slipped through an open French door at the back of the house, pulling her into the darkness. The string quartet faded into the background along with the laughter and clinking glasses as they crunched up a garden path.
‘Where are we going?’ laughed Cate, feeling more nervous than she sounded.
‘To explore,’ said David wolfishly, heading towards the bottom of the garden. ‘Let’s see what’s down there!’
‘There’s nothing down there, I can assure you,’ replied Cate, her voice a whisper. ‘Except maybe a few rocks we might fall over. Foxes, owls. Who knows? I think we should go back …’
‘I’ll protect you,’ grinned David, pushing back a dangling branch and leading Cate towards a marble bench lit by a garden torch. David pulled a flute from each of his jacket pockets and noisily splashed champagne into them with a flourish. Suddenly it was quiet. All Cate could hear was the crackling of the garden flame and she was suddenly nervous of the intimacy between them. Cate was notoriously poor at distinguishing between when a man was being nice to her and when he was flirting, but even she could recognize this wasn’t flirtation, it was full-on seduction. She took a sharp intake of breath as David’s broad body moved closer towards her; she could feel the heat emanating from him. She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, narrowing the V of her cleavage. Her hands shaking now, as David moved closer and closer.
‘Cold?’ purred David.
Frigid, more like, she thought, willing herself to relax.
‘You’re fantastic,’ he whispered roughly, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek. The fine line of dark hair that ran from his fingers to his wrist tickled her skin.
‘You’re making me blush,’ she stammered, turning her face slightly away from him. Christ, she thought, I’m behaving like some sort of Jane Austen character.
Time seemed to slow down. His fingers rested on her chin and pulled her towards him.
‘What’s wrong, Cate?’ he asked, still stroking her face. ‘Don’t you want to?’
What was wrong with her? she asked herself, feeling her stomach turn in a mixture of lust, anxiety and nerves. Christ, he was sexy, she thought, looking at the thick lashes around his intense grey eyes and the long, firm, masculine nose. She wasn’t sure what was stopping her leaning gently forward and taking his lips with hers, or running her hands through his wavy black hair.
‘I’m not sure, David. I’m sorry.’
David Goldman was used to an instant surrender.
‘What? You do like men, don’t you?’
Cate looked shocked. ‘Well, yes. Of course. But … Jesus, David. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for us, but … Look, I’m sorry …’
David let his fingers fall from her face to his lap, his expression part annoyed, part disappointed.
‘I guess not,’ he smiled ruefully, smarting from the rejection. He stood up. ‘It’s getting cold. We’d better go back to the party.’
Inside the house, Maria Dante knew she was attracting attention. Having taken a long, hard look at Serena Balcon, she grudgingly admitted that Oswald’s girl was as beautiful in the flesh as she looked in photographs. But that was all she was: a girl. Any man who yearned for Serena Balcon must have homosexual tendencies. Look at her – all skin and bone. No ass to speak of, tits the size of olives; she had the figure of a boy. But Maria Dante – well, Maria Dante was all woman. She could sense all the men in the room – the grown-up men, at least – appreciating her ripe breasts spilling out of the low-scooped Oscar de la Renta dress, the round curves of her buttocks pushing against the silk of its skirt. A glamorous, talented, cosmopolitan woman – exactly what the tired London scene needed; and with Serena Balcon out of the way, she was just the person to fill the gap. OK, so Oswald was an old man, she thought, looking at him with disgust. She was dreading seeing him naked. But it was a small price to pay. He was rich, he was connected, he was a proper English aristocrat with a magnificent home. And Oswald was besotted. She laughed to herself. Who would have thought it? Maria Dante, the little Italian girl from the dirt-poor Puglia village: she was going to become a Lady.
‘I thought you were just sensational at the Nice Opera last month,’ gushed Nicholas Charlesworth, appearing at her side to hand her a glass of champagne. ‘Do you like performing in Europe?’
‘I adore it,’ she breathed seductively. ‘You must come to the Royal Opera House when I’m there next month.’
‘I’d be delighted!’ said Nicholas with a stammer, transfixed by her chocolate fondant eyes. ‘And, erm, how’s the music event at Huntsford shaping up? I’m afraid I’ve been a bit out of the loop with what’s happening, although I think Oswald is planning a little pow-wow at our club, White’s, next week. Just let me know if you need anything,’ he smiled, tapping the side of his nose knowingly.
‘I think Oswald has all the organizational side well under control.’
‘What about the creative side?’
She looked down her nose at this weaselly-faced little man. What did he know about creativity?
‘I will be getting some friends on board to sing,’ Maria said mysteriously. ‘Myself … a couple of arias, maybe Bizet, Debussy, Mozart of course, maybe even some other songs in different styles – Gershwin, perhaps. I am doing a recital at Carnegie Hall in New York a few weeks before, so maybe I will do something from that.’
‘Any sneak previews?’ asked Nicholas hopefully.
Bored, and wanting to have a little bit of fun with all these tedious, pompous Brits, she looked at him, an idea forming in her mind. ‘Sneak preview?’ she smiled, flipping a coil of ebony hair away from her forehead, ‘You just might be in luck.’
Serena glanced at her watch. Two minutes to ten. She smoothed the silk jersey over her thigh, and made her way to one end of the room where Venetia had placed a microphone ready for her speech. She hadn’t prepared anything, but she was a good speaker, and she wanted to make sure her swansong in front of all her old London crowd was nothing short of sensational.
Just then she noticed Maria Dante turning to the small orchestra, who were partway through a version of Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Maria raised a finger to her lips and moved in front of the microphone. Her chest started to wobble as if her lungs were being pumped full of air, then, from out of her scarlet lips, strains of her rich soprano voice began to lift around the room. Charlesworth, recognizing the Rossini bel canto, shut his eyes as if mesmerized by a siren’s call. All heads turned to listen, Maria’s high notes perfectly clear in their resonance and diction, her voice so strong and powerful that there was no need for the microphone. The crowd drifted towards her and, as the room throbbed with an emotional pulse, Oswald looked around appreciatively, basking in the reflected glory. Standing at the back by the staircase, Serena looked on furiously.
‘Cate, Cate,’ she hissed, waving at her sister who, like everybody else in the room, was transfixed by the performance. Cate turned around and mouthed, ‘What?’
Serena grabbed Cate and pulled her behind a pillar. ‘What do you mean “what?”? That woman is making an exhibition of herself.’
Cate laughed quietly. ‘Serena, she’s fantastic. You’ve got one of the world’s biggest opera stars singing at your party.’
‘Oh fantastic!’ sneered Serena, pulling Cate so close that pink fingerprints appeared on her arm. ‘She is trying to steal my thunder. I’m supposed to be speaking in five minutes. Who’s going to want to listen to me after hearing Fat Woman of the Opera?’
Serena’s lip was quivering, her eyes had started welling up with tears. Then, seeing she was having no effect on Cate, she pushed Cate back into the room. ‘Oh, just get Venetia!’
Cate found her eldest sister sitting back on a cream chaise longue.
‘Serena