a multi
million-dollar project, build it around their crappy flower stalls and
coffee shops.' Fred nodded at his brother. 'I'd have done the same
thing.'

'I think she's been nursing this for her entire life. That's why she
was so cold to me in school. And why she got.the intern post. I think
she was trying to copy our data.'

A shadow of concern flitted over Fred lothstein's face, but only
for a second.

'Sounds like it. But, son, who gives a shit? What can she do? She's
some little twenty-something piece of cooze. Next time you want to
bang some broad, don't bring her into the company, though. Got
it?'

307


'Yes sir,' Jacob said.

Fred rather enjoyed watching his kid squirm. Mr Know-it-all
junior hotshot caught with his pants down.

'She can't do anything to us, Jakey. We don't worry about
women unless they're filing paternity suits. Her dad was a loser.' He
shrugged. 'Not my problem.'

Jacob stood. 'I'm going to check on what she's doing.'

'You worry too much,' Fred Rothstein said. 'Go get yourself
laid.'


Jacob wasn't convinced. He went back to his desk and buzzed Ella.
'Yes, sir.'

'Get someone to pull the property records. MLS listings, whatever
you have. I want to know what Rose Fiorello owns and where.

Have someone get back to me within half an hour.'

'Yes, sir.'

When the answer came back, Jacob listened intently. He didn't
like what he heard.

How could I have been so stupid?


His personal limo took him to Rego Park. It took the driver a few
minutes to find it on the map; this was not the kind of place that
Rothsteins usually asked to be taken to.

Jake got out and looked at the shabby, run-down building. A
swarm of workmen were all over the site, digging, measuring,
carting off. There were more workmen there than he ever usually
saw on P, othstein projects. Something else; the site was a hive of
activity. Nobody was sitting down chewing sandwiches or swigging

from hot thermos flasks. These guys were actually working.
It only took him a few seconds to find the foreman.
'You're working for P,.ose Fiorello?'
'Who's asking?' said the guy.

'My name's Jacob P,.othstein. I'm a friend of hers.'

'Then she can tell you her business, can't she? You got a pass,
fella? This is private property.'

Jake grinned. 'That's OK. I'm leaving.'

He went back to the warm, heated comfort of his Lincoln Town
Car and opened up the file on lose. She lived down in Tribeca. He
gave the driver the address.


She was sitting at her kitchen table with a large yellow legal pad and


3o8

a biro. Empires had been built on far less than this. Ten versions of
ad copy were crossed out with thick black marks. She was

determined to get the pitch exactly right.
Her doorbell buzzed.
'Yes?'

'It's Jacob lKothstein.'

Rose wondered what to do. She buzzed him up, then ran to open
the safe and locked her ad copy inside it with the Rothstein papers.
He'd never find it. She kept the mobile phone in her hand, just in
case he tried anything stupid. Jacob wasn't violent, Rose knew that.

But the rap on the door still found her jumpy.

'Come in '

He looked gorgeous in that dark suit. But from the ice in his eyes
and the thunderous scowl of his brows, lose knew at once that he
knew.

'tKego Park, huh?'

'You've been to my site,' lose said, trying not to seem surprised.

'And why not? You've been through my papers. Nice touch with
the panties. That was really slutty. A good distraction.'

'This isn't your fight,' said Rose after a second. ,
Jacob laughed. 'Oh, really? Let me tell you something, Fiorello.I
came here to give you a warning. P,.othstein is my company. Mes

with it, you mess with me.' '
'This is between your father and me '

'My father. My uncle William. Oh, don't look so surprised, you
think you're the only one that can do some digging? I know about
your father, about the deli, about that stunt you pulled in high school. And I know you've been nursing some stupid idea of
vengeance all these years. I'm warning you not to push it, Rose.
You've been treated well.'

'Like my dad was? Forced out of his lawful lease?'
'He was offered good money. More than good.'
'Fifty doesn't buy you a new career.'

'He chose to turn his nose up at that money, and your blackmail
didn't cut it. Blame yourself if you must; don't blame us.'

'My father,' said Rose, drawing herself up, her voice turning to
steel, 'had a legal lease. He didn't want money. He wanted to keep
his lease. Your family had no right to do what they did. And as for
me being treated well, your company is a bunch of assholes. If you
take my advice, you'll keep out of it.'

'I have no intention of allowing you or anyone else to threaten my


3o9

inheritance. Take on Rothstein Realty, and you take on me.'

'So be it.'

Jacob bowed slightly. 'Goodnight, Rose. I'll see you around.'
He let himself out.

Yes, you will, she thought.


The aggravating thing was that she couldn't start with Rothstein
Realty. They were too big for her to attack right now.

First, it was a question of getting established. But Rose didn't
wait. She finally decided on ad copy she was proud of, and ran the
spots the next day.

'Owl* your own piece of the American dream. Condominiums in easy
reack of the city. Security, doorman, brand new kitckens. Huge I Bdrms marble
lobby, mint. Hurry, won't last.'

Rose added the number of George Benham's office. She put the

ads in the Times, the News, the Post, and the Village Voice.

She didn't have to wait long.

'Miss Fiorello.' George Benham's voice was the whine that she
remembered. 'You're going to have to get me a new line. This one
is ringing all day with Rego Park applicants... I can't do any other
business.'

'As of now, George, you don't have any other business. Do you?'

Rose waited while the answer came tremulously down the line. 'I - I guess not, Miss Fiorello.'

'Tell the applicants there'll be a show apartment ready in two
weeks. Get their details and run credit checks. I want pre-approved
buyers only.'

'Yes, Miss Fiorello.'

'And it's not going to be called the Rego Park,' Rose said on

impulse. 'I'm changing the name ...'

Fiorello. Little Flower.

'Call it the Flower of Queens Apartments.'

'Flower of Queens. Yes, ma'am.'

Rose scribbled a note to herself. The next morning she called the
architect. A new detail was added in to the building; a rose, picked
out in red marble, was worked into the stone above the entrance
way.

Her signature.


Rose heard no more from Jacob Rothstein. Thank heavens, right?
She was relieved about it.


3IO

She went out to visit her parents in the comfortable house she had
bought for them. Daniella was older, stooped; her hair was silvered

all the way through. Her father was lumbering around the house.
'I get bad gout.' He kissed her. 'Great to see you, honey.'

Rose was shocked; she didn't go home enough. She determined
to get them a maid, and a home nurse for her father.

'So, how you been doing? Got yourself a nice young man?'

Daniella Fiorello put an extra dollop of penne vodka on Rose's
plate. Her baby was skin and bones, even if she did look good.

'No, but I got myself a hotel.' lose was all excited; it tugged at
Paul's heart. His little girl had always been that way, so full of
enthusiasm for life.

'You got a job in the hotel business?'

He tried to hide his disappointment. He had thought, after the

scholarship and all, that P,.ose could do a little better than that.
'No, Daddy. I bought a hotel. I own it.'
'A hotel? I don't understand.'

'Mom, I sold what I own, I bought a place out in P,.ego Park, and
I traded it all in for a hotel.'

'R.ego Park's a bad area,' said Daniella faintly. :'

Tll take you out to see the show apartments next month. People
are already calling up. You're gonna love them.'


lose kept her word. As soon as the first apartments were done, she
had her parents picked up in a limousine and taken out to the site.

'Look. This is the gatehouse, see? Everybody will have to give
their name. I'm putting on a twenty-four-hour guard, and this fence.
It's twelve feet high. Total security. Do you like the rose, Daddy?
I'm calling it the Flower of Queens. After our name. Your name.'
She was thrilled, full of life, animated and happy. Daniella didn't dare
ask her daughter if she had found a man to share it with. 'Come
through here, come through '

'Morning, Miss Fiorello,' the foreman said.

Paul blinked. He couldn't believe what he .was seeing. The man
treated his daughter with such deference, even though she was still
half a kid.

'Hi,' P,.ose said, paying no attention. 'See? All the condos will be
like this.., the new tiles, the new stove and refrigerator, everything
brand new, almost perfect, fitted carpet, and the maintenance is
really low ...'

'The mortgage on this place must be huge.'

'It is.' Rose laughed at the look on her father's face. 'Oh, don't

worry, Dad. I got the whole place half sold already, and it won't be
finished for months. I bet you I can have it one hundred per cent

sold by the day the workers are done.'

He believed her.

'I'm so proud of you, honey.'

'I did it all for you, Dad,' she said.

Her father kissed her and hugged her and Rose felt a pure

happiness that had not come over her for years.


She treated her parents to dinner at Bernie's Steakhouse, her father's
old haunt. Rose wanted it to be Lutece or the River Caf, but she
knew her folks would hate those fancy places. Paul Fiorello's idea of
luxury was a big steak cooked just right. Her parents wanted to go
over just how far she'd come. Rose let them talk. When her cab

dropped them home, she had the feeling it had all been worth it.

She was woken from her sleep at 3 a.m.

Her mother was crying so hard Rose could hardly make out the

words, but she didn't really need to. She just knew. And it blew her

world into pieces.

Her father had had a heart attack. He was dead.


For the first time in years, Rose completely neglected her work. She
moved in with her mother for a whole month, enough time to get

her settled, get her over the initial shock of grief.

'He had a great life, Mom.'

Rose said it automatically. She hoped things like this would

comfort her mother more than they comforted her, which was not at

all.

'Oh, he did, he did. He was so proud of you. You were the apple

of his eye. Bored everyone stupid about you.'

'I hope he liked this house.'

'He adored it.' Daniella sighed heavily.

'What's wrong, Mom? What is it?' Rose rushed to her mother,

but she waved her off.

'Oh, hell, it's nothing. Just that '

'Go on.'

'He was so fond of that stupid deli. I wish he'd never lost that

deli.' And Rose's hands curled into fists, which she did not let her

mother see.


312

Rose arranged for her mother's sister to come up from Florida to live
with her. Once that was all settled, she went back to George
Benham's office. He fell over himself in his eagerness to greet her.
To kiss my ass, 1Rose thought.

'The Flower of Queens is all sold up. We have a waiting list.
Maybe I should put up the prices ...'

'No,' Rose said. 'They get exactly what they paid for.'

'You've made a hell of a lot of money. Two million dollars. Two
million! I can hardly believe it.'

'Two million's nothing. I want to buy a skyscraper.'

Benham laughed. 1Rose regarded him with icy fury. 'Do that
again, George, and you're fired.'

'I - I'm sorry, Miss Fiorello. It's just that the property market is in
a bit of a slump, tenants are hard to get ... banks don't like to


'I know that,' lLose said. She thought of Rothstein lLealty and
their tenants. 'It's a perfect time to invest, George. You think I

should buy when the market is hot, and sell when it's weak?'
'No, but-'

'There are no buts• Get me a building. Something owned"lf a
motivated seller.'

'I'll see what I can do,' Benham said eagerly.


He came back to her within a week with a selection of properties.
'Overpriced.'

'Too many violations. I don't want the City down my back for
ten years.'

'Too small.'

Benham turned away, fearful he had disappointed his boss.
'What's this one? I like this one.'
lKose had pulled out a picture of a rather seedy-looking
skyscraper, sixty storeys high, made of brick, and overlooking the
river.

'That's on the wrong side of Manhattanl in Alphabet City.'
'Close to transport?'

Benham nodded. 'Right by the subway.'

'And the seller?'

'He's in trouble, but you know, this a commercial property, and
it's a broken-down dump ... the banks hate the area, because it's
not the nicest. You'll find it very hard to get a note.'


313

'Hard doesn't matter,' 1Kose said. 'The only thing that matters is
impossible. Which this isn't. Get me in to see the seller.'

She had that glazed look in her eyes. Benham dived for his files.
He didn't know what she was thinking and didn't care to find out.

1Kose wasn't seeing the seedy skyscraper. She was seeing the first
nail in 1Kothstein IKealty's coffin. Time to send those boys a message.

She was going to say it with Flowers.

34


Chapter 45


'Here it is.' Poppy opened the door. 'Home sweet home.'

Dani looked the space over. 'Yeah, it's great.'

Dani West was her new assistant. She was thirty-one and tired of
her dead-end job at I<CA, typing for promotion grunts. They called
it 'Record Cemetery of America' because it had no acts.

When she had read the small-print ad in Billboard asking for an
assistant in a management start-up, Dani hadn't really been
interested. At least ICA paid benefits. But then she'd seen that it
was for Opium Management. And she had jumped.


There were ten other girls in Poppy Allen's living room when Dani
turned up to apply, and Dani asked, flat out, when her turn can!e,
how many Poppy had seen.

'Would you believe? Over twenty,' the younger girl said.

'Yes, I would believe it. But you shouldn't hire them. You should
hire me.'

Poppy Allen had leaned back in her rattan armchair and smiled
slightly. She had a magnetism about her. Dani began to understand
just why Poppy was the flavour of the month, mentioned in HITS magazine's gossip column every week, and why she was already
looking after three hot acts.

Travis Jackson. A bona ride star, Travis's first, hastily recorded
album had gone gold, then platinum. Screaming girls all over the
country attested to his New Country-idol status.

Matrix and Wrecking Ball. Two heavy metal groups, 'hair bands'
as they called them - long-haired boys with a taste for spandex, girls,
and making money. Both had been poached by Poppy from
previous management, and she had already booked them on bigger
tours and supervised new videos that were getting play on MTV.
Both bands loved their young, hot-chick manager, who was as hard
and canny as any grizzled old veteran.


35

To Dani, Poppy was a rising star herself. The public had its idols:

Def Leppard, Guns n' Roses, Madonna, New Kids on the Block.
You name it. But the record business had its own stars. Giants,
moguls who wheeled and dealed and controlled millions of dollars,
the fate of labels, of stadiums, of radio networks. DaM's heroes
weren't Michael Jackson or Prince; they were David Geffen, Mutt
Lange, Quincy Jones, Peter Mensch, Cliff Burnstein, Bill Graham
and Michael Krebs. Women to look up to were in short supply.
Who was there, really? Lisa Anderson in London? Sharon Osbourne?
Rowena Gordon at Musica Records, for sure.

And Poppy Allen? Well, not yet. One star and two hot
newcomers didn't make her Q-Prime. But Poppy was making
waves.

Dani was tired of going nowhere fast. She wanted to make waves

too.

'And why should I hire you, exactly?' Poppy Allen asked her.

l:uck it, Dani thought.

'Because I have experience. Eight years of it. Because I'm so

bored and frustrated at RCA that I'm ripping my hair out. Because I
want to work, and most of them just want to get to meet Travis
Jackson so they can luck hiD.' Her interviewer grinned. 'And
because I'm not someone who's gonna be jealous of you because
you're twenty-three and skinny as hell and you're making it. I'm not
gonna give you a hard time when you ask me to get you coffee. And
because I want to impress you so you promote me.'

'The .job doesn't pay that much,' Poppy Allen said.

'I don't give a shit,' Dani said, adding hastily, 'Ms Allen.'
Poppy looked at the other woman. She was dumpy, wearing way
too much black, and she had glasses with hip black frames, kind of a
New York vibe, and she was older than the other candidates by a lot.

'You're hired,' she said.


Dani was intense. And that was what Poppy was looking for.

Right now, however, she knew Dani was faking it. Her fixed

smile as she looked round Opium's new home masked a kind of

horrified glare. Poppy smiled.

'You're thinking it's not very fancy:'

'Fancy? I've seen fancier crack dens,' Dani said. 'Man! Are you

shitting me?'

They were standing in a former warehouse in a back street off

Vine. The place had huge, grimy windows festooned with spiders'


316

webs, a couple of abandoned orange crates used for packing,
cigarette butts and broken glass on the gloomy floor, and a rank
smell of old stale sweat and urine.

'Who the luck is the landlord?' Dani demanded. 'You should sue,
Ms Allen.'

'It's Poppy. You always swear like that?'

'Army brat,' Dani said succinctly.

Poppy liked her more and more. 'Do me a favour. Just don't say
"luck" when record company presidents call up. They're old fat farts
and we don't wanna be responsible for any heart attacks.'

'You got it, Ms Allen. But you really need to cancel this lease.'
'It's Poppy, and there is no lease.'

'We're going to run the office month to month?'

'No. There's no lease because there's no landlord. I own the joint.
Got it for sixty thousand bucks.'

Wow.'

Poppy looked at her assistant, who seemed to be literally biting
her cheeks in order to keep silent.

'You have to be polite to the record company, not to me. What
were you thinking?'

'That you only paid fifty-nine thousand, nine hundred and niety

dollars too much.'

Poppy laughed .....

'Listen, lesson one, OK? The first rule of being in business is to
keep the costs down. Hire only the staff you need, and limit
expenses. Especially management. Now I own the building, there's
not going to be a rent, except what I charge myself for the tax
deduction. And this place is going to be the fanciest joint in LA
when we're done.' She grabbed Dani's plump shoulders and
gestured. 'Big windows, once we've cleaned them. Lots of light. Lots
of space, too. Ample electrical points, and there's a bathroom over
there, shower and everything. We'll buy some lamps, some couches

and desks from a discounter's ... you'll see, it'll be awesome.'
'But there're only two of us,' Dani protested.

'Right now there's only two of us.' Poppy winked. 'Wait and see.

This is gonna be huge.'

Dani believed her.

'Here.' Poppy tossed her the phone. 'First job: call an industrial
cleaner and get them over here. This place stinks.'


It took two weeks for them to get Opium Management the way

they wanted it. But when they vcere finished, it was spectacular. The
whole building was painted a dark red, and on the black door they
hand-painted a giant poppy, hot-looking, with its cluster of dark
seeds at the centre. The warehouse was disinfected and swept, and
Poppy laid cheap, functional linoleum over the ground, but it was
chocolate-brown, and it looked kind of designer under their creamcoloured
furniture. Poppy invested about fifteen thousand more to
bring the building up to date; it wiped out her early commissions
from Travis's first tour, but so what? She got cheap partitions of glass,
telephones, two fax machines, computers, everything. Cream
couches with chocolate brown throws and a modern kitchenette
completed the place.

Dani loved it. 'It looks like that apartment on The Real World. But
it's still too big.'

Poppy winked. 'Nope. I rented half the space out already, to an
indie production company and a fashion designer. We're gonna give
the Opium Building a reputation. Hot and happening. Like the
company.'

Dani wanted to scoff. The Opium Building! Poppy Allen was an
egomaniac!

But a little voice inside her head told her that this wasn't true; that
Poppy was a genius.

She was awfully glad to have this job.


Dani found her first month at Opium indescribably thrilling. Poppy's
energy was contagious. She worked so hard and so passionately, it
was tiring just watching her.

Poppy was working the phones every day. Dani's call sheet looked
like it belonged to President Bush. There were record companies,
tour promoters, press guys, radio, TV, MTV, Nashville, you name

it. She also took calls from wives, mistresses, and groupies.

'Kind of sleazy, isn't it?'

'Just remember, we're not here to run our acts' personal lives.
Their morality is their business.' Poppy shook her head. 'Just deliver
the messages. Look, Dani. I'm a woman, and these boys are all . . .
well ... boys. Last thing they want is me spoiling the party.'

Dani got the message. Travis, Matrix and Wrecking Ball got
theirs.

They started out with Travis's platinum album hanging in pride of
place in Poppy's office. By the end of the month, Travis had three
more, Matrix's gold record had turned platinum, and Poppy even


318

hung Wrecking Ball's first silver disc up over Dani's kldney-snapea
desk.

'That should be in your office,' Dani said.

Poppy shook her head. 'You're part of this now.' She grabbed the
copy of Billboard that lay open by Dani's phone and flicked to the
Hot zoo, picking up a pencil.

'Exactly what are you looking for?' Dani asked.

'Targets,' Poppy said. 'Targets.'

39


Chapter 46


'Any messages?'

Poppy stood in front of the receptionist at the Four Seasons, New
Orleans, and swayed gently, like a willow sapling in a strong wind.
She was running on bare fumes; her gas had drained out about six
hours ago.

It was the penultimate stop on the Travis Jackson tour. They had
called it 'Bluejeans Bluegrass', and every stop had been a sell-out.
Poppy had had to deal with more problems than Napoleon on his
march into the Russian winter. There was an ineffective tour
manager, a girl, whom she'd fired and who was now threatening to
sue for sexism; there were two paternity suits from sweet young
things not famed for the strength of their knicker elastic, as the
English longhairs used to say; there were promoters who tried to rip
her off, thinking she was as green as they came; there were predatory
scouts from the really big agencies, offering her protg the moon; there were even roadies who demanded she blow them to stay
backstage, because they were local help who thought she was just
another eager groupie. That was right before they got fired, but it
still left Poppy feeling weakened.

Travis was loyal, thankfully. She wondered if her presence on tour
had tempted Savannah, the threesome of cute blonde sisters she'd
booked as support. They were being managed by their father, and he
was grossly incompetent. Poppy wanted them. She thought they
were close; by the time they hit Dallas, she thought they'd be asking
her if she had room in her stable for more.

Dallas. Oh man. Another 6 a.m. start. Sometimes Poppy thought
it was hardly worth going to bed. But right now, she couldn't see
straight.


'Actually, yes, ma'am.'

320


Poppy held out a manicured hand. Please let it not be somebody
needing to be bailed out.

She was handed a piece of paper. It said, 'If you're interested, I'm
in 2oi. Enjoyed the show. H.L.'

The tiredness was suddenly gone from her brain, like somebody
had brushed away thick cobwebs from a pane of glass. She grabbed
her key and headed for the elevators.


Henry LeClerc. That was a blast from the past, Poppy told herself. It
had been over a year since New York ...

Over a year. Damn. She actually hadn't had sex for a year. Hadn't
even really thought about it, she'd been so busy.

That's not true, said a small, persistent voice in her head. You
thought about it plenty. But you wanted Henry, and you were too goddam
proud to call him.

And now he was here. The Honorable Gentleman from
Louisiana. Paying her a visit when she came to his hometown.

Poppy punched the second-floor button. When the elevator doors
hissed open, she hesitated until they slid shut on her again. Then,
feeling utterly miserable, she hit eight. " ,

Her room was small, unexciting. Travis had the penthouse sure,
of course. One thing Poppy had learned from the masters was thlt
acts noticed everything you did. Your room was charged to their
promo bill, after all, and if managers indulged themselves with
ensuite jacuzzis and room-service caviar, they noticed, and they
didn't like it.

Her bed was a twin, she had a nice bathroom, and a view of the
wall of the next-door building. There was a basket of fruit; this was
the Four Seasons, after all. There were also three dozen red roses.
Poppy picked them up. The card just said 'Henry'.

She dropped them in the wastebasket and headed for the shower.


Water sluiced over her, washing the grime and dirt of the night
away. The best deodorant, the most fragrant Hermes perfume,
nothing could stop the clinging smell of sweat, beer, and cigarettes
from clinging to Poppy's tailored Armani jeans and little black silk
tees. She used Origins Mint wash, it made her feel clean; and always
washed and conditioned her hair with custom-blended shampoos
and conditioners from Vidal Sassoon.

Tonight her ritual did nothing for her. Her exhausted mind was
racing. She wanted him so badly she felt she could faint.


321

But he'd turned up, after no calls, no letters, no contact. For a
motherfucking booty call. Poppy had spent a year trying not to think
about Henry LeClerc, and now here he was, with an arrogant note
with his room number on it and some shitty roses. Like that made
everything OK.

I'm not going to call him, Poppy thought. I'm not. I'm not.
She suddenly felt more tired than she had ever felt before. Bone
weary. Her career was blossoming, and she loved it; but her love life . . that rock musician who'd dumped her after a sleazy motel luck,
that boring record company executive, a couple of others who
hadn't lasted a month. And now Henry. She had thought there was a
psychic connection, but he hadn't even bothered to ring her.

Poppy ached for him. But she knew that if she called him she'd be
no better than the girls who waited for Travis, buzzing like flies
around the backstage door and most of them.just as dirty. Yeah, it was a double standard: Travis and his back-up band screwed
everything that moved, and that was expected; even the roadies got
laid. But she knew what the men thought of those chicks.

Whores. Sluts. At best, forgettable recreation for an hour or two.
Was that what Henry LeClerc thought of her? The naive twenty
something, falling for the soph, isticated older man? The JAP from LA
bowled over by all that slick Southern champ? Maybe he thought
she'd be flattered that he was here, that she'd at least remembered
who he was.

How could she forget?

Her skin still recalled every second. She felt her nipples tighten,

betraying her, her groin stir, as though feathers had brushed across it.
Poppy gazed longingly at the phone.

Then she climbed into bed and went to sleep.


When she woke up, the nasty buzzing of the phone had her feet on
the floor and her covers tossed back in two seconds. On the road,
you responded to phones like Pavlov's dog to a bell. Poppy hastily
dressed and zipped up her small, compact case. Everything was done
in less than twenty minutes, including a quick shower.

She was ready before the rest of the crew. Poppy preferred to stay
in control that way. She was calling Dani on her cell as she ran
downstairs; often that was faster than waiting for a lift.

When she reached the front desk Poppy handed her key over,
then qukly scanned the pigeon-holes behind reception. 201 was
right there.


322

'I see Henry LeClerc checked out,' she said, her heart thudding.

'That's right, ma'am.' The suit behind the desk glanced at his

computer. 'The Congressman checked out at ten past seven.'
Poppy nodded. 'Did he leave me any message?'

She received a bright, professional smile. 'No, ma'am. Nothing.'


Henry LeClerc sat in his limousine and brushed it off. Well, what
had he expected, really? The girl was flighty. Just a girl. And yet . . .

LeClerc had been at the Dixie Arena and had watched the Travis
Jackson concert from the private box he usually took at sports games.
He had been forced to listen to it, too, as it seeped through both the
glass and his earplugs. He thought the kid had a nice voice, even if
New Country was not his thing. Mostly, he had been impressed.
Not as a fan, but as a businessman.

LeClerc recognised the electric sexuality Travis Jackson presented
as he crooned to the front rows. It was a rougher version of his own.
He grinned as ferocious teenage girls ripped the singer's shirt off,
then scowled when he thought of Poppy Allen. What if she and
Travis were sleeping together? Two young people, stuck on the
road? The thought of the muscled, tanned Jackson, fifteen ye,.ars
younger than himself, anywhere near Poppy Allen made LeCle/v's
teeth clench.

But what had puzzled him was the pride he felt. One of the perks
of being Henry LeClerc was information, sometimes an overload of
it. He had found out what the intense young woman had done in
this twelve months; and he thought he should have been surprised,

but found instead that he had expected it.

And he knew he had to see her again.

It took one more phone call to find out the name of the hotel, and
the false handles the Travis Jackson party was booked under. He got

a room, even though the place was full. He sent roses, he waited.
And she wasn't interested.

He even asked in the morning if his message had been delivered.
It had; no reply.

So, she was probably jumping Travis Jackson. She hadn't exactly
been shy .where he himself was concerned, LeClerc thought
savagely. Who knew how many guys had ploughed that field since?
Forget her.

The trouble was that he couldn't.

He punched a direct-dial button on his cell phone.
'Congressman LeClerc's office.'


323

'Katie.'

'Sir,' his assistant said warmly. She was twenty-two, with a big
rack and a big crush on him.

'Find out where the Travis Jackson concert tour is playing next
and get me a backstage pass,' LeClerc said. 'Do it through the venue.
I don't want the act to know.'

There was a pause at this bizarre request.

'Uh, sir-'

'Just do it,' LeClerc said.

He wanted her. He was going to have her. It really was, LeClerc
thought, just that simple.

324


Chapter 47


'Oh, Mr Jackson,' the blonde breathed. 'That was, like, such a great
show. '

Poppy watched from a corner of the room, bored. Travis was
having a great time, as per usual; tonight her star act would be
levelling the city of Dallas to its foundations. It was the last night of
the tour. All bets were off.

The last night for 'Bluegrass Bluejeans'. Not the last night for her,
however. She had a weekend off, then she was due in Stockholm,
Sweden, for her hair bands.

The thought made her dizzy. She needed some help.

'Would you give me your autograph?' the blonde asked sweeSy.
'Sure, baby,' Travis said, grinning. 'Where?'

'Right here,' the chick said, pulling apart her jacket to reveal
pneumatic tits crammed into a black-lace bra.

'Mmm,' Travis said, pulling out his magic marker while the other
cheerleader types hurried to unbutton their shirts.

Poppy looked away. She had to call RCA tonight. They wanted
to discuss Savannah. They were torn she was taking over; a good
manager helped an act succeed, but it also meant no more rip
Off.S
. . o

'Good evening, Ms Allen,' said a voice.

She jumped out of her skin. She would know that voice
anywhere.

'Aren't you even going to say hello?'

Poppy glanced up, hating herself for blushing. Her heart started to
race; her palms dewed with sweat. There he was. Henry LeClerc.

LeClerc had made no concessions to his surroundings, Poppy
noted with pleasure. He wore an immaculately tailored charcoal suit
in light wool, Royal Ascot cufflinks, and a steel Rolex. Decadence
raged around him; the bassist was ripping the bras off some of the


325

more willing groupies, and the girls were squealing and giggling; and
he didn't even seem to notice.

'What are you doing here?' she asked.

'Looking for you,' he said frankly. 'And my eardrums won't stand
much more Dixie pumped through giant electronic amplifiers.'

'I don't really have anything to say to you,' Poppy muttered.

'That's not true.' He gave her an easy smile. 'Let's go out to
dinner.'

Poppy hesitated, glancing at her star who was reaching for some of
the semi-nude girls.

'Isn't this usually your cue to depart?' LeClerc asked wryly.
She couldn't help but crack a very small smile.
'Possibly,' Poppy admitted.

A screaming groupie, fleeing a roadie who was shaking beer at
her, fled towards them and crashed into him, pressing her slightly
saggy tits into his waistcoat.

Henry drew back a step, politely.

'Why, excuse me, ma'am,' he said.

Poppy laughed softly. She couldn't help it. 'OK, you win. Let's
get out of here.'


LeClerc had a limo waiting.

'Government issue?'

'You must be joking, sugar. You think I want all of Washington

to know I'm following Travis Jackson around the country?'
'Heaven forbid they might think you were hip.'

They pulled up outside an expensive-looking French place on X
Street. It didn't even have an awning; there was a small, very discreet
brass plate outside the Georgian frontage of what appeared to be an
elegant town house, and a liveried doorman, who tipped his hat to
Poppy as he opened the door.

'How do you know I'm gonna like this? You didn't even ask me
what food I like. And places like this usually have a dress code,'
Poppy hissed.

'Everybody likes the food here; and there's no dress code for my
guests,' LeClerc replied coolly.

The maitre d'h6tel, suave in blacktie, glided up to them.
'Good evening, Congressman, good evening, madam. May I have
someone take your jacket, madam?' A flunky materialised and
removed Poppy's black leather Slayer jacket as though it were the
finest sable. 'Your usual table, Congressman?'


3z6

Henry shook his head. 'Somewhere a little quieter, Henri.'
'Certainly, sir.' He led them into a corner booth at the back of the
room, shadowed by an overhanging awning of ivory silk and gold
thread. There was a low, round Baccarat crystal bowl crammed with
yellow roses and white lilies, silver cutlery, and beeswax candles in
gold containers.

	'Take a seat,' Henry said.

	'Excuse me, Congressman.' Another waiter had materialised, this

time with a magnum of Cristal champagne in an ice bucket.
'Did you order that?' Poppy asked.
'Compliments of the house, madam.'

She glanced at LeClerc. It was a pricey compliment, even for a
place like this. Poppy wondered just how much juice this guy had.

'What do you like?' LeClerc asked. 'The Chateaubriand is good
here. Everything's pretty, much good here.'

	Tll take the cheese souffifi,' Poppy said. Tm a vegetarian.'

	He grinned, which infuriated her. 'Since when?'

	'Last week,' said Poppy, mutinously.

	Tll have the Chateaubriand. Rare enough to walk off the plate.'

	'Very good, sir.'
	"

	The waiter melted silently back into the restaurant.
	"

	'You own a dog, don't you?'
	'

	Poppy nodded.
	,'

'If you're going to become one of those LA whackos that force
their mutts to eat vegetarian dog food, I'm going to have to call
Animal Welfare.'

'He eats Purina,' Poppy said. 'Those cans stink and they're
diseased horse anyway.'

'Fair enough.' LeClerc expertly cracked the champagne and
poured a split into her long crystal flute. 'They know not to bother
us too much here. I can't stand talking while some guy in a penguin
suit hovers over me all the time, pouring out my wine for me.'

'Does that work well with all the other women you bring here?'
Poppy asked acidly.
'Why, yes, ma'am.' He was infuriatingly unruffled. 'It sure does.'
'You never called me,' Poppy said, coldly. 'And then you finally
deign to show up, the great Washington mover and shaker, and you
think a note and some flowers will make it all OK? You think that
buying me a fancy dinner will get the stupid young bimbo to jump
in the sack with you again? I only went with you not to make a
scene. Understand right now, I'm never fucking you again.'


327

She smiled crisply at him and took a hit of the icy champagne,
which was as cold as her pale-blue eyes. Adrenaline was surging
through Poppy. She wanted to let this cool bastard know she wasn't
buying it.

The profanity, lobbed into his white-gloved, prim and proper
little world, pleased her. A touch of the hard rock rebel. Let his
Southern gentlemanliness deal with that.

'Now ain't that some kind of a pity,' LeClerc said easily. Poppy
tried not to focus on his square jaw and salt-and-pepper hair and
dark, hypnotic lashes. 'Because the way I recall it, you were

outstanding. We were outstanding.'

Poppy breathed in sharply.

'I'm an outstanding lay?' she snapped.
'Yep.' He stared right into her eyes. 'Actually, breathtaking might
be a better way of putting it. I'm sorry if what you wanted to hear
was that you were about as exciting as an exit poll for a State
Senator's primary. But that's not why I'm here now.'

'I can't have been that exciting,' Poppy said. 'You didn't exactly
wear out AT & T after New York.'

'Because you're all wrong.' LeClerc gestured; his hand was rough,
unmanicured. 'You're crude and rude and dangerous to know.
You're young enough to be }ny daughter.'

'And old enough to make those decisions for myself.'

He inclined his head, acknowledging her point. 'You're a goddam
spitfire. You know the girls I see, mostly? They're beautiful and
elegant and great in bed '

'Yeah, thanks, that's fascinating, but '

'But,' he went on, ignoring her, 'they're ... boring. They do
whatever I say. They don't want to work. They have no dreams,
except maybe a large rock on their left hand and the life of a
Washington hostess. I can tame a girl like that in three seconds.' His
eyes travelled lazily over Poppy's body, making her nipples harden in
the little black T-shirt. 'And that's no fun.'

'I'm more than just your fun,' Poppy snapped. 'You're not the
great prize you seem to think you are, Mr LeClerc. I'm really not
that interested in you.'

'You were interested enough to listen to my advice.' LeClerc

lifted his crystal flute to her. 'I've followed your career.'

'But never called.'

'Because there was no point. You were young, vibrant, in another
universe. You're not suited to be my wife. You're a liberal


328

Democrat, you're against everything I stand for, yoga're not even
interested in politics, and I couldn't care less about the high-decibel
noise pollution you and your industry inflict on the innocent citizens
of America. Like I said, you and me - it's crazy. So I forgot about
you.

'Then why are we here?' Poppy asked.

'Because I didn't. Forget, that is. I tried to. But you were always
there.'

Her heart was thudding. 'I bet you had other women ...'

'Crowds of 'em,' LeClerc agreed shamelessly. 'But they didn't
help much, not being you.'

'So what's your suggestion?' Poppy asked.

'That you become mine.' His eyes locked on to hers, holding
them in place. 'There's really no point in fighting it, Poppy.'

She countered, but her voice was trembling. 'So you're saying
you believe in destiny?' he attempted to sneer.

'I'm saying I intend to make my own.'

329


Chapter 48


At first they kept it quiet. It wasn't that hard. Poppy flew all over the
country; sneaking off to Washington, New York, or New Orleans
wasn't that hard. LeClerc arranged fundraisers on the West Coast; his
handlers loved the big-money crowds in LA, leagan P,.epublicans,
and the opera buffs in San Francisco, with its monied 8lites. Even
Democrats paid to see him; he was charismatic, he performed well
on TV. He was a star.

Poppy was tormented with longing. It felt exciting, thrilling, but it
was so heady she was afraid she might lose her senses. LeClerc's
touch on her skin was electric, masterful. When he mounted her, she
was so overcome with lust she sometimes forgot where she was, the
time, the day; she blocked out everything except his strong hands,

his handsome, slightly cruel mouth, his relentless plunging into her.
It was intense.

And then it was over.

He'd get up, sneak back to his room, taking service elevators to
avoid reporters, or he'd grab a cab and head to some airport or other.
They beeped each other with codes; Poppy sometimes felt she was
in a spy novel.

It wasn't enough. Every crashing, sweating, biting orgasm, every
erotic phone call, every bunch of exotic flowers or anonymous
trinket from Cartier just made her want him more. Poppy sometimes
ached for Henry LeClerc so badly she missed him while he was still
inside her.

She felt as though she were managing her acts on autopilot. The
business was growing; she hired more people, gave Dani more
responsibility, and tried to concentrate. But she wasn't focused, and
she hated that. All she could seem to think of was LeClerc and what
he meant to her.

It took her six months to put a finger on her dissatisfaction. She


33o

should have known, really. What did she want? What she always
wanted. More.


'So what's up next week?' Poppy asked.

She flipped over on to her stomach on the bed and kicked the
Manolos off her feet. There was a call sheet next to her which was
lying wholly neglected. She was in Interlaken, Switzerland, lying on
a pristine sage-green coverlet in a Holiday Inn. Her room had a great
little balcony and a glorious view of the snow-capped mountains.
More importantly, it had a phone, and a connection to Henry
LeClerc.

His rough voice grunted. 'LA, actually. So I can see you. Meeting
the Mayor about some subway project. Going to another fundraiser,

giving some barnstormer speeches. What else do I ever do?'
'Write legislation?'

'Not in an election year.' He laughed. 'I wish that's what
politicians did.'

	'I want to go with you,' Poppy said suddenly.

	'Go with me to the dinner?'

	'Why the hell not?' Poppy said fiercely.


	'You know why not, sugar. How do you think a group of SoCial

	Registry snobs are going to react when I turn up with Janis Joplin @n

my arm?'
'I don't know. But we're gonna have to find out.'
'After the election.'

Poppy bit on her lower lip. 'Henry, no. After the Senate, you'll be
running for Governor. Or God knows what. And there'll always be
a reason not to introduce me, to tuck me out of sight. And I'm not
settling for that.'

'But you'll hate wearing long dresses, and pearls, and nodding at
what I say.'

'I would if I was gonna do that.' Poppy sighed. 'I have to be me,
and you have to not be ashamed of me. Because I'm not going to be
your secret woman you love and keep in the background. I just can't

do the little woman thing.'

	LeClerc .paused.

	'Maybe they'll respect my honesty,' he said.

'Isn't it rather that you'll respect your honesty?' Poppy asked. She
felt warm, salty tears trickle down her cheeks, and was very glad he
couldn't see her. Because she knew this was the way it had to be.
She loved LeClerc too much to be just another notch on the


33I

bedpost, or a political mistress kept out of sight while he married
some other, more suitable woman ...

If he was truly a man, he would not prostitute his soul for votes.
And Poppy trembled on the brink, because she was so afraid that he

would weaken, would betray her.

There was a pause.

'You're right.' She could almost see those broad shoulders
shrugging. 'It's just one more thing about me they're gonna have to
accept.' He chuckled. 'This should be fun.'


The limousine purred smoothly through the flood of traffic in
downtown LA, moving towards the Pierre. Henry sat in the back
with Poppy and a tight-faced Simon Harvey, his campaign manager,
who kept giving her little rictus grins, as though twisting his facial
muscles up around the mouth would make his hostility to Poppy
seem less evident. She thought it just made him look like he had a
nervous tic.

She had waited in the drawing room of Henry's gigantic suite in
the Bel Air while the row raged on. Simon and his coterie of
political hacks and spin doctors had smiled briskly at her, shut the
door, and gone to work on ,Henry. At first the noise had been
muted, then it had raged into a full-on screaming match.

'You have to be fucking shitting me, Congressman!' Simon had
screamed at one point.

Poppy allowed herself a little smirk. Maybe she shouldn't have
worn that cut-off Iron Maiden shirt with the black leather cowboy
boots and sprayed-on jeans, but they were in the privacy of their
hotel room. Henry liked her; Simon didn't matter.

She hadn't been able to resist putting a glass to the wall.
'Politicans are always trying to pretend they are what they're not.
We never drink, we don't gamble, we never inhaled . . . we're not
gay, we don't cheat, we have perfect voting records.' Her man's
voice had been firm, like a parent not about to brook arguments.
'I'm different. The public is entitled to my service, but that's it.
They're not entitled to choose whom I go to bed with.'

'Go to bed with her all you want. IZuck her all you want. But '
'Careful, Simon.' LeClerc's voice had a warning in it that made
Poppy shiver. Brooding menace; she was glad she wasn't Simon
Harvey. 'You're speaking about the woman I'm in love with.'

'Henry!' It was a despairing wail. 'The girl manages heavy-metal
bands and she's hardly out of diapers!'


332

'She's a self-made millionaire. Isn't that what the P,-e.publican party
stands for? Pulling yourself up by your bootstraps? And as for her
age, the lady is over twenty-one. That's all you need to know.'

At that point Poppy had put down the glass and fled into the
bathroom. She didn't want the spin doctors to emerge and see her
crying.

Tonight was going to be the acid test. Poppy had spent an entire
day picking her outfit. She had selected a long Armani dress in pale
grey silk, teamed with a chiffon shawl and platinum-silver pearls at
her throat and dangling from her ears. She carried a Judith Lieber
clutch and wore her black hair up in a chignon; her perfume was
Chanel No. 9, her hose were Wolford, her shoes Dior kitten heels.
Her make-up was neutral, just a tinted moisturiser and a slick of
blusher and smoky-grey eyeshadow.

She looked hot, and elegant; ladylike, but her age. Henry was in a
beautifully cut tuxedo with plain gold cuffs. He was gorgeous; her
heart melted just to look at the close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.
And he had a confidence about him that was breathtaking. Just like

she had on the concert stage; this was his world, his scene.

He was in total control. Not even slightly nervous.

'There might be some press when we arrive,' Simon Harvey id,

licking his lips and looking shiftily at Poppy. 'Maybe you'd betterU'
'Step out with me,' Henry said flatly ....
'light.' Harvey nodded. 'Yup. light.'

The car glided noiselessly to a stop outside the hotel. There was a
red carpet laid out for them, paparazzi crammed behind the golden
ropes, flashbulbs already popping, bursting about them. It was almost
like when she took Travis to the Country Music Awards in
Nashville, Poppy thought, trying to stem the tide of panic which was
suddenly rising in her.

'Congressman,' Simon Harvey implored one last time, 'are you
absolutely sure about this strategy?'

'It's not a strategy, Simon.' LeClerc offered an arm to Poppy, who
took it delicately, as the chauffeur opened the door and the
flashbulbs exploded in an artificial starburst. 'It's my life.'

Then he led her out on to the red carpet.

333


Chapter 49


Daisy looked at the map. Was she on the right road? B237, half a
mile down from the Queen Adelaide ... yes, there was a wonky
signpost, endearingly dusty and crooked on its grassy mound. Ashton
Under Wychwood. OK, she was headed in the right direction.
Heptonstall House should be right around here ...

Yes, here it was. A couple of glorious mature oaks flanked a broad
gravel drive. Daisy took a deep breath, turned the steering wheel,

and drove on to Edward Powers's property.

Her love. Married to someone else.

As the Bentley crunched along the gravel, she glanced in the
mirror to make absolutely sure she looked OK. Not that there was
much chance she didn't. Daisy had taken almost three hours getting
ready this morning. She had to strike ]just the right balance between
beautiful and casual, between looking sexy as hell and looking like
she really hadn't tried that hard.

In the end, she had gone for a tousled look, suitable for country
pleasures such as... well.., hay-baling, riding tractors, or whatever
they did out here. Daisy had picked a red-checked cotton shirt that
was well-cut and highlighted her figure, and a dark-blue pair of.jeans
with Doc Martens. She had teamed this with some dangly silver and
turquoise earrings, loose flowing curls, and a smoky-grey eye
shadow, with rosy blusher and just a touch of lip gloss on her full
pout. The effect was gratifyingly attractive. All she needed now was
some straw to dangle out of the corner of her mouth, and she'd be
set.

She could no longer put offEdward's invitation to come and meet
Wina. No, she had to face her rival head-on. See whom Edward had
taken instead of her.

His words from the Jugglers Club kept ringing in Daisy's ears.

'I'd have proposed to you had you given me the slightest
encouragement.'

334


Timing. Bloody timing. Daisy pulled up in front of a gorgeous
house, an Elizabethan manor, not too large, but stunning, with
clematis in full bloom trained up the side of it, and lead-paned
windows, and wonderful gardens with what looked like a mature
apple orchard off to one side. She got out, grabbing her Chanel
quilted purse, and fixed a warm smile on to her face.

She hadn't given him any encouragement. True enough, but that
could be fixed.

She was here to put things right.


'Daisy!'

The old front door opened, and three dogs came bouncing out: a
chocolate Lab, a wiry Jack 1Kussell, and a rather slow fawn pug, who
was very fat and waddled a bit. Daisy petted them all, and waved to
Edward, who was standing in the doorway with his wife.

Wina was wearing some beautifully cut black slacks and a little
matching cardigan, with a string of black pearls. She looked exactly
as she had done in Hello!; she was tall, noble-looking, slender, a bit
sexless, Daisy thought.

She was smiling gently at Daisy while Edward looked overjoyed

to see her and was beckoning her in.

'Hi, hi, Edward.' Daisy walked into their mud-room, which s

lined with Wellington boots and caked-over iron scrapers. 'And this

is Wina! Finally.' The other woman kissed her on the cheek, and

Daisy noted jealously that she smelled of baby powder. Of course,

nothing so plebian as perfume for Mrs Perfect here, she couldn't help

thinking. 'Congratulations, Wina!' she said brightly. 'I'm so sorry I

missed the wedding.'

'Me too, but come and have a cup of tea,' Wina invited Daisy.

Her voice was light and perfectly modulated, very upper class. Swiss

finishing school probably, Daisy thought, feeling middle class and

small.

'That would be wonderful.'

'And then I can show you the house.' Wina was leading the way

through an oak-panelled hall into the kitchen. She seemed very at

ease, in command. 'I know you've never seen the place. Edward told

me. It's truly a lovely house.'

Did he indeed? 'I can see that it is,' Daisy agreed. She smiled

sideways at Edward, and he winked at her, making her heart flip

over slowly in her chest.


335

The big country kitchen reminded Daisy of Fenella's place. There
was the Aga, of course, and Wina obviously had a thing for dried
flowers, as she had artful little bouquets hanging everywhere. Daisy
refrained from asking about them. She really didn't care ifWina was
talented at arts and crafts.

'Do you cook? It's a terrific kitchen.'

'Oh no,' Wina said. 'We have Mrs Allsop, who comes in in the
mornings and makes up the meals. I couldn't live without her.'

'Of course, Edward told me you had a cook. Like my boyfriend,'
Daisy added pointedly.

'Your boyfriend?' Edward grabbed the teapot from Wina. 'You
mustn't lift that, darling, it's heavy.'

'For goodness' sake, Edward, I'm not even showing.'

'Daisy, you sly thing. You never mentioned a boyfriend. Who's
the lucky chap?'

'Magnus Soren. He's from New York.'

'Not the Magnus Soren?' Edward said.

'Yes,' Daisy said innocently. 'Do you know him?'

'I should think so,' Wina said, enthusiastically. 'Edward sees him
at parties sometimes, don't you, darling? He's always on the London
social scene. He jet-sets. I thought he was dating that 1Lussian
model?'

'Obviously not any more,' Edward said. 'Well done, Daisy, he's a
good man. And a fortunate one,' he added with a little bow.

Daisy saw his hand unconsciously brushing over his wife's,
stroking it. The tender intimacy of the gesture broke her heart.

'I saw him in London last week. He's flying me out to New York
in a fortnight; I said I needed two weeks at least to get on with my

writing.' She looked at Edward out of the corner of one eye.
He was frowning. Frowning!

That was wonderful, Daisy thought. He was jealous. Now all she
had to do was foster that feeling.


Wina showed Daisy around the house, which reminded her of the
little jewel of a flat in Oxford: plenty of beat-up furniture, well-used
antique chairs, original William Morris wallpaper. Daisy was glad of
it; the tour gave her something to do, and she could confine her
conversation to saying, 'Oh, how lovely,' and other such banalities.
'It's old, but we like it,' Wina said.

'Mmm, lovely,' Daisy agreed. She glanced at Edward. 'Magnus is
quite serious with me. I think he wants me to have his baby.'


336

Edward looked shocked. 'What? How long have you been going
out with him? Has he proposed?'

'Not yet, Edward, but don't be so bourgeois,' Daisy said airily.
Edward scowled darkly and Daisy's mood lifted.

'Tell me all about work, Edward,' Daisy said. Ugh. How much
longer did she have to stay here? She could have lunch, then make
her escape.

It couldn't be too soon. Daisy's mind was ticking around, like a
hamster on a wheel, trying to find ways to get Edward out of this
domestic-goddess mindset he had fallen into.

Think, Daisy, she said to herself. Think.


After a fairly stilted lunch, Wina hugged Daisy goodbye.

'I'll walk you out,' said Edward, taking her arm. Daisy shrugged,
to hide her pleasure. 'OK,' she said.

At her car, Edward squeezed her arm and looked deeply into her
eyes.

'Listen, this Magnus Soren chap. Don't take things too seriously,
Daisy. I don't think he's right for you.'

A thrill of satisfaction coursed through her, but she gently shook
her arm free and slid into the driver's seat.

'If he isn't, Edward, then.., who is?' Daisy asked lightly, and shoe
started up the car and drove away. '

337


Chapter 5o


The summer rolled on into autumn. Daisy divided her time between
writing her new book, dating Magnus Soren, and placing friendly
calls to Edward. She refused to allow Magnus to spend too much
money on her. She also refused to go to bed with him.

Edward thought they were inseparable; Daisy made sure she
always brought up his name. Finally, one Monday in September, the
call she had been waiting for arrived.

'Look, old thing...' Daisy beamed with pleasure as she held the
receiver; she loved it when Edward used his pet name for her. She
could hear his hesitancy and awkwardness at the end of the line. 'Ah.
Hmm. I need to see you.'

'Oh, you and Wina are going to be in town?'

'Not Wina. Just me.' Another pause. 'Daisy, we need to talk, just
you and I. Will you see me?'

A burst of exhilaration rushed through her, but she was careful to
keep any hint of it out of her voice. 'Don't be silly, Edward, I always
have time for an old friend.'

'How about next Tuesday night?'

'Magnus is in town, so I'll be having dinner with him.'

His tone darkened. 'And when does Mr Soren leave town?'
'Monday evening,' Daisy said.

'Then Tuesday. For lunch. Can you come to my townhouse? I
would rather talk to you absolutely privately.'

'That will be fine,' Daisy said coolly. 'Shall we say one o'clock?'


It was hard to concentrate. She had a week before Magnus was due
to arrive, and she knew better than to call Edward. Let him simmer,
let him stew. She had to appear disinterested.

Daisy exercised, slept well, and wore no make-up except a tinted
moisturiser with sunscreen for a week. She wanted her skin to be
perfect; no way was she taking the chance of too much foundation


338

leading to a disastrous spot or something. As far as it was possible, she
distracted herself. Work was going wonderfully. Her book was
taking shape, gradually, like clay moulded on a potter's wheel; her
characters were starting to surprise her, to want to do things that
hadn't been in her synopsis. That kind of thing was a blast.

If her nerves over Edward got to be too much, she opened and
answered some fan mail. The girls and women who wrote to her
always cheered her up. What Daisy was doing wasn't rocket science,
it wasn't a cure for hepatitis, but in some small way she was making
people happy.

Mostly, however, she thought about Edward. Daisy made valiant
efforts to distract herself, but they didn't really work. She had never
actually had to say anything to him. And now there was no need.

Edward would say it all himself. She'd have him back, the first
man to love her just as she was, to want her when she was fat,
unpopular Daisy Markham, the girl who got bullied at school ...

Daisy shook her head. Never mind about that. First, she had to find
some tactful way to get rid of Magnus Soren. He'd been kind, and
handsome, and funny, and smart... He deserved a gentle letdown.

She was there to meet Magnus when the Concorde arrived'at

Heathrow on Monday morning. "
'Hi.' ....

Soren kissed her on the cheek. He was wearing a black suit with a
matching overcoat, a gold lKolex, and plain cuffs, and carrying a
smart navy leather briefcase.

'I didn't expect to see you here.'

'I thought you deserved a welcome,' Daisy said.

Magnus beckoned to his chauffeur, who escorted them out to the
waiting car, a sleek lKollslKoyce.

'What, no limousine?' asked Daisy, once they were settled in the
back of the car and the partition had been rolled up.

Magnus shook his head. 'When in Rome, baby.' His green eyes
looked curiously at her. 'Are you being particularly supportive

today? Because of the meeting?'

'What meeting?'

He sighed. 'The 1Ketson meeting. I take it you don't read the Financial Times.'

'Not usually,' Daisy said.

'I have an important set of meetings this week. Soren Enterprises
is attempting a hostile takeover of the 1Ketson Group. If we get it,' he


339

shrugged, 'we're on a different plane. Of course, their board of

directors opposes it bitterly.'

'Why?'

'Because they don't want to get fired,' Magnus said.

'And you'd fire them?'

'I sure would. They're all mid-fifties, and they're stuck in the
management philosophy of the Seventies. We can do better. And we
will.'

Daisy found the way he spoke about it rather exciting.

'You look like you're spoiling for a fight.'

He chuckled. 'I am. I love it. Back in the old days, men used to
conquer countries to get their aggressions out. Now warfare is
corporate. I am convinced you get many of the same thrills, with a
lot less pain.'

'Unless you are a fired member of the board of directors.'

Soren looked unrepentant. 'They all have golden parachutes, for
far more than they're worth.'

The car pulled smoothly and quietly between the lanes of traffic.
'So you didn't come over just to see me?' Daisy pouted.

He looked surprised. 'Daisy, I've never come over just to see you.
I always mix business and pleasure. I don't have time to do anything
els e. '

'Oh ...'

'And anyway,' he added, 'you and I, darling, are going to have to
have what you Limeys call a chat.'

'How boooring,' Daisy sighed. A chat. She hoped he wasn't about
to declare his love for her. Or dump her.

'Let's say tonight, at dinner. We'll meet somewhere near you.
You can leave a message with my assistant.'


Daisy spent the day in the Dorchester spa, getting a massage, a manipedi,
and her hair and make-up done. She couldn't concentrate on
work, and she was feeling unsettled. In which case, she thought, the
best thing to do was to look stunning.

A chat. Magnus Soren wanted to have a chat with her. Daisy
didn't like the sound of that one bit. She liked having him around,
she thought sleepily as her flesh was kneaded in a dimmed room to
the sound of Tibetan wind-chimes on the CD player. Magnus was
handsome, and fun. Business wasn't Daisy's thing, but she enjoyed
seeing her date rip lesser men and companies to shreds. Like a tiger.
Magnus was quite a bit older than Daisy, but for a businessman he


34o

was young, a babe in arms. And very masculine. She approved
thoroughly of the muscled body and the brash cockiness. He'd
earned it, hadn't he?

Daisy thought, with a stab of guilt, that Magnus Soren had been
her perfect cover story.

Of course, she hadn't slept with him. That would be too much
like cheating on Edward. Even though she was with Magnus, not
Edward... It had never been about sex with Edward, she had never
found him physically attractive, just mentally so.

Magnus, now. Magnus was hot. But Daisy was a romantic. Sex
had to be more than just satisfying some bodily urge, didn't it? She
would rather be Mrs Edward Powers than have the best sex ever
with Magnus.

I'm just not a sexual person, Daisy thought. She'd slept with Brad,
and so she wasn't a virgin. But the way she remembered it it had
hardly been worth the effort of undressing ...


Magnus met her at seven at the Car6 Des Artistes. Daisy had chosen a
feminine dress, all floaty chiffon and appliqu6 roses, and matched it
with a chic little Chanel cardigan in pale green that played up" ler
olive skin, newly blow-dried raven hair, and beautiful face, perfectly

	made-up.

	Magnus grinned when he saw her and kissed her hand.
	"

	'Do you like it?' Daisy asked flirtatiously, twirling around.

	'To be honest? Not really.'

	Her face fell.

'You're so beautiful normally,' Soren said. 'To me, you look best
in a white T-shirt and jeans. All that make-up just obscures your
skin. It's like gilding the lily.'

'I suppose I should find that flattering,' Daisy said.
'I don't bother with make-up myself.'
'Very funny.'

They ordered some caviar as an appetiser, then moved on to the

hen lobsters. Soren ordered champagne; PerrierJouet.

'Not Cristal?'

'It's hideously overrated. And overpriced.'

'I thought money was no object to you.'

'It's not; I just don't enjoy being ripped off.' Soren looked at her.
Daisy was startled by the expression in his eyes. 'And so, my beauty,
it's time for us to find out what the goddam hell is the matter with
you. '


34

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Daisy said, taking a
fortifying sip of champagne. It was cold, and it gave her Dutch
courage. She didn't want to have this conversation; Soren was
making her squirm.

'Why am I always attracted to problem women?' he sighed.
'You date models,' Daisy scoffed.

'Beautiful women have problems too. Take you, for example.
You're frigid.'

Daisy started. 'What?'

'You heard me.'

'Just because I don't want to sleep with you, I'm frigid?'

'You do want to sleep with me,' Magnus said confidently. 'But
you aren't admitting it to yourself. We've been seeing each other for

months. We've had a good time.'

'Yes.'

'And you find me attractive.' He looked at her. 'Don't bother to
deny it, Daisy.'

'I do, yes,' she said, slowly. 'Very attractive. But I'm not ready to
sleep with you, Magnus.'

'What? You're waiting for a ring?'

'Maybe,' she said, tilting h& chin upwards.

His gaze moved over her skin, undressing her, his eyes focusing
disturbingly on her breasts. 'If that were true, I'd respect it.'

'Don't lie,' Daisy said, taking another big slug of her champagne. Then need sex, you'd never stand for that.'

'If I need sex so badly, why I am sitting here with you?'

'You could have another girl in New York,' Daisy said mulishly.

'I could,' he agreed. 'But I don't. If I did, I would hardly need to
hide it from you. I'd just leave you.'

'You wouldn't wait until we got married,' Daisy insisted.
'I'd just marry you.' Magnus shrugged. 'Problem solved.'
'It's not that simple.'

'Actually, it is. You'll find most things in life are simple.' His gaze
narrowed. 'You are one person who tends to over-complicate them.
That's always a mistake, Daisy.'

'I don't need you telling me how to live my life,' Daisy hissed.

'Tell me about my rival,' Magnus said, reaching across the table
and refilling her glass.

That surprised her. Daisy had told him there was someone else in
the beginning, when they were at the farm in Dutchess County, but


342

Magnus had never mentioned it again, and neither had she. Daisy

had assumed he'd forgotten all about it.

'That's ... private,' she said.

'Is he married? Oh, don't look so surprised. I'm not as dumb as
you must think I am. If he were single, you'd be with him, you
wouldn't be sitting here with me.' Magnus shook his head. 'Saving
yourself for a married man who doesn't want you. How counterproductive.'

'How the hell do you know he doesn't want me?' Daisy said, tears
blinking under her lashes. She gripped her champagne flute forlornly.

'I told you, dear. Things are simple. If he wanted you, he would
have got a divorce, and he'd be with you.'

'Well.' Magnus discreetly passed her a handkerchief, and Daisy
angrily dabbed the tears away from her eyes. 'You're wrong, as it
happens. He does want me. And he will be getting a divorce.'

She pushed her plate away. Magnus reached into his pocket, took
out a sheaf of fifties, and threw some down on the table.

'I'll take you home,' he said.


When Magnus's car pulled up outside Daisy's building, she felt a 'gt,,ab

of remorse.

	'Look, I'm sorry how things -'

'Don't be. And don't look so unhappy. I firmly believe in
following your destiny. However, my destiny is not to be another
man's place-holder.'

Daisy went upstairs to her apartment and watched the long black
car steal away through the traffic. There was an ache in her heart.
But that was natural, right? It had been an enjoyable friendship, until
he had started talking about her relationship with Edward.

She went into the bathroom to wash off the careful make-up job
he hadn't liked. Oh well. Maybe he'd call her tomorrow and they'd
still be friends. She knew he was in town for a week.


He didn't call. Not the next day, nor the next. Daisy found herself
looking at the calendar, wondering if he would call from the airport.

Nothing..Her phone didn't ring. Daisy told herself it really didn't
matter. After all, the important thing was that she was going to see
Edward.

She spent the weekend in a fervour of excitement. Finally, she was
going to be reunited with him.

343


Chapter 51


When Tuesday morning came, Daisy remembered Magnus's advice.
She wore no make-up at all, just Clarins day cream and a spritz of
rosewater, and she chose a relaxed pair of Joseph navy slacks with a
simple cream silk shirt and pearls.

When she arrived at Edward's London townhouse, a beautiful
Georgian place in Kensington, Daisy wasn't even nervous. She felt
strangely calm. There would be nobody here but herself and
Edward.

She rang the bell.

'Daisy.' Edward appeared in one of his trademark dark suits.
'Come in, won't you?'

She smiled warmly at hfm and walked into the house. Typical
Edward: paintings, faded carpet, beautiful dark woods everywhere.

'I ordered lunch delivered from a restaurant,' Edward said,
showing her into the dining room, which was laid out beautifully for
two. 'I hope you don't object to risotto?'

'Not at all.' Daisy sat down, feeling his lack of comfort and slightly
enjoying it. She felt powerfully in control.

Edward uncorked the wine; Chfiteau Lafite, Daisy saw, wasted on
her, but still, a nice gesture.

'Are you hungry?' he asked, pouring her a glass, then sitting down
in the carved chair at the head of the table.

'Not really.' Daisy sipped the wine and took a small forkful of
risotto. 'I mean, it's delicious, but this lunch really isn't about food, is
it?'

His face shadowed. 'No.'

'You wanted to talk to me about Magnus Soren,' Daisy said.
Edward's pale, drawn cheeks actually flushed slightly. 'Ahhm. Yes.
I hope you don't think it's too presumptuous, but I really think
you're making a mistake.'

'And why is that?' Daisy asked triumphantly.


344

'Because the man's a playboy. He's ruthless, he has a string of girls.
Pretty girls ... none as pretty as you, of course ...'

Edward's gallantry was making him tongue-tied. He ploughed on.
'Ahm, and you said you were thinking about having a child with
him. But the man's a bounder. He's suggesting this and he hasn't
even proposed. You and any child you might have would be very
dear to me, and you would both deserve better than that. I really

can't stand to see you throw yourself away like this.'

'I'm very dear to you? How dear?'

'Very dear,' Edward said. 'I'm surprised you can even ask the

question. After all our years of friendship.'
She waited, but he didn't go on.
'Just friendship?' she prompted.

'What?' Edward said, blinking owlishly.

'For goodness' sake, Edward. Why did you call me here except to
tell me you love me? It's not as if I haven't always known it. You
loved me back when I was fat.' Unexpectedly, she started to cry at
this, but she went on, even with tears trickling down her cheeks.
'You always waited for me. And marrying Wina, you did it too fast,
you made a mistake, and now you want to put it right. I know it's
difficult.' He sat stock-still, staring at her. Daisy put a manicu'ed
hand gently over Edward's bony one. 'But now is the time, or yoll
be trapped for ever.'

Her words broke the spell. Edward snatched his hand away, spluttering.

'But - but that's not it at all. My God, how could you have got it
so wrong?'

He was a dull red now, the tips of his ears livid with blood.
'What ... what do you mean?' Daisy stammered.

'I love Wina. Do you think I would invite you here to - to -' He
looked outraged. 'You think I think so little of my wife ... that I
would ... that I ...'

Edward pushed back his chair and stood up. He took a deep
breath; he was devastatingly, cuttingly formal.

'I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'

Daisy didn't move. She couldn't. She felt sick and dizzy, and as
though she were going to faint.

'But Edward! Didn't you love me at Oxford?'

'Yes. Then,' he said, his tone clipped and icy. 'Then. When you
did not return my feelings I moved on. Something I would advise
you to do.'

345


Daisy stood up. The tears of emotion had become wrenching
sobs. She was almost hysterical. Edward looked to right and left,
huntedly. Some part of her brain knew that he would not throw her,
tear-drenched and gulping, into the street.

'Calm down,' he said, 'for pity's sake.' His face softened. 'I'll get
you some kitchen towel.'

'Th - thank you,' she wept.

Edward came back with some sheets of kitchen towel. 'Here.
Now look, Daisy.' He ran a thin hand through his hair. 'You must
have been interested in me because I liked you when you were . ..
heavier. But the point is, you were worth liking then and you're
worth liking now. You always made things so hard on yourself.
You've always been interested in the wrong sort, or people you
couldn't have. I think perhaps,' he said, looking very relieved,
because Daisy's sobs had subsided to miserable snuffles, 'perhaps you
don't think you deserve to be loved. At any rate, think about it.
About yourself.'

He waited by the door, and she stumbled into the corridor.
'But can I call you? Can we talk about this?' Daisy said plaintively.

'No,' said Edward gently. 'I'm afraid we can't. I think it would be
best if I didn't see you at all for some time.'

His words were soft, but they had the impact of an oncoming
train. Daisy managed a nod and stepped out into the street, with its
merciless sunlight, and people looking at her red eyes.

She heard Edward Powers shut the door firmly behind her.


Daisy never remembered how she got herself home. She knew she
must have cried the whole way. It felt as though her heart had been
ripped out of her chest while she was still breathing.

Somehow she found herself back in her flat It was the middle of
the afternoon, sun streaming through the windows; her maid had
been round, and the place smelled faintly of disinfectant mixed with
fresh flowers.

Daisy went into the bathroom to blow her nose. She was a mess,
red-eyed, tear-stained. She looked haggard and drawn, despite her

good night's sleep and a month's pampering.

A broken heart could do that to you.

She sat on her bed and stared into space until the sun went down
over North London, and twilight blue calmed her down. She felt
detached from her body; no appetite, no interest in anything. But
she forced herself to go and take a bath.


346

The warmth of the water revived Daisy just a little. She couldn't
pretend to herself any more that Edward Powers would ever be hers.
Her timing had been off, totally off...

Through the bathroom door she hadn't bothered to shut she saw
the vase of pink roses, the colour of sugared almonds, she'd bought
when the last flowers Magnus had sent had died. Magnus. Now
she'd never see him again either.

Magnus had told her she was frigid. That she was over
complicating things.

Frigid? She just wasn't that interested in sex. Like most people,
probably.
Then Edward had given her that psychiatry crap.

Why did men want to run her life? She didn't want advice. She
just wanted love, Daisy thought.

But something was nagging at her. A sneaking suspicion that
Edward might have, in some tiny way, a point.

No question she had messed things up and kept messing them up.
Her love life was about as successful as English cricket.

Maybe it was all about Daisy, all about how she saw herself. Daisy
went to the bathroom mirror and tried to look past the heartbak
pallor and the bloodshot eyes. Yes, she knew she was beautiful. And
if not conventionally clever, well, so what? She had done wondgs
with her life - she was young, and successful, and she'd looked after
her parents ...

The first faint tinge of shame started to creep into her thoughts. It
was no good trying to cheer herself up with what a great person she
was. She'd just tried to take a married man away from his wife.
Edward had told her she had a problem with self-esteem; Magnus
Soren had told her to grow up.

Daisy mulled this over. She had pushed Edward away when he
was suitable, pushed Magnus away when he was suitable. And made a
bee-line, always, for those men who were guaranteed to reject her.

For a few seconds she considered therapy, then rejected it. Fuck
that, Daisy thought, I'm English. I don't go for all that hand-holding
inner child bollocks -

The phrase stopped her train of thought. Inner child. Weren't you
supposed to repeat childhood patterns over and over?

But her childhood had been mostly happy, hadn't it? She'd had
great parents who loved her. So why had she eaten herself into
unpopularity, making sure, with her shyness and her weight, that the

347


other kids at school would be mean to her, would - yeah - would
reject her?

The answer came to her, so surprising and so instantly clear that

Daisy, nude, felt weak-kneed and flopped down on to her bed.
She had been rejected before any of these had rejected her.
By her parents. Her first, biological parents.


After a sleepless night, Daisy woke and dressed. The first call she

made was to her parents. Her real ones, Daisy reminded herself.
Her mother picked up on the first ring.
'Hello, Mum.'
'Hello, darling...'

'Mum, I need to ask you something.' Daisy was hesitant; was this
going to be incredibly hurtful for her mother?

'Is something wrong, darling? Are you hurt? Sick?'

'No.' She must have sounded worse than she thought. 'Nothing
to be worried about. But look, Mum, I'm curious about the
adoption. My adoption.'

There was an exhalation at the end of the phone.

'It's nothing about you and Dad. You aie my real parents, my
only parents.' Daisy heard herself gabbling. 'You know I love you '

'Of course I know that, 'darling,' said her mother, sounding
reassuringly disapproving over this unrestrained display of emotion.

'But, you know, I'm curious. I'd like to find out more about it.'
'Well, we always knew you'd ask eventually,' her mother said.
'And I wish I could be more help, darling, I really do. But your
adoption was one of those ones where they don't give out any
information. Confidentiality.'

Daisy persisted. 'But didn't you ask? Medical records, anything
like that? Didn't you insist?'

Mrs Markham laughed. 'Oh, darling, we'd been trying to adopt
for years. You have no idea what it's like. When they said they had a
beautiful baby girl we took you, no questions asked. If you had been
sick, well.' The shrug in the voice. 'We'd just have looked after you.
We fell in love with you the moment we saw you.'

Daisy's eyes teared over, but she brushed them away. 'Darling
Mum,' she said.

'Darling you.'

'Do you remember the name of the agency?'

'Of course. I have all those details in a file upstairs. Hold on a
second, my angel.'


348

	Her mother came DacK a iew lllOlllUllt ldti, iiiwj vv.t, v.

InterAdopt, and they were in London.' She gave Daisy the phone
number and an address on Tottenham Court Road. 'But bear in
mind it was twenty-five years ago, so they may have moved.'

	'Don't worry,' Daisy said. 'I'll find them.'


It proved easier said than done.

A year passed. Daisy worked on her next book, and continued her
search, in between rounds of publicity, booksellers' conferences, and
the other minutiae of life as a successful author. It was very
frustrating, not to be able to find much out. But phoning and writing
and contacting search agencies at least kept her mind off Magnus
Soren, and distracted her from her regrets.

The agency had moved out of its premises years ago. It took her
six months to find that they had gone out of business, another six
months to get even small snippets of information from the public
records. In the meantime, Daisy licked her wounds and worked it all
out on paper; she was kinder to her characters than luck had been to
her.

		even dated, but that was desultory. Her dates never laed

	She

more than four outings, at most. She found she couldn't bear to have
men touch her.

Daisy was getting obsessed with finding out about her birth
parents. She believed in her heart that she had had a revelation, that
she would never be able to move on unless she discovered why they
had given her up. Hadn't wanted her.


The Orange Blossom was published to sizzling reviews and even bigger sales than her first book. Daisy's business manager invested her
money and did well, making her returns at almost 4 per cent.

She was rich, and getting richer. She even got stopped on the
street a couple of times. Magazines wanted to interview her, talk
shows wanted her as a guest. She was young,, successful, outrageously
good-looking. Daisy was coy about her love life - 'What love life?' and
that just made the press more interested. She did not enjoy the
attention. It took away from one of her greatest pleasur,es in being a
writer - anonymity; being lost in her made-up world, at least until
the books came out and she could see people reading them on the
Tube. Now tl, at gave her a buzz.

But this time she thought that maybe she could use it. Her search


349

was getting nowhere. Every little piece of information led to a dead
end.

Daisy made a decision. She was going to go public, and maybe
that would lead to the truth.


'I was adopted,' Daisy said to Susie Quant.

Susie was the perky host of Sitting witk Susie, a daytime chat show
which had a pretty high rating. It was on Channel 4 and followed

Oprak, and her publicist thought appearing on it was a coup.
'Give them something juicy,' she had said.

Daisy had decided to do just that. Susie's heavily mascara-ed eyes
widened. Daisy could see her thinking, 'Great TV.' 'Were you
really?' she purred.

Daisy looked right at the camera. 'I was. The agency was called
InterAdopt, and it seems to have disappeared off the face of the
earth. If any of my readers have any news, I'd be grateful if they
could contact me ...'

She heard the sharp hiss in the audience, the intake of breath.
Well, that should be good for a paragraph in OK!. Daisy hated
bringing such private matters out in the open, but she was frustrated,
and she needed help.

Who knew? Maybe this would work.

350


Chapter


The Lincoln Town Car purred to a halt and the chauffeur got out,
walked around to the back, and opened the door. He stood to
attention, but noticed, out of the corner of his eye, those long, lean
legs as they slid out of the luxurious buttery leather interior of the
car. He always did; gams. like that were hard to miss.

Rose Fiorello was wearing a chocolate-brown woollen Donna
Karan dress with cream buttons and trim, long sleeves, and matching
cream leather gloves. Her wonderful legs were encased in brown
lambswool hose, tapering down to a pair of knee-high Jimmy Choo
zip-up boots. A second later, her warm, protective cashmere coat,fell
about her.

His boss was as glamorous as a movie star, the driver thought. 1
the other guys in the service envied him this assignment and pumped
him for info. A sweet little thing like that . . . she had to have some
rich sugar daddy, no? They talked in hushed tones about Vincent
Salerni, the mob boss and Ms Fiorello's patron. He had to be in the
back of the car sometimes, right? Taking a little 'tribute'? But he had,
sadly, nothing to report. Fiorello was hot stuff OK, but she lived like
a nun. A very rich, very busy nun. And she took no crap. He'd
heard her chewing out men on the in-car phone and he was glad not
to be on the other end of the line.

Rose Fiorello was, he had concluded, very beautiful, very rich,
and very pissed off. Like, all the time. She had fired the last four
drivers for occasionally being late - she was like that, she demanded
respect. Even the slightest deviation from rispetatto and you got fired.
The woman was like Genghis Khan in a cute little short skirt.

Maybe she was gay, but she never had any girlfriends in the back
of that limo. As far as he could work out, the boss didn't have time
for them. She visited her morn once a week, and that was the extent
of her social life.

Not for the first time, he reflected that it was a shame.

351


'When will you be wanting to be picked up, Ms Fiorello?' he

asked, touching his cap deferentially.

Rose didn't look at him. 'I'm not sure, Bernie. I'll beep you.'

'Very good, ma'am,' he said, getting back into the car.

She .was staring at the building and she had that look on her face.
Sometimes, Bernie thought, it seemed like the only thing Rose
Fiorello cared about was goddam buildings. Houses, apartment
blocks, run-down brownstones; bricks and mortar rather than flesh
and blood.

She was obsessed. He put the car into gear, thinking that she

needed a good fu.cking. What a pity he wasn't gonna be the one to

give it to her ...


'How many floors?' 1Kose asked.

The realtor was a nervous little man, somewhat rat-like. He had a

pair of black-framed glasses which he kept pushing back up the
bridge of his nose. He had heard of the newly legendary 1Kose
Fiorello, and told all the sellers in the office that he was about to take
her for a ride.

It wasn't working out like that. She had an aggravating willingness

to walk away from the deal. That fact was stopping him from

bullying her the way he wanted to.

'Eighteen,' he said. 'That's a great size, Rose.'

'I don't recall asking you to call me by my first name, Mr
Robinson.'

'Uhm, right. Miss Fiorello.'

'And the top six floors are nothing but a shell. It would have to be
completely restored, assuming the building's structurally sound.
Which I'm not.'

'We could check that out for you.'

'No bank is gonna mortgage on this dump,' Rose said decisively.

'Which means hard money. Your price is going to squeeze my profit

margins. '

'Yes, but think of the opportunities ... Prime Manhattan real

estate .. .'

'Alphabet City,' Rose sneered, making it sound like it wasn't

worth living in. 'Do you think this place will rent to the highest
class? You got needles in the parks round here, a homeless shelter
two blocks over, and graffiti on the walls.'

'There's opportunity in East Manhattan, Miss Fiorello, with

Mayor Giuliani in charge ...'


352

'Back taxes on this place alone are almost two hundred grand just
to clear the title,' Rose said.

	He wavered. 'Like I said, the upside is huge, ma'am.'

Rose looked up. Rust was everywhere, debris, and rats. 'Let's get
out into the street before the building falls on our heads.'

She made it sound so shitty he was actually glad to follow her.
'What we have here is the potential for a large, bright apartment
building with space for a garden and landscaping,' he said
unconvincingly.

'What you have here, Mr lobinson, is an unsafe abandoned
structure which is being used as a flop house and crack den, in a
seedy part of Manhattan, which no bank can lend on and which has
been on the market for over eighteen months, because your price is
insane.'

'So you don't want it,'.he said, crumpling a little. 'We have some
other, better buildings.'

	'I want it,' Rose said. 'I never said I didn't want it.'

	'But you '

'I don't want it at your insane price. I'll give you three quarters of
a million, not including the taxes, which brings it to almost fi ,{'ull

mill.'

	'The price is three million dollars and that's '
	:

'Unacceptable. Look, Mr Robinson. You've had this dog on ycmr
books for longer than a year. What does that say to some guy
looking to list his house? Benkman Martin has inventory that doesn't
shift because they can't shift it. I know you've had buyers that have
fallen through. And why? Because they're not liquid. Not serious.
Now, I can move fast. I have the money and you know my
reputation.'

	He wavered.

'In a month, you can have this thing closed, and you know what
they'll say in the office? 'John Robinson knows how to cut his losses
and move out the crap. He got rid of that dog on Avenue A the first
day he showed it.'

Robinson blinked. 'How - how did you know this is my first day
of showing this property?'

Rose Fiorello looked him dead in the eye and said, 'I'm
connected.'

She was in with Salerni. He'd heard that. Suddenly John
Robinson just wanted to get back behind his nice cushy desk. And it was a dog, and it had just sat there for over a year ...


353

'I'll have to do a lot of talking to convince the seller.'

'Try telling him that my sources tell me City Hall's about to file a

lawsuit on his ass for owning a crack den.'

'I don't know ...'

P, ose reached inside her warm cashmere coat and took out a
white paper envelope. She opened it slightly to let Robinson see
what was inside: a sheaf of green notes.

'Hundreds,' she said. 'A hundred of them. That's ten thousand
dollars. Get me a signed contract in a week, and it's yours.'


'You may be able to do something with this one,' Greg Filkes said.
He slid the manila file across the mahogany desk, expectantly.

Jacob Iothstein picked it up, slid the photographs and sheets out

of it, and grinned. 'Good job, Filkes.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'That'll be all for now,' he added, disappointing the junior
executive, who had been hoping for a round of backslapping
congratulations from the boss's son. But he got up and left the office
quietly, closing the door. Doubtless he'd get a bonus, or something...

Everybody knew the crown prince was in deep shit because he'd
brought his little girlfriend into the company and she'd stolen some
data. Now he was looking to crush her, presumably to get back in
Daddy's good graces. Filkes had found his master something that
would help, and he expected to be in favour with both father and

son.

Because this was a little quarrel, but so what? The Rothsteins were
a family, and they'd get over that. It was what every suit in the
building expected.

Greg Filkes was wrong, though.

Jacob lothstein stared at the details for twenty minutes, taking
them in. Nice choice, Rose, he mused, admiring her taste. She really
did have a flair for real estate and under normal circumstances he
thought she would have gone far.

But these were not normal circumstances. She had Jacob
P,-othstein on her tail.


Jacob made sure everything was in order before he made his move.
He hired a new lawyer, not one who was in the pocket of his family,
and had him check out his legal status. He was disappointed, but not
all that surprised, to find that most of his wealth wasn't his at all; it


354

	belonged to a family trust, and without his parents' say-so, Jacob

	couldn't touch it. The Manhattan apartment and contents belonged

	to him, though. He had two hundred and twelve thousand in a

	current account, of which one hundred was last year's bonus, and his

	new lawyer told him crisply he'd most likely have to pay it back.

	That left him a car, an apartment, and a hundred grand, after he'd

	paid off the lawyer. IZothstein felt a few butterflies, but resolutely

	ignored them. A hundred grand wasn't much in the Big Apple;

	maintenance and taxes on his place were two thousand a month just

	by themselves. Figure in fine wines, food, the necessity of a decent

	suit, parking, dry cleaning; he wasn't even sure if it would last him

	three months.

	And yet Jacob had had no doubts about what he was going to do.

	For the last two weeks he had been quietly tying up every loose

	end in his department, assigning more work to his underlings, and

	getting his files in order for a successor. And this morning he was all

	done.

	He picked out a thick brown padded envelope, addressed it to his

	apartment, and filled it with everything he had on 1Kose Fiorello.

	Then Jacob personally dropped it in the company mail-chute; 3nd

after that was done, went outside to his secretary.

	'Buzz my father for me, would you please, Ella.'
	"

'Yes, Mr 1<othstein,' she said breathily. 'Are you going up to see
him?'

	'That's right.'

'Come back soon,' she said, batting her eyelashes at him. She
never saw him again.


'Don't be such a spoiled brat, Jake,' his father said, angrily. 'I have an
eleven o'clock and I don't need this bullshit.'

'Take the eleven o'clock, Dad. I'm not gonna change my mind.'
'Of course you are. You're just throwing a temper tantrum.'
'No.' Jacob shook his head. He faced his father across the desk; he
had not sat down, and Fred 1Kothstein wasn't about to get up. 'I'm
outta here, Dad. I just wanted to tell you myself.'

'Is that about that skinny wop bitch? For fuck's sake! I can get
some girls that look just like her sent round to yonr apartment, you
can bang 'em and get over this crap.'

Jacob winced. His father's vulgarity jarred on him. 'It's nothing to
do with her,' he said, not entirely truthfully.

	Fred's face darkened. 'So you're about to run off with my


355

company secrets and hook up with her, are you? Betraying me for
some piece of second-rate pussy?'

Td never do that. Never.' Now he was being convincing. 'I

would never help anybody to hurt the firm.'

'Then what is it, you goddam idiot?'

He gritted his teeth. 'Dad. I don't like how we work here. I don't
like the fact that we have to screw tenants out of leases, instead of
negotiating -'

'That's great; my boy, the pussy-whipped liberal.'

'I don't like the accounting, and I especially don't like being
bounced off Acquisitions.'

Fred spread his hands. 'So, we'll talk about that. Don't be so
freaking melodramatic.'

'It's too late for that. I realised it the second you had me moved. I
just don't want to take orders any more.' He held up a hand to
forestall his father. 'Yeah, I know I run the division. But I need my
independence. I just don't like answering to anybody, and I intend
to run my own firm my own way.'

'Your own firm? You're just a greenhorn, Jacob. Barely out of
college . . .'

'Young doesn't mean incompetent, Dad.' Jacob stepped forward
and laid his formal letter of }esignation on his father's desk.

Fred lothstein stared at his son. The freaking moron was actually

serious.

'You'll have to give back '

'My bonus. I know. I already wired it back. And the cottage in
the Hamptons, and that Ferrari you leased for me. I know, Dad. I

know exactly what I'm worth.'

'How?'

'I hired a lawyer. I've thought this through.'

'Open your briefcase!' Fred lothstein screamed. 'How do I know
you're not trying to sneak out of here with our documents like that
wop bitch?'

Jacob smiled inwardly and popped the lock to his briefcase.
'Here.' He showed his father; the Coach red-leather case was empty
apart from a gold Mont Blanc pen. 'That's mine; Grandma gave it to
me, remember?'

'You goddam ungrateful bastard,' Fred Rothstein snarled. 'Get the
luck out of my office.'

Tll see you for dinner this weekend '

'I don't thizk so,' Fred Pothstein said. 'You're banned from the


356

house until you give up this craziness and come back to work for
me.'

'I'm never coming back to work here unless I have total voting
control of the stock,' Jacob said flatly.

Fred blinked. 'You hafta be shitting me.'

Jacob sighed. 'Elegantly put, Dad. But no.'

He left his father sitting there spluttering with rage, walked out to
the executive elevator, and rode it down to the lobby.


His flat was a welcome sight, when he got home. It was going to
double as an office, for the time being. He had no place else he could

use.

Jacob had set aside a small corner of his library, installing a desk, a
computer and a modem. He had his subscription to MLS set up, and
he had a thick sheaf of realtor files. He also had a one-page list of
bank contacts.

It was a bit of a stretch. A privileged young man, working only for
Daddy's company, suddenly deciding he wanted to strike out on his
own. Easy to applaud, but not so easy to underwrite. And yet Jacob
was confident. '

The stock market was soaring. It was a good time to own fth
Avenue property outright. He didn't want to sell - too much Cap]lal
Gains Tax. No, the best thing would be to mortgage the property,lap to the hilt. The gains were the proceeds of a loan, and thus they were
both tax-free and tax-deductible. Jacob had looked at some similar
spaces and calculated, conservatively, that this one would fetch five
million. He would take out four and keep a million in equity as a
cushion. That would be the seed-money; that, he could take to a
bank. They would need more than his track record as part of a huge
corporation, packaged up with a cute smile.

Jacob smiled to himself. Sure, it was a huge gamble, but he felt
light, almost carefree. He sat down at the little desk that constituted
the sum total of the assets of the JP,.oth Corporation, picked up his
one-page list, and made his first phone call.


A week later Jacob lothstein took stock. The results had been
mixed. He'd got his mortgage, and that was great, but the banks
seemed unimpressed.

'You don't really have any assets, Mr Rothstein. Now, if you'd
like to talk to an investment specialist about letting us manage your
money . . .


357

It was the same old song everywhere.

'Three million dollars is hardly chopped liver,' Jacob responded,
struggling to keep his temper in check.

'That's true, but it's also hardly enough to buy a building in
Manhattan. Not on the scale you are discussing.' There would be a
limp hand extended across the desk. 'Please call us when we can help
you with something.'

Jacob shrugged. 'I wouldn't wait by the phone.'

There was no getting around it, he was going to have to play it a
little less safe than his instincts told him to. If he couldn't get a
construction loan or an industrial mortgage, he was going to have to
acquire an asset.

It wasn't as though he hadn't done it before.

Jacob sat at his desk and looked at the other file, the Rose Fiorello
one. He had intended to pursue Rose. Maybe not in quite this way,
but it would serve. He found it actually kind of amusing that she was
doing all his work for him. The building was a gem, if you knew the
right builders, and she was in with Salerni's mob; but he didn't run
the only crew in Brooklyn. He knew what she'd want to do; gate
the entrance, put up a guard, make clean, functional apartments out
of them, and wait for the neighbourhood to gentrify ...

She'd be paying cash, but he knew how Rose worked. She was
the queen of the low-ball sellers, and she talked them into it by
moving super-fast. She had her hard money guys lined up. On the
other hand, he, Jacob, had four million dollars sitting in a money
market account. Rose might be able to move in a month. But he
could move today.

Jacob had a frisson of pleasure at the thought. He lifted the phone
and dialled Benkman Martin.

'Hi,' he said. 'I'd like to speak to John Robinson about his
property on Avenue A. It's urgent.'

358


Chapter 5 3


Rose's day started out pretty normally.

Her alarm woke her at 6 a.m., and she instantly swung her bare
feet out of bed and walked to the kitchen, where she put on some
cinnamon coffee before heading to the shower. She was a morning
person, and relished every second of her alone time before work
started. It was as close as she came to a personal life, unless you
counted those Sunday lunches with her mother. Rose washed her
hair with shampoo from Bumble and Bumble, blasted it dry with an
industrial-strength dryer that took less than five minutes, and patted
her face with Crme de la Mer moisturising cream; it was two
hundred dollars a pot, but it left her skin feeling as plump "is a
sixteen-year-old's. Then she pulled on her big white towelling r'e
and sat in her kitchen, sipping coffee and watching the sun come,up
over lower Manhattan. It was her daily routine, and she loved it.

Next, she took the lift to the lobby to pick up her morning papers.
Rose read the Wall Street.Journal and the London Financial Times, as
well as The Economist weekly. She retrieved her steaming mug of
fragrant coffee and shook out the Financial Times and saw her own
face staring back at her.

Rose blinked, panicked. What was this? Some expos6 of her links
to Salerni? The last thing she needed right now was the Feds sniffing
around her. Or some Rothstein smear? Was he filing some lawsuit
for the documentation she'd got away with?

She set her mug down and picked up the paper, looking at it more
closely.

'Daisy Markham,' the caption read, 'best-selling British novelist,
signs copies of her latest release The Orange Bloksom at Barnes &
Noble yesterday.'

Rose scrutinised the picture. Sometimes people just looked a bit
like you. But no, this was her face.

Am I going insane? she thought. She took the paper into the

359


bathroom, folded it into a square, and held it up against her reflection in the mirror. The girl in the paper had salmon-coloured
skin, courtesy of the Fitlancial Tirnes's pink pages, but apart from that
minor detail they could have been the same person.

This is a sick joke, Rose thought. But the image gazed back at her
with a wry smile that she recognised as her own.

Who the hell is responsible for this? And where did they get that
picture of me? But of course, it wasn't of her, she reflected, she had
never sat behind a table of books, signing them. So it had to be a
digital photo, enhanced until some author looked like her ...


Rose's heart started to pound. She felt dizzy and sick. The paper
slipped out of her hand on to the floor, and she went to the phone
and dialled her mother's number. It was way too early for her mom
to be up, but Rose didn't care. She had to speak to her now.

The phone rang and rang and then, finally, she heard her mother's

voice, groggy from sleep.
'Hello?'
'Mom?'

Her mother reacted instantly to the tone of Rose's voice, her own
tone becoming alert and panicky right away. 'What is it, honey? Are
you OK? Have you been in 'an accident?'

'No,' she said, struggling to breathe normally. 'I'm fine. Mom, I
was adopted, right?'

'You know you were.'

'In the hospital ... was there another baby?'

'What do you mean, Rose?'

'Like a twin, a twin sister. And maybe you only took me?'
'Rose!' Daniella Fiorello sounded shocked. 'You think I would
have split up sisters? And not told you about it? No, you were the
only one, there were other babies, not many, but there you were and
they told us you were next on the list to be adopted, and anyway,
once we'd seen you and held you in our arms, Daddy and I wanted
only you, darling.'

'Oh,' R-ose said. She was so confused, she had no idea what to
think.

'Why are you asking me this so early in the morning?'

'I - I saw somebody I thought looked like me.'

Her mother laughed that warm, rich laugh of hers, and Rose
instantly felt a little better. 'It must have been a trick of the light,
honey; you're so beautiful nobody could ever look like you.'

360


That was her morn; so proud and maternal. Rose felt her world
regaining a touch of normality. 'Thanks, Mom.'

'OK, hon. Call me if you want anything or you want to talk about

it.'

'OK,' Rose agreed, hanging up.

She hesitated, then called Fiona, her newly hired assistant. Fiona
knew enough to be up at this time of the morning. She answered her
cell phone immediately.

'Rose Fiorello's office.'

'This is Rose.'

'Good morning, Miss Fiorello. Do you want to go over your
schedule for the day?'

'No. I want you to cancel today's appointments,' Rose said.
There was a pause. 'Are you sick, Miss Fiorello?'

'I'm fine,' Rose said shortly. 'I just have something I need to take
care of. See to it, please.'

'Very well, ma'am,' Fiona said. 'Have a good day.'

Rose noticed the shock in tqona's voice. Was it that unusual for
her to take a day off? She supposed it was.., maybe her mother was
right, that she worked too hard. But what other way was there to
live?

She looked at her wall clock. It was now almost 7 a.m. OK, tlt
left two and a half hours before the nearest bookstore opened

P,ose went to her walk-in closet. What to do with all that spare
time? She supposed she'd just take extra care getting dressed today.
She didn't believe in doppel2iin2ers; she was going to get to the
bottom of this.


John Robinson moistened his lips.

'It's not that I'm not interested, Mr P,,othstein,' he said carefully.
'It's just that your timetable is unrealistic ...'

'I'm prepared to outbid your other offer by 2o per cent,'
lothstein said. 'Did she make mention of a bonus to you?'

Greed flickered in the realtor's eyes. 'Asa matter of fact-'
'How much?' Jacob asked.
'Ten thousand.'

'I'll give you thirty,' he said simply. 'Everybod9 wins here.'
'Except the rival bidder.'

'Well, that's what she gets for trying to low-ball Benkman Martin,
right?' Jacob smiled at him, man to man. 'She can be a little
disrespectful, no? That's no way to succeed in business.'


361

'You're right,' Robinson said, meanly. He remembered Rose
Fiorello's beauty and cold manner. Bitch. 'She just lost the deal.'

'You get me that contract by close of business today, and they get
a better price and you get thirty thou. You also get the gratitude of
the only son of Fred Rothstein,' Jacob said smoothly.

He nodded eagerly. 'But of course, Mr Rothstein. Let me get on
it fight away.'


Rose was waiting outside the doors of Barnes & Noble on Fifth
Avenue when the staff opened them up, impatiently tapping her feet.

'Good morning, miss,' the staffer said as she entered the large
store. 'Is there anything special you were looking for?'

'Yes. A book by a girl called Daisy Markham,' Rose said.

'Oh, great choice. She's taken the fiction world by storm, we can
hardly keep the new one in stock. Here you go...' He picked up a
glossy hardcover off the Bestsellers table and handed it to Rose. 'Are
you a big fan? I just adored The Lemon Grove ...'

Rose was already walking away from him towards the checkout
counter, but she stopped. Tll take one of those too.'

'Certainly, miss,' he responded, thinking that she was a weirdo. A
beautiful weirdo, in a pretty pink Chanel suit, but a weirdo all the
same. Quickly he fished out a copy of the book from the paperback
bestseller rack. 'Anything else? We have some excellent reads in the
same vein, I highly recommend the latest Jenny Colgan novel ...'

But he was talking to her departing back. Rose was already at the
counter, paying with a couple of bills and walking right out while
the cashier shouted at her not to forget her change.


Rose found a Starbucks, ordered a latte, and sat at a table staring at
the picture on the back of the book until the latte got cold and a
waitress came over to ask her if she was OK. Then she got up, left,
and caught a cab back to her apartment downtown.

There was no denying it. This girl was her double. They had to be
twins. Rose also knew her morn wouldn't lie to her. Her mind
churned over the possibilities. What if the orphanage had already
found a parent for the first baby, and then not told her parents there
was another? But this girl was English, and her agency had been fight
here in New York.

She had to find out what had happened. And she had to meet
Daisy Markham. Rose wasn't sure why she felt this way. What could
a blood sister mean to her, after all? They hadn't shared a goddam


362

thing, except parents who hadn't given a shit about them. Her only
family was her mother, not some rent-a-womb she'd happened to
gestate in, P,.ose thought bitterly.

Still. She had to see Daisy Markham. She could easily have the
ultra-efficient l:iona arrange something, but for now, as she sorted
out her emotions, R.ose didn't want that.

This was something she had to deal with herself.

363


Chapter 54


It was raining in New York. Dirty, sleety rain poured from a greywhite
sky, solid cloud without even a flash of blue. A cold wind
blustered through the immense stone forest of Manhattan's skyscrapers,
picking up plastic bags and styrofoam coffee cups. It was
January, and the freezing heart of winter.

Daisy Markham didn't care. She had been inundated by helpful
suggestions from her readers. That made her feel loved and wanted,
but it wasn't all that much use. The only thing worth following up
was an anonymous note telling her to look into Janus Investigators in
the United States.

She had, and now she was. here.

Daisy walked down Fifth Avenue, warmly wrapped in her
Burberry coat and cashmere sweater-dress in navy blue from Donna
Karan, together with her waterproof thigh-high Gucci boots. She
looked great, and she felt alive and revitalised. Never mind the
weather. She was in New York, and she had things to do.

Janus was the successor to the mighty Kroll Security, the doyen of
investigative companies, an outfit that made the CIA look like the
Keystone Cops. However, Kroll was reputable, perhaps a little too
reputable. Daisy was tired of looking.

She wanted to find her birth parents. Now.


The offices were not really what she had imagined. She was down at
Twenty-Third Street, near the glorious, weird-shaped Flatiron
building that looked like it had been squeezed between two giant
crashers until it lay as flat as a cartoon character picking himself up
from a cliff fall. Janus was housed in a 10w-slung office building, only
forty storeys high, lined with industrial carpet and fichus plants in red
pots. Not much evidence of money, despite their incredible fees, but
Daisy supposed that was part of the whole 'discretion' thing.

She noted that the offices all had their doors closed. Nothing was


364

open-plan, she thought as a secretary led her through to the meeting
room. No cubicle layouts. No way, she realised, for anybody to hear
anybody eise's conversation ...

'I know what you're thinking.' Doug Berkshire, the middle-aged
guy with the nice suit, thick glasses and a limp handshake who was
dealing with her case, grinned, a bit smugly she thought. 'The walls
are all soundproofed. We take internal security very seriously here.'

'I didn't have to pass any security to get up to your lobby,' Daisy
pointed out.

The grin did not evaporate. 'That's because we've already had you
checked out. Just a precaution, you understand.'

'I want to find my birth parents,' she said, disliking him and at the
same time deciding that he was the perfect man for the job.

'Yes. So you said.' He spread his hands. 'They made quite a job of

covering their tracks ... but nothing we can't crack.'

'Can you guarantee that?'

'No guarantees. A hundred thousand dollars, fifty per cent in
advance. No refunds.'

Daisy blinked. 'How much?'

Berkshire's eyes gleamed greedily behind the glasses. 'You yah
afford it, Ms Markham, and that's the price.'

'How would you know what I can afford?'

'You have twenty-six accounts around the world,' Berkshire said
softly, 'and your current cleared balance at your account in Barclays,
Sloane Square, at 9 a.m. local time this morning was four hundred
and fifty-nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two pounds and
six pennies.'

Daisy sat there for thirty seconds staring at him.

'Actually it was eight hundred and sixty-four ...'

Berkshire shook his head. 'They added the interest this morning.'

'You son of a bitch,' Daisy said, with grudging admiration.
'You're hired.'


She was in her hotel room thirty minutes later. Daisy had chosen the
Paramount.; it was chic, hip, near Times Square and possessed of
New York's best-looking bell boys.

But it didn't excite her. Mission accomplished with Janus, she was
now wondering what to do with herself.

Daisy caught herself staring at the phone. Don't do it, Daisy, she
told herself. Just don't call him.


365

Magnus Soren. Playboy. New billionaire, or so Forbes informed
her.

She'd been boyfriend-less for the last year. The odd date, but
nothing that lasted beyond a month. Daisy had been reconciled with
Edward, but now she saw him as nothing more than a friend. She'd
had the slow, creeping realisation that both the men in her life had
been right. About everything. And she, the professional romantic,
she had been all wrong, all the time.

There was a reason Daisy hadn't gone with Edward back when
she'd had the chance. She just wasn't attracted to him. It was a
profound truth, and she'd known it in her heart. Brad had been just
attraction, Edward just friendship. With both men, she had been
willing to settle for half of what she truly wanted. Courting that
childhood rejection again and again, not willing to give her own
heart what it needed.

Daisy smiled ruefully. She had treated her millions of readers
better than she'd treated herself.

Magnus, she had liked. And wanted. And ... dumped.

Smart move, kiddo, she told herself.

Well, he hadn't spent his days pining away. His big deal had gone
through, and now he was famous, and a big target for every wouldbe
trophy wife in the world, lven if she'd wanted to forget him, she
couldn't. He was in Nigel Dempster's column, he was in The Tatler,
he was in Harper's, in Vogue ... and Hello! and OK! couldn't get
enough of him.

I still have his number, Daisy told herself. I could call him.

Her fingers were itching to do it. No! Why look pathetic? What
would she say, I just wanted to look you up . . .?

Daisy suddenly shook herself. She wasn't supposed to repeat the
old patterns, to tell herself she wasn't good enough. What the hell! If
he didn't want to talk to her he'd blow her off. And if he does blow
me off, I'll survive, Daisy thought. It's not like I haven't had
practice.


'Soren Enterprises.'

'Magnus Soren, please.'

'One second.' A pause, then the voice of a PA, somebody new,
Daisy thought. 'Mr Soren's office.'

'Is he about, please? It's Daisy Markham calling.'
'What company are you with, ma'am?'
Tm a friend,' Daisy said firmly.


366

	see.' The
		had all the
		of
		ATM. 'Can

				personality

		woman

						an

								you

spell your name for me, please?' Daisy did so. 'And this is regarding?'

'I told you that I'm his friend,' Daisy said. She was starting to feel
sweaty and anxious.

'Mr Soren has a lot of "friends",' the woman said, openly hostile
now. 'It's company policy to ask what the matter is regarding.'

'It's regarding Daisy Markham,' Daisy snapped. 'Just give him the
goddam message!'

She slammed the phone down and buried her face in her hands.
Ugh. Ugh. Oh well, at least she'd had the balls to call ...

Daisy went into her small, sleekly designed urban bathroom and
started to run a hot bath with some Origins ginger bath cream. It was
a sexy scent and at least taking a bath would mean she wasn't
watching the receiver. Magnus probably wasn't in town anyway.

Tonight she would go to the movies, or the theatre maybe ...
The phone rang.
Daisy dived for it.

'Daisy Markham,' she said, trying to make it come out normal
sounding and not too much like a squeak.

'Magnus Soren. What a genius you do have for pissing off,my
secretaries, Daisy.'

'Let me turn the water off- I was just getting ready for a bath.
'Don't stop undressing on my account,' Soren said.

'Hold on.' She put the phone down on her bed. I must manage
this, Daisy thought, I must control the situation ...

She rushed to turn off the water then grab the phone again.
'Where are you staying?'
'The Paramount.'
'Room?'

'206. Listen, Magnus, I thought maybe we could catch up, you
know, see a'

'I'm coming right over,' Soren said, and she was listening to a dial
tone.


Daisy spent the next ten minutes frantically tarting herself up; she
cleaned her teeth, smoothed Clarins Beauty Flash Balm over her
face, reapplied her make-up, brushed her long,wild raven hair
smooth, and changed her dress. The navy wool was great, but the
last thing she wanted was to be all nervous and sweaty. She chose a
long gown in white crpe with a zipper and a matching cashmere
cardigan for when she was outside; it was un-crushable in a suitcase


367

and played up the olive tones in her skin, and her incredible curves,
while still being modest.

It was vital to make a good impression. Daisy wanted to be poised,
light-hearted, absolutely in control. A total contrast to the crying
wreck he'd seen when he left her last. She reached for her suede
'travel jewellery' case ... that was the latest thing in London; rich
girls had their real baubles, and then they had a second set of elegant
little pieces that they could travel with and not have to worry too
much about the insurance premiums. Toys for girls. Daisy had some
pretty cultured pearls, Akoyas, golden in colour, that softened the
crisp white of the dress. She put them on, and dabbed perfume on
her wrists and the cleft of her breasts. Never put scent next to pearls
• .. she chose Hermes' 64 1Lue Faubourg, her latest favourite, a little
slice of summer in the grey heart of winter ...

Daisy checked herself out in the mirror. Very elegant, she

thought. That would do.

The doorbell buzzed.

She opened it up. Magnus Soren was standing there in a dark suit,
a contrast to his blond hair and light eyes. He was muscular enough
for it to have had to be specially cut, she thought.

He looked stunning. Daisy. fought back a blush. She felt her
nipples tauten under the dress and thanked God she had on a padded
bra.

'Come in,' she said coolly. 'It's so good to see you.'

Soren said nothing. He entered the room and shut the door, and
just stood there looking at he.

Tm in town for a quick visit,' Daisy said lightly, 'and I thought it
would be nice to catch up with an old friend. How have you been?'

She leaned forward and kissed the air at the side of both his
cheeks, a perfect social air-kiss, distant and ladylike.

Magnus Soren put his arms around the small of her back and
effortlessly tipped her off her feet and into them. Then, as Daisy
gasped with surprise, he bent his head towards her, and as her lips
parted slightly, involuntarily, he crushed them with his, his tongue
probing her mouth, his teeth playing with her plump lips ..,


Daisy had never felt anything like it. Soren's hands were on her, all
over her body, possessively, masterfully. He unzipped her dress,
letting it pool around her ankles in a fluttering cloud of white froth,
leaving her tight, toned body in her Manolos and La Perla.

'Magnus . . .'


368

'Shhh,' he said, breathing it against her neck, cupping her breasts
under the bra ...

Daisy felt as though her belly had turned hot and liquid. She felt as
though she could hardly think. His kisses set her skin on fire. Soren
pulled her towards the bed, and she didn't struggle with him.


'Do you like it? Don't bother with the case. Jenkins will take care of
it.'

'Very good, sir,' the chauffeur said, whisking away Daisy's Louis
Vuitton. After Magnus had finished making love to her, in a
marathon, exhausting session that had lasted through the afternoon
into the evening, he had insisted he help her pack and that she check
out.

'You'll be staying with me.'

Daisy kissed him, feeling oddly shy. 'Are you sure we should do
that?'

'Why wouldn't I be?' He looked surprised. 'You're my woman,
Daisy.'

Now they were standing in front of an exquisite Greenwich
village apartment building. It had scroll-worked iron gates that wre
sliding apart to receive the car, and gargoyles peeking out of he
corners of its Art Deco walls.

'Very nice,' she said approvingly. 'Which flat is yours?'

Soren grinned. 'All of them. The whole thing. It's a townhouse.
Come on, I'll show you around.'

He led her inside and gave her the grand tour. It was stunning, as
expected, but Daisy was surprised to find that among the interiordesigned
rooms, picked out in cool blond Scandinavian woods and
buttery marble, Soren had a vogue for plants and waters; he had built
a R.oman-style atrium in the centre of his house, with a courtyard
open to the sky, a fountain, and a mossy rock garden; there were
mature trees in the back, cherry and apple, and sprays of climbing
roses over the walls that shielded him from his neighbours. Soren
had built his own conservatory on the upper levels, crammed with

scented, wild tropical plants; ferns, lilies, terracotta tiles underfoot.
'This is magnificent,' Daisy said.

'Winter garden.' Soren shrugged. 'When I was a boy in Sweden
we got used to making the most of winter. Candles everywhere, for
natural light. Here in New York, one does not need light; I want
greenery. And if I can't get to the country, I bring the country to
me. I need plants around me all the time, or I get depressed.'


369

Daisy felt her heart crunch with love. 'I can't see you getting
depressed.'

He winked at her. 'That's because I don't, darling.' He waved at
the greenery. 'I take precautions. Come and have a drink.'

Soren led her downstairs to the drawing room, which had soft
carpeting and a huge crackling fire blazing in the grate. Daisy's heart
pulsed with a moment of pure joy. The cold, nasty Manhattan
winter outside these walls seemed a million miles away. She was with
Magnus, and she had finally made a stride towards finding her
family...

Soren opened a cabinet with a full bar's worth of liquor and wines
and pulled out a champagne bottle covered with flowers.

'perrier-Jouet. My favourite,' Daisy said, as he popped the cork
and poured the fizzing, golden liquid into two flutes.

'I know.' His light eyes held hers, and she blushed, conscious of

what he had done to her body earlier that day. 'I've read your press.'
'I've read yours.'

Magnus smiled. 'That's a great way for two people to keep up

with each other, no? In newsprint.'

'You could have called me.'

'Ditto.' He regarded her. 'I told you before, I wasn't going to play

second fiddle to some married man, or anybody else.'

'That's over now.'

'So we'll get married,' Magnus said matter-of-factly. 'I don't want
you to be another meaningless girlfriend. The sooner the better.'

Daisy laughed. 'Oh yeah, just like that! We'll just get married.
Wooh-hooh.'

'I told you before, but you didn't listen then.'

'Magnus,' Daisy said, taking her champagne flute and sipping it,
'be sensible, for heaven's sake. It's not like I haven't seen you in the
magazines with a different girl each week.'

'I was single,' he said unrepentantly. 'Now I'm not. You're the
one for me. Look around you.' He nodded at his incredible house,
the art on the walls, the vines in the courtyard. 'I'm the kind of man
who knows what he wants. I have not come this far by second
guessing my instinct. Why waste time? Dance around, date a little?
We've done that. What is the point?'

My God, he's serious, Daisy thought, starting to feel nervous and
exposed. Tm not like you, I need some time to think about it,' she
said.

'Think about it all you want,' he said, 'but it's inevitable.'

370


Chapter 5 5


'I'm sorry,' the girl on the other end of the phone said brightly, 'but

we can't pass messages on to our authors.'

'Then give me the name of her agent.'

'We can't do that either, I'm sorry. Daisy Markham is a very
popular writer, so if you want to, you can send fan mail to her care
of this address, and we do forward that on to her representatives. But
please do bear in mind that she may be too busy to answer this sort
of thing, because she gets so much mail.'

'Look. It says on this dust jacket that Daisy Markham was adqpted

	and that she was seeking information about her family.'
	,

	'Oh, are you another long-lost relative?'

	Rose flushed. 'Yes I am, actually, I'm her sister.'

	'Well, that's only the third one this morning ...'

'Put me through to her editor,' Rose snapped, losing it. The
phone clicked in her ear, and she was listening to a dial tone.

'Goddam it!' she shrieked, slamming the receiver back into its
cradle. It had taken Rose two hours just to find a person at Andrews
Publishing, Daisy Markham's US publisher, who would take her
phone call. It had seemed pretty easy, with all the names listed in the
acknowledgements, but Daisy's editor's assistant would not put Rose
through, and the same went for the heads of Marketing and Publicity
and Foreign Rights. At last, Rose had spoken to that junior cow of a
publicity assistant, and now she'd hung up .on her.

She paced up and down her apartment. Fuck it, who was Daisy
Markham anyway? Some author lose had never even heard of. Of
course, she admitted to herself, that might be becat/se she never read
any books. But the woman was hardly Madonna. What did she need
with all this protection?

Rose picked up Orange Blossom and looked again at her own face,
staring back at her in black and white with her own smile ...

37


Of course! .She didn't need to pass a message on to get to Daisy
Markham. She uas Daisy Markham.


Andrews Publishing was housed in a gleaming black skyscraper on
Madison Avenue, where it rented a full four floors. Rose knew that
Daisy Markham's editor was in, because her assistant had refused to
put her on the phone, rather than saying she was out. Rose strode
into the lobby, smiled at the security guard, and picked up the pen to
sign in the visitors' book.

'Which company, ma'am?'

'Andrews,' Rose said, speaking softly and attempting a British
accent. 'My name's Daisy Markham and I'm here to see Julia Fine,
my editor in America.'

'What time is your appointment?'

'Oh, I don't have one. Tell Julia I just dropped in to see her.'

'OK, wait there please.' The uniformed guard picked up a phone
and dialled an extension. He spoke low, and then turned back to her.

'She says to go right up. You know what floor she's on, right?'
'Yes, the sixteenth.'

'Her office is on the fifteenth.'

Rose snapped her fingers. 'I always get that wrong.' She gave the
security guard a dazzling smiIe, and he blushed and said nothing
more.

The elevator was fast and modern and whisked her up to the
fifteenth floor in a matter of seconds. Despite her outward poise,
Rose was nervous as she exited into the Andrews lobby. Her voice,
after all - that would be different. And what about Daisy's style?
Rose was wearing pink Chanel with a matching quilted handbag and
a string of nine-millimetre Mikimoto pearls, but maybe this Daisy
was a jeans-and-T-shirt chick ...

Don't over-think it, Rose; you're here, so do it.

She walked up to the front desk as confidently as she could. The

girl there gave her a strange look, but then smiled.

'I'm here to -'

'Yes, Julia's coming right out,' said the receptionist, smiling. 'It's a
surprise to see you here after yesterday ... But great, obviously, I
mean it's great ...'

She was stumbling over her words and seemed anxious, Rose
noted; this Daisy woman must be a big cheese in this place. Best not
to say anything at all, so her voice didn't give her away. Rose just
beamed at the woman, gestured to the couch and sat down on it.

372


Just a minute later, a tall brunette in something very chic and very
black, with a mop of styled white hair, came bursting out of the
frosted glass doors that led into the publisher's offices. She held out
her hands to Rose.

'Daisy! Darling, what a pleasant surprise. I hadn't expected you
back so soon. And so glamorous too, all dressed up, you look like
Princess Diana today ...'

Rose stood up and let Julia Fine get close, real close; close enough
to hug her and air-kiss both sides of her cheeks.

'So come on, let me take you inside. What's the reason for
dropping by? Not that we don't always love to see you ...'

Rose took a step back and looked Julia Fine right in the face. 'I'm
not Daisy Markham.'

Julia blinked. 'What are you talking about, and what is that
accent?'

lose pulled out her purse, extracted her driver's licence, and
handed it over. 'As I've been trying to tell your staff all morning on
the phone, I am Daisy Markham's sister. I must be. We're identical. I
know she's looking for her family; well, you just call her up and tell
her you found it.' " •

'Oh my God,' Julia Fine said, looking from the plastic licenceto
Rose and back again. 'Oh my God.' :


By 3 p.m., Jacob 1Kothstein was a million and thirty thousand dollars
poorer, and the owner of a burnt-out shell of a building in Alphabet
City. He signed the papers, and the seller's attorney told him it was
the fastest closing he'd ever been involved in.

'Good luck, sir,' he said, shaking his hand. Jacob smiled. He knew
that a man who could just write a cheque for a million bucks was the
kind of man lawyers liked to get to know.

'If there's anything else I can help you with, Mr 1Kothstein,
anything at all,' oozed John Robinson with an oily grin. Jacob

suppressed his distaste.

'There is, actually.'

'Name it,' Robinson begged.

'You can give me Rose Fiorello's number.'


'I'm afraid she's not in,' her assistant said. 'She's taking the day off.'
'Is she indeed? That's not the Rose I know,' Jacob said.
'Any message, sir?' the assistant asked, pleasantly enough.

Yes. Tell her Jacob Rothstein called. My number is 555-o92.


373

The slight pause at the end of the line told him the assistant
recognised the name.

'Certainly, sir,' she said, still pleasant-sounding. He admired
lkose's choice in employees; this woman was staying out of it. 'Will
she know what it's regarding, or should I tell her?'

'I can confidently guarantee she will have no idea what it's
regarding,' Jacob said, 'but she will want to know about it,
nonetheless.'

'Thank you, sir. Have a good day,' the girl said.

'Thanks,' Rothstein said, and hung up.

He xvaited for Rose to call him back, but the call did not come in
the next five minutes, as he had expected, nor even in the next two
hours. So she was playing games, huh? Let her, Rothstein thought.
He made calls to contractors, soliciting bids for the work he needed
done. There was plenty of planning and work to take his mind off
Fiorello. When she discovered what had happened, she'd call him
soon enough.


Daisy didn't understand at first, when Julia Fine called her, sounding
hysterical.

'Julia, just calm down, OK? Calm down.'

'Daisy. I have your sister hre. You have to come over to the
office. Or should I send her to Mr Soren's?'

'Magnus Soren?' asked Rose, sitting in Julia's corner office. The
Daisy woman was involved with Magnus, was she? He was a very
rich man, Magnus Soren. She hoped her new sister wasn't a gold
digger . . .

Julia ignored her and continued to speak urgently into the
receiver.
'Daisy, you must come now. I am not joking, she looks so like
you I thought she was you.'

'Julia,' Daisy said patiently, 'I don't have a sister. I'm an only child.

I was adopted as an only child. I know that much.'

'But -'

'Give me the phone,' Rose said. The Julia woman gave her a
death stare, but Rose was unimpressed. She held out her hand and
imperiously crooked her fingers. 'I saidgive me the goddam phone.
That's nay sister, you know it and I know it.'

"Daisy,' Julia Fine muttered, 'she insists on talking to you . . .'
Rose snatched the receiver from her.
'Is this Daisy arKnam,

374


'Who's this?' Daisy asked angrily. 'Whoever you are, I have no
idea how you got to my editor, but this is not a joke to me.'

'Nor to me. My name is P,.ose Fiorello. I own apartment buildings

in New York. I was adopted also, and you are identical to me.'
'Identical, how?'

'Identical, as in twins. I saw your picture on the front page of the Financial Times this morning. You had my face. I bought your book,
there's no doubt.' Rose spoke so matter-of-factly that Daisy found
herself listening to her. And . . . she sounded familiar. Very familiar.
Under that New York accent ...

'Your publishers wouldn't take my call, so I showed up here and
said I was you.'

'Very resourceful,' Daisy said faintly.

'And your woman here, Ms Fine, thought I was you. She called
me "Daisy". She thought, you were playing a joke on her.' Rose
punched a button and put the call on speaker. 'Tell her, Ms Fine.'

'It's true, Daisy, it's true,' said Julia Fine breathlessly. 'I wouldn't
joke . . .'

'Send her over here,' Daisy whispered. 'I want to see her.'

375


Chapter 56


Poppy smiled fixedly at the cheering crowd. The band was playing
'Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean' as Henry stepped up on to the
podium, smiling and waving. If she had been his wife, Poppy would
now be walking next to him. But as it was, she was only the fianc4e,
and a controversial one at that. Henry's spin doctors had stuck her up
here on the podium, standing behind his chief of staff, and blending
into the background as she smiled and clapped.

She looked at the man she loved and wondered what their future
together was.

As the cheering subsided, Poppy sat down on her uncomfortable
folding chair with the others as Henry began to give his speech - the
same one he gave on every slop of the campaign. Poppy could recite
it the way she could recite one of Travis Jackson's numbers. Just like
Travis, though, Henry could make it sound fresh; he was the rebel
lKepublican, the darling of the South who didn't hide a womanising
past or a fairly radical social agenda. Even the unpopular parts of his
platform he laid out there, daring folks not to vote for him. Poppy
mouthed the words along with him 'My
opponents have said I'm anti-choice.' Big cheer. 'They've
also told you that I'm soft on crime, because I oppose the death
penalty, and I want gun control.' Tremendous booing, even from
LeClerc supporters. This part she liked, because it always made
Henry's staff so uncomfortable. 'Well, guess what, Lafayette,
Louisiana? Here's one politician who's gonna tell you the truth. I
want gun control, and I want an end to the death penalty, and I
know those are two things almost none of y'all agree with '

Cue the standard roar of angry agreement, and Henry lifted his
manicured hand in that practised gesture, and said, 'Yes, y'all, and if I
could make those two things happen I'd do it in a second. But you
want to know the truth? Those laws will never pass, not in my
lifetime, not in Louisiana and not in America, whether I like it or


376

not. So it shouldn't stop you from voting for ne. You have your
pick of guys in suits who are gonna tell you everything you want to
hear. I'm a conviction politician. I tell you my convictions and let
you make your own minds up. Now, what do we agree on,
Lafayette? Stuff that I can do something about. Tourism. Taxes.
Jobs . . .'

'... a strong defence,' Poppy mouthed, 'reforming our welfare
laws, educating our kids ... stuff you can see my track record

on...

Now he had them listening, rapt, eating from the palm of his
hand. The rock star parallel was pretty close, Poppy thought. Henry
played the crowd better than any lead singer.

His strategy had worked, too. LeClerc had come from last to first
in the Louisiana Senate race with the revolutionary strategy of telling
the truth about what he believed. The polls had shown him with a

credible eight-point lead over his nearest rival.

Of course, that was until last week.

Poppy looked down at her outfit. It was very conservative, a
concession of love for Henry. She was wearing a short-sleeved, full
length feminine sun dress with daisies all over it; an LA Jew's stal at
being the pretty l'il Southern Belle. She also wore white gloves and a
delicate face-framing straw hat. Anything to make things a lithe
better for him.

Because last week, Poppy had become the problem.

Henry's skirt-chasing ways had been well publicised, but they had
only endeared him to the Louisiana voting public. In fact, with
Clinton's charm and Bush's integrity, he had seemed unstoppable.
And yet something had put a spoke in the wheel.

The press, failing to find anything damaging in LeClerc's past, had
started to investigate his girlfriend. And they had stumbled on a
goldmine.

The scandals were delicious, and they just kept on coming. First,
the catty, anti-semitic little comments... Poppy was a JAP, a Jewish
American princess, that was enough to drop Henry a full point by
itself down. here. And they were not married, but it looked like they
might be. (Thank God nobody knew they were engaged yet, Poppy
thought.) Next, she wasn't from Louisiana, wasn't even from the
South. No, she was the daughter of a slick LA lawyer. And more.
Each day brought another screaming headline, another gossip
column revelation. Poppy was way too young for their Congressman


377

. . the older women voters hated that. And finally, perfectly for the
Democrats, there were Poppy's unorthodox politics, and her job.

Poppy was against whatever Henry was for. She was pro-choice,
and she believed in the death penalty for murder, and she wanted to
be able to carry guns; she was an environmental nut and she wanted
to relax the roles on welfare ...

The P,.epublicans hated it. Sometimes, as she walked on to a
platform with Henry, she heard them mutter, 'Commie Jew bitch.'
The Democrats, her party, didn't hesitate to use her against Henry.
Their candidate paraded his white-bread wife and simpering golden
ringleted daughter everywhere.

And then the Menace scandal had come out.

It was the first main fight she'd had with Henry since he'd agreed
to take her on campaign, and it had shocked Poppy. She'd been used
to having Henry back her up against his staffers, but not this time.

Her latest heavy metal act, Menace, were a hot-selling brand of
rap/rock fusion, a sort of heavy-metal hip-hop that urban radio
loved and Top 40 played to death, albeit with the swear words
bleeped out. Sometimes that was half the song. Menace had a classic
bad-boy reputation, trashing everything that wasn't nailed down to a
hotel floor, fucking everything that was female and moved within
groping range. That was so'normal in rock 'n' roll that the group
hadn't made headlines outside of Spin and Rolling Stone until last
week.

Their latest release had gone straight in at number one on the
Billboard charts. So far so good, except that this single was different.
No station would play it, not even BET; it was called 'Spit the Pigs',
and it was, well, it was an anti-cop song. It promised various
different fates to any cop caught without back-up in the vicinity of
Menace (though Poppy knew the band was a bunch of cowards),
and all of these fates were very graphic and very unpleasant.

Menace accused the LAPD of being pimps, drag dealers, racists,
thugs and killers, and they had some suggestions for their fans as to
what to do about it. The chorus of the song was the pi&ce de
r&istance, a speed-rapped one hundred ways to kill police officers.

And some enterprising journalist in New Orleans had found out
that Poppy managed this band, this enemy to law and order, and yet
Congressman Henry LeClerc was still dating her - and might be
going to marry her!

Henry's staffers had insisted that she terminate her relationship
with Menace.

378


'Absolutely not,' Poppy said. 'It's just macho posturing, and
they're a hot band.'

'Hot? They're burning away Henry's chances,' Don lickles
snarled.

Poppy turned to Henry. 'Darling, this isn't your problem. You
just tell them you don't control me or my bands. If you don't
approve, say so.'

'The point is that you approve, Poppy,' Henry said softly.
She'd coloured. 'I don't approve or disapprove, my function isn't
to tell an act how to write songs. I believe in the First Amendment.
Menace has freedom of speech.'

'Sure they do, but they can't demand that you be associated with


Poppy had blinked at him. 'You want me to make this statement?

Cut one of my best-selling bands loose?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Well, I won't,' Poppy said mulishly. 'No way in hell. Don't
bother asking me again.'

IKickles said smoothly, 'Let's wait until after Lafayette to discuss
this, OK?' ";

And so Poppy found herself here, listening to Henry, smilirl, g
sweetly at the press who wanted to destroy him, and wondering if
this would be the last time she would ever do this.

No, stop it, she warned herself sternly, as the tears threatened to
spring up. Ruining his comeback rally was not the way to go. She
would talk it over with him when they got back to the hotel.

There would be plenty of time for tears then.


The car pulled up at the airport kerb. Poppy was in the front seat,
because Henry was driving her himself. There was no way she
wanted some chauffeur to take her; Poppy hated strangers to see her
cry; and Henry had wanted to do it.

The fight had lasted into the early hours of the morning. Poppy
was exhausted now, as well as weepy, but more than her tiredness
was the ache in her heart, and the nasty feeling that she might not see
Henry again.

'At least you have no ring to give back to me,' he said flatly, not
wanting her to get out of the car and leave him, but also not
prepared to buckle.

Poppy wanted to say, 'Because you kept the engagement quiet,


379

because you didn't get me a ring,' but instead just said, 'Don't be like
that.'

'What? After all we've meant to each other?' LeClerc said
cynically.

'Haven't we?' Poppy asked, fresh tears coming despite herself.
LeClerc looked at her and wanted to brush them away. But he
knew if he weakened now he might start crying himself, and he was
a man, and that was unacceptable. Maybe it was OK for therapyboys
from Los Angeles, but not for a guy from the Bayou.

'I obviously don't mean as much to you as your career does,
Poppy.'

'It's a free-speech issue,' she half-shouted.

'Bullshit.' He shook his head. 'It's a spoilt brat issue. I have never
tried to smother you, or make you the little woman, or stop you
working. But you putting these scum before me . . .' He shrugged.
'I'm not a caring, sharing New Man, sugar. If that's what you want,
you need to look elsewhere.'

'You do want to ruin my career,' Poppy said furiously.

'Well,' LeClerc said, reaching across her and opening the door,
'you've done your damnedest to ruin mine. I'm not interested in
being your house-husband. ,The offer was for you to be my wife.'

'You're a sexist pig, Henry LeClerc,' Poppy snarled, getting out
and grabbing her carry-on case.

He grinned for a second, and it tugged sharply at her heartstrings;

that old, sexy, confident grin of his!

'So I've been told.'

'Go fuck yourself,' Poppy snapped.

He touched his forehead. 'You have a good day, ma'am,' LeClerc
said, closing the door and driving away from the kerb in a screech of
rubber.

Arrogant, self-centred son of a bitch! Poppy thought, striding into
the terminal with such fury on her face that the Skycap luggage
handlers didn't even bother approaching her. There'd be no tips
there, that was for sure.

Well, screw Henry LeClerc and his slow hands and fast Southern
ways. It had been a crazy idea from the start, Poppy thought. She
was far too young for him, and too urban, and she was a career girl
and he just thought she should stay home and bake cookies.

Time to get out of Louisiana. High time, Poppy told herself.

She marched furiously up to the Continental ticket counter and
flashed her platinum OnePass card.


38o

'What time is the next flight to New York?'

'Twenty minutes, ma'am.'

'Great. I just have carry-on,' Poppy said, 'so get me on it.'


She seethed for the entire flight, and no glasses of champagne or soft
first-class seats did anything to help her mood. Henry wasn't worth
obsessing over, Poppy told herself, but it didn't stop her from doing
just that.

Well, she thought when the captain announced the descent and
they started to bank and turn above Manhattan, never mind. She had
things to do in town. Meetings with Sorry, Menace's record
company, for one thing. Poppy would review the sales, see how her
controversial First Amendment poster-boys were doing. Because that
was what it was about, she told herself self-righteously. She was a
champion of free speech and a warrior against censorship.

And she would pamper herself. No more of the conservative, dull
little outfits she'd been shoehorned into on the campaign trail. No,
she was looking forward to wearing some cool-ass black leather pants
and a tight little cashmere top, and spiky ankle-boots. It'd be freezing
in New York in winter, but that wouldn't stop Poppy from be.ing
stylish. That was what the record industry expected of her, and it as
time to show everybody that she was more than some smiling ad
waving political girlfriend.

Poppy Allen and Henry LeClerc. Oil and water. What the hell
had she been thinking?


Poppy arrived in New York, checked into the Victrix, and went
about her business. She called the recording studio where Menace
was laying down its new tracks; she set up appointments at I<CA, Sorry and Musica for some of her other acts; and she called Travis
Jackson.

'Hey, baby,' Travis said. But he had that whiny tone she'd come
to dread lately whenever she called him up. 'I'm not happy . . . did
you see all the play that Shania Twain is getting.., why can't I have
Mutt Lange produce my shit, Poppy ...'

'Shania is married to Mutt,' Poppy said patiently, 'and he's a little
busy with her career right now. Your sales are amazing, Travis.'

'I want Mutt,' he said, insisting on the famously reclusive super
producer, 'or maybe Michael Kravis, can you get me Michael
Kravis...?'

When she was done with the litany of complaints from a guy that


38I

had just gone sextuple-platinum, she called her hair bands. More
whining. Poppy was soothing, but she felt sick of it, sick of them. A
manager now was half a babysitter, which she'd never signed up to
be. Her acts these days wanted Poppy to bail them out of jail, to find
kennels for their pets, and to hear their incessant moaning that
somebody else was doing better than they were ... which was
always management's fault, never the band's fault ...

As she prepared to catch a cab downtown to visit Menace in the
studio - they were at a high-rent place in Soho, and it was a good
job they were selling to pay these bills - Poppy thought that her
client roster suddenly reminded her of Silver Bullet. Was there ever an act that blamed a drop in fortunes on themselves? No way. It was
always the record label, the manager, the touring crew. Never that
their songwriting skills had dropped off, or they needed to lose a few
pounds or play some gigs more passionately.

Poppy climbed into her cab, tipped the doorman five bucks, and
gave the driver the address of the studio.

I'm too young to be sick and tired of these guys, she thought. If I
feel like this now, how will I react when I'm forty?

382


Chapter 57


'Well, look who it is,' said Tyrone, leering at her. 'What's up,
sweetness?'

'Hey, guys,' Poppy said easily, dropping her Prada purse and
sliding into the producer's booth beside Jake Ritter, who was
working the controls.

Menace raised hands to her. A few of the guys smiled, really just

baring their teeth. Two of them didn't even look up.

'Got any blow?' Keith said.

'Not on me,' Poppy replied, unfazed. 'Sorry.'

He looked at her as though she were less than useless. P0ppy
pressed on; she had always believed you didn't have to be bst
buddies with your clients. Menace had hired her on their lawyer's
recommendation. They just expected her to make them money, arid
that was fine with Poppy.

'What are ya here for, then?' Tyrone demanded.

'Hmmm, let me see. What am I here for? Oh yeah, to hear the
new shit. You boys are carving up the charts right now, programmers
want some more.'

That got their attention. They started high-riving each other,
grinning and whooping. Good sales were always welcome news,
whether you were in hip-hop or country.

'Lay that shit on her, Jake,' leese told him.

The producer hesitated, looking at Poppy. 'Maybe we should...'
'Fuck that. Just play it for the bitch,' Tyrone said.

Poppy stiffened. She wasn't going to let this guy call her a bitch.
But before .she could call him on it, Jake litter had sighed . . . why
sighed, their productions were usually spot on... and started to play
the new track.

Poppy listened. And then her mouth dropped open.

'No means noAin't m)e showthe bitch was cryiny, but she wanted to
Got her on the floor, make her beg for more/HZhen I'm done Reese runs the


383

back-doorThe boys queue upWhile she lays downStreet ho runs a
train...'

Poppy reached across Ritter and pressed a button to stop the filthy

sound from polluting her airspace. She looked at her act, sickened.
'What the fuck is this?'

'Fuck you talkin' bout, bitch?' Tyrone asked angrily. 'Nobody
asked y'all for critical judgement, fuckin' Tipper Gore.'

'This song is about gang-rape. You're talking about gang-raping a

woman. '

'So what? It's rap.'

'Song say she axin' for it,' Reese said, and laughed unpleasantly,
which they all thought was highly amusing.

Poppy felt her cheeks burning red. 'You can't write that kind of
dirt.'

'We can do whatever we like,' said Tyrone. 'This is black culture,
no cracker gonna tell me what I can and can't do.'

Poppy stood up. 'Screw you, Tyrone. Like hell that's black
culture. I work with black people and this crap isn't their culture.
This is slob culture, gang culture, scumbag culture. If it's culture at
all. I just call it trash.'

'You know? You weren't upset when we wrote a song about
killin' a cop. That you don mind, huh? But rape bugs you, lady?
Killin' is OK, but rape ...' He whistled through his teeth. 'Maybe
y'all had some experience, maybe it hit home ...'

'You fucking gross disgusting bunch of animals,' Poppy said, 'find
yourselves another manager.'

'Bitch, you fired!' Tyrone screamed at her departing back.
Poppy got outside. She was so overcome she had to walk six
blocks gasping for air before she felt she could even hail a cab. It was
so sick that they thought that was entertainment. Sicker still that
she'd ever had anything to do with them. And sickest, sickest of all
was that Tyrone, that evil luck, had a point.

She was a hypocrite. Rape threatened her, like every woman, and
of course she wasn't gonna work with a band that promoted it. But
she'd been happy to work with an act that wrote songs about how to
kill cops ...

How could Menace have thought she'd stand to work on that
'song'? Well, maybe because she'd worked on the last one.

Poppy flagged down an approaching cab, jumped in, and let it
take her to the Victrix, where she stumbled into the elevator, making
it back to her room on auto-pilot. Dear God, she thought.


384

Henry had been right. Absolutely right. Of course it wasn't a free
speech issue; if it were, she'd have been willing to promote the
current piece of filth. And she wasn't. No, the real issue had been
that she'd resented doing anything for him. Henry had never asked
her to give up her job; but she, Poppy, had asked him to pretty
much give up his.

No politician could be elected with a spouse who condoned cop
killing.

LeClerc had called her a spoilt brat. And maybe she had been,
maybe she'd gone and thrown away the best thing in her life over a
dumb temper tantrum.

Poppy sat down heavily on the bed. It was eleven, too late to call
him, and he'd most likely be at a campaign dinner anyway, raising
money. She felt sick, stupid and tired. It wasn't just Menace either.
Even Travis was bothering her. She suddenly felt a wash of nausea
come over her, as though she just couldn't be damn well bothered to
hold hands and wipe noses for one more second. She was tired of
being mother-hen, scapegoat, lawyer and guru all at one go.

But this was her career. If she didn't do this, what would she do?
Poppy peeled her clothes off and headed for the shower. She was
too tired to answer that question right now. She'd sleep on it, wtke
up and call Henry, apologise to him ... things would be muh
better in the morning. "

It didn't quite work out like that.


Poppy woke groggily when her wake-up call came through at eight.
The first thing she did was call the Executive Vice-President at Sorry
to announce that Menace was no longer an Opium act, effective
immediately, and that she was cancelling her meeting. The rest of it
she'd figure out later. She left messages on the office machine in LA,
dictating a statement for Billboard and Variety. It was short and harsh: Poppy Allen of Opium Management announces she is severing her
managerial relationship with Menace. Due to the nature of the act's lyrics Ms
Allen no longer wishes to have anything to do with them. Yeah, that was a
little better than the regular industry platitudes about 'parting of the
ways' or 'musical differences'. Let them know what she really
thought.

That made her feel a bit better. And then she picked up her
morning papers. Poppy had subscriptions to Variety, Billboard, and The Economist, but when she was in hotels, she settled for USA
Today, the Wall Street Journal, and the Financial Times. She almost


385

didn't bother with the FT this morning, but decided to skim
through it, out of habit. Poppy shook out the pink pages over her
steaming cinnamon coffee and toasted bagel, flipped over to the
features section, and felt her entire universe crumble around her.

Her face was staring up at her. Poppy jumped out of her skin,
sending her coffee cup crashing to the floor, delicious cinnamon
brewed Colombian now nothing more than an ugly stain on the
pristine white carpet. But she barely moved. She simply stared,
rooted to the spot.

At first she'd thought she was having a drugs flashback or
something, even though she'd only really done the odd joint, and
not even that any more. But once Poppy had done most of the same
things that Rose had done ... once she'd stared at the picture,
examined it from all angles, and then walked into the nearest
bookstore to buy a copy of the book, she was still mystified.

She was the daughter of the Allens of Beverly Hills. This was just
some freakish coincidence, something you saw on Ripley's Believe it
or Not. Wasn't it?

Poppy cancelled her meetings for the day and called her parents at
nine-forty-five, a quarter to seven on the West Coast.

'Poppy? You know what time it is?' Marcia Allen asked crossly. 'I
need my beauty sleep, young lady ...'

'Morn,' Poppy said, now suddenly, ridiculously nervous, 'this is
going to sound like a very strange question. A real weird
question...'

And then she heard her mother's sharp intake of breath, as though
she'd been waiting for this moment for her entire life, and Poppy
instinctively knew that Marcia Allen knew what she was about to
ask, and she also knew what the answer was, but she asked the
question all the same.

'Morn,' Poppy whispered, 'was I adopted?'

386


Chapter 58


Daisy waited with Soren, unable to concentrate or to think until the
bell finally rang. Magnus offered her a drink - 'To calm you' - but
Daisy refused; she wanted to be able to think straight.

This was one of the most important moments of her life, assuming
it wasn't some elaborate joke, but why would Julia play one on her?
Could she really be that cruel? Or that stupid? Daisy couldn't
prevent the thoughts running through her head, but on one level,
the calm heart of her, she knew they weren't true.

It would have been impossible to fake the emotion in Julia's voice.
So Daisy paced and fretted and finally, when the buzzer rang, ..she
raced to the door as though she were still the fat kid in school wtten
the last bell rang. .

Magnus walked behind her, hanging back a fraction, but keeping
close.

Daisy wrenched open the door, looked at Rose, and then
stumbled back, gasping. She felt dizzy and short of breath.

'Are you OK?' Soren said, catching her. He looked at the replica
of Daisy standing in front of him; she, too, was looking very pale,
steadying herself against the doorway. 'Are you OK?' He moved
forward and shook the Daisy-replica girl's hand. 'My name is
Magnus Soren,' he said calmly, and the need for social politeness
snapped lose to herself.

'I'm lose Fiorello,' she said.

'So it's true,' Daisy said. 'You're my twin sister. I don't know how
this could have happened.'

'Won't you come in, Ms Fiorello?' Magnus said politely.

Rose looked up at the magnificent Village townhouse. It looked
like something that one of the Rothsteins would own; in fact, from
what she knew of Magnus Soren, he was probably even richer than
they were. She glanced curiously at her sister, wondering if they
shared a genetic trait for going for rich, ruthless bastards.


387

'Thank you, Mr Soren,' she said, just as courteously.

'Oh, for thck's sake,' said Daisy, 'all things considered, don't you

think we should be on first-name termg?'

This time Daisy did accept a glass of Chardonnay, and so did Rose.
Magnus discreetly left them to it in the drawing room, telling Daisy
to call him if she needed him.

'I was adopted in New York,' Rose said. 'You?'
'London. When do you celebrate your birthday?'
'June the twenty-eighth. You?'

'May the twelfth.' For a second Daisy was perplexed, then she

laughed. 'Oh. Duh. I mean, that's the day I was adopted.'

The too,' Rose said, smiling for the first time.

'The agency that adopted me out was in London, though. And

they disappeared, no record.'

'Same with me.' Rose shrugged. 'It's all very mysterious. I feel

very weird right now. I mean, I hardly know you, and you have my

face.'

'I think you'll find you have my face,' Daisy said crisply, and Rose

cracked a tiny smile.

'You're looking for your 'parents?'

'Yes.' Daisy leaned forward, all eagerness. 'Do you have any
information about them, where they came from, why they split us
up?'

Rose shook her head. 'And I guess we're not all that alike, Daisy,

because I couldn't care less. My father is dead, and my mother lives
here in the city, and whatever those people did, and whoever they
are, matters about as much to me as if my mother had conceived me
through a sperm donor. I already asked my mother about it, but she
had no records, and the agency disappeared. And, you know, it
never bothered me.'

Daisy said simply, 'I want to lay the past to rest.'

'I think we do that by building a future,' I<ose said.

'I want to know why they rejected me. Or if they did.'

'I think that last part is pretty clear.'

'Without information, we won't know what happened. What if

our mother was raped, and couldn't care for us? What if our father

died and our mother was destitute?'

Rose considered this for a second, then dismissed it. 'It can hardly

make a difference now. If I were you, I'd give it up.'


388

'You're not me,' Daisy said, slightly resenting her off-handness.
How could Rose not want details?

Rose grinned. 'To look at us, you'd never know that.'

Daisy smiled back. At least she had some family now, if this tall
beauty would think about that. 'I never realised how pretty I was
until today.'

Rose laughed. 'Yeah, it's better than a mirror. But I think I'd
sound better with one of those English accents.'

'They're overrated.' Daisy looked out to the kitchen, where

Magnus was waiting. 'I think American accents are hot, myself.'
'You have to tell me about him later.'

'I'd like to. I hope you don't think we shouldn't get to know each
other,' Daisy blurted out. 'Whatever our blood parents did, I wasn't
a part of it.'

lose sighed. 'I don't see why we can't be friends, but sisters . . .'
'We are sisters,' Daisy insisted.

'Biologically. I had a whole childhood without you.'

'Yes, but that wasn't my fault.'

Rose thought about it. 'Look, I don't know if you're going to
want to get involved with me. I'm a workaholic, I live for my career,
I don't have a boyfriend, I think of my mom as my real family arid I
can't tell you that you'll ever be on the same level to me. I don't
want to hurt you, but you should hear the truth.' '

'Are you at least willing to get to know me? We can take it from
there, afterwards.'

Rose shrugged. She had no social life at all. No real friends. She
suddenly envied Daisy her handsome boyfriend, and her probably
full life. She, Rose, was a little lonely now and then. Why not admit

it? It wouldn't hurt to be friends with this girl ...

'Sure.' She smiled. 'Why not?'

Daisy beamed, and it was as though her whole face lit up.
'Magnus!' she yelled. 'Come back in here, would you, and bring the
bottle?'


Poppy called the publisher of Daisy Markham's book.

'Hi,' she said, nervously. 'I think I'm her sister.'

'Hold on, please,' said a woman. There was a pause, then, 'Julia
Fine's office.'

'Julia Fine is Daisy Markham's editor, right? I know this sounds
crazy, but I think I'm her sister.'

'Yes, of course, Ms Fiorello, right? That's OK,' said the assistant,


389

mystifyingly, and put her on hold again. A second later, another
female voice came on the line.

'This is Julia Fine,' she said. 'Rose, I'm glad you called. How did
it go with Daisy?'

'What?' said Poppy, utterly confused. 'My name's not lose. It's
Poppy, Poppy Allen. What's going on here?'

'There was some confusion. Another woman turned up here
earlier today claiming to be Daisy Markham's sister.'

'That's impossible,' Poppy said. 'This is all some kind of a joke.
How did you get that photograph of me? And why did you put it on
the back of the book cover?'

Julia Fine paused. 'I'm not calling Daisy until I check this out for
myself.'

'You can call any record company in America,' Poppy said coldly,
'or you can come over to the hotel and meet me in the lobby by the
check-in desk.'

Once she heard the woman was supposedly staying at the Victrix
Hotel, Julia doubted it was a prank; pranksters couldn't afford that
kind of dough.

'And how will I recognise you?' Julia Fine demanded.

Tll be the one whose picture you stole for the back of your
book,' Poppy told her.

'Daisy Markham is a real person,' Julia assured her. 'Were you
adopted, by any chance?'

Poppy pressed her fingers to her temple. 'Just get here, Ms Fine,
would you, please?'


Julia Fine took one look at Poppy and burst out laughing.
'Something's funny?' Poppy said, furiously.

'I'm sorry. Nerves,' the editor said. 'But how many of you can
there be? Are you clones?'

She handed Poppy a sheaf of bios and press releases on Daisy. 'I
have nothing for the other sister, though.'

'What are you talkinq about?' Poppy demanded. She was
aggressive, because she was starting to feel frightened. The woman

whose picture she was holding was her identical twin.
'I don't think you'll believe me if I told you.'
'Try me.'

'You have two identical sisters. Daisy, and a woman named tLose
Fiorello.'


39o

'You were right the first time, I don't believe you,' Poppy
snapped.

Julia looked at her. 'Miss. If you'll let me, I'll take you to see your
sisters. I believe they are still together right now.'


'Here,' Magnus Soren said to Poppy. 'Have some wine. It's helping
your sisters.'

'I don't know if they are my sisters,' Poppy muttered. 'I suppose a
DNA test ...'

'Just look at them, Ms Allen,' Magnus said.

Rose snorted. 'This is too much. I don't like it. This morning I
was an only child, now I'm part of a litter.'

'You think I like it? Who gave you permission to steal my face?'
Poppy snapped. 'This morning I knew who my parents were. Who I
was. Now I'm adopted. I have no idea what's going on. And there
could be God knows how many more of us. Maybe that Julia
woman was right and we are all clones and there are twenty more of
me out there.' She took a huge gulp of wine. 'This is a fucking
surreal nightmare as far as I'm concerned.'
'I know this is hardly my place, but if I may, I'd like to stggest something,' Magnus said quietly.

Poppy stopped glaring at Rose and Daisy and looked at him.
ahead. Any small ounce of sanity you can bring to the proceedings; I,

for one, would welcome.'

The too,' Rose agreed.

'It's been my experience that everything has an explanation. You
just don't know what it is yet. You shouldn't let the shock of the
moment blind you to that.'

'If you have an explanation, let's hear it,' Daisy pleaded. 'When I
met my family I wanted it to be a happy moment and now
everybody's all freaked out and mad at me.'

'I'm not mad at you,' Poppy said, relenting slightly. 'It's not your
fault, I guess.'

'Well, first of all, you're not clones, because that is impossible.
You're triplets. Identical triplets.'

'And h.ow do you know we're not quads or quins?' Rose
demanded.

'I don't,' he agreed mildly, 'but I'm working on probabilities here,
and triplets are rare enough. Most quads don't make it, and the odds
of being a triplet vastly outweigh the odds of being from a bigger
litter, as Rose puts it.'


391

'Go on,' P, ose said.

'Furthermore, as you are all sisters, and you were all adopted in
different places by different agencies, and you were all named after
flowers before you were even adopted . . . It's not that hard to see a
pattern. Especially when you consider that all three agencies
apparently disappeared without trace. I'd say this conclusively proves
that something odd happened.'

All three women, his Daisy and her doubles, were leaning forward
on the edge of their seats, wearing identical, fascinated expressions.

Genetics, he thought. Pretty powerful.

'But what? What?' Daisy pleaded.

'That I don't know,' Magnus said. 'But somebody never wanted
this moment to happen. Somebody, or somebodies, took care to see
you guys never met. Whether for good motives or bad, I have no
idea.'

Daisy frowned. 'I'm going to call Janus and report all this.'

'That's a positive idea,' Magnus said. 'They're real pros, let them
do the digging.'

'Who are Janus?' Rose asked, and Daisy filled her in.


They stayed talking until late into the night. Soren listened, intensely
interested; the three women seemed relieved that their lives had
followed such different paths.

'If you'd gone into real estate I don't think I could have handled
it,' Rose said. She felt freaked out enough that there were two
identical images of herself in this room; the differences in their
careers, in their attitudes, were incredibly reassuring to her. She was
distinct, she was still Rose, not a carbon copy, where everything had
been predetermined in the womb.

'I hate business,' Daisy reassured her. 'You read much?'
'Fortune,' Rose said.
'Billboard,' Poppy added.

'I know one way you three are all alike,' Soren said. 'You're all
highly successful in your fields. Prominent.'

The girls looked at each other and smiled. 'Tree enough,' Rose
said. 'I don't know if we'll ever get to .the bottom of this, but I really
don't think you should stress about it too much. You could go mad
trying to figure out stuff that happened over twenty-five years ago.
We know each other now.' She shrugged. 'My two cents is that we
should get on with our lives.'


392

'Easier said than done,' Poppy said. 'But I guess }ou're right. I
have, well, I have some stuff on my plate right now.'

'I just don't want to lose you both,' Daisy said. 'We'll all go home
and never see each other, .just the odd transatlantic trip . . .' Her face
fell.

Soren grinned. 'Daisy, what are you talking about? You're staying
here.'

'I can't stay here for ever, I have a book to write.'

'You can write wherever you can plug in a lap-top. And I have
plenty of sockets.'

'I have an apartment in London ...'
'Hang on to it, it'll be our pied--terre.'
'And my parents ...'

'We can get them a place here, or they can fly over for visits. It's

only a five-hour flight.'

'They're my family.'

'Yes, and so are your sisters. And so am I,' Soren told her.
'Enough games. This is your home.'


Magnus served champagne and coffee and juice while the three irls
continued talking. He couldn't stop staring at them, but that as
only human. He felt an amazing sense of contentment to see Daisy'
happy; his prize, whom he had won only after years of pursuit, ar,d
whatever came of this, it would give her answers and make her
happier in the long run. Magnus had long held the idea that Daisy's
re.jection of him was down to her lack of self-esteem, down to some
idea she had managed to give herself that her birth-parents had
re.jected her, when she had no idea what the facts were. Even though
her two sisters, mirror images of herself, were sitting with her, he
found he had no interest in them whatsoever. His girl sounded
completely different - they all did; and the other two weren't Daisy,
weren't the woman he'd fallen so deeply in love with, so fast.

He could hardly wait for the other two women to leave, and
when they said their goodbyes at midnight, and Daisy had shown
them out, with hugs and kisses on the cheek, he closed the door and
looked at her.

'Well?' he said.

Daisy,just shook her head. 'It seems like a dream. I would never

have believed it unless I'd seen it for myself.'

'maybe you can get some answers now.'

'Maybe. At least I know my sisters are out there.'


393

Magnus bent his head to l.er and kissed her, very gently, very
lightly on the mouth, his lips just brushing across hers, his hand
holding her in the small of her back. Her lips parted and her eyes
were glittering; he felt the warmth of her body and the way it arched
in towards him.

'I don't want to just be your boyfriend any more,' he said. 'It's not
enough, just not good enough. It feels wrong to me that you can

walk around without the world knowing you're mine.'

She tensed, not daring to speak.

'I want you to marry me,' Magnus said. 'As soon as possible.'

394


Chapter 59


Rose arrived back in her apartment with a sense of gratitude that the
surroundings were tamiliar. There was the Financial Times with
Daisy's picture inside; she smoothed it out and put it away in a
cupboard. She wasn't going to throw it away, but she also had had
enough of staring at somebody wearing her face, as Poppy Allen had
put it.

She checked her messages. Three from Mom, all worried. Well, it
was too late to ring her now; Rose would call first thing in the
morning. And one from her assistant Fiona.

'Ms Fiorello, Mr Jacob Rothstein called you and asked you td qall
him. He didn't want to say what it was concerning, but I got the
impression he thought it was important.' She left a number.

Rose passed a hand through her hair. Jacob Rothstein? Wh
would he be calling her?

Very well, she'd leave him a message. Rose considered not
replying at all, but that was impractical. Rose knew herself, knew
perfectly well the charge she got from speaking to Jacob. Even when
she was fighting with him.

I'll just leave a message for the arrogant son of a bitch, she
thought.

She dialled the number, but he answered on the third ring.
'Jacob,' he said.

'You called?' Rose asked.

'It's late. I wasn't expecting to hear from. you tonight.'

'Oh, did I disturb your beauty sleep?' Rose snapped. 'What's this
about? If you want those papers back, you're gonna need a
subpoena.'

'I think we should meet,' he said, and there was that lazy, sexy
confidence in his tone that she couldn't help responding to. Her
nipples tightened under the prim and proper Chanel.

It had been so long; he was the last one to even touch her.


395

Stop that, she told herself.

'I have no intention of coming over to your apartment, Jacob.
There's nothing between us.'

'Well, we both know that's a crock,' he said, 'but I wasn't inviting
you over to my apartment. How about Carduccl s. It's a late-night
bistro in the Village, great food, open till three.'

Rose suddenly felt a stab of hunger. She'd done so much talking at

Daisy Markham's pad that she hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast.
'And why would I want to do that?'

'Because you'll want to congratulate me,' Jacob said. 'I left

Rothstein Realty. And I'm the proud owner of a new building.'
'What's that got to do with me?'
'It's in Alphabet City,' he said.

It took a second for it to sink in, then Rose's grip on the receiver
tightened. 'Son of a bitch,' she hissed.

'Don't bring my mother into it,' Jacob said, grinning as he
pictured her rage. 'It would be in your best interest to meet me,

1Lose. We need to sort a few things out.'

1Lose slammed down the receiver.

She only paused to freshen her make-up; Rose would never permit anybody to see her, mad without looking gorgeous, and
especially not Jacob. She reapplied her lipstick and her neutral Shu
Umera eyeshadow, and spritzed a cloud of Hermes' 64 1Lue
Faubourg, walking into it, so that the scent hung on her, but not
oppressively so. Damn him! He'd bought her building, her prize?
How the hell had he pulled that one off? Rage blew away the
cobwebs of her fatigue, and angrily she selected the most important
jewels she owned, a stunning pair of canary-diamond earrings with
South Sea pearl drops, and a matching canary-andwhite-diamond
necklace; that was sixty thousand dollars' worth of rocks, wholesale, she thought furiously. Rose was dressing to show that bastard how
successful she was. He would never beat her. Never. Even if he'd
just stolen her new, prize-flagship building from under her nose.

She would be safe, because she would take her own car tonight,
drive herself. It was late enough that there would be street parking,
even in the Village. Otherwise, she could never have risked wearing
rocks like this on the street.

Rose inspected herself in the full-length mirror. Pink Chanel,
high-heeled pumps, diamonds and pearls, a Prada purse; yeah, she
looked like a million dollars. He could eat his heart out.

She strode out of her apartment, locked the door, and went


396

downstairs to pick up her Porsche. Her emotions were churning.
Rage mingled with a kind of relief; battles with the Rothstein
family, at least, were something she was used to. Jacob 1Kothstein
wanted a fight? Fine. He was gonna get one.


'Rose.' Jacob stood politely. 'Good evening.'

'Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we?' Rose said.
Carducci's was three-quarters full, and she could see why. It had
no competition locally at this hour, and it was a little gem, tucked
away inside a Village brownstone on a typically tree-lined street,
with an old-fashioned awning, and torches burning outside. The icy
cold of the winter night melted as soon as you stepped through the
door; there was a piano playing quiet ragtime jazz, a blazing fire,
oak-panelled walls, a crowded bar, and waiters who all looked to be
over fifty and highly confident.

Candies were on every table, but no fancy crystal or silverware; it
was a real Italian steakhouse. The scent of sizzling steaks and roasted
vegetables filled the place and Rose's stomach growled loudly.

'Hmm,' Rothstein said, grinning, 'doesn't quite go with this

sophisticated get-up you're wearing.'


	Rose sat down. Damn it. Her stupid stomach. She tried to lok

	dignified. 'I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.' "}

	'What, with no time for a meal? I think you need to .eat

	something, at least. They have the most delicious breads here.

	Foccaccia with rosemary and salt ...'

	'Goddam you,' Rose said, sliding into the dark wood banquette

	opposite him and reaching into the bread basket. She tore offa piece

	and devoured it. It was absolutely delicious.

	A waiter materialised.

	'We'll take a bottle of'the house Chianti,' Jacob said, 'and I'll have

	the Porterhouse.'

	'Filet mignon,' said Rose, surrendering to her need to eat. 'So you

	stole my building?'

	Jacob looked at her steadily. 'I bought it on the open market.'

	'You only bought it because I wanted it,' she retorted.

	He considered it. 'Not only. It's also a great deal. I admire your

	taste and perception. Renovations and some s6curity, changing

	neighbourhood, I'm looking to make a couple mill on it. It's going

	to be the foundation of the JRoth Corporation.'

	'JRoth? Original.'

	'You're too beautiful to be sarcastic; it doesn't suit you. I intend to

397


make that building the cornerstone of my company. Unlike you, I'll
only be investing in the City. Profit margins are greater there. I think

there are some unexplored pockets of Manhattan due for a rise.'
'Like where?'

That grin again. 'That would be telling.'

Rose said, 'So, you summoned me here to rub it in my face and
tell me I now have two enemies instead of one?'

'Not exactly.' He took a sip of his wine; it was rich, earthy and
good. lLothstein thought she looked absolutely stunning. Her anger
was as fiery and lovely on her as the diamonds that glittered
dramatically around her neck and earlobes. 'It was a warning shot
that I fired across your bows.'

'Oooh,' Rose said, widening her wolf-blue eyes, 'I'm scared.'

He ignored that. 'You never got over what happened to your
father.'

'Don't even mention my father's name,' Rose said, colouring
angrily.

'But I have to. Look, my family aren't saints.'

'Your family are greedy, evil scumbags who made a fortune from
mining other people's lives. My father wasn't the only one.'

Rothstein shrugged. 'I didn't like what I was seeing at the family
company, and I walked out. 'But you must understand something,
Rose. Whatever my father's faults, he's still my father. I know you are
on some lifelong quest to destroy him, and I'm telling you I'm not
going to let it happen.'

'I don't have a quarrel with you, Jacob. Just stay out of it.'
'You're not listening to me,' he said quietly, 'and that's a mistake,
Rose. I will not let you harm my father. You have to let go of the
hatred. It's consuming you. I think you've been hanging around
Don Salerni too long. You're nursing this vendetta like you were
Italian yourself.'

'I am Italian. Fiorello, remember.'

He shrugged. 'I meant by birth. Just look at you.'

She let that pass for a second. 'And then, what justice for my
father, who's dead? What justice for all the other tenants your slimy
uncle William and your grasping father screwed over? Who
compensates all the women that tried to work there and were fired
or sexually harassed by the boss? All the harm that Rothstein Realty

did, you think I'm going to just let that go?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Then you're crazy,' 1Lose said, tearing off more bread.

398


'No. I .just know what the alternative is. I build up JRoth Corp
for a few years, let our shareholders see the profits I can make. Prove
myself outside of the family arena. And then I go to an investment
bank, and I take over Rothstein Realty.'

'You take it over?' Rose said. 'Just like that, huh? You've lost it,
Jacob.'

'Have I? You studied those figures you stole. You know how
precarious the empire is. Profits are down, vacancies are up, there's
some creative accounting going on.'

'Yes,' she agreed, her eyes glittering. Tm not in a position to take
advantage of it. Yet.'

'But you want to wait ten more years, nursing your hatred ...
come on, Rose. There's a better way. When I take over, you will
get justice. And I will protect my father from being ruined. Because I

know if I let you go unchecked, you could ruin him, eventually.'
'And how exactly am I going to get this justice?'

'First, you will see him dispossessed of the company. It'll be a
humiliation. But it needs to be done. Second, when I'm in charge,
things will change. I will go back through the files and see to it that
everybody he ripped off is compensated.'

Rose snorted. 'Everybody, yeah, right.'

'I'm deadly serious,' Rothstein said flatly. 'And I'll hire peoe

according to merit.'
'Women?'
He nodded.
'AfricanAmericans?'

'Even Italians,' Rothstein said, grinning. 'Look, it's good business.
If I'm paying a salary I want to be able to hire the best. Sometimes
even a dumb brunette with a fine rack like yourself can have an idea

or tTvVO. '

Rose straggled with herself, trying not to grin. She lost the battle.
'And you really think you can pull this off?'

'I know I can. Because I'm going to have the two best property
execs in New York working on it. I bet we can own Rothstein

within three to four years.'

'We?' Rose asked.

He lifted his glass to her. 'Of course we. Is there some other,
better, property guy in the City that I don't know about?'

Rose's mouth dropped open. 'You want to be my partner?'

'You could do worse. I'm pretty good at it too. I bought that
place in Alphabet City.'


399

Rose shook her head. 'Jacob ...'

'Here you are, sir, madam,' said the waiter, laying down two vast
plates of succulent beef, with spinach and roast potatoes and crisp
green beans.

'Why don't you eat on it,' Rothstein said. 'You'll be in a better
mood on a full stomach.'

She was starving. 'OK,' she agreed.

Rothstein took a mouthful of steak and washed it down with the
red wine. 'Let's not talk about business. Let's talk about something
els e. '

'Like what?'

He grinned. 'Tell me about your day.'

]Lose stared at him, then burst into a peal of laughter.

'What's funny?' he asked. 'I didn't think I was being that witty.'
'My day,' she said.
'Something happen?'

'Man,' Rose said. 'You think this conversation was a bombshell to
me? Not today. Not after what just happened to me.' She shook her
head. 'You have no idea.'

'So tell me. I've got all night.'


They ate, Rothstein waiting impatiently while ]Lose broke off from
talking to eat some more food - she demolished everything on her
plate, which he enjoyed watching, but not when he was so gripped
by her story. He asked her a couple of times if she was joking, but
she denied it, and he could see she was telling the truth.

'So what do you think it means?' he asked eventually, when she
was done.

'I have no idea. It means I have two blood-sisters, and they want
me to get to know them, which is fine. But family isn't like
powdered coffee -just add genes and acquaintance, instant
sisterhood.'

He was thoughtful. 'Look, what are you doing after this?'
'Going the hell home and going to bed,' lose said.

'Come back with me,' Jacob said. 'I don't think you should be by
yourself tonight.'

4oo


Chapter 60


Rose couldn't believe she had let herself be persuaded.

It was late, very late. She may have stayed up later than this before,
but this had certainly been the longest day of her life, and she was
spending the rest of it at Jacob Rothstein's place?

Maybe exhaustion had weakened her will, she thought, as she
parked the Porsche in his underground, gated garage.

Just remember one thing: you're not gonna go to bed with him,
she warned herself. Absolutely, TOO per cent not.

'Hey.' lkothstein was standing over her, having courteously
opened her door and helped her out. 'Just remember one thipg,
Fiorello, I'm not going to go to bed with you. Sorry. It takes m(3re

than a good steak and a glass of wine to buy my affection.'
Rose laughed.

'Curses, foiled again,' she said.

'Let's go upstairs and talk about this,' he said. 'I have a private
elevator right here.'

Rose dutifully followed him. 'I don't know why I'm here, Jacob.'
'Because you wanted to be with me.'

She ignored that. 'I don't even have a toothbrush or a nightgown.'

'I keep a package of guest toiletries. I have a spare bedroom with

its own bathroom. And don't sleep in any clothes on my account.'
Rose looked at him.

'I guess I may have a spare pair of silk pyjamas that I keep for
ladies,' 1Kothstein admitted.

'Well, aren't you smooth.'

Tm not a monk.'

'Then I wouldn't have expected all that stuff. Wouldn't your
female guests typically be spending the night in the main bedroom,
sans pyjamas?'

1Kothstein grinned at her. 'Makes them feel safe to know they


4oi

have another option, which relaxes them, and then ...' He spread
his hands.

'Machiavelli,' she said.

He bowed, acknowledging the compliment. 'I tend to go with
whatever works. Unfortunately you know that strategy, so now I'll
have to come up with another one.'

The elevator, an old-fashioned fantasy in carved brass, burgundy
leather and smoky mirrors, hissed smoothly to a stop. Rose's
stomach felt as though it had been left several floors below, but she
wasn't sure if that was from the ride or from being this close to
Jacob.

Male company. She just wasn't used to it.

Of course, he was a little more than plain male company. That
strong chest in the well-cut suit, that square .jaw, the dark, close
cropped hair, the thick black lashes. Rose's phantom stomach,
wherever it might be, squirmed with desire. But she looked away
and stepped out of the elevator car.

Now was not the time. Her defences were way, way down.


Jacob was as good as his word. He showed her into the opulent guest
bedroom, with its marble-ant-gold ensuite bathroom and a little
balcony that double windows opened on to, with a fabulous view of
Fifth and the spire of St Patrick's a few blocks up. He laid out the silk
py.jamas, the electric toothbrush, some Rembrandt, a pre-packed
case of Molton Brown shampoos and conditioners, Floris bath
essences, L'Occitane shower gel, a pair of Moroccan slippers
embroidered with gold thread, and, finally, an incredibly inviting,
enveloping, warm robe in the softest white cashmere.

'If you want to get changed, I make a mean hot chocolate.'

Rose was impressed, but still suspicious. 'And are you gonna be
decent when I come out?'

'I'm more than decent, baby,' he said, 'but you aren't getting to
find that out tonight.'

She surrendered, closed her door, and got changed. It felt good to
peel off her clothes and take a quick shower with some of that
exquisitely scented lavender gel. His towels were white and fluffy,
and she dried off, pulled on the pyjamas, the slippers and the robe,

and emerged to find Jacob in a pair of karate pants and a T-shirt.
'You're a black belt?'

'Third Clan,' he said, 'so you can feel quite safe.'


4o2

He handed her a steaming mug of frothy hot chocolate. She took
a sip; it was delicious.

Jacob paused. He had something to say to Rose, and wasn't sure if
he should. But she deserved to hear it.

	'Look, I'm not trying to freak you out or anything '

Rose smiled. 'I think I'm already about as freaked out as I could
possibly be, so a little more is not going to make much difference.'

'Then don't you think it's a little odd that two identical triplet
sisters of yours turn up in New York, today?'

'Well, of course it's odd. It's practically unbelievable, except for
the fact that it did happen, and I was there.'

	'I don't believe in coincidences,' Jacob said.

'Sometimes they do happen. Somebody wins the lottery almost
every week, and the odds against it for that particular guy are
fourteen million to one, but he still wins.'

	'Do you play the lottery?'

No.

	'Why not?'

	'Bad odds,' lose said, laughing.

	'Exactly. Now, I'm assuming that these two women actually .are

your sisters.'

	'What other possibility is there?'

'Elaborate plastic surgery, I suppose, but I can't see any motivation
for that. They both seem very successful and well-known in their
fields.'

	'Yes.'

'And I agree with Magnus Soren. Somebody evidently intended
that you three girls should not meet.'

	lose nodded. 'But that's all in the past, now.'

	Jacob shrugged. 'I'm surprised.'

	'At what?'

'That you would let this go. After all, you pursued my father for
hounding your father out of his lease. But you're willing to let the

person who split you up from your sisters get away with it?'
Rose paused. 'I hadn't thought of it like that.'

His words struck her in the heart. She felt pale, and unusually
weak, and flopped into one of Jacob's antique chiirs.

Concern crossed his face. 'Hey, I shouldn't have said anything. It's
too much for you to take in, all at once.'

'No, it's OK. You're right.' Rose looked up at him. 'You sound
like you care about me.'


4o3

'Of course I care about you,' he said simply. 'You're my woman.'
She felt an instant flood of desire.

Rose leaned over. Her plump lips were slightly parted, she felt hot
and weak with longing. She kissed him full on the lips, sliding her
tongue in between his teeth, feeling his momentary hesitation, and
then his strong arms around her as he pulled her close to him, his
rough fingertips sliding in amongst the cashmere and silk to find her
breast, cupping it with his hand, stroking and teasing until she was
almost maddened ...

'We can't,' lothstein said. He pushed her away, and ran a hand
through his hair. He was sweating with wanting her.

'We can do whatever we want,' Rose said, 'we're over twenty
one.'
'I can't take advantage of you like this. Not today. Of all days.' 'Goddammit, lothstein.'

'Sorry,' he said, unrepentantly. 'When you're in your right mind.
I've waited for you too long to take you like this.'

404


Chapter 61


Poppy decided that she didn't want to talk to Henry right away. She
had some things to do first.

She took a flight back to LA, went straight to her offices, and
called Dani in.

'What's up?' her right-hand woman said. She could tell right
away, by Poppy's face, that it was something serious. 'I don't think
you should sweat it about Menace, by the way. You made the right
decision. We should have dumped them long ago.'

'Don't you sometimes wish we could dump them all?' Poppy
asked.

Dani laughed. 'Yeah! The very next time I take a call fror a
groupie threatening a paternity suit, or a long-haired stoner rock sr
bitching about the green M & Ms somebody didn't pick out of l'tis
rider . . .'

'I want to get rid of the whole thing, Dani,' Poppy said seriously.
'I mean it. Menace were the worst, but I can't take the hand-holding
any more. Even Travis is bitching all the time now.'

Dani blinked. 'But Poppy, management is what we do. What else
would we do?' She looked panicked. 'I know they can be selfish
jerks, but I love the record business. This is my life, and I don't want
to give it up. Is this something Henry wants?'

Poppy sighed. 'Not at all. He was right, I was being a bit of a
spoiled bitch.'

'You? Never.'

'Cow,' Poppy said, grinning. 'I love the record business too, but I
don't think management is right for me.'

'Not right? Opium is, like, the hottest new firm, you manage all
kinds of different acts, you got record companies begging you to
take on their baby bands, I even had some classical guy call me and
ask me to take a look at his new violinist ...'

'Oh yeah?' Poppy asked, momentarily distracted. 'Was it another


405

'This- chick-plays- the-violin-and-she's-really- hot-solet's-do-arebelclassicalalbumwhereshecomesoutoftheseaholding-herStradivariusandwearingnothingbutaG-string
Wpe deal?'

Dani laughed. 'Pretty much. The twist was that this was a boy,
really buff, looks like he belongs in NSync.'

'Oy vey,' Poppy said. 'I hate those acts. Ugh.'

Dani chuckled. 'But you don't mean it about folding Opium.'

'I mean it about getting out of the management business. I think
we can expand.'

'What do you mean?' Dani asked warily. 'You're famous for
being a manager. If you switch you'd have to start from the bottom.'

'Didn't stop David Geffen, or Cliff Burnstein or Peter Mensch,


'OK, OK,' Dani said, 'so what, then?'

Poppy leaned across the desk and smiled at her. 'How does our
own record label sound?'


Poppy refused to stay more than a day in Los Angeles. She told Dani
to start vinding up Opium Management without her, drawing up
lists of who would stay and who would go. Everybody got generous
severance pay, enough to cushion the blow. But she didn't want to
deal with the moans of he; former employees, or the sudden
panicked wail of acts who realised they were going to lose their
manager, the young woman who had nursed them to stardom. She
took the time out to call Travis Jackson personally, but that was it.

Travis was surprisingly reasonable, reverting to the cool young
guy he'd been when they first met.

'So you're switching from the side of the angels, huh, baby?
Gonna work for The Man?'

'Or The Woman,' Poppy said, responding to his teasing. 'I got
some names of people I think would be great for you to go with.'

'They won't be you,' he said, sighing. 'But I guess this was
inevitable.'

'Why's that?'

'A girl like you can't really work for somebody else, not even for
rock stars,' he said, and Poppy thought it was one of the biggest

compliments she'd ever been paid.

'So what now?' Travis asked.

Poppy thought of Henry LeClerc, the next Senator from
Louisiana, if she had anything to do with it.

'I have a little personal business to take care of,' she said.


406

She hopped on a flight to New Orleans, where the Congressman
was holed up, starting the laborious task of pulling his ratings back
out of the drain that Poppy's image had plunged them into. Flicking
through the papers in her first-class seat, Poppy noted that his poll
ratings had gone up two points since the news had broken that she'd
left him, or he'd left her. But Henry was refusing to comment on it.
A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, she guessed.

Poppy rang Don lickles, his chief of staff, from her SkyPhone.

The call was about forty dollars a minute, but it was worth it.
'It's Poppy. I want to see him.'

'Can't you just leave him alone? You come back, you'll ruin
everything we've worked for,' the aide hissed at her.

'Actually, no I won't; and you know you can't keep me from
him, so don't even try,' Poppy said.

He sighed deeply, and told her to hold. In a minute, Henry's

voice was on - polite, guarded; it pulled at her heartstrings.
'Can I help you, Poppy?'

'You sure can. I fired Menace.'

'That's good, but-' "

'In fact I fired all my acts. I quit. Look, you were right. When c'n
I see you?'

'Any time you like, sugar,' he said, and she could hear the ea
splitting grin in his voice on the crackly satellite phone. 'Any time.
I've missed you.'

'I've missed you too,' she said, 'and I have so much to tell you,
you're just not gonna believe it.'


Daisy spent the morning with Janus, updating them on everything.
Their investigators met her at the utilitarian offices, listening and
taking notes, but not doing much talking.

'Well? Don't you think this changes everything?' Daisy asked.
Doug Berkshire smiled thinly. 'We had just put together the fries
on your sisters. We were about to present them, but it seems you got
there first.' He sighed. 'However, we haven't been able to discover
anything at .all about your parents. Nothing that matters.'

'If you know something, I want you to tell me now,' Daisy
pleaded.

'I will certainly give you our files, but we have discovered nothing
except that the adoption agencies were dummies, fly-by-night shops
that disappeared once each daughter had been adopted. We can't


4o7

find anybody involved with them. Your case,' and he pushed his
glasses up on the bridge of his nose, 'has some well-covered tracks in
it. The only mistake that was made seems to have been that the three
sisters were allowed to live.'

'At least tell me if there are any more sisters out there.'

'No. Three.' He nodded. 'Three girls.'

'Well,' Daisy said, slightly disappointed, 'I suppose that's enough
news to be getting on with.'

'There won't be any more news,' he said flatly. 'I'm afraid we've
done all we can here.'


Rose woke up, not sure where she was. A very comfortable bed,
with silk sheets, and the sunlight streaming in through the windows.
Really streaming in ... it was late, she thought groggily; she never
got up this late. Automatically, she swung her feet out of bed, but
instead of meeting her hardwood floors, they touched soft, warm,
thick carpet ...

She rubbed her eyes. She was in Jacob Rothstein's bed.

His spare bed.

The previous day, and night, came flooding back to her.
Maybe Jacob wasn't here, maybe he'd gone to work. She felt
instantly self-conscious, embarrassed. She had been panting after him
last night like a bitch in heat, and he'd said no, and he'd said he
wanted to wait until - now.

'Good morning.'

Jacob's head appeared around the door, and Rose jumped out of
her skin. She gathered the white cashmere robe hastily to her,
protectively.

'How did I know you wouldn't feel the same way this morning?'

he said. 'You act like a goddam virgin, Rose, you know that?'
'Actually,' Rose said with dignity, 'I am a virgin.'

He stared at her. 'Get out. I thought you were joking, before.
And still nobody?'

'Not that it's any of your business, but no.'

'Hmm.' Rothstein ran a hand through his hair. 'That's kind of
romantic, when you think about it. Weird, but you always were
weird.'

'You're weird,' Rose retorted, childishly.

'I'm not gonna be the one to change it.'

'Nobody asked you to,' Rose said, surprised at how disappointed
and rejected that made her feel.


408

'At least not right now.'

'What the hell are you talking about, P,.othstein?'

'You. Me. I told you, you're my woman.' He came over and sat

on the side of the bed. 'Yesterday I proposed a business partnership.'
'Yes, you did, and I haven't made my mind up about it yet . . .'

'Sure you have,' he said confidently. 'You'd love to take over
Rothstein Realty with me.'

She had to admit it. The thought of her sitting behind William
lothstein's desk was delicious. Putting right everything that bastard
had done wrong.

'Possibly,' she agreed.

'So let's just go a little further.'
'You're talking about marriage.'
'That's the ultimate partnership, toots.'

'You're talking about me marrying a Rotkstein,' she explained. 'I
hate the l<othsteins.'

'You don't hate me. You've been in love with me from the first
moment you saw me.'

lose grinned. 'You are a cocky son of a bitch, you know that?'

He kissed her. 'Well, you know what they say about birds of a
feather . . .'

409


Chapter 62


Poppy made her peace with Henry. It wasn't difficult. A formal
welcome for the cameras, a quick statement to the press about Henry
LeClerc's ideals and how she fully supported them, and then Henry
tugged her out of the media glare and back to his hotel room, and
the formal pecks on the cheek gave way to passionate kisses, kisses
that tore at the mouth the same way his hands tore off her clothes,
and her fingers pulled off his pants. They tumbled on top of the
bedding, hot mouths and skin and hands and limbs meshing together
in a frenzy of lovemaking.

'A record label. I think that's a great idea.'

'Suitable for a Senator's wife?'

'For this Senator's wife." Henry looked down at his bride-to-be,
her lips parted in anticipation. 'But please, no more hip-hop.'

Poppy scowled. 'There's gonna be plenty of hip-hop. Just none
like Menace.'

'Deal,' Henry said. And made love to her again.


'Daisy? This is Rose.'

Daisy beamed into the receiver. 'Hey, you. I didn't think I was
going to hear back from you so soon.'

'It was something of a shock. Listen, I'd like to come over and talk
to you,' Rose said.

'Be my guest!' Daisy exclaimed. She felt teary. 'I'm so glad we're
talking. After yesterday, I need some good news.'

'Why, what happened yesterday? Are you OK?'

'I'm fine.' Daisy sighed. 'It's just that I thought I had something

with Janus, my investigation agency, but they've hit a blank.'
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
'I'll see you in ten minutes, OK?' Rose said.


When she arrived at Magnus Soren's house, Rose felt a strange sense


4IO

of lightness. She had had a night to sleep on the strangest thing that
had ever happened to her, and though she was still shocked, she was
more accepting of it. Hers had been an extraordinary young life. She
thought she could cope with one more curveball.

Last night with Jacob had resolved some things she'd been battling
over. Her loathing of William and Fred Rothstein had warred with
her love for Jacob, a love she'd tried and failed to suppress. Now she
had an opportunity to seek justice, but to do it at his side. If she
couldn't ruin Fred Rothstein, removing him would do.

Rose pressed the bell. Before she got ready to strike the last item
off her to-do list, she allowed herself a second's delicious fantasy.
She, Rose Fiorello, sitting behind Fred Pothstein's desk. P,.unning
his company. And wearing his son's ring ...

Perfect revenge. Her father would have been proud.

A maid came to the door. 'This way, ma'am.'


Rose was ushered in to Magnus Soren's gorgeous living room again,
where Daisy enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug. Tm so glad
you're here.'

Rose scrutinised the familiar features. The too,' she said.
Daisy caught the tone.
'Something wrong?'
'No. Let's sit down.'
'Would you like some tea?'

'Nasty Limey habit, but I'll take some coffee, if you've got any.'
The maid disappeared to the kitchen before Daisy could make the
request. 'So tell me,' Daisy pleaded. 'I know you're hatching
something; I get that look myself.'

'I was thinking, maybe you're right about finding our birth
parents. Just to allay the curiosity.'

Her sister sighed. 'I really don't think it can be done. I've been
trying for a year, and even Janus, who were very bullish at first, say
they've come up with a blank.'

'From what I've heard of them, that seems unlikely,' Rose said.

Daisy blinked. 'You're suggesting they just pocketed my money
and didn't bother to do any work?'

Rose shook her head. 'Far more likely, they were-scared off. They
haven't been on this case long enough to make a determination like
that.'

Daisy was silent for a few moments.

'I think I can find out for sure,' Rose said. 'But it would mean

4II


getting your hands a little dirty, so we should probably get Poppy to
sign off on it, too, before we started.'

'What exactly are you talking about?'

The coffee arrived, and the maid poured it into a couple of wafer
thin bone china cups, disappearing as discreetly as she had
materialised.

Rose sipped the fragrant brew, making sure she was gone from earshot before she leaned forward and half-whispered to her sister,
'Do you know who Don Vincent Salerni is?'


Poppy was drawing up wedding plans when 1Kose called. Running a
record company was one thing; getting married was a whole new
nightmare. She had to calm her mother down, but Marcia eventually
accepted that having a Congressman, soon to be Senator, as a son-in
law was some compensation for her daughter marrying a gentile . . .

Poppy had tried, as gently as possible, to break the news of her
two sisters to her parents. After they had lowered their hands from
their mouths, they were insistent that Rose and Daisy come to visit.
Poppy winced.

'Don't you think we all need a little time to adjust?'

'Adjust? What's to adjust? her father demanded. 'If I can adjust to
all your long-haired druggies, Poppy, they can adjust to the
family . . .'

When Rose called, Poppy and her mother, who was utterly
determined not to be cheated of her role as Planner-in-Chief, were
going over swatches of bridesmaids' fabric.

'This is a very good colour, strong,' Marcia said approvingly.

Poppy sighed. 'I can't ask Dani to wear tomato-red. She'll look
like an actual tomato.'

'So she should drop some weight,' Marcia insisted.
'Mom -'
'Poppy! Phone!'

'Thank heaven,' Poppy muttered, racing downstairs.

'Hey, it's Rose. Sorry to bother you at home.'

'Don't be. Wedding preparations.' Poppy grimaced. 'Ugh. Las
Vegas and an Elvis impersonator looks pretty good right now.'

Rose chuckled. 'You too, huh? It's spreading like a virus. We're
all getting married.'

'What, you too? Who?'

'Jacob Rothstein.'

'I thought you hated the 1Kothsteins.'

412


'Oh, I do. It's a long story. But this isn't about that. Daisy and I
were thinking of finding our birth-parents. There's something off
about how we were adopted, and I can't let it rest without finding
out what, exactly.'

Poppy paused. 'I appreciate how you feel, but it's no go. Daisy
already told me. If Janus came up blank, hiring anyone else would
just be a waste of time. They're the best.'

'I have another option,' Rose said, and told her.


Her sisters had little faith in Rose's plan, but they agreed to go along
with it. Rose wasn't concerned. The other two girls came from
different worlds; they had no idea what a man like Don Vincent
Salerui was capable of.

She made an appointment to go and see him. Don Salerni
received Rose in the penthouse suite at the Rego Park complex,
lose's first and still most-beloved big real estate deal. She had spared
no expense in fitting it out; the walls had been tipped down and
replaced with Armorlite, UV treated and three inches thick, that
glittered like the glass it impersonated and gave Salerui exquisite
views over Queens - along with protection from snipers' bullets. If
any would dare. The floors were marble, and the ceiling painted irt a
faux-Italian mural, a pastoral scene. Rose had had the taps ald
shower head plated with gold, she had installed central air, a garbage
chute, the best appliances on the market - everything the modern
mob boss could desire. And Salerni had obviously been pleased,
because he had kept out of her hair.

More than that. Rose Fiorello had one of the best-run construction
sites in the business. Her workers were never late and they
never slacked off. The very association with Salerui was enough to
get her that respect.

Pose had not had many dealings with Salerui. She had not chosen
to get involved with him in the first place; but there was no getting
away from it, when he owned the hotel. Still, she knew her father
would have disapproved violently. Salerni was an extortionist, a
murderer.

And yet she was still here.

Rose wilfully pushed her doubts aside. Jacobwas tight. She
wanted answers. And this was the only way she knew how to get
them.

'Don Salerni,' she murmured, pressing his hand. She had to force
herself not to bend and kiss it. This guy wasn't the Pope.

'Rose. Sit.' He waved her to a chair, his narrow eyes scanning her,
checking her out. She was modestly dressed in a business suit from
Donna Karan, a cream silk shirt and a string of pearls, and somehow
his glance made her feel as dirty as if she were in a stripper's tassels
and G-string.

'Thank you,' she said.

'To what do I owe the pleasure? My personal charms have finally

gotten to you?'

Rose swallowed, hard. She'd rather die than let this guy touch

her. 'They would have, Don Salerni,' she said carefully, 'but I've
recently gotten engaged.'

He chuckled. 'No need to flinch, kid.'

She blushed.

'Auguri,' he said. 'Is it an Italian, like you?'

'No. A Jew.'

He frowned, so she moved on, quickly. 'Don Salerni. I have a
problem. I wondered if I could seek your help.'

The narrow eyes danced. 'Finally. I was wondering how long it

would take you. Trouble with the Rothstein boy in Alphabet City?'

Rose paled. 'No. No! I am engaged to Jacob Rothstein.'

For the first time, Salemi looked wrong-footed. He blinked, then

he burst out laughing. 'Crazy girl!'

'It is about my parents. My real ones,' Rose said. 'I want to find

them.'

'You hardly need me for that.'

'It's a little more complicated than usual. If I could explain ...'


Salerni listened intently. Rose was a little put off by how much he
seemed to be enjoying her story. He did not interrupt, and neither
did he answer his phone, which buzzed quietly at intervals.

'I was thinking it was odd, a firm like Janus, just up and quitting

like that.'

Salerni nodded. 'Yes. Well, we can start with the fact that you are

Italian.'

'We don't know that.'

'I knew it from the second I saw you, bellissima.'

'Possibly,' Rose said, smiling slightly. She bore the name Fiorello,

it would be nice to be Italian. And it might explain her desire to be

avenged . . .

Salerni smiled thinly. 'Despite what you read in the papers, we still

have some reach. Especially in the old country, though things are


414

going to hell down there . . . They even have women running some
crews.' He grimaced.

Rose didn't dare say a word. She knew that half of Italy was under
Mafia control, especially Sicily and the poor south. She'd done a
little research into international real estate, and the harsh climate and
earthquake potential weren't all that dampened property values in
what was, after all, a G8 nation; nobody wanted to live in a town or
village controlled by the Cosa Nostra.

'I can make a few calls,' Salerni said finally. 'Do you a favour. Perche no?'

'Grazie,' Rose murmured, 'Don Salerni.' She swallowed, hard.

His sharp eyes picked up on it immediately. 'There is something
else?'

Rose struggled with her courage. 'Yes. This is to involve my
sisters. Don Salerni, they are not of our world ... I know, when
someone receives a favour from a Don, that person is in his debt. But
I tell you fairly, you cannot have a hold over my sisters and me. I will
never submit to it, and I will not do anything illegal ...'

'So you refuse to be the mule for the sixty kilos I wanted to get
through Newark next month?' Salerni asked, then chuckled,:at
lose's shocked face. 'Ah, bellissima, you never would make a soldiSr.
You are a woman. What would I do with you?' .

Rose felt bizarrely annoyed that Salerni said he couldn't use her:
She could be a fine Mafiosi if she wanted to be ...

'You have balls,' Salerni said. 'I like you. For you, that's enough.'
He waved at the apartment. 'And you keep this place good.'

Rose blessed the day she had decided to outfit Salerni's penthouse
with the best of everything and present it to him free of charge.

He flicked his hand, indicating her audience was at an end. 'I'll see
what I can do,' Salerni said, and Rose withdrew.

415


Chapter 63


When she got the call almost a month later, Rose decided her sisters
had to be in on it. Poppy flew in from LA, delighted to be away
from wedding planning for a little while, and Daisy flew over from
England, where she had been staying with her parents. Rose was
surprised to discover how much she liked seeing the other two girls.
She hugged them, and meant the hug. It was almost like family, she
thought to herself with a grin. Maybe Daisy was right; maybe in the
end, blood would out, after all.

The other two cooed over the apartment, from which Jacob had
tactfully absented himself, and perched on the elegant couch while
Rose served up some cinn,amon coffee.

'Don Salerni will be here soon. Now, I want you guys to -'

'Wait. What did you say? He'll be here? I thought we were just
getting an update.'

'He wants to see you two in person. Curiosity factor, I guess.'

Poppy shuddered. 'Man. I don't know ... some murdering
thug ...'

Rose paled. 'Hey, you don't know if he murdered anybody. Not
for sure. And we need him, at least if we want to figure out what
happened to our birth parents.'

'Which we do,' Daisy said firmly. 'It's the piece that's missing in
my life, Poppy. We should be nice to him.'

'OK, OK,' Poppy said, spreading her hands. 'If he gets results...'
She shrugged.

'You need to be very respectful to him,' Rose said. Then,
catching the look on her sister's face, she added, 'And if you can't do
that, at least keep quiet.'

Poppy grinned. 'Fair enough.'
The buzzer sounded. Rose picked up the handset.

'Speak of the diablo,' Poppy muttered, and Daisy kicked her in the
shins.

46


'Sure,' Rose said to the doorman, shooting a warning look at
Poppy. 'Send him right up.'


Rose had the door open when Salerni arrived, and she ushered him
through it into her fianc6's apartment.

'Acceptable,' he said, glancing around.

'Don Salerni, may I present my sisters - Daisy Markham and
Poppy Allen.'

Salerni stared. 'Porca miseria! It's like a three-way mirror.' His thin
tongue slid fractionally out of his mouth, and moistened his narrow
lips, appreciatively.

Rose saw Poppy start to grimace. 'Sit down, please sit down,' she
said, blocking Saterni's view. 'Can I bring you anything? Mineral
water, coffee?'

Salerni pointed at the cut-crystal decanter. 'Scotch on the rocks.'
Daisy couldn't stop her eyebrow lifting; it was 9 a.m.

'Story like this, my pretty, needs a little something,' Salerni told
her, and instantly Daisy was all ears.

'You know something, urn, Don Salerni.'

'You could say that,' Salerni replied. He waited until Ros,had
presented him with a tumbler full of golden liquid and clinking[ice
cubes, took a pull of it, and started to speak. He was a quiet-voied
man, and that somehow made him more menacing. Even Poppy felt
herself fascinated, half-hypnotised. He had that kind of presence.

'First, so you two girls know' - Poppy bristled at 'girls', but
Salerni ignored her - 'I do a little business with your sister. She asks
me for a favour...' - he spread his hands, as Poppy had done earlier
- 'a padrone doesn't refuse a client. So I made a few calls. You,' he
nodded at Daisy, 'went to Janus. Smart move, but somebody had
told them to back off. Which intrigued me, when I found out it was
true. The guy on your case had somebody ring his house and leave
an answermachine message.'

'What was it?' Daisy asked.

'A gun being fired six times,' Salerni told. her. 'Same message was
left at all the guy's places: his country house, even the secret
apartment, he rents under another name where he stashes his
girlfriends. He decided you could go fuck yourselves; he wasn't
getting involved. So I got a copy of his files.' His eyes warned them
not to ask how; none of them did. 'Guy hadn't got far but he'd
gotten a couple leads. This man involved with the adoption agency
in London died in prison, convicted as an accessory to murder. The

417


murder was related to the Frederici crew, that's a small crew out of
Naples, died out. So I asked around some old guys who used to do
business with that crew. About three girls got adopted. They didn't
know much, but we kept asking around, legit sources too. Finally
came up with something. Three babies were abandoned at the door
of a monastery in Abruzzo, and they were snatched up for adoption
by the Fredericis. Unusual - a family getting involved in anything
like that. But the Frederici woman the monks gave the girls to didn't
raise them.'

'Did you ask her what she did with them?'

'She's dead.'

'What do the monastery records say?'

'Monastery got destroyed in an earthquake.'

'God damn it,' Daisy said, her fists clenched in frustration.
'No need for language like that,' Salerni said mildly.
'Excuse me,' Daisy said, a little frightened.

He enjoyed that look in her eye. 'My guys think the woman lied
to the monks. She never wanted to raise the kids, and her crew
placed them abroad, split them up. Question is, why bother? Now
the Fredericis were never a big crew, never a big family. I think
whoever picked 'em was sin, art, because they don't arouse much
interest. Kept to themselves, not big producers,' his lip curled in
contempt, 'nothing but local shit. They would have got paid nice to
bother with this, send someone abroad.'

'The man who died in jail ... whom did he kill?'

'Very good,' Salerni said, winking at Poppy. 'He was found guilty
of killing a Mrs Harrison.'

Daisy recognised the name. 'The woman who fronted the agency I was adopted from, who then disappeared.'

'Right. She went to Blackpool and was shot. The Frederici guy
got caught.'

'So.' Rose was working it out in her head. 'Someone pays the
Fredericis to take us from the monastery, and then send us abroad.
They hire people to make fake adoption agencies and then to make
sure nobody talks, they kill those people. Except that one of their

crew got caught, died in prison. He was the only link back.'
'Exactly.'

'Then the question is, who hired the Fredericis, and why?'
Salerni took over. 'I found the whole thing intriguing, at this
point. I had my people keep hammering. Why ... you must have
mattered to someone. A lotta trouble, just over three anonymous


418

girls. And there aren't a whole bunch of triplets born, least not
before they made up those fertility drugs. It got easier after I knew
the date.'

All three girls looked interested.

'About seventy-two,' Salerni informed them. 'They may have put
false ages on you at the three agencies. Anyway, you could have
been peasant kids, but not likely.., why would anybody go to such
trouble over peasants? I thought maybe you were daughters of some
family, maybe smuggled out to stop a vendetta. But you were all
girls. Nobody bothers when it's girls.' He grinned at Poppy's
outraged face. 'That's the truth, toots. Nobody thinks a girl will
come after them.'

'Don't they,' lKose said softly.

Salerni looked approving at her tone, and nodded. 'So I assumed
you were born in a hospital. We checked records. There were only
four sets of all-girl triplets recorded that year. One set was premature,
died early. Two other sets are still living, but they are accounted for.
The last set also died.'

Daisy was disappointed. 'So no hospital records ...'

'I didn't say that. The premature babies I wrote off, becaus .hey
died in the hospital. But the last set died in a fire. Their bodies qvere
never found.' He shook his head. 'I didn't buy that; did some
checking. These were rich girls, very rich. Their father was Ccmnt
Luigi Parigi, and right before the fire, he died in a shooting accident.
His skull was found in the woods, years later; they identified it by
dental records. If you believe that.'

'Parigi,' Daisy said. 'I think I saw that name before, in Hello!. But
it wasn't a count, it was a prince.'

Salerni nodded. 'The Prince was first cousin to the Count. Still is.
Your cousin.'

Rose felt her heart start to race. Her palms were sweating. 'How
can you be so sure? How can you know that?'

'It's simple,' Salerni said, mildly, but with complete assurance.
'Who stands to benefit from the hit? That's the one that does it. This
lKoberto was -working for his cousin. He's the eider branch, but they
got all the money. Anyhow ... when the Count has children, he
leaves his company to them. But if the Count, and then his wife and
daughters, all die in a tragic "accident" . . .' He shrugged again. 'The
Prince inherited everything.'

'But how much can it have been? He was a prince, wasn't he
wealthy? Why go to the trouble?'


49

'It was worth it,' Salerni assured them. 'The firm was worth
billions. Your billions.' He lifted his glass to them. 'Salud ...
Contesse.'

'This is crazy,' Poppy muttered, but Daisy was bright-eyed. 'Can
you prove it?' she said eagerly.

'Absolutely not,' Salerni said. 'You can try, but it'll never happen;
trail's too cold.'

'We'll see about that,' R.ose said, softly.

420


Chapter 64


Rome was everything Rose had ever imagined. She sat with Daisy
and Poppy in the back of their hired limousine, resting her head
against the tinted windows, exhausted after the long A1 Italia flight.
The girls had sat together in first class, sipping champagne and
discussing everything except the reason they were here. None of
them wanted to talk about it, in case they were overheard; who
knew where a man like loberto Parigi had his spies?

Rose had quietly read some back issues of Business Week, Forbes,
and The Economist which covered the Parigi billions. She felt the
anger simmer and seethe in her belly with each passing page.,. She
now felt almost as exhausted by her emotions as she was by,the
flight.

But this was Rome; and Poppy and Daisy were ooh-ing and ahing
with each sight which slipped by their windows; there was the
Circus Maximus, and the great ruined palace on the Palatine hill; and
the pyramid of Caius Cestius, white and gleaming, incongruous in
the 1Roman city; and lastly, the great curve of the Colosseum and the
pillars and arches of the great Roman Forum. 1Rose couldn't help but
look; she felt a strong pull, a real sense of being home.

Because she was an Italian. And so had her father been.

Before they got on the flight, Daisy had insisted they find out
everything about their birth parents. A Nexxis search had revealed
old photographs from the late Sixties: a handsome father, on a yacht
at Cannes, with his wife, a gypsy. 'A gypsy!' Poppy had exclaimed,
her eyes wide with shock. 'And look ... Look!' She pointed at the
eyes, distorted by the pixels of the comport screen, but still
unmistakable. Wolf-white, with flecks of silver, shocking in the
aristocratic, haughty olive-skinned face. Daisy clutched at her, and all
three women felt first the moment of communion, then sadness, and
then, lastly, rage.

'We're our mother's daughters,' Daisy muttered, 'that's for sure.'


421

1Kose said nothing. She turned instead to pictures of 1Koberto
Parigi, and there were plenty, because he was still alive. Unlike her
parents. And he was waiting for them.

'Loves the high life,' Poppy said, furiously. Parigi was pictured
everywhere, consorting with Eurotrash, minor princelings from
Monaco and Lichtenstein, attending film premieres, opera house
openings. He had never married, but was photographed with an
interchangeable selection of young blonde bimbos. He also did not

work, but simply hired the best people to do the work for him.
'He's prospered,' Daisy said, grimly.

'Up to now,' Rose answered. 'But maybe he knows we're
coming. When Janus started digging, that sent up a red flag, enough

to warn them off. He knows you, at least, are looking.'

'Then we should move fast,' Poppy said.

P,.ose grinned and extracted three first-class tickets from the inside
pocket of her jacket. 'We leave first thing tomorrow. Let's go get
this jerk before he decides to come and get us.'

They had all made phone calls, cleared a couple of weeks.
Nobody wanted to do anything else. They couldn't think of
,veddings right now, or record companies or books.

They had seen the fire in their mother's eyes. And the face of the
man who had put it out.

The sleek black car wound its way through the narrow streets of
Rome, over cobbled roads and through passageways of buildings of
ochre-coloured stone, covered in clematis and ivy, past little
sidewalk trattorias where tourists sat outside, sipping their drinks; and
finally pulled to a halt at the top of the Spanish Steps, disturbing a
cloud of pigeons.

'This the hotel?' Poppy said, stepping out, her eyes hidden behind
huge Sophia Loren-style sunglasses.

R.ose nodded, tipping the chauffeur some lire as he removed their
Louis Vuitton bags and handed them to a bell-hop. 'The Hassler.
You'll like it. It's the best hotel in Rome, so Don Salerni says, and he
should know.'

They checked in and were shown to their suite. An opulent living
room, with fantastic views towards the great dome of St Peter's, led
out to a marble-and-gold bathroom the size of Rose's old apartment
in Hell's Kitchen, and there were two gorgeous bedrooms, one with
a king-size canopy bed, the other with two twin beds each draped in
chiffon. There were cut-crystal vases everywhere, crammed with


422

roses, and a bowl of fruit, as well as a silver ice-bucket on a stand
containing a magnum of Cristal.

'Very nice.' Poppy yawned. 'I'll take the single room.'

'As long as I can have the bathroom first,' Daisy said, deftly
slipping past Rose and locking herself in.

'Bitch,' Poppy cursed. 'I need a shower.'

'You're going last,' Rose grinned, 'since you dived on the single
room. I bet Daisy snores, too.'

Poppy yawned and reached for a peach. She took a bite; it was

delicious, golden-fleshed and rich and juicy.

'I could get used to this fast,' she said.

'Don't get too used to it,' 1Lose said. 'Tomorrow, we go to work.'


The next day dawned bright and clear. The girls showered, and took
a room-service breakfast on the terrace overlooking the Spanish
Steps; they sipped fleshly squeezed juices and nibbled at croissants,
and downed thick, bitter black Roman coffee. Except for Poppy.

'I don't care how the Romans do it,' she said. 'I want bagels and
cream cheese. I don't work on an empty stomach.'

When the waiter had disappeared, Rose spread out the mp of
Italy she'd brought with her. 'We can hire a car and drive out there.
There's a palazzo, we should see that, and also Don Salerni saidthe

accident happened at a hunting lodge in the hills. I want to go there.'
'Who knows if it's still there? They probably built over it.'

'If it's where our parents died, I want to see it,' said Rose, and
Daisy nodded.


They found the hunting lodge first, or, rather, the site of it. Rose
parked their little rented Flat outside a caf8 in the village ofSpolina, a thriving hamlet with a post office, a shop, and two restaurants, both
bustling. It had been a long drive out of the city, and the sisters were
happy to sit in the shade and drink cool water, then follow it with a
wonderful, light young Chianti served from an earthenware flagon.
'Can we see a menu?' Rose asked.

The old woman serving them shook her head. 'No menu,
signorina. Today, Tuesday. Stew. Lepre.'

'Rabbit,' Rose told the others. 'That's fine," she.said, and the
woman bustled back inside and brought them three bowls of
something hot and black. Poppy took a sip gingerly, then her face
blossomed into a wreath of smiles. 'That is incredible,' she said.
'That might be the best thing I ever tasted.'


423

Daisy tore into it and so did P,-ose. They were both starving, not
having had the benefit of the bagels and cream cheese, and the stew
was a revelation: tender, strong-flavoured rabbit, bits of unidentified
herbs floating around, slow-cooked beans and lentils.

'I never tasted anything so good, not in any of the fancy restaurants Magnus takes me to,' Daisy said.

1Lose didn't reply; they were too busy guzzling the food. The
black-clad old woman smiled toothlessly and murmured encouraging
things in Italian. She seemed delighted when they all asked for
another bowl, and when that was finished, she brought out three
glasses full of shaved ice, flavoured with real lemon.

'Forget the Hassler,' Poppy said, 'I'm never leaving, I'm moving
in here.'

While Daisy licked every last drop from her spoon, tLose asked
the old woman in halting Italian about the hunting lodge. She
crossed herself, and bent down to Rose, and whispered in her ear.
1Lose threw a generous amount of money on the table and stood up.

'She said that road leads up there, into the hills. Nothing was ever
built there, because the locals regarded the place as cursed; the gypsy
woman died there. She said it was a terrible fire, and the three little
girls were killed. People still remember it here.'

'Let's go,' Poppy suggestel.


They walked for half an hour, sweating in the boiling noonday heat,
up the white road covered with pebbles, little more than a dirt track.
It was uncomfortable, but none of them complained. They sipped at
bottles of water, all three feeling the sense of darkness and foreboding

that loomed over them despite the bright sunshine and clear sky.
Finally, the summit was reached.

'My God,' 1Lose breathed. 'My God.'

There was no mistaking it. Someone had done a pretty good job
all those years ago; nothing grew on the ground where the lodge had
been. It was black and lifeless, a stark shadow in the midst of the
green woods which sprung up all around it.

'I don't know if it's my imagination,' Daisy muttered, 'but I feel I
just feel sick.'

All three stared at the dark earth.

'Nothing natural started this fire,' Poppy said flatly. 'I didn't know
what to think, but now I do. I truly believe it. He murdered our
parents.'

She walked forward, slowly, tracing the outline of the lodge, foot


424

by foot, encircling it. Poppy's heart was racing, but ahe felt calm,
resolute. Her mind flickered back to her parents' comfortable house
in LA, to MTV and bat mitzvah parties, and learning to drive, and
her whole wealthy suburban life; and meanwhile, the other parents
who had given her life in the first place, half a world away, had died
here, been killed here.

Poppy felt something. She felt as though she were two people,
that the old world, here, now, was calling her, her parents were
calling out to her. She felt that they had loved her. Tears started to
roll down her cheeks. She had, after all, survived, and been saved.
Her parents must have done that. And now she was back here, to
give them something. Justice.


Daisy saw Poppy crying; so did 1Kose. Neither of them said anything.
Daisy felt her heart expand in gratitude, gratitude at last to be
standing here, to know the truth. She felt distressed, and still
nauseous, thinking of a deliberate fire, of her mother burned beyond
recognition. But underneath it there was a sense of gratitude.
Because at last she knew that she had not been rejected. She had
been rescued. Her parents had saved her life; her parents had loved
her. She pictured her wild, glamorous mother, the woman in thse
faded magazine photographs, picking Daisy up and swinging h
around, taking her to the beach, her baby hand in her mother's slim
fingers. Normal mother-type things, that she would have done, if
anybody had given her a chance.

Daisy said a quiet prayer for her birth-parents. They had not had
that chance, but they had made sure she got one. She looked at Nose
and Poppy. She now had her sisters, despite the evil man who had
tried to take them from her. Her parents' memory would not be
blotted out. After all, they were a family, and that was what she
would take away from this.

Two sisters. Family. Which he would never be able to destroy.


1Kose stared at the scorched earth while Poppy walked around it,
weeping, and she felt something connect in her heart, like a circle
snapping together. She had always thought of herself as Italian,
because her father was, and for her, this felt natural; a homecoming.
She wondered what her mother would have wanted. Blood revenge?
What would her father have wanted? She had it within herself, at this
moment, to be eaten alive with a desire for vengeance. But she
knew, even examining this desolate spot where 1Koberto Parigi had

425


tried to steal her father's life, his family, his inheritance, that her
parents would not have wanted that. Rose thought that maybe there
was a spark of R.oberto in her. She was from the same gene pool,
after all. But he had been consumed by anger and desire for revenge.
His desire, true, was groundless, it had been sheer envy; and Rose's
was not. But she was not about to go down the path Roberto had
trodden.

She would have her revenge. Revenge that would please her

parents, though; no more blood, because she was better than him.
She was Luigi and Mozel's daughter.

Abruptly, she turned away. She didn't want to look at the site any
more. 'Let's go to the Palazzo di Parigi, and see if the Principe is at
home. We have some business with him.'

Rose and Poppy started to walk back down the hill. Daisy, with
tears glittering in her eyes, kissed her fingertips and placed them
against the ground.

Saying goodbye.

426


Chapter 65


'What do we have today?'

Principe P,.oberto di Parigi turned to his private secretary. It was
his usual morning question, delivered in the flawless upper-class
accent he took such care to preserve, loberto never allowed one
word of dialect, or the merest hint of a regional tone, to creep into
his perfectly modulated Italian.

Signor Grucci, his assistant, was a small, thin man, with an
obsequious manner. He was used to taking abuse from his master.
He hated Parigi, but didn't really care as he was so well paid. The
Prince liked to be surrounded by toadies and hangers-on, anal.he
paid enough to ensure he always got the respect he thought he
deserved. .

'Tea in the morning at the Eden with Mademoiselle Fleuri,' le
intoned, 'then after that, Principe, you have a meeting with Signor
Oliverio from the company, and you have lunch at the Palazzo
Barberini with the art commission to discuss the winter ball ...'

P, oberto waved a languid hand. It was hot, and he was a lazy man.
He enjoyed sitting on the boards of the important social bodies in
Rome; this orchestra, that art gallery; he was a big fish in a small
pond, respected and courted, and, most importantly, his name and
the name of his house was lionised. But today, Roberto only wanted
to see the French model, Elaine Fleuri, with whom he might have
some anonymous and selfish sex. Girls like her were little better than
high-priced hookers, Roberto thought contemptuously; but he
made them submit to his private doctor before taking up with them
for a month or so, then dismissing them with some pearls or a pair of
diamond earrings. He always had a thug call them afterwards to let
them know that their mouths should stay as tightly closed as their
legs had been wide open. The carrot and the stick.

'I think cancel all but Mile Fleuri - I shall read today,' he replied,
'and we can pack for the Palazzo this evening.'


427

'Very good, Principe,' Signor Grucci responded. 'Can I bring you

anything further?'

Roberto shook his head. 'You may go.'

'Yes, Principe,' Grucci said, retiring with a little bow.

Weasel, Roberto thought. But he enjoyed the little bows, and the

repeated use of his title. He sighed with satisfaction. He would take
his coffee on the roof garden, along with his pills, and prepare for the
expert attentions of Elaine. And later on, maybe take a nap ...

It was good to be in Rome, rich, respected, admired, his family

honour quite restored. Roberto had avoided children, and now he
thought with satisfaction that no young brat of his could come along
and disgrace the name of Parigi which he had so carefully restored.
He would leave the Palazzo to the state, and donate his shares to the
Church, and leave behind the legend of the last of the Parigis, a true
nobleman who shunned work, and ordered the world to his will,
instead of the other way around.

He felt perfectly happy. He had achieved everything his heart had

ever desired.


The Palazzo was on the outskirts of the town. They saw it from the
car before they parked, the' ancient silhouette rising into the clear
sky, looking almost alive and organic. It was huge and imposing, and
they craned their necks to look before they parked the car a few
streets away and got out.

'Well,' Rose said, 'it's a long way from Hell's Kitchen.'

'And the Home Counties,' Daisy added.

Poppy just stared. None of them could believe that something so

old and so noble had belonged to their ancestors.

'You know, this is his,' Rose said. 'This is actually his. He was

from the older branch.'

'The older branch,' Poppy snorted.

'I know it sounds ridiculous.., but that's Europe, and titles. And

it's our family too,' Rose said defensively.

'If he doesn't have any children, we would inherit it,' Daisy

pointed out.

'Only the eldest,' Rose said, 'but who knows who that is?'

'I don't mind sharing,' Poppy said, her eyes drinking in the beauty

of it. She was suddenly consumed with curiosity. 'This is our family

seat, huh? Is that what they call it?'

'Yup,' Daisy said.


428

'I want to go inside.' Poppy turned eagerly to the other two. 'I
want to see it. Think we can get in?'


They walked around the outside of the Palazzo's grounds, staring up
at the Florentine-style wails; Renaissance brick, gorgeously restored,
with balconies and turrets and a walled garden, and everywhere a
coat of arms which bore a rearing gryphon clawing its way across the
shield.

'What is that?' Poppy asked.

'His coat of arms,' Rose said, and corrected herself. 'Our coat of
arms.'

'Place looks locked up,' Daisy said.

Rose walked up to the locked double doors of wood in the
middle of the wall and pressed the bell there. There was a moment's
silence, then the sound of footfalls across cobbles as somebody
walked to the gate.

She turned to her sisters. 'Just let me handle this, OK?'

The door creaked open. 'Yes?'

Rose batted her eyelids. 'We're here to see Principe Roberto
Parigi.' "

'The Principe is in Rome,' said the man, a thick-necked securit
guard type, in perfect English.

Rose pouted. 'I was sure he told us to meet him here. He's going
to be very disappointed if we're not waiting for him.'

The guard's dark eyes swept up and down Rose's body, and he
grinned.

'Special order? Americans? I suppose you should come in.'

Covered by the noise of the creaking gate as it swung open, Daisy
hissed, 'He thinks we're hookers!'

Poppy smirked. 'Ssh, Rose has something here. That dirty old
bastard.'

They fixed wide smiles on their faces as the gate swung open, and
revealed the guard plus another. Both of them carried submachine
guns slung over their shoulders. Daisy blanched, and Rose squeezed
her hand.

'A very special order,' Rose said, waving her hand at. her sisters.

The guard and his pudgy companion took in the three of them,
then started to cackle.

'Sisters! Triplets! He's a lucky son of a bitch, that one,' the pudgy
guy said, in Italian.


429

P,.ose smiled at them both. 'I believe we are supposed to wait in

the main hall?'

They were showed inside the Palazzo. 'Stay here - I will check

with his staff,' the guard said shortly, lose waited until he had

walked up a flight of stairs, then beckoned to the others. 'Let's go.'

They walked quickly though the ancient halls, examining the

drawing room, the corridors, the dining hall with its huge fireplace,
the portraits, and tapestries, all the while their mouths open, drinking
it in. Rose thought it was the loveliest building she had ever seen.
That it belonged to the man who had murdered her parents made
her feel physically ill; her stomach churned, and she had to sit down.

But not for long. She was resting on an antique carved bench

when the guard returned, his eyes colder.

'They never heard of this order. Are you sure it was here?'

'Maybe it was the place in lome.' lose sighed. 'Oh well, guess

we'll drive down there.'

'You know the address?' the guard asked, his eyes narrowed in
suspicion.

P,.ose had done her research. 'Of course, baby. Appartamento

Cinque, Numero Ottanto, Corso 17ittorio Emmanuele Due.' She rattled it

off from memory. 'It's the penthouse.'

He grunted. 'Very wel].' He lifted the gun and gestured to them

to get out. They moved fast, and headed back to the car.

Poppy groaned. 'Another long drive.'

'You don't want to take a break now, do you?' asked Rose.
'Absolutely not. That goon had a submachine gun, means the guy
is pretty serious. He'll probably call Poberto. We should get there
before he has time to figure out what to do with us.'

Poppy put the car in gear and sped off screeching down the road,

burning rubber; it was Italy, so nobody noticed.

'You know we can't prove anything,' Daisy said, as Poppy took a

hairpin bend at lightning speed. 'What if he just laughs at us and says

we're crazy?'

'We'll work something out,' Poppy said. 'Maybe Rose just makes

another call to Salerni.'

Daisy blinked. 'What, like violence? We don't want to use any

violence ...'

'Speak for yourself,' Poppy retorted.

'Hold on.' Rose jumped in to prevent the fight from starting.

'There's no need for that. We don't want to be like he was. Plus, I

don't want to go to jail. Or get myself into a vendetta.'


430

'So we just let him get away with this?' Poppy demanded.

	'Absolutely not,' P,.ose said. 'But there are other ways to go about

it.'

	'And what, exactly, are you going to do?' asked Poppy, turning

on to the autostrada and gunning the accelerator.

'Ruin him,' Rose said simply, 'and destroy all he holds dear. And
we won't need to shed one drop of blood to do it.'

	'This, I gotta hear,' Poppy replied.

43


	Chapter 66


'I hope that was acceptable, P, oberto,' the girl murmured. He
looked at her, the Pratesi satin sheets pooling around his scrawny
torso, a hideous contrast to her healthy young figure with its smooth, peachy skin. He scowled, and she dropped her eyes.

'I mean, Prince P,.oberto,' she said. I hate him, she thought, but he
was good for a couple of grand if she played the game the way he
liked it, and she wanted to stay in her rent-free apartment and keep
her chauffeur.

'That's better,' he corrected her. He never let sluts like this one
call him by his first name. 'And you were just about acceptable. I
find you are getting rather .dull. Do better next time.'

'Of course, Prince Poberto,' she said, dropping her eyes to hide
the fury in them, and gathering up her clothes. She would dress
quickly and then leave. The bathroom and comforts of the suite
were not for her. P,.oberto liked to be alone after sex, to gloat, and
the women who serviced him usually couldn't wait to leave his
presence.

In this, as in everything else, his quirks were tolerated.

After the model had gone, Poberto Parigi lingered and smoked
one of his Cuban cigars. He also took a glass of dessert wine and a
biscotti. It was a favoured ritual, one his cousin Luigi had once told
him he employed; the sensuality of love-making followed by the
sensuality of a good smoke, and decent wine. For P, oberto, the years
of cigars had been a faint reminder of his sweetest victory. He had, in
a mockery of his cousin and the gypsy witch, withdrawn to his room
after his public show of grief at the funeral, and smoked his cousin's

cigar, and drunk his wine.

It tasted very sweet.

Today, as he was sipping his vino santo, P, oberto missed the
message that was delivered to his penthouse suite. It was taken from the fax machine by Signor Grucci, who did not look at it - because


432

he dared not interfere with Roberto's plans. R.oberto dressed
without any knowledge of it, and quitted the hotel. His driver and
limo were waiting to take him back to Corso Vittorio Emmanuele.

Roberto had no clue that anything unusual was about to happen.
To him it was just another day.


Poppy found a parking spot. It wasn't legal, but so what - they'd get
fined, like any other Roman motorist. That was hardly important. If
they towed the car, she didn't care about that either. The important
thing was getting to Roberto's place in time.

Poppy stepped out, and groaned as the blood rushed back into her
legs. They were standing outside Number 8o - a sleek, modern
fronted building in the middle of all the ancient houses, Renaissance

churches and palaces. She looked at her sisters.

'Ready, girls?'

Daisy reached out, took Poppy's hand and squeezed it, then took
Rose by the hand, and squeezed it too.

Rose found her eyes misted over and when she spoke, they were
thick with tears.

'You know, it almost doesn't matter what we do with: him.
Because for the first time, I feel like I've found my sisters.'

Daisy smiled. The too. But it does matter, P,.ose. Let's go get is
bastard, OK?' "


'But I don't understand,' Signor Grucci said, politely. He looked at
the three women, perplexed. They were certainly Parigi's type;
incredibly good-looking, even if slightly older than he was used to,
and exotic. Obviously triplet sisters. Well, it was just like his boss to
go one better than the traditional male fantasy of twins. But hadn't
Parigi just finished with the French whore?

He hesitated. His caution did battle with his natural cowardice.
Parigi did not like other men messing with his whores. If they were
insulted, or dismissed, he had to be the one to do it. No member of
staff was permitted to be rude to a woman until Roberto was
through with her.

'I do. They told us at the Palazzo about the m!x-up and that we
should come here,' Rose said firmly. She affected a Texan twang.
'The fee's pretty big, Mister, an' he had us flown in real special-like,
on the Concorde to London and then down here on the Gulfstream
IV. I don't think we should skip it. But if you say so, 'cause our
house will be invoicing the john ...'


433

Grucci blanched. 'Don't refer to the Prince in that manner.'
'Whatever,' Rose said nonchalantly. 'Come on, girls, let's split.'
'No! Wait!' Grucci mopped his brow. Damn whores! What
should he do? Flown here on Concorde and the Gulfstream; that was
indeed the company plane, they had four of the jets. He ran the
numbers in his head. That was some cab ride P,.oberto had paid for,
and presumably he'd want to see the merchandise. Triplets; that was
unusual. He leered slightly at them, and checked his l<olex.

'The Prince should be back soon,' he said. 'You may wait here in
the corridor.'


The girls didn't have to wait long, which was probably just as well.
Daisy was nervous and jittery; Poppy squeezed her hand, trying to
calm her pulse, not wanting her to blow their cover. Poppy herself
didn't know quite what she felt. Anger, expectation, curiosity,
loathing, nerves . . . everything seethed together in her stomach, but
she took that expensive private school education and put it to its first
real use. She kept her face a mask, and glanced at P,.ose. Rose's eyes
glittered like a cobra's, and Poppy felt glad she wasn't Prince
loberto Parigi.

'He's here.' The oily little m, an was back. 'You go into the living
room, go.' He shepherded them inside. P,.oberto enjoyed the
company of these women, but didn't like to have anyone else
interact with them. Like all johns, he felt a mixture of contempt and
shame, loberto was inured to his own immorality, his conscience
had been utterly ignored for years; but his sense of his own rank was
very much alive.

It didn't do for him to be openly seeing whores, as opposed to
gold-diggers; so Signor Grucci was in the habit of pretending he had
not noticed them arrive.

'Good morning, Principe,' he murmured, 'I believe the doorman
mentioned you had some visitors waiting; I didn't see them.'

That was the normal, socially acceptable code for 'hookers in the
area'.

P,,oberto blinked. He had not called for anyone to be sent over. A
mix-up at one of the discreet, exclusive brothels he sometimes used?
He had Elaine; he had not placed any calls for a month, at least...
Still; he didn't wish to deal with this while Grucci was present.
'That will be all,' he said.

'Yes, of course, Principe,' said Grucci, bowing slightly and
withdrawing. Great; he'd get an early lunch hour.


434

As soon as the penthouse elevator door hissed shut behind Grucci,
Roberto opened the gilt-laden double doors that led to his sitting
room, to dismiss the sluts with a flea in their ear; he didn't like
mistakes, especially when he'd just been with Elaine, and had no use
for more ...

There were three young women sitting, together, on the end of
his couch. He blinked; they were beauties, for sure, with long,
flowing black hair, glossy fountains of it; slender, with light olive
skin and high, angular cheekbones. Truly stunning, his favourite
type of woman. And, he noted, as he stared with surprise, all exactly
the same. Identical triplets.

His first thought was approval of whichever madam had sent them
round. If he did not want them now, he could use them later. He

took a step forward, and all three girls stood up.

'I didn't order you,' he said, in Italian.

P,.ose answered. She had spent all last night thinking about exactly
what she was going to say.

'You are Prince P,.oberto Parigi,' she said. 'I am Contessa 1<ose
Parigi. This is Contessa Daisy Parigi. This is Contessa Poppy Parigi.
You killed our father, Conte Luigi, and our mother, Contessa
Mozel. We have found you. We know everything. And we liave
come for revenge.'

At first Roberto thought he was dreaming, or that the Frervh

whore had slipped some hallucinogen into his wine.

And then he saw their eyes.

His heart started to pound and thud, and he felt dizzy. He
staggered into a chair.

His skin went ash-grey.

'Did you think we would never ask questions?' Daisy demanded.
A small glint of hope crept into Roberto's eyes. 'I know you did!
Yes. I know you asked questions. And you came back with nothing. You can prove nothing!'

Rose smiled. 'We are Mozel's daughters. Do you know what
happened to us, after you tried to bury us? But yes, of course you
know; you had to get that report after you scared off Janus.'

He had, and he had hated it. Rage and fear washed over him.
'You got lucky,' he said.

'No. We earned everything we have,' Rose said. 'And you stole
everything you have. We are here to get it back. Every last cent.
And to make sure you end your days disgraced, and in jail. Do you
know what will happen, Roberto? You have no children, and you

435


won't get any, now. You'll die disgraced, and we'll inherit
everything - the conpany, the palace, the title.'

'The title?' he spluttered. 'Gypsy brats, that witch's brats ...'

Rose put her face close to his. Though smaller and slighter, she
seemed to tower over him.

'Yes,' she hissed. 'Gypsy girls will be the Princesses of the Parigi. I
will have a portrait of my mother painted, and hang it in the hall of
your - our- ancestral home. And maybe trace my other relatives, my
mother's relatives ... seeing as you hate gypsies so much. Think of
them, living in the Palazzo, and enjoying all you hold dear ...'

'What a good idea, Rose,' said Daisy. 'Filling that dusty old pile
with gypsy children ...'

Roberto gasped. His eyes narrowed with pure hatred, and then
fear. He clutched at his chest, gasped again, and then slumped to the
floor.

The girls looked at him.

Rose was the first to move. She flipped over the scrawny, lanky
body, and straddled his chest. She pushed down violently, breathing
into his mouth and doing CPP,.. Daisy was already on the phone to
the doorman, downstairs; he could summon an ambulance. While
Rose kept pumping, Poppy broke the spell that had come over her
and found the bathroom, and the medicine cabinet. She pulled out
the bottles until she found aspirin, then violently unscrewed the top,
sending pills everywhere. As she raced back into the living room, she

saw Roberto was back, breathing raggedly, and spluttering.
'Aspirin?' Rose said.
Poppy nodded.

'Give it here.' Rose took the tablet, crushed it between strong
fingers, and shoved it down Roberto's throat. He swallowed,
reflexively, gasping for air. The doors were flung open, and the
building's doorman burst in.

'He had a heart attack,' Daisy said.

'I call ambulance.'

'You know CPR?' Rose asked. She mimed pushing down on the
chest. The doorman nodded, and she looked down at Roberto. His
colour was off, but he was breathing steadily, and staring at them
with eyes that were little pin-pricks of hatred and terror.

'He'll be OK,' Rose said. 'Let's get out of here.' She spoke to the
doorman in her own, halting Italian.

'My name is Contessa Rose Parigi,' she said. 'Look after my
cousin Roberto. We have not finished our business with him.'

436


Then she stared down at Roberto.

'You're not getting off that easily,' she said. 'Get ready, Roberto.
Because we'll see you in court. But ruining your reputation? That
starts right now. We're going back to our hotel, and we're going to
start giving interviews. And I think you'll find the press will be
fascinated. Because, after all-'

Daisy smiled, and finished her sister's thought.

'It's such a good story,' she said.

437


Epilogue


Daisy was right; the press loved the stow, and not just in Italy. It ran
worldwide. It was juicy: a prince, a gypsy, a scandal, billions of
dollars ... The girls presented their evidence, and handed out

pictures of themselves next to pictures of Contessa Mozel.
'Maybe he'll shoot himself,' Poppy said.

Rose shook her head. 'He's a bully, and a coward. He wouldn't
have the guts.'

Roberto Parigi was utterly disgraced. He hired lawyers, but
nobody gave him a chance. Society in Rome wouldn't receive him,
while the three sisters were f&ed. The girls milked it for all it was
worth; they announced themselves as Contessas Rose, Daisy and
Poppy, and they were accepted as such. Roberto's lawyers threatened
with libel any magazine that called them by their titles, but
nobody was listening. The glossies told him to prove it; the whole
world knew that the court case would end with the Prince in jail,
and the girls as billionairesses. The story made the Gucci family
intrigues look dull. It was broadcast everywhere, and Roberto's
girlfriends couldn't wait to come forward with their tales of his poor
performance in bed, his cruelty and egomania.

The case was sealed when an old servant of Luigi's came forward.
She had a locket containing a lock of Mozel's hair, and a letter from
Luigi, signed, to prove it. The three sisters took DNA tests; they
matched. Roberto di Parigi, who had buried three small empty
coffins, was arrested for murder. But the girls did not comment on
that. Justice would take its course, and he was beneath them.

They flev home after six weeks. Being aristocrats and instant
celebrities was all very well, but they had to prepare for running the
family company, and for other, more important things; such as
weddings.

'Do you realise you'll be richer than me?' Magnus Soren asked
Daisy.

438


'Do you care?' she responded.

'Not particularly,' he said. 'And anyway, you won't be for long.'
'You're a competitive, type-A bastard, Magnus,' Daisy smiled.
'That's me,' he admitted, kissing her lightly on the lips.


Poppy was the first to get married. She had two weddings, one
Jewish, one Episcopalian. The Episcopalian one was small and
discreet. The Jewish one had five hundred guests, and lasted almost
twenty-four hours. Daisy and Rose were her bridesmaids.

'How long's the honeymoon, Senator?' Daisy teased her new
brother-in-law, Henry LeClerc, who was celebrating his recent win
in the polls.

'A month, I hope,' Poppy groaned. 'He said it was a surprise, but I
need to recover.'

Henry looked sheepish and drew Daisy aside. 'It's a weekend in

Paris,' he said. 'We both have to get back to work.'

'Ugh,' Poppy grunted. 'I heard that.'

'You know it's true,' Henry said, a little pleadingly. 'Come on
now, sugar.'

'As long as we can stay in the George Cinque,' Poppy said.

'The horse-drawn carriage, the trip to the Folies Berg&e, walking
along the left bank ...' Henry said, temptingly.

Poppy's grimace blossomed into a smile. 'Sounds perfect. I hate
time off, anyway.'

The too,' Henry said, kissing her on the lips.


R, ose went back home to her mother, and brought Jacob with her.
Mrs Fiorello doted on him. They set the wedding for the Fall, in St
Joseph's, in the Bronx. Already thrilled that there were two duplicate
loses out there, that her Rose had found some more family, Mrs
Fiorello went into transports of fresh joy over Jacob Rothstein. Her
daughter was successful, and rich, and had finally got herself a life
outside her job. She had more family than just Daniella, and even
more crucially, she was going to be a wife ....

'Such a nice boy, such a handsome boy,' she said, tweaking
Jacob's cheek. 'Now, you won't be trying to move in with my Rose
before her wedding day?'

'Morn,' Rose protested, colouring violently.

Jacob smothered a grin. 'No, ma'am. I waited this long for her,
what's a little bit more?'

'Such a good boy, oh, he's adorable, lose,' Mrs Fiorello said,


439