Rich Again: A Novel - Softcover

  BOOK ONELOS ANGELES, 1996Emily

It was 10.30 a.m. and Emily lay naked on the lilo, using her mother’s favourite suede coat as a towel, and let the gentle breeze waft her around the infinity pool. In one hand she held a pint glass of chilled Baileys. Her first to-do on arrival at the mansion had been to order Quintin to freeze three icecube trays of her favourite drink, because there was nothing worse than a warm Baileys or a dilute Baileys. She drew on her fifth Silk Cut Light of the day, and gazed at the foreverblue sky of LA.Everything: perfect.She liked the world upside down, especially when it was so prettily fringed by those pink and red flowers that smothered any suggestion of ugliness – wall, pole, fence and, possibly, person – in the Hollywood Hills. She liked that there were invisible teams slaving night and day to keep all she saw gorgeous. She liked the quiet. The only noise was the buzz of helicopters, either the paparazzi harassing stars or privately owned by the stars themselves. She liked that it was summer and that Mummy had complied with the annual lie that Emily ‘work’ as an intern at the Beverly Grand.It was lucky that Mummy adored Emily more in theory than in person, and seized on any chance to put oceans between them. Mummy wasn’t interested in people under eighteen. By the time Emily was old enough to come to her attention, it would be too late.To Mummy, this was just another one of Emily’s LA jaunts, where she could drink and smoke and do coke and trash the 26,000-square-foot mansion off Mulholland, while pretending to work at her father’s hotel. As long as Mummy didn’t witness a felony and wasn’t forced to make a show of responsible parenting, as long as someone was paid to delete all evidence of wrongdoing, Mummy was just grateful to have a fourteen-year-old with the wit to entertain herself.It was annoying to be underestimated, but she wouldn’t be for much longer. Meantime, her parents’ lack of interest was useful. The pinnacle of her life plan – to seduce her best friend, Timmy – would be accomplished that day without interference.Timothy Rupert Peregrine Giles, heir to the Fifteenth Earl of Fortelyne, was seventeen and Gordonstoun was shaping him up nicely for a lifelong stay in the warm embrace of the Establishment. He was charming, witty, able to acquit himself admirably in any social situation; he was a good rower, a fine rugby player, and – having been removed from his mother at seven and only briefly reunited with her after puberty – he knew nothing about women.Tim had no idea that if a girl recommended Lanikai Beach in Hawaii for the best surfing – several times, over several months, in passing, until he became convinced that the idea was his – that she might have an ulterior motive. He was one of those nice but frustrating guys, blind to who was a saint and who was a bitch, because he imagined that wicked must show on a girl’s face.However, his naivety and good nature were great assets to Emily. She’d waited until he booked Hawaii, and then she’d said, ‘I’ll be in LA around then. Come for the weekend. I’ll send the jet.’She knew that while a seventeen-year-old boy could (bizarrely) resist her, he couldn’t resist ‘the jet’.Tim’s family had pots of money but, to Emily’s disdain, they had no idea how to spend it. That crappy old Land-Rover they bumped about in! Those hideous saggy green cords his mother Pat – a countess! – was always tramping around in! If they flew, they flew commercial! All that dreary centuries-old furniture! And their parties! Never happy unless a great big draughty marquee was involved; only satisfied if their guests were squelching up to their waists in mud; curiously cavalier about the quality and quantity of the food.So, the private jet was winging its way to Hawaii and the Maserati would collect him at the airstrip. As far as he knew, he was staying for the ‘weekend’, a concept familiar to him, as most posh people she knew spent every weekend filling their castles with braying guests, who were expected to kill birds and bunnies, take endless walks, play charades and take part in any number of life-sapping activities from dawn to dusk. God forbid they had a quiet couple of days lolling around to music and watching the box.This weekend – her LA house party weekend – would be different. LA was made for parties, unlike England. In England, throwing a party was an imposition: against you stood the weather, the traffic and your guests’ prior commitment to staying home and sniping about next door.Emily smiled to herself. She’d found her own event planners, people who were clued in to now. They’d sorted the valet parking and the street-use permit. They’d notified the neighbours, with enormous bouquets – she didn’t want the LAPD wading in. They’d organized the bartenders, security guards, caterers, decorators, insurance, bonded storage for the art and antiques – like she cared, but they did – and they’d even offered to supply a couple of dozen fashion models paid to chuck themselves naked into the pool at midnight.Like, talk about your worst nightmare! But the limo service into the Hills was a good idea, as most of her guests couldn’t drive. The party would set Mummy back nine hundred thousand pounds, plus another ton when Emily flew out all her mates from London. She was embarrassed at having them slum it in Virgin Upper Class (she hated to appear budget) but there was no way that they’d all fit in the family jet. Anyway, it was reserved for Timmy and, short of appropriating Air Force One, there was no alternative.She’d chosen the guest list with care. Her own crowd was pretty cool, and Leonardo was invited, and Johnny – she prayed he wouldn’t drag along his girlfriend. It was a great bore that the bar had to be officially virgin, but she didn’t want Quintin busted for serving liquor to minors. Anyway, there was a secret alcohol den for the chosen few and, in hommage to Johnny, she’d ordered the Jacuzzi to be filled with vintage champagne. She had to invite some A-list females, so she’d chosen Alicia and the Ricci girl – no one too distracting.The DJs, Sasha and John Digweed – oh my God, their gigs were so cool! She loved how trance let you be, and it made her so horny. They were going to blow everyone away. And she was going to blow Timmy away.‘Quintin!’‘It’s eleven, Emily, a selection of drop-dead outfits await your inspection.’She’d picked them out a week ago, leafing quickly through Vogue: ‘Get me that, and that, and that.’‘Thanks, Quintin!’She loved Quintin. She wondered if his mother had just known he was gay, setting eyes on him. It was quite cool to have gay friends. Well, to be acquainted with an actual gay person. Officially, it was ‘his’ party, and he’d done everything in his power to ensure its success. He knew the best beauticians; her eyebrows and bikini line were immaculate, and the hot-stone massage – ‘You’ll feel like you’ve just had sex, darling,’ he’d said, then clapped a hand over his mouth. She’d smiled; she loved that he thought of her as an adult.She’d been body-brushed and seaweed-wrapped and Pilates-stretched to within an inch of her life. She disliked the underground gym – she felt it gave the house a whiff of the Hyatt – but she’d done ten miles on the running machine. Her teeth were virgin white, and her tan was café crème (poor Mummy thought that ‘sexy’ was to fry yourself the colour of a hot dog). She’d gone for an early hike up Runyon every morning, and she could now swim the entire length of the pool underwater.Emily was ready to bet that no one in the history of the world had prepared quite so thoroughly for a blow job.She drained the last of the Baileys, swam to the side and jogged up the steps. The Mexican gardener fought against nature to look the other way. ‘Feast your eyes,’ she cried as she skipped past.Quintin had laid out the clothes on her bed. Amid the tiny gorgeous scraps of material passing for dresses was a black mini kimono from Galliano. Perhaps she could wear it with the Wonderbra, black fishnet stockings, suspenders and red and black lace knickers from Topshop? And you couldn’t beat black patent Prada heels. To hell with heroin chic – she preferred prostitute chic. Seventeen-year-old boys weren’t complex, so why confuse them?Here was the plan. She’d have the driver take the Merc and grab her a Fatburger with chilli cheese fries. She’d eat, doze and watch MTV while they tarted up the house. Quintin could deal with questions and Timmy wasn’t due till eight. Bang on four, she’d shower, do her hair and make-up. The air con would have to be polar – happily, Mummy wasn’t here to scream, ‘Shut the fucking doors!’ Mummy loved a professional make-up artist, although they invariably made her look like a drag artist. No way was one of those clowns going near Emily’s face!She ate, slept, woke, looked in the mirror; FUCK, her eyelids were PUFFY. Puffy as HELL.‘Quintin! Quintin, Oh my God, come now, help!’To his great credit, Quintin staggered into her bedroom wielding a seventeenth-century stone Buddha....