Gold Diggers by Tasmina Perry Page B

making his way back through the sea of tables, his outstretched arm carrying a tray balanced with a flute of kir and a tall coffee, when a man pulled out his chair to stand just as Carlo was walking past. For a second Erin thought that Carlo might be able to sidestep the man, but he was concentrating so hard on keeping the hot coffee from falling that the glass of kir tipped over, falling in an arc onto the next table. Erin heard an enraged cry. An elegant blonde now had kir royale all the way down the front of her white dress, like some vast unsightly birthmark. She cursed and Erin immediately recognized the word – a Russian obscenity – and grimaced. It was Karin’s precious table of high-spending Russian wives. Karin hadn’t missed the commotion; she leapt from her chair and was racing over. Erin got there at the same time. The blonde was now speaking in a fast stream of angry Russian. Erin could understand every word, but it didn’t take a Russian degree to tell what was happening as she snatched up her jewel-encrustedclutch bag. She was about to leave and take all her friends with her. Karin put a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder, but she was clearly in no mood to be pacified by somebody she could not communicate with.
    ‘Let me speak to her,’ Erin whispered to Karin.
    ‘What?’ snapped Karin, glaring at her. ‘Speak to her? What do you mean …’
    Karin tailed off in surprise as Erin started speaking in fluent Russian.
    ‘It would be such a shame if you have to leave now,’ she said quietly in the Russian’s ear. ‘You are the most important woman here; without you we really don’t have a party.’
    The woman looked bemused, then pleased to hear one of the organizers speaking to her in her mother tongue.
    ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ coaxed Erin. ‘We have another outfit backstage and you will look fabulous. Look, nobody has seen what’s happened. Everybody is watching the show.’
    She led the blonde, who had now introduced herself as Irina Engelov, backstage, leaving Karin looking completely dumbfounded.
    Shit, shit shit, thought Erin, desperately looking round at the racks of bikinis. Of course there were no spare outfits – it was a bloody swimwear show! She could hardly send Irina back out in a hot pink swimsuit. She spotted Madeline talking to a group of models.
    ‘Quick, Maddie, you’ve got to take off your dress,’ said Erin urgently.
    ‘What?’ said Madeline. ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment, Erin. The show’s still on.’
    ‘Do as I say and I’ll explain later,’ pleaded Erin, handing Madeline a towelling robe.
    Madeline looked at Erin, and, seeing the desperation in her eyes, quickly nodded.
    ‘Okay, but I’d better bloody see it again,’ she grumbled, wriggling out of the blue dress. ‘It’s Lanvin, you know.’
    ‘Maddie, you’ve just saved the day,’ said Erin, grabbing the dress.
    She squirted it with some perfume she found on a dressing table and slipped it onto a coat hanger, then sprinted around to where Irina was waiting.
    ‘Size eight, this season, you’ll look amazing!’ said Erin in Russian, breathing a sigh of relief as Irina pulled on the dress. Irina looked down at herself, simply nodded and walked back to her table as if nothing had happened.
    Erin grabbed a glass of champagne and drank it in one.
    Molly had gate-crashing down to a fine art. She instructed their taxi driver to drop her and Summer behind a long row of Bentleys and Aston Martins a hundred metres away from the entrance of Strawberry Hill House, then let the car vanish into the cold night before they began to walk down the drive. Their breath made white clouds in the dark air, and Molly’s exposed skin prickled in goosebumps, but she had learned years ago to dispense with a coat for a night on the tiles; acres of visible flesh for popping paparazzi were worth far more than keeping warm. She glanced at Summer who looked like some sexed-up Little Red Riding Hood in a white