‘Erm, right, yes sir, of course…’
He must have heard her hesitation. ‘But there’s something you need to know right from the start. I don’t want you treating him with kid gloves just because he’s the boss’s son, right? He’s a foot soldier and you’re his commanding officer. I’ve told him that and he knows it. Get him to make your coffee, carry your bags, go out and fetch the pizzas. I don’t care. Just make sure he learns. That’s what he’s there for. Got that? No special favours.’
Emma swallowed hard. ‘Right, sir, no special favours.’
Who was she kidding? Suddenly the idea of a tour of Italy – which had been developing considerable appeal – was looking far less attractive. It now appeared clear that she was going to find herself saddled with what was in all probability going to turn out to be a spoilt brat who would be reporting back every mistake she made to his all-powerful father. Still, she knew she had no choice in the matter, so she swallowed her reservations and accepted with as much grace as she could muster.
‘I look forward to meeting him.’
Dexter was once again talking sotto voce in his boss’s ear. Nodding in approval, the big man looked back across the desk at Emma. ‘And you can meet him tonight. My wife and I are throwing a party at our place this evening and we’d like you to come.’
In spite of her reservations about JM’s son and this whole project, Emma was genuinely overwhelmed to find herself invited to the legendary Villa Milagro, built for silent movie star Harold Lloyd, briefly occupied by Greta Garbo, and now home to one of the richest men in Hollywood. She knew that very, very few of her colleagues at JMGP had ever been inside the place and that this was an honour bestowed upon only a very select few.
And now this number was going to include Emma Taylor from a tiny little village in Norfolk, daughter of Sid and Martha Taylor who ran the local post office and shop. Twelve years earlier, her mum had been very doubtful about the wisdom of Emma’s decision to head halfway across the globe to work on another continent, but there could be no doubt now that the decision had been the right one. What, she wondered, would they think when she told them their only child was going to be mixing in such rarefied circles? That would come later. For now, she didn’t hesitate.
‘That’s very kind, sir. I’d be delighted.’
‘Great. Eight o’clock. We’ll send a car. Dexter has your address.’
For the second time that morning, the pilot fish spoke out loud. They were only two words, but they struck fear into Emma’s heart.
‘Black tie.’
Chapter 2
Emma wasn’t the sort to panic, but she was as close to freaking out that afternoon as she had ever been as she raced home from work to get ready for her boss’s party. She had been to a number of formal events since coming to Hollywood to work, but never anything at this level. For the men this just meant buying or renting a tux, but for women it was more complicated, much more complicated. She knew she was going to find herself in the midst of untold wealth, unimaginable beauty (often the handiwork of the most expensive cosmetic surgeons on the planet), and extravagant designer clothes and jewellery.
She still had all her own skin, no surgical enhancement, no valuable jewellery and a seriously limited stock of ‘smart’ frocks. Her job had always been more important to her than her social life and she didn’t really enjoy all the palaver involved with dressing up and, as she had always told herself, she saw no reason why she should dress up to attract a man when that was the last thing on her mind.
However, as she fought her way through the rush hour traffic in her Mini, she found herself toying with the idea of breaking all her resolutions and dashing into one of the big-name boutiques to pay a small fortune for a dress she would probably only wear a handful of times in her life. Of course, dressing up tonight was a work imperative. Her boss would expect her to make an effort, and turning up in jeans and a T-shirt would no doubt impact very poorly on her career. No, there was no question about it. She was going to have to slap on the war paint and suit up. The question was what to wear and her apprehension grew once more. Fortunately, as she spotted a police car in her rear-view mirror and lifted her foot off the gas, she came to her senses.
There was no way she could, or should, try to compete with the rich and the famous. For a moment she reflected that she and Dexter, the pilot fish, probably had more in common than she had hitherto realised. He would only be there because he worked for JM and she was only going to be there so that she could meet JM’s son, whatever his name was. Nevertheless, she had to look smart – that much was clear – but that was that. As she carried on driving at a more sedate pace across town, in her head she ran through the contents of her wardrobe, such as it was, and decided to go for one of the only two long gowns she owned. Fortunately, she was tall and this meant she would be able to wear comfortable shoes and not find herself having to totter about on the sort of high heels some of the other ladies would be wearing.
By the time the doorbell rang, a few moments before eight, she was as ready as she could be. She was scrubbed and polished and she had even managed to put her hair up for once, although she had cricked her neck trying to check the result with the hand mirror. She was no longer close to panic, but there was a cold empty feeling of nervousness gnawing at her gut. Even after more than ten years here in Hollywood, she knew she was going to be far outside her comfort zone tonight. Her apprehension grew as she came downstairs and stepped out onto the sidewalk in her scruffy, but wonderfully comfortable, sandals. The ‘car’ JM had promised was almost as long as the whole block. A uniformed driver gave her a smart salute and opened the rear door.
‘Miss Taylor? Good evening, ma’am. My name’s Luis. I’ll be your chauffeur tonight.’
She climbed gingerly into the massive limousine, doing her best not to crush her gown – or display her ‘sensible’ shoes as she did so. As she sat down, so the glass partition in front of her hummed smoothly down and Luis’s smiling face appeared.
‘Can I get you anything, ma’am? A glass of champagne, maybe?’
Emma shook her head. One thing was for sure, she was going to need to keep a clear head tonight. Getting hammered was not an option – however tempting it might be. ‘Thank you, Luis, but I’m fine. How long’s it going to take us to get to Mr Miros’s house?’
‘Traffic’s not too bad tonight, ma’am. Half an hour, tops.’
He was dead right. It took exactly twenty-six minutes for them to get to the neo-classical gatehouse of JM’s palatial home. Here they were met by a bulky security guard with a pistol in a holster at his side. More frightening than the pistol, however, was the sudden explosion of flashes as photographers materialised around the car, some even pressing their lenses right up against the double-glazed window beside her. Clearly, JM’s not so little bash was going to be plastered all over The Hollywood Reporter and the internet by morning. Emma sat back and surreptitiously wiped the sweat off her palms against the leather upholstery beneath her.
After checking her name on the list, the guard waved them through and the limo glided smoothly up the winding drive to the house. This ran between meticulously trimmed box hedges, behind which there was a subtropical extravaganza of exotic plants and trees. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see monkeys swinging through the branches, maybe even followed by Tarzan himself. This was quite some place.