Читать книгу: «Wicked Wives»
ANNA-LOU WEATHERLEY
Wicked Wives
For Mum and Pops. Respectively, of course.
‘I generally avoid temptation unless I can’t resist it.’
— Mae West
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Epilogue
Why Does It Feel So Good Being Bad?
Read an extract from Chelsea Wives
About the Author
By the same author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Well, here it is, the difficult second novel all my fellow writers warned me about that (thankfully) turned out to be a complete joy to write, though it would be fair to say it would never have got off the ground without Sammia Rafique and Claire Bord at Avon (HarperCollins) – I can’t thank you enough for all your continued passion and support. Also, special thanks to Becke Parker and indeed all the Avon team for all their hard work and dedication. You’re the best!
I have the greatest agent ever, Madeleine Milburn, without whom I would not be writing these words. Maddy, your belief, support and advice has been essential in helping me get to this point. Thank you so much for all your faith and confidence – I look forward to our continuing journey together.
Thanks as always to my dearest friends (in no particular order), the amazing Laura Millar, darling Susie Ember (Rabbit), my girl Sarah Quefs (and the boys), Andie Redman, Michelle Langan and Nyree Boardman. Also, Maya, Christina, Karen and the lovely Limor Katz (you wanna come in my house?). You’re my inspiration and mean so much to me. Also a special mention to the Mykonos crew, LM, Daniel, Chris, Katrina and Pauline – happy memories guys!
I would also like to thank all the wonderful magazine girls who have supported me including Jane and Marianne at Grazia, Marina Gask, Wendy Rigg, Ally Oliver, Suzy Cox and Chantelle Horton – and anyone else I might have missed. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.
As always, thanks to my lovely family, Mum, Pops and Sheila, Hannah and our kid, Marc – Vegas this year kiddo, woop woop!
A special mention to net-a-porter.com for fashion and outfit inspiration (and a wonderful, if expensive, distraction from writing), ditto matchesfashion.com. I would also like to thank the beautiful and stylish women of Italy – those girls really know how to work it!
And last but never least, my amazing boys, Louie, Felix and Alan for everything you do for me, for all the support, cuddles, encouragement and late night runs to the off-licence. I love you!
PROLOGUE
The view from the yacht was superlative. The ocean, a faultless shade of azure blue, stretched out as far as the eye could see, its perfect blue ubiquity broken only by the crystal-white shoreline of St John’s Bay. The sun had begun to set in the distance, a mix of blood-red orange and purples erupting seamlessly into a rich ombre pattern, painting the sky like an oil canvas.
Tom Black peered over the top of his mirrored Ray-Ban Aviators and rested his forearms lightly on the shiny chrome edge of the smart Sunseeker 75, appreciating the final rays of the Antiguan sun on his tanned skin. He took a cursory glance at the diamond-encrusted Rolex on his wrist – a welcome reminder of just how far he had come in recent months. It was 8.28 p.m.
Casting a critical eye around, he admired the shiny teak wooden deck and opulent white leather furnishings of the yacht with a fleeting sense of satisfaction. A huge, cocoon-shaped day bed took pride of place on the sun deck, affording its lucky recipients both seclusion and exposure to the best of the day’s rays as they relaxed – or otherwise – on the sumptuous white cushions. On one side of the bed a magnum of Dom Pérignon Vintage Rose 1959 was chilling to -25 degree perfection in a solid silver Tiffany champagne bucket. On the other, a matching bowl filled with the finest Beluga caviar and two silver spoons nestled on crushed ice. Tom silently congratulated himself. It was a miracle he’d made it here, all things considered; he knew he was on borrowed time, that it wouldn’t take long for them to find him, but he just needed tonight. Just one more night to make things right.
A light breeze caught the fine, silk curtains that draped provocatively from the vast dome-shaped bed, lifting them in a ghostly manner, and, finally satisfied that all was to his exacting standards, Tom made his way down to the master suite below and showered quickly but thoroughly in the lavish, marble and sandstone floored en-suite bathroom, anxious to admire himself in his new, custom-made Tom Ford suit. Only the best for his imminent guest.
Stepping into a fresh pair of white Calvin Klein briefs, he spritzed himself liberally with Grey Vetiver and slid into a crisp, white Richard James shirt that he’d picked up on Savile Row. Enjoying himself now, he slipped on a pair of flawless gold and diamond Cartier cufflinks, pulled on the midnight-blue trousers and single breasted jacket, and added a thin black silk tie. Alluring and glamorous, it was the perfect blend of American minimalism matched with Italian class. Seductively whispering (rather than screaming) wealth and sophistication, it suggested the wearer was a no-nonsense kind of guy who knew his way around the boardroom and the bedroom, the kind of suit that stopped women dead in their tracks. The kind of suit Tom Black liked.
Surveying his masculine, gym-honed reflection in the full length Venetian mirror, he resisted the urge to say aloud, ‘the name’s Bond … James Bond,’ grinning childishly as he ran his thumb and fingers across his well-defined jawline, forgetting himself. For a moment he felt a flutter of excitement, a brief transient state of happiness that was swiftly replaced with one of sharp guilt as he thought of Jack … of Loretta … of her.
Tom forced himself to smile at his reflection. How he would do it all so differently given the chance again. Introspection; waste of fucking time that was. He knew he was a prime candidate for therapy, a psychiatrist’s dream; but who needed a shrink to tell them what a fuck-up they were and pay for the privilege? Screw that. He adjusted the lapels on his five-hundred dollar shirt in the mirror; his thoughts had begun to coast towards the moribund and he distracted himself by examining his features. He might be what society deemed ‘middle aged’ – a term he despised – but he sure as shit didn’t want to look it. All that ageing gracefully bullshit was for people who couldn’t afford to look good, or worse, for those who’d already given up on life. He was neither. In a bid to bolster his withering ego, he told himself that after tonight, after he’d done what he knew he had to do, he would find another playground; start again while he still had the looks to get by. He’d go younger this time; the younger ones were so much easier. They were less demanding, more malleable, easier to please and deceive. They didn’t yet possess that haunted expression, one that spoke of broken hearts and shattered dreams, of wasted years and bitter disappointments. These days, when he looked into the eyes of women of a certain age he found himself having to look away. Sometimes it was too much like looking into a mirror.
Tom pulled a white-tipped Marlboro Light from a soft pack on the table and lit it with a vintage 1973 Cartier lighter, a little agitated. Inhaling deeply, he felt the knot of tension in his gut ease a little as the nicotine hit his system, caressing his blood vessels into submission. He’d kicked the weed years ago but tonight he needed something to take the edge off. She would be here soon.
Extinguishing his cigarette in a Lalique glass ashtray, he made his way to the lower deck to sluice with mouthwash and top up with Grey Vetiver. Pride; it always came before a fall. No wonder it was one of the seven deadly sins. It had prevented him from following the path of true happiness his entire life. Tonight though, he knew he would need to remove the mask once and for all, lay his soul bare, finally tell her what he should have told her all those years ago. Then it would be over.
The unmistakable sound of footsteps along the jetty caused Tom to look up, and with a rapid heartbeat, make his way back up to the top deck, conscious of each step his hand-stitched Italian loafers made.
As the figure came into view, Tom’s eye was immediately drawn to the outstretched hand and the .9 mm Glock it shakily held, the metal glinting malevolently in the last of the sun’s fading rays as it pointed directly at him. Registering surprise and confusion, his heart beating aggressively beneath his pristine suit, he felt a violent surge of adrenalin flush through his system, loosening his joints to the point of collapse.
‘Well, well,’ he heard himself say as the sharp cracking sound of the gun discharging split the balmy, almond-scented air; only it did not sound like his voice at all, it was the voice of a stranger, low and detached. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you …’
CHAPTER 1
‘Mmm, looks delicious,’ Ellie Scott murmured appreciatively as she looked down at the eggs Florentine that had just been placed in front of her by a smiling, if a little harried-looking waitress. Lindsay, her PA, sitting opposite her, nodded enthusiastically as she threw her copy of the Daily Mail down onto the table and carefully pulled out a large document from her new Chloe Marcie tote. Ellie’s dance school was due to open in less than two months and there was still so much to organise. Just looking at the to-do list brought her out in a cold sweat.
‘Any news on a venue yet?’ Lindsay tentatively asked, between mouthfuls of her eggs Benedict.
‘Linds, I’ve been on to every estate agent in London,’ Ellie gave a despairing sigh as she swished her long, honey-highlighted hair from her face, wondering if it was too early for a quinoa-vodka Bloody Mary; it was practically one of your five-a-day.
‘… And? Any luck?’
Ellie momentarily abandoned her knife and fork with a clatter. She felt like crying.
‘Something will come up,’ Lindsay reassured her boss brightly. After all, Ellie’s husband was synonymous with luxury estates all over the world. Surely if anyone could pull a few strings for his wife it was her billionaire business tycoon, a man who made Philip Green look like Del Boy Trotter from Only Fools and Horses.
Truth was though, Ellie hadn’t actually told Vinnie about the collapse of the venue, at least, not yet. This was exactly the kind of situation she had hoped to avoid; running to her husband at the first sign of trouble.
‘I’m viewing a place after lunch,’ Ellie lied in a bid to put an end to the conversation. ‘In the meantime, I think we should just carry on with the plans as discussed, get everything organised so that as soon as a new venue is found, it’s all systems go.’
It had taken the best part of eighteen months to source and secure the Soho venue that Ellie had planned to transform into her flagship dance studio, so it had been a bitter blow to have been gazumped at the last minute. Now she had less than eight weeks to find another venue and turn everything around or she stood to lose a lot of money, and more importantly, face. This dance school was her life’s dream. Her childhood ambition of becoming a professional ballerina had long since passed, fate had put paid to that some years ago, but this school was a chance to give something back; allowing other girls, talented girls like she’d once been, to achieve what she herself wished she could have, if only life had taken a different path.
‘And—’ Lindsay scanned her to-do list for the umpteenth time in case she’d missed anything important, ‘—while we’re still on the hunt for a new venue, we should think about drawing up a guest list for the opening night, and then there’s the …’ she had gone into full efficiency overdrive now, but Ellie had stopped listening. Her concentration had been broken by a commotion taking place at the front of the restaurant. A waiter was busy ushering a female wearing the darkest Dior shades and a vintage Pucci headscarf through the doors and away from a swarm of paparazzi that had gathered outside like locusts.
‘OMG! Don’t turn round, but you are never going to believe who’s just walked in …’ Lindsay’s jaw was practically swinging on its hinges, ‘only Miranda Muldavey.’
‘Nooo!’ Ellie hissed. ‘But she lives in LA.’
Lindsay tapped her copy of the Daily Mail with a chewed fingernail and gave a conspiratorial nod. ‘It says she’s back in London, come to see her family apparently, you know,’ she leaned in towards her boss, ‘before the trial starts.’
Miranda Muldavey was bona fide Hollywood royalty, a global icon who had regularly graced the covers of glossy magazines and newspapers the world over. Or at least she had been, until she had made an ill-fated decision to go under the knife and been left a butchered mess.
Miranda’s sensational story had brought Hollywood to a standstill. Overnight, one of the most celebrated actresses on the planet had been reduced to little more than a freak sideshow, a figure of ridicule and pity, her career – and face – in tatters.
Of course, the rumour-mill had practically spun into overdrive with such force that you could see smoke. This was the ‘handiwork’ of a cosmetic surgeon. But whose?
‘And she was so beautiful as well,’ Ellie sighed. ‘Just goes to show that you should never mess with what’s God given. But then again, I’m not an A-list Hollywood actress. All that pressure to look half your age and have the body of a teenager …’ Ellie glanced over at the lone, hunched figure, hiding behind her oversized shades as she perused the brunch menu. ‘To her credit, she’s remained very dignified about the whole thing – even if she’s a virtual recluse now.’
Lindsay raised a sardonic eyebrow.
‘… More’s the pity really.’
‘So, does the paper drop a hint on who the culprit is?’ Ellie asked. Miranda’s story had been the source of much dinner-party debate during the past six months. Even Vinnie had shown an interest in it.
Lindsay thumbed her copy of the Daily Mail, ‘not exactly, though interestingly, there is a story right next to it about Doctor Ramone Hassan, you know, the celebrity surgeon who’s always on those before-and-after TV shows? It says here that he’s due to fly back to LA from his holiday in Santorini in a few days’ time, just as the trial begins …’ She widened her eyes, continuing to read aloud. ‘“Dr Ramone ‘Ramsey’ Hassan, one of the most successful and celebrated – not to mention richest – plastic surgeons on the planet, a man who has helped countless Hollywood actresses turn back the clock, seen here with his new wife, Lorena, looks relaxed as he holidays on the picturesque Greek Island of Santorini.”’
Ellie looked up from her plate.
‘Let me see that,’ she said, taking the paper from her PA’s grasp. She looked down at the grainy paparazzi shot of an older-looking, dark-skinned man standing on a boat, his unsightly paunch visible over the top of his tight Speedo briefs, but it was the woman next to him that caused her to drop her fork in alarm and her heartbeat to gallop like a racehorse inside her chest. Draped over a sun lounger with a champagne flute in one hand and a thin, white cigarette in the other, was a Dolce & Gabbana bikini-clad woman with pneumatic breasts that were struggling to free themselves from the miniscule triangles of fabric that strained to conceal them. Wearing a matching turban and blowing cigarette smoke from her enormous, plumped-up lips, it was unmistakably her. Loretta Fiorentino, or Hassan as she now was. The press might’ve misspelt her name, but it was her alright. Ellie would never forget those eyes; as dark and soulless as a shark about to attack.
‘Well, well, well. Loretta,’ she murmured underneath her breath, transfixed by the surgically enhanced face of a woman she hadn’t seen in over two decades – and was all the better for it.
‘Ellie … Ell-liiee,’ Lindsay’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts with all the subtlety of a meat cleaver.
Ellie suddenly stood.
‘Actually, I’ve got to run, Linds,’ she said, snatching up her iPhone from the table. ‘I’ve got this appointment … and I promised Tess I’d see her before she flies off to Ibiza.’
‘OK, but before you go …’ Lindsay held up the mock invitations, head cocked to one side in apology. ‘What do you reckon; the red or the black?’
‘Black,’ Ellie said as she leaned in to kiss Lindsay on both cheeks, throwing her Chanel Caviar bag over her shoulder in a deft swoop. ‘Let’s play it safe.’
Ellie pasted on a smile as she left the café. The press clipping had thrown her. Loretta Fiorentino was someone she had hoped never to have to think about ever again. She was part of a past that Ellie had long ago buried and had no plans to resurrect; at least not in this lifetime. The news story had said that ‘Lorena’ and her husband were at the end of an extended honeymoon and were imminently due to head back to LA, potentially making a brief stop off in London first, ‘if the mood takes us.’ Ellie hoped it wouldn’t. In fact, she hoped they’d get on a one-way plane back to LA as soon as possible and stay there permanently, because if Eleanor Scott knew one thing, it was that wherever Loretta Fiorentino was, trouble was never far behind.
CHAPTER 2
‘Cazzo imbecilli!’ Loretta Hassan jabbed at the picture of herself in the paper with a long pointed red fingernail. ‘The press, they are fucking idiots!’ she screeched, incredulous, her Italian accent thick with protest. ‘I mean, for the love of God they are journalists! Journalists! And they cannot even spell my name correctly!’ She slammed the offending paper down onto the silk Versace sheets, causing Bambino, her white teacup Chihuahua, to yelp in alarm. ‘The British press,’ she hissed, ‘they are the worst in the world – Lo-rena,’ she elongated the name contemptuously from her collagen-filled lips, as though it were poisonous. ‘Who the fuck is Lo-rena?’
‘My darling,’ Ramone ‘Ramsey’ Hassan, Loretta’s husband of two months, rolled off his wife’s naked body with a sigh. ‘You must not upset yourself,’ he said softly, patting her hand like a child. ‘You have not long recovered from your operation. It is not good to put your body through so much stress, not at your ag –’ Loretta shot him a fierce glare and he wisely refrained from finishing the sentence.
‘Do you not realise what this means, you stupid man?’ she snapped, snatching the offending newspaper up again and waving it in front of her husband’s weary face.
‘You see how they have positioned us next to the Muldavey story? This is not an accident, no?’ her eyes narrowed into menacing slits. ‘You must get onto the lawyers as soon as possible! We’ll sue their sorry asses to kingdom come!’
Furious, Loretta threw back the fine silk sheets. Swinging her short but slim coffee-coloured legs over the edge, she began to pace the room.
Ramsey, smarting a little from the ‘stupid man’ comment, watched her stalk the length of the palatial master suite, her delicate feet leaving imprints in the cream Persian rug.
‘Come back to bed, Loretta, darling,’ Ramsay sighed. He had neither the emotional strength nor the energy to calm her down today, especially after the aggressive sex session they’d just had. He was exhausted.
Though he was at great pains to disguise it from his new wife, Ramsey was feeling the pressure of his impeding trial. The super-injunction he’d managed to take out against the actress speaking out had afforded him a modicum of protection, for now at least, but such tremendous stress was beginning to take its toll on his health. In recent weeks his headaches had reached the point of being unbearable and the heart palpitations he was increasingly experiencing were giving him great cause for concern. He had never felt worse.
Ignoring him, an incensed Loretta, newspaper in hand, flounced out onto the enormous patio. The view was without doubt as arresting as any she’d seen before and for a moment it was all she could focus on.
Villa Adonia was situated on a sequestered and tranquil section of the western tip of the picturesque Greek island of Santorini. Perched on a cliff top with a horseshoe-shaped beach below, private and completely secluded, it enjoyed exceptional 360-degree views of the crystal clear Aegean sea and was by far the most exquisite hideaway on the entire island.
‘Merda, fa caldo! It’s hot!’ Loretta purred, allowing her Missoni kaftan to slide from her shoulders to the floor, exposing her naked, olive-skinned flesh. It had to be tipping one hundred degrees at least.
Loretta had turned heads from an early age. She possessed a magnetic beauty; all large brown eyes encased in dark lashes, luscious thick lips that seemed to part naturally in an overtly sexual pout, and an abundance of thick, jet black hair that tumbled down her back in corkscrew curls. But it was Loretta’s body that was her greatest asset. When, at the age of fourteen, it met with puberty, she became the talk of Naples.
The young Loretta spent her days behind the meat counter of her father’s store, dreaming of escaping the slums of Naples to Hollywood, where she would become a star of the silver screen, just like her idols, Ingrid Bergman, Sophia Loren, and Greta Garbo. After her father was tragically shot dead in a bungled robbery and her mother followed him to the grave less than two years later, there was nothing left to prevent her from pursuing her dreams. Loretta had quickly decided that the fastest, most effective way of getting to the top in Hollywood was to screw her way there, and as a result, it was not long before she got a break starring in a string of low-grade adult movies, ultimately going on to marry the director – a man she neither loved nor particularly liked – at just eighteen years old. Naïvely, Loretta saw her foray into the soft porn industry – and her marriage – as a stepping stone to achieving her lofty ambitions. But the union was a disaster, and just eighteen months later she was left penniless and pregnant. Disillusioned but still determined, Loretta had made the decision to abort her unborn child and vowed never again to fall foul of a man. The next time she married – and she had no doubt there would be a next time – she would make sure it was for the right reasons: money; bags of it.
Although it had been a strategic move on her part, seducing and marrying one of the richest plastic surgeons in Hollywood, Loretta did care about Ramsey in her own unique way. He was perfect husband material and she planned to stay with him for as long as it suited her, which she estimated to be somewhere around the five to seven year mark, give or take, figuring this would be long enough to entitle her to a generous slice of his substantial wealth; and possibly the Tuscan house, if the judge was having a good day. Love was not part of Loretta’s repertoire. As far as she was concerned, love was a losing game played by fools. And Loretta Fiorentino was nobody’s fool.
Leaning over the whitewashed wall, she looked out across the perfectly blue Aegean sea, watching as the sunlight glittered and danced across the ocean like God himself had scattered it with diamonds, and wondered if it was champagne o’clock yet. She needed a drink to help compress her thoughts. The paparazzi would be crawling all over them thanks to such a libellous piece of tabloid juxtaposition.
‘Merda,’ Loretta cursed under her breath. When she had called her husband ‘stupid’ she had meant it. Ramsey had royally fucked up; his would be the most precipitous fall from grace and now it looked as though they would both have to pay the price.
‘I did it for you my angel,’ he had pleaded when she had demanded to know the truth. ‘I know how you’ve always felt about Miranda Muldavey; how it should have been you who’d had her career, how unfair life has been to you … I made sure she’ll never set foot in front of a movie camera again.’ He had paused, pensive, staring up at her with impassioned dark brown puppy-dog eyes. ‘I thought you would be happy …’
Ramsey was a great surgeon, perhaps even the greatest of his time, with an unblemished reputation and a fiercely loyal clientele. Yet the afternoon Miranda Muldavey, arguably the most notorious face in Hollywood at the time, had walked into his surgery, Ramsey had seemingly abandoned all his senses and a lifetime of impeccable ethics and, blinded by obsession, committed an unspeakably diabolical act.
It made Loretta shudder to think of what her husband had done. It was true; she had always been insanely jealous of Miranda Muldavey and couldn’t help but compare herself to the beautiful actress. After all, they were of the same age, background, and they even bore similar physical attributes, yet one had gone on to achieve a level of success that the other could only dream of. Muldavey was famous for playing the romantic lead alongside some of Hollywood’s hottest men – she was revered and respected, while Loretta was notorious for her outlandish dress sense and being photographed bending over next to swimming pools – little more than a joke, fodder for third-rate gossip rags. But she had never wished the actress any real harm. Maiming her had been entirely Ramsey’s own twisted idea.
Loretta lit an L&M and forcefully blew smoke from her glossy pursed lips. Even with the best lawyers her husband’s money could buy, things were looking grim. If there was the slightest suggestion that this was something more sinister than simple negligence then it wouldn’t just be Ramsey’s livelihood and unblemished career on the line; it would be his liberty too.
Loretta looked down at the copy of the Daily Mail in her hand and felt her fury re-ignite like embers of a bonfire. If Ramsey lost everything, then what would be left for her when she came to divorce him? After all, everyone knew that half of nothing is nothing. ‘Whatever happens, we’ve still got each other,’ her adoring husband had said that morning as he had pumped away on top of her, with his usual lack of finesse.
Sighing heavily, Loretta looked out to sea. What she needed was a plan; one that would exonerate Ramsey and protect her investment. It struck her that maybe the two nurses who planned to give evidence at the trial could be bought off. After all, everyone had their price, as she herself knew only too well. And if that didn’t work then there was always blackmail. As well as a price, everyone had a past and she vowed to start digging into theirs to see if she couldn’t locate a few skeletons to use as leverage.
‘Dahling,’ Loretta strutted from the patio back into the bedroom with a renewed sense of purpose, her mood visibly buoyed. ‘Call the butler will you? Have him bring up some more vintage Krug. The ’92.’
Ramsey did not answer her.
Glancing over at her husband in bed, his large bulk buried beneath the Versace sheets, Loretta made her way towards the Moroccan-themed en-suite.
‘Did you hear me, dahling? I said I want champagne … and order some bellinis and beluga while you are at it. I’m a little, how do you say … peckish?’
Receiving no response, Loretta sighed a little irritably, making her way over to the bed where she gave her husband a less-than-subtle poke. He did not move.
Loretta felt the first icy flutters of fear settle upon her stomach like fresh snow on grass. ‘Ramsey dahling, are you ok?’
Peeling back the sheets, she audibly gasped, causing Bambino to give a skittish jump.
‘Cazzo merda! Fucking shit!’ she sprang back from the bed, her heart knocking painfully inside her chest as though it were made of brass. Ramsey’s lips were formed in a perfect ‘O’ shape; his eyes open wide in a ghoulish mask of surprise and despair. Paralysed to the spot, her heartbeat pulsing loudly in her ears, Loretta glanced at the telephone on the bedside table. With a shaking hand she went to pick it up but changed her mind, instead tentatively pressing a red manicured finger against her husband’s neck to check for a pulse. His skin still felt warm to the touch and although overcome with revulsion, she held it there for a few moments. Detecting nothing, she took his wrist between her thumb and forefinger; again, nothing.
He was dead.
Jesus. The poor bastard must’ve gone and had a heart attack. Lightheaded with adrenaline, Loretta looked down at her dead husband with a mix of shock, repulsion and pity. And then it struck her with all the force of a swinging axe; the trial! Even she knew that a dead man cannot be tried. And no trial meant no compensation to be paid, or no list to be struck off, or no reputation to be sullied. It also meant that as his wife, his next of kin, she stood to get the lot; the houses across the world stuffed with priceless furniture and antiques, fleets of luxury cars, a private jet, and enough diamonds to put Switzerland out of business … It would all be hers.
Snatching up Bambino from the bed with a squeal, Loretta dramatically threw herself down onto her husband’s lifeless body.
‘Oh my poor dahling,’ she said, covering Ramsey’s rapidly paling face in scattergun kisses as tears began to track her cheeks. She had been wrong to call him stupid earlier. The man was a fucking genius. In that moment, Loretta truly loved her husband for the first, and last, time. ‘Grazie tesoro bambino,’ she sobbed, as she finally reached for the phone. ‘Grazie …’
CHAPTER 3
Victoria Mayfield stared at her computer screen; it was as blank as her mind. She had been sitting at her antique shabby-chic Parisian desk inside her study for just over an hour now, her fingers hovering precariously above the keyboard.
She looked up to the ceiling, ran her hands through the top of her glossy chestnut hair and took an audible breath. Her agent would be expecting the first few chapters of her much-anticipated new novel by next week and she had not written so much as a line.
Following the success of her debut novel, Mirror, Mirror some ten years ago, and the equally lauded sequel, Broken Glass, the name Victoria Mayfield had become synonymous with young, hopeful and desperately romantic women the world over – and it had made her ridiculously rich and famous in the process. Such accolades meant nothing to Victoria now though. She would have traded it all in a nano-second to have her life back to how it had been a couple of years ago when CeCe was alive.
Abandoning her laptop, Victoria left the room and wandered out onto the landing of her four-storey Notting Hill mews house and found herself hovering outside CeCe’s bedroom, staring at the brightly coloured wooden letters that spelled out her daughter’s name: CECELIA.
Stealthily looking around as though someone were watching her, Victoria pushed open the white door and tentatively stepped inside. Her therapist had advised against spending time in the nursery, had even suggested that she might clear it out and re-decorate as ‘part of the healing process’ but she would not hear a word of it; these small things, they were all she had left.
Victoria inhaled the clean, baby-like scent of the room. Staring at the assortment of soft toys, she picked up CeCe’s favourite rabbit, clutching it to her chest. On the wall to her left, white wooden photo frames containing professional black and white shots of her daughter, her bright-eyed, tiny chubby face all gummy smiles, hung from the picture rail by pink silk ribbon.
‘Hello sweetheart,’ she spoke softly. She ran her finger over one of the pictures, stroking her daughter’s tiny face through the glass. She moved towards the beautiful antique white sleigh crib that CeCe had once slept in and smoothed over the soft patchwork quilt that she’d had made by French artisans in Paris and for a split second she felt as if everything was normal; a mother preparing her child’s bed for her mid-morning nap. The painfully fleeting feeling gave her such an intense rush of pleasure that she almost gasped out loud.
Picking up a blanket, a brightly coloured cashmere affair by Brora, Victoria held it up to her face and inhaled deeply. She was sure she could still smell the newness of her daughter on it and an involuntary cry of anguish rose up in her throat and escaped her lips in a low moan.
‘Why, God?’ She shook her fist up at the ceiling, choking back sobs. ‘Why did you take her?’
Victoria Mayfield was the kind of woman who had it all; good looks, talent and intelligence. A loving daughter, a giving friend and a loyal wife, she had always been aware of her privileged background (Daddy was a hedge-fund manager and Mummy, a well-respected stage actress), and had never taken any of it for granted. It wasn’t in her nature to be ostentatious. Daddy had said she was just like his own mother, Cecelia, a woman she had never met but sensed had had kindness running through her very core.
Victoria Sheldon (as she had been before marriage) had seemingly inherited all the good of her grandmother, as well as the aesthetically pleasing Sheldon genes. Hers was a natural beauty. Her face, perfectly symmetrical, was a compilation of both her stunningly attractive parents; she had her father’s intense, deep green eyes and large red lips, and thanks to her mother she had also inherited a mane of thick, glossy, chestnut hair – which she had only recently, at the age of thirty-seven, felt the need to maintain with a few highlights – and a small upturned nose that sat in perfect proportion to the rest of her slim, oval face.
Her eleven-year marriage to Lawrence Mayfield, a handsome, talented film director, had been, by and large, a blissfully happy one. Perfectly matched, they complimented one another perfectly; his natural vivacity offset by her quiet charm.
On the surface, to an outsider who happened to be looking in, Lawrence and Victoria Mayfield had the lot; an enviable marriage, success and acclaim in both their chosen professions, plus a personal fortune that ensured they had the very best of everything. There was just one blot on their sublime landscape: they could not conceive.
‘Give it time,’ others said when month after month, Victoria’s unwelcome period had arrived with all the regularity of a baddie in a fairy tale. Five years down the line however, with numerous failed IVF attempts behind them, it transpired that they had what a glut of specialist doctors referred to as, ‘Unexplained Infertility’. Devastated that they might not ever be able to consolidate their love for each other with a child of their own, they had made the painful decision to stop with the treatment and let fate dictate. And so it had. Less than a year later, Victoria had found herself expecting.
Victoria sat down in the large comfortable nursing chair, a chair she had sat in to cradle her daughter’s tiny body as she fed her, and looked down at the small, soft rabbit she held in her hand, its beady black eyes shining up at her. Every cell in her body wanted to scream with anguish. It was all so cruel and unjust. There was a world of unwanted and unloved children out there, neglected and abused by their parents, and yet God had not seen fit to take their children from them, had he? Deep down in Victoria’s shattered heart, she knew that God had had nothing to do with CeCe’s death; she just needed someone to blame, and He seemed as good as anyone.
It had been uncommonly cold that night of the 16th July. Victoria remembered this because she had felt the need to wear a pair of light cashmere pyjamas to bed – unusual for the time of year.
After giving five-month old CeCe her bedtime feed and placing her down into the beautiful crib, she had watched her tiny daughter kick her chubby baby legs and coo, happily fixated on the mobile of bees and butterflies that gently danced above her, lulling her to sleep. Victoria had felt an overwhelming rush of love for her daughter as she watched her drift off in her crib. She was so adorable! Her saucer eyes were sapphire blue and twinkly, fine platinum curls settled at the nape of her sweet-smelling neck and her rosebud lips were as pink as the flowers themselves. CeCe was her greatest achievement; a baby made all the more precious by coming into the world against the odds.
Lawrence had been in Guatemala the night of the 16th July. He had been filming a documentary on drug mules, a somewhat dangerous assignment, and one that had caused Victoria some consternation at the time. Still, she had slept soundly that evening, a fact she felt guilty about to this day.
CeCe looked peaceful when Victoria had approached her in her crib the following morning. She had slept seemingly soundly and Victoria marvelled at what a clever little girl her daughter was; she had never suffered the torture of sleep deprivation like so many of her fellow new mothers who bitterly complained, bleary-eyed and tetchy, over strong cups of espresso at NCT classes. It was only when she got closer to the crib that Victoria realised that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
CeCe’s perfect face was tinged blue and when Victoria snatched her up from the crib her body felt cold and rigid. The logical part of her brain immediately told her that her daughter was dead but her heart steadfastly refused to concede this fact, even for a second. And so she had run, clutching the child still wrapped in her soft cashmere blanket, down the stairs, her hysterical, bloodcurdling screams so desperate and piercing that they alerted her housekeeper way down in the basement of the house almost instantly.
‘Oh please, God,’ she had screamed. ‘No … nooooo.’
Marney O’Brien would never forget the look of pure despair etched on her employer’s face that morning. Her low primeval screams would haunt her till her death.
*
From that day onwards, inside her own mind Victoria Mayfield had never really stopped screaming. Even Lawrence struggled to reach her. Though Victoria still loved her husband, their union was now forever blighted, defined by heartache and loss. This feeling was exacerbated by the fact that the doctors had said they were ‘unlikely, if ever’ to conceive again. As if fate hadn’t bestowed them a cruel enough blow, Lawrence had suffered a crippling bout of mumps in the year that had followed little CeCe’s death, rendering his already dwindling sperm count virtually non-existent.
‘Perhaps you might consider adoption?’ the US specialist had gently suggested, his five-thousand-dollar-a-pop fee affording them the soft touch at least. It was an option Victoria had flatly ruled out. She had felt the feet and elbows of flesh and blood inside her belly; her creation, their creation, and knew there could be no substitute.
Two years had passed since CeCe’s death, and with still no baby, Victoria was getting desperate. She couldn’t afford to wait five years like she had done before; she wasn’t getting any younger. As far as she was concerned, a life without children would be no life at all.
From the comfortable confines of CeCe’s nursing chair, Victoria was dragged from her thoughts by the sound of her private phone ringing in her bedroom next door. She heard the incongruous sound of her own cheerful voice as the recorded message kicked in.
‘Tor! Hi! It’s Ellie. Fancy a little lunch this week, if you’re around? I was thinking Nobo perhaps? Or The Belvedere? Your call … I don’t know about you but I could do with the company – and a glass of something alcoholic! Actually, sod it, make it a bottle with the week I’ve had …’ Ellie laughed, though Victoria’s intuition detected an edge to her friend’s tone. ‘Anyway, if you’re about, give me a shout. Otherwise, catch up soon. Hope all’s well, darling. Call me …’
Victoria’s friendship with Ellie Scott was the best thing, the only good thing that had come out of all the wasted time they had spent at the fertility clinic. It had been comforting to meet like-minded people who understood the emotional ups and downs of endless fruitless IVF cycles and heartbreak, and through it the Mayfields and the Scotts had forged a strong bond.
Victoria made to pick up the phone but hesitated as the image of her daughter’s coffin bubbled up in her mind; a beautiful white solid oak casket adorned with a stunning array of pink flowers that spelled out the word ‘Angel’. It had looked so small as it disappeared through the burgundy velvet curtain of the crematorium that she had wanted to run after it, to rescue her daughter’s tiny body before she turned to dust, to hold her hand, be with her, like a mother should be. She had become hysterical at that point and a doctor had been called to give her a shot of something that had made her sleep, a sleep in which she prayed to a God she despised that she might never wake from.
Victoria abruptly stood. Kissing the rabbit on its soft fluffy face, she replaced it carefully onto the shelf and left the room, taking one sorrowful last look around before closing the door behind her.
Making her way into the vast walk-in wardrobe in her bedroom, she drew back the bespoke sliding doors and began to pull various dresses from their padded hangers, only to instantly discard them in a pile behind her.
Getting pregnant was no longer merely something she hoped for, but a base need within her that had to be filled, as essential as the very oxygen she breathed. Picking up the pile of dresses and throwing them onto the bed, Victoria knew what she had to do. She could no longer wait for fate to chance its arm any more than she could face another year of bitter childless disappointment. She could almost feel her eggs drying up with each second that passed, her empty womb growing less and less accommodating by the day. With all options exhausted, she had made the decision to take matters into her own hands. She would be pregnant by the end of the year and if the doctors and her husband couldn’t help her, well, then she would have no choice but to help herself.
CHAPTER 4
Driving through Sunset Strip in a shiny black Lamborghini Gallardo, Tom Black had the countenance of a man who’d lost a cent and found a dollar. It was a beautiful day; the sun shone high in a cloudless late May sky and the sidewalk was teeming with hot women, all dressed appropriately for the biting heat in Daisy Dukes and cute summer dresses that barely covered their tight little asses. It gave him a tangible buzz as they all looked up as he roared past, sound system up, soft top down, the Black Eyed Peas blasting out of the Bang & Olufsen stereo. Fuck, man, this was why he loved LA. The broad streets lined with palm trees, the cool bars and eternal sunshine where women strutted their stuff; fake tits and bikinis by the truckload. No one looked old here. It was like Peter fucking Pan’s playground and it was one of the main reasons he had decided to call it home. In reality however, LA couldn’t have been much more of a departure from the rough East London streets Tom had started out on. Back then, ‘home’ had been wherever his womanising drunk of a father’s heart – or dick – had been. Invariably this meant temporary accommodation at one of his many ‘auntie’s’ houses, as they were always referred to. Tom struggled to remember any of them; one was much like the other, a hazy blur of blonde hair, raucous laughter and lipstick. Until Charlene O’Connor that is. The O’Connors had changed everything …
The Lamborghini purred loudly as Tom pulled up at a set of lights and he smiled as a particularly arresting blonde with enormous shop-bought tits teetered along the crossing, her denim mini skirt leaving little to the imagination. He revved the engine almost subconsciously as she strutted past and looked up, flashing him a megawatt white smile in recognition of his appreciation.
‘Cool whip, dude,’ she said in a high-pitched Californian drawl, eyeing the Lamborghini with approval. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty-three and Tom could tell from the glint in her violet blue eyes that she was just his type: up for anything. He rested his elbow on the side of the car, peering at her eagerly from beneath his mirrored Ray-Bans, giving her a peek at his arresting dark brown eyes. She was sure she had seen this dude somewhere before, in one of the magazines she’d read during one of her more prolonged stays in hospital, or on TV perhaps? She looked him over with caution, though this was largely for effect. The car alone was worth more than her apartment and yearly salary combined.
The car, however, didn’t actually belong to Tom. It was on loan from a gambling pal he played poker with and he was damned sure he was going to make the most of it.
‘Wanna see what she can do?’
‘Sure,’ said the blonde after the briefest hesitation, ‘why not?’
Tom grinned as he leaned over to open the passenger door, moving the Louis Vuitton holdall to one side. Just as he’d thought; up for anything.
‘What’s in the bag?’ she enquired, curious as she effortlessly slid into the passenger seat, her mini skirt riding high up her lean, tanned thighs.
‘Ask no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,’ he replied, raising a provocative eyebrow as the lights turned to green and they roared off along the boulevard, the G-force of the powerful engine pulling her back into the cream leather seat. She squealed with delight. His accent told her he was British. And already she could tell this was going to be one hell of a ride.
‘Hey bud, your phone’s ringing.’ He saw the girl’s lips move as her platinum-blonde hair whipped about her face, sticking to her fruity lip gloss, but he hadn’t heard a word above Kanye West and the loud hum of the Lamborghini’s powerful engine. ‘Your phone,’ she mouthed in an exaggerated gesture, pointing to his Blackberry Bold which was buzzing angrily on the smart leather dashboard.
‘Well, answer it then,’ Tom replied, turning the stereo down a couple of notches. She shot him a quizzical look, but did as she was told.
‘Hi!’ she giggled into the receiver breathlessly.
‘Yeah, er … hello … who is this? Can I speak to Tom?’
‘Sure, I’ll just put him on,’ the girl purred in her best telephone voice. ‘Hey bud,’ she held out his cell. ‘Like, I think it might be for you.’
Tom laughed. He liked her. She had a sense of humour. Rarer than rocking-horse shit in LA.
‘Tom Black,’ he pressed the loudspeaker button, careful to keep his hands on the wheel of the ridiculously expensive car that he didn’t own.
‘Don’t tell me,’ the voice said, deadpan, ‘you got yourself another new PA?’
‘I found her on the sidewalk,’ Tom winked playfully at the girl and she collapsed into more giggles. She sensed they were gonna have some fun together. And having just been sacked from yet another dead-end waitressing job, fun was just what she was looking for.
‘Yeah? Guess it’s her lucky day,’ the deadpan voice retorted, breaking into a violent coughing fit. It was Jack, Tom’s oldest friend and business partner.
‘Jesus my friend, you sound like shit.’
‘Have you taken that dough to the bank yet?’ Jack immediately shot back, letting Tom instantly know that this wasn’t going to be a friendly, chew-the-fat kind of conversation. ‘I want that money safe, Tom. We need to make sure we got our shit in order if we’re gonna win that goddamn auction …’
‘Auction?’
‘Christ Tom, I told you, don’t you listen to a goddamn word I say?’ The irritation in his voice was clearly audible now, ‘that fucker Constantini is refusing to do a deal so we’re gonna have to take it to bids like everyone else, so unless we’ve got the cold hard cash we can forget about it. The dream will be over before it’s even begun.’ Jack was already beginning to regret entrusting Tom with such a large sum of money. He’d been laid up in bed for five days with some evil Asian flu bug thing and had become seriously twitchy about having that much green lying around in his apartment, which was why he’d instructed his oldest friend to do him a favour and take it straight to the bank that morning, all three million dollars of it.
‘Whatever the fuck you do, Tom,’ a red-eyed Jack had said with real gravitas, handing his friend the heavy Louis Vuitton holdall, ‘don’t lose it; everything I got is in that bag. So I want you to go straight to the bank, OK? No diversions, no detour via a casino … you got me?’
‘I’m on my way boss,’ Tom replied with such jovial nonchalance that it had caused Jack to see red, prompting a further, more violent coughing fit this time.
‘I’m fucking serious, Tom!’ he struggled to breathe. ‘If anything should happen to it …’
‘I’m almost at the bank right now,’ Tom replied breezily. He put his foot down harder on the accelerator and the girl squealed again. He imagined she was probably a screamer in the sack too. He looked forward to finding out.
‘Yeah, well hear me loud and clear, bro,’ Jack’s hacking cough sounded like machine gunfire, ‘I need to know all’s cool your end of the deal, that you’ll bank the cash and get your share of the green – we fly out to London in three weeks.’
Tom and Jack had been in the ‘entertainment’ business for the past fifteen years, with varying degrees of success. The story was usually the same; Jack would initially stump up the cash, generally prised from his exasperated but wealthy father, and together they would attempt to turn some rundown old gin joint on the wrong side of town into a hot, happening new hang-out for the young, beautiful and rich. And sometimes it had even worked; at least until either Jack lost interest or Tom gambled away the profits, both of which had been the case on more than one occasion. Now, however, it was time to get serious. This latest acquisition was to be their defining moment, a transitional leap from small fry to legitimate players, and having exhausted New York, Vegas and LA, from a business perspective at least, it was time to cast the net a little wider.
‘Jeez man, I thought you’d be pleased,’ Jack had responded to the lukewarm reception Tom had given him upon informing him about the ‘near-as-damnit perfect’ venue he’d found for them in the heart of London’s West End. With a dense population of young, affluent, and fashion-conscious prospective clientele, it seemed like an appealing prospect, especially for the particular concept they had in mind – a hybrid mix of a lavish premier super club and casino, combined with fine dining and themed table dancing. ‘London is the epicentre of cool right now, man. It’s hot to trot.’ Jack had insisted.
Tom had reluctantly acquiesced. London was his birthplace but it had long ago ceased to be his home. Besides, the city held bittersweet memories for him and he had made a promise never to return again. But then, Tom had never been much good at keeping promises …
Now all that was standing in the way of their dream was the auction for the rundown but ultimately perfect old warehouse in Soho; that, and the small matter of six million dollars, three of which were sitting in a Louis Vuitton case in the back seat of the Lamborghini.
‘No stress, bud,’ Tom smiled. ‘I got everything in hand on that front.’
There was a pause on the line as Jack digested this information, his chest wheezing like an old boiler on its last knockings. If this deal came off they’d make their money back ten-fold within twelve months. But they were still a little shy of three mill of the recommended auction price, which was where Tom came into the equation. Jack was relying on him to make up the shortfall, which was a little like relying on a politician to come good on his promises; hit and miss.
‘You’re telling me you already got your hand on three big ones? And you didn’t care to mention that small fact to me this morning?’
The girl’s ears pricked up. Three million bucks! Jeez!
‘Just trust me, OK?’ Tom winked at his passenger and she grinned in return, uncrossing her long, slim legs in a consciously provocative move.
‘Yeah right! Look what happened the last time I did that?’
Jack Goldstein was the closest thing Tom Black had left to family. They had been friends since his early Vegas days, bonding instantly by their shared interests of making money and chasing pussy. Ultimately though, ups and downs aside, theirs was a friendship that had been built on the essential elements of trust and respect, and as a result, it had stood the test of time.
‘Well then, just chill out. We’ll go to the auction; we’ll get our casino. We’ll make our millions. Simple.’
Jack sighed. Tom was being evasive.
‘I’m serious, Tom,’ he said earnestly, between short, violent bursts of deep chesty coughs that made him sound like a sea-lion attempting to mate. ‘I don’t plan to return back to the States without that venue.’
‘Jesus Jack, stop breaking my balls will you?’ Tom suddenly snapped, causing the girl to look over at him. ‘I’m pulling up outside the bank right now … and we’re gonna get our casino, OK?’
Jack was unfazed by his friend’s sharp outburst. He’d heard it all a million times over.
‘We’ve got a couple of weeks’ grace to get our shit sorted then it’s all systems go,’ he said, pausing to sneeze three times in succession.
‘Jeez bud, you need to get yourself to a doctor.’
‘Get that bread banked and I won’t need to,’ he snapped back, although he knew he was right; Jack couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt this goddamn awful and it was worrying him. But he hated quacks. Quacks were wack as far as he was concerned – messengers of doom. His late grandfather had been the same. First doctor he ever saw in almost seven decades told him he had less than six weeks left. Jeez. You were better off not knowing that kind of shit. ‘And don’t let me down, Tom,’ he added seriously, ‘I’m counting on you. Three million and counting …’ Jack said flatly, blowing his nose loudly before hanging up.
Turning his attentions briefly back to his passenger, momentarily distracted by her perfect form and abundant peroxide hair that couldn’t possibly be all her own, Tom’s mind began to click into overdrive as his forced smile faded faster than a fake clairvoyant’s apparition. Truth was, Jack had every reason to worry. There was no cash; Tom owned the princely sum of nothing. Somehow, he needed to find a shortfall of at least three million bucks in less than seven days if he wasn’t about to renege on his word and lose face.
A thought bubble appeared above Tom’s head and he grinned at his passenger again. He was under no illusion that to make that kind of money in such a short period of time he would need a spectacular show of luck …
‘You doing much this weekend …?’ he made to address the blonde, realising he didn’t even know her name.
‘… Candy,’ she prompted, returning his grin with a broad smile of her own, showcasing her ice-white veneers, de rigueur in Beverly Hills.
‘Of course,’ he gave a knowing nod. What else would she be called?
‘And yeah, I was kinda planning to hook up with some girlfriends, you know, hit the bars, a few jello shots …’ she’d added, not wanting to make it sound as if she was too available.
‘Well, Candy,’ Tom said, turning to her earnestly and fixing her with an intent gaze that immediately held her intrigue, ‘cancel your plans.’ He had a sixth sense about this one; she had fortune on her side, he was convinced of it.
‘And why would I wanna do that?’ She cocked her head to one side, her fake eyelashes sweeping her cheeks as she blinked rapidly at him.
‘Because we’re going to Vegas, baby!’ he announced with a little whistle, the tyres of the Lamborghini screaming in objection as he accelerated around a corner.
After all, what did he have to lose?
CHAPTER 5
Ellie was finding it difficult to concentrate as her driver, Wesley, weaved through the Notting Hill traffic in her carbon-black Aston Martin V12 Vantage. She couldn’t get the earlier conversation she’d had with her wayward daughter out of her head.
‘Jesus, Mum, chill out already. I’m not a child anymore. I’m eighteen!’ Tess Scott had stood before Ellie with a defiant hand on her skinny jean-clad hip, rolling her eyes at her mother in over-exaggerated exasperation. ‘I’m pretty sure Allegra’s mum isn’t giving her the whole “make sure you use a condom” routine and banging on about ecstasy pills! It’s all so … embarrassing.’
‘Maybe that’s because Allegra’s mother doesn’t give a toss, Tess,’ Ellie had sharply replied. ‘I happen to care about what my daughter gets up to. I’ve been to Ibiza, remember …’
Tess rolled her eyes. Yeah, and no doubt her mother had sampled all that was on offer while she was there too. She was such a goddamn hypocrite sometimes it was unreal.
Ellie hadn’t wanted to fall out with Tess just before she left to catch a plane but her feisty daughter seemed to have a knack of rubbing her up the wrong way. ‘I’m only looking out for you,’ she’d said, her tone softening. ‘You’ll feel the same when you have your own kids one day.’ She had reached out and touched the tip of her daughter’s nose with an affectionate finger. ‘It’s just that you’re young and beautiful … I know what all the men out there will be after and I want you to be careful …’
Tess had thrown her limited-edition Mulberry Alexa onto the chrome and leather bar stool of their pristine designer kitchen with a loud exhalation. Frankly, she bloody well hoped that’s what they were after. It was partly the reason she was going, after all.
‘If I’m so beautiful, how come you’re so against me testing for that model agency I told you about?’ Tess had folded her arms and fixed her mother with a defiant stare.
‘Oh Tess, not this again, please,’ it had been Ellie’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘I’ve told you. That agency supplies glamour models and no daughter of mine is going to splash her half-naked body on billboards all over London. Not while she’s living under my roof. Can you imagine what your father would say?’ Ellie shook her head, dismissing the idea. ‘Once you’ve got a degree behind you, well, I can’t stop you if you want to pursue a career in modelling. But please, Tess, get your education first,’ she’d pleaded. ‘You’ve got a brain in that head of yours. I wish you would use it sometimes.’
Ellie stared out of the window as they turned out of Holland Park onto Abbotsbury Road where they immediately hit a slew of rush hour traffic and pulled her iPhone from her Miu Miu clutch.
Hey darling Hope you’ve landed safely. Watch out for snakes in your boot!
She smiled as she sent the text. Tess would know what she meant. The Toy Story catchphrase was a code word they used when asking the other to tread carefully.
‘Shit.’ Ellie looked down at her platinum and diamond Chanel bracelet watch in irritation. She would be late to meet Vinnie now.
‘Wesley, would you mind turning the air con up?’ she asked politely. All this business with Tess had left her feeling hot and bothered.
Tess was a bright girl. Smart. She’d been described by the principal of her ridiculously expensive private school as ‘a naturally high achiever’, though she’d also added ‘diva’ and ‘troublemaker’ to that list too. Ellie knew her daughter had a bit of a wild reputation; she had seen how she acted up around her friends. Tess loved being the centre of attention, especially where the opposite sex was concerned. It worried Ellie that her daughter seemed naturally drawn towards drama and chaos, something she herself understood only too well. Men had always found the O’Connor women alluring and she knew that such a disposition invariably had the potential to bring trouble. Tess seemed to feed off male attention, soak it up like a sponge.
Ellie knew her daughter was no virgin but she didn’t like the idea of her being easy pickings either. Tess was more vulnerable than she thought she was; and certain men could smell vulnerability like a shark senses blood. Not that it was entirely Tess’s fault; she was the classic only child of exceedingly wealthy parents. Always the centre of attention, she had been sheltered from any kind of negative influence her entire life; beautiful, adored and spoilt rotten, that was Tess Scott. It was a bitter regret of Ellie’s that she had been unable to give her only daughter a brother or sister. More than anything, Ellie had hoped to give her husband another child. It was the least she could do after everything he had given her. But life had denied them, and Ellie secretly wondered if it had seen fit to punish them both for her sins. Sins that she and Vinnie never spoke of …
Ellie’s early life had been the antithesis of her daughter’s; all Tess had known was extreme wealth and the protective blanket that it afforded. She had had the very best of everything money could buy, and yet in an odd twist of fate, it wasn’t in spite of her mother’s impoverished provenance that she had all these things; it was because of it.
Ellie thought of her own mother and felt a terrible pang of sadness resound inside her chest. Charlene O’Connor had been beautiful once, with peroxide-blonde hair and emerald green eyes that sparkled when she smiled. Her aesthetically pleasing appearance was her greatest asset, and with bills to pay and mouths to feed she had put it to good use as an ‘exotic’ dancer in an East End gentleman’s club. Though frankly, that was a misnomer if ever there was one. ‘Never once seen a gentleman walk through those doors in all the years I’ve worked here!’ she would joke. Ellie could still remember it now. The low, amber lighting inside that dingy club; the omnipresent smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume in the air. It had been Charlene’s intention to make enough money to put her talented daughter through ballet school, give her the chances she’d never had to make something of herself. Her mother had always been so proud of her. ‘You were pirouetting before you learned to walk!’ she would say. ‘I knew the moment you were born that you had a special gift.’ It still pained Ellie to this day to know that she had ended up following in her mother’s footsteps into the clubs and dive bars of Las Vegas. Sure, she had become a dancer alright, only it wasn’t quite the kind her mother had hoped for. Nothing like keeping it in the family, eh Mom?
Ellie never knew her father and wondered if he was even aware of her existence. But Charlene had always had enough love to compensate for his absence; she had been an attentive mother once, caring and protective – and she had worked hard to pay to put her talented daughter through ballet school. And then she had met Ray Black, and everything changed. From the moment Ray Black had set foot inside ‘Dirty Harry’s’ spit ‘n’ sawdust club, all shiny flash suit and wide grin, Charlene O’Connor had been completely bowled over by his good looks and charm. It had raised more than a few eyebrows when she had agreed to up sticks and accompany the handsome stranger on his quest for the big time in Las Vegas with the young Ellie in tow. It was only a pity Ray had failed to mention his burgeoning gambling and alcohol addictions before they’d boarded the flight. And so Vegas had not quite turned out to be the fresh start Charlene O’Connor had hoped for. She soon found herself stuck in a cramped prefab on the wrong side of the Strip, working the dive bars, only for Ray to drink and gamble away her earnings. Life was no different from how it had been in London; in fact it was worse. And then of course there was Ray’s son, Ellie’s new surrogate step-brother. His name was Tom. Tom Black.
*
With the traffic finally dispersing, Ellie looked down at her YSL python hobo bag on the passenger seat and chewed her glossy lip tremulously. Unzipping the inside pocket, she glanced at the small newspaper cutting she had kept of Loretta and her surgeon husband, with mixed emotions. She was still debating whether or not to show Vin. She knew it would only resurrect terrible memories for both of them and she had no desire to spoil the evening they had planned. But she didn’t like to keep secrets from her husband. All those years ago, she had made a promise she intended to keep; one where she swore she would always tell the truth, no matter what. She owed him that much. Truth was, she owed him everything.
Pulling up outside the Michelin-starred L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon restaurant in Covent Garden, Wesley switched off the engine.
‘Mrs Scott,’ he gave an impeccably gracious nod as he opened the car door.
Ellie momentarily stared at the grainy image of Loretta Fiorentino – a woman who had inadvertently changed the course of her life – before screwing it up into a tiny ball and dropping it into the gutter as she stepped from the Bentley.
As far as she was concerned, it was the best place for it.
Бесплатный фрагмент закончился.
