Tasmina Perry - Gold Diggers

For a second Summer flinched as a wall of sound hit her. A swaggering rock god had walked onstage holding his guitar. A single distorted chord rang around the room and, when he was satisfied he’d got the crowd’s attention, he jumped into the air and The Riots blasted off. Summer could hardly believe it. Charlie was so unrecognizable from the handsome preppy boy at the shoot that she almost wondered if she’d got the right gig. But it was definitely him, his groomed hair replaced by a tousled surfer-boy look and a three-day stubble, the stuffy suits of the wedding shoot replaced jeans, T-shirt and a lorry-load of attitude. He was so sexy ! The songs were amazing too – from shouty rock anthems to ballads that pulled at Summer’s heart strings. This was fantastic!

On stage, the drummer yelled at Charlie to slow down. But he wanted to finish and get offstage. Deep in the crowd, through the glaring lights and sea of faces, Summer Sinclair’s face shone out at him. He charged through The Riot’s set list and ran off backstage, ignoring the pretty girls begging the security guard to be let through.

Please don’t let her leave , he thought, rushing out into the crowd to find her.

‘Hey. You came.’

Summer was just zipping up her jacket ready to face the cold night outside. She turned and smiled.

‘Shouldn’t you be backstage taking coke and drinking whisky?’ she asked, her head cocked in mock innocence.

Charlie laughed. ‘Me? I’m really just a square middle-class boy, but don’t tell this lot that,’ he grinned.

They propped themselves up at the bar as Charlie ordered two lagers, at the same time accepting assorted back-slaps from excited fans.

‘I think they loved it,’ whispered Summer as one pimply youth told Charlie he was wicked .

‘But what did you think?’

Summer wanted to tell him that his sexual presence seemed to fill this stage, that his heartfelt lyrics of love and loss had made her want to cry. But she couldn’t. She just didn’t know how to be around Charlie.

‘You were brilliant,’ she said simply.

‘Yeah, well,’ he said, looking at the floor, ‘playing the Monarch is a big step up for us. It’s one of the best places to play in London for an unsigned band because there’s always A&R people hanging about. Plus it’s got this incredible history. Everyone’s played here. Oasis, Coldplay, Chilli Peppers. Playing here is either the beginning or the end of the road for The Riots.’

Summer was still staring at her lager.

‘Are you going to drink that or just look at it?’ smiled Charlie.

‘You’ll never believe this,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never had a pint before.’

‘Good God! Where’ve you’ve been living? Mars?’

Her cheeks flushed with awkwardness. ‘No, in my mother’s universe.’

Charlie nodded. ‘Ah yes, someone told me after the wedding shoot that your mum was Molly Sinclair. So what was it? Champagne in your baby bottle?’

‘Something like that.’

He took a long slurp of beer that left a white frothy moustache on his lip. ‘Fuck. What must that be like, to have a supermodel as a mother? I bet your dad loved it,’ he winked.

‘Actually, I don’t really know my father.’

Charlie bowed his head in embarrassment. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Summer, surprised at how easily she could talk to Charlie. ‘My mum lived in New York for a couple of years before I was born. She had an affair with this rich guy, Upper East side, rebel son from a good family, you know the sort. Anyway, she got pregnant and he dumped her. Seems like it wasn’t in his family’s masterplan for him to settle down with some crazy model. My mum came back to London and never heard from him again.’

‘Don’t you ever want to find him?’

Summer shook her head defiantly. ‘After he abandoned us? No way. Anyway, I guess you don’t miss what you’ve never had.’

By the time Summer had finished the pint of lager, she felt light-headed and happy, and found herself growing more and more attracted to Charlie. It crossed her mind what Molly would think of him; when he had bought their drinks, she had seen him anxiously rattle around a few pound coins in the palm of his hand. She snorted. Molly would go spare .

But she wasn’t here looking for romance, she told herself. She was happy to be chatting to him, enjoying his company; most of all, she wanted Charlie McDonald to be her friend. It embarrassed her to think how few of them she had. She blamed it on her four-year hiatus in Japan, but the truth was that her nomadic youth had left her with few school friends and she rarely met anyone beyond her mother’s party circuit.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

Summer looked up, expecting to see some spotty youth hitting on her, but it was a forty-something-year-old man in an expensive-looking jacket and jeans and the question was directed to Charlie.

‘Rob Harper,’ said the man, offering his hand. ‘I manage bands.’

‘Oh, wow, Rob Harper,’ said Charlie, ‘good to meet you, man. Yeah, I’ll have a lager.’

Summer could tell from Charlie’s response that he had heard of him. What she did not know was that Rob was one of the most influential band managers in the country, looking after three or four platinum-selling artists.

‘So what did you think?’ asked Charlie, turning on the swagger.

‘I liked you,’ said Rob in a controlled voice. ‘In fact, we need to talk.’ Charlie flashed Summer a panicked expression and she immediately got the message.

‘I’m just off, Charlie,’ she said gently, throwing her bag over her shoulder. She didn’t want to leave but she certainly didn’t want to play groupie gooseberry.

Charlie touched her on the arm. ‘I can meet you in a minute?’

Summer shook her head. ‘Good luck,’ she mouthed.

Charlie took a beer mat off the bar, tore it in half and fished a pen out of his pocket.

‘Write your number on that,’ he said giving her half the mat. And she stepped out into the cold night, knowing he would call.

Karin stood by the fountain in the garden of Knightsbridge Heights waiting for Adam. The night had turned chilly and most of the guests were inside drinking and dancing. She knew he would seek her out eventually, quietly confident that she had made a lasting impression at Strawberry Hill House. Of course, Karin did not need to meet Adam Gold at the launch to get to know him better; she was a woman who liked to be prepared. No sooner had she received her invitation to the Knightsbridge launch than she was trawling the Internet for every story, interview and news piece on the Midas Corporation in Forbes, Fortune and the New York Times . Knowledge was a power that she was prepared to use every bit as ruthlessly as her sexuality.

The headlines she found spoke for themselves:

GOLD DEVELOPMENT THE BIGGEST IN SE ASIA

MIDAS SHARE RISE BREAKS HANG SENG RECORD

ADAM GOLD MAKES ANOTHER KILLING

The more she read about Adam, the more she felt they were kindred spirits. She recognized a drive, ambition and entrepreneurial spirit in Adam that she felt in herself. His background was one of wealth: his grandfather Aaron Grogovitz, a Hungarian emigrant who had settled in New Jersey in the 1930s and changed the family name to Gold, had made a fortune developing property in the post-war years. A devout Jew, the only thing he priced above family was his religion. So when his son David, a handsome college graduate on whose shoulders Aaron pinned the entire hopes of his empire, declared that he was to marry pretty classmate – and gentile – Julia Johnson, Aaron cut him off without a penny.