Page 134 of Gold Diggers

‘It makes no difference to him,’ said Summer flatly. ‘He said he loves Karin. He said he wouldn’t leave her.’

‘Karin doesn’t matter now, honey,’ Molly said, stroking her hair. ‘Things change. This has changed things. You’re beautiful. He’ll want you. And now you’re having a baby.’

‘Yes. It’s a baby. It’s something growing inside me, a little person. Not a meal ticket.’

Molly looked at her daughter and saw that her eyes were hollow, her mouth set in a fixed, defeated expression.

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Molly blustered. ‘But be practical, darling. You two belong together. If this baby can make that happen then that’s wonderful, and if it can’t, then we can get a lawyer and make it worth your while.’

Summer pushed away from Molly angrily. ‘Why is it all about the bloody money for you?’ she shouted. ‘Is that all really you care about? Do you give a shit that I might love Adam? Do you care that I want him to be with me because he loves me, not because I missed a pill and got pregnant and won’t get rid of it?’

‘I just want what’s best for you, Summer,’ said Molly, her voice cracked and wobbly.

‘You want what’s best for you,’ said Summer with uncharacteristic force. ‘You chase money; you crave it. You think that money will be the answer to all your problems, but it’s not and look where it’s got us.’

‘What do you mean, “Look where it’s got us”?’

Summer laughed a hollow laugh. ‘I’m pregnant to a man who doesn’t love me. You’re forty-three and alone, with a fucking reputation, when you could be married and happy and not sponging off rich men and spending your money on drugs and parties!’

Summer sat down on the edge of the sofa, too exhausted to continue. She thought back to the vicious spat she and Molly had had after the shoot in Norfolk and considered what good it had done. It certainly hadn’t changed Molly’s attitudes or behaviour – so what was the point of raking it all over?

Outside a blackbird was twittering. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud and, for a second, the air cooled. She looked at her mother, who had a small, pinched look on her face, her jaw tight, her eyes bitter and distant.

‘I don’t think we should talk about it any more,’ whispered Molly, lowering her head. At first there was a sniffle, which became louder and louder. When she looked up her eyes were rimmed with pink and her cheeks damp with tears. ‘I had you for love and look where it got me,’ she said, wiping her cheeks.

Summer didn’t know which surprised her more; the fact that Molly was crying – Molly never cried – or what her mother had just said. Summer knew the story of her father, Jeff Bryant. Molly had met him on the New York club circuit in the early 1980s before the shadow of Aids had stopped the rampant bed-hopping and life was just one long party between modelling assignments. Bryant was old New York money, dabbling in the flourishing world of advertising. When Molly had told him of her pregnancy, she’d been dropped like a hot potato, and he’d refused to see her or take her calls. Molly moved back to London and she had never heard from Jeff again. Summer had never for one moment thought that Molly cared so much about him.

‘You never said you loved Jeff,’ said Summer softly. ‘You always told me that he was just a party boy you met on the circuit.’

Molly took a deep breath and looked up at Summer sadly. ‘Jeff Bryant wasn’t your father.’

‘What?’ Summer placed her glass of water on the coffee table, stunned.

It was several seconds before Molly spoke.

‘The summer before I met Jeff, I met an English artist called James Bailey at a gallery party. An artist. I was terribly impressed. Assumed he was a new Basquiat, a Keith Haring, one of those hot new names that were making waves on the New York society circuit at the time. He wasn’t.’ She laughed harshly.

‘Lived in a walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen, not backed by any hot dealer, just a struggling artist trying to make his way, doing what he loved best in a city that was the centre of art.’

‘He’s my father?’ Summer struggled to say the words.

‘He was so handsome,’ said Molly, smiling at the memory. ‘Women would turn and look at him on the street. And he was a good man too. A very good man.’

‘You loved him …?’

Molly gave the smallest of nods.

‘So you got pregnant, and you loved him. What the hell happened?’

‘We’d been dating maybe three months when I found out I was having you. I remember the night I went round to tell James. It was a baking hot New York night. There was no air-con in his tiny, dirty flat. I’d been on a job for Mademoiselle magazine that afternoon and the other model at the shoot showed me the engagement ring she’d just got from some Wall Street banker.’ Molly looked at her daughter and her eyes were sparkling. ‘Oh, it was beautiful, Summer. I can see it now. A diamond the size of a fingernail, glinting in the studio lights.’

Summer started shaking her head but Molly pushed on with her story. ‘I looked around his tiny apartment, littered with fucking paint and brushes, and just thought, what the hell am I doing? For about two minutes it had seemed so romantic. A long, hot summer dating this sweet, lovely artist but—’

‘But what?’ Summer said sourly.

‘But when you’re given this body. This face,’ she said, pointing to herself, ‘I knew I could get more for myself. I knew I could get more for you.’

‘So you ended it with James?’