Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  And I thought my maths was … Holy Mother of God. The YouTube video showed the penthouse of my eight-storey Double Bay building quietly ablaze.

  It all came back to me. The air became thick and hot. My brain was invaded by the black and white rolling fuzz of a pre-smart television without an antenna. My stomach clenched, and I felt bile rise into my throat.

  I threw up. And then I passed out. Which is absolutely the right order to do that in.

  CHAPTER 2

  SILVERWATER

  I woke up to a stream of early morning sunlight. For a moment I imagined I was back home. But the bed felt different and the light too strong, too close and too early.

  I was back in the pool house, I had vague memories of being showered and put into what certainly smelt and felt like clean clothes, and a clean bed with clean sheets.

  The floor debris was gone, the walk-in robe was filled with fresh dry-cleaning and new dress bags.

  I put a hand to my head. My hair had been washed and braided.

  The personal shopper was in the room, opening every window she could find.

  ‘Can you stop doing that?’ I snapped pulling the covers over my head.

  ‘I totally can’t. Sorry Heiress. Gotta get you up. Like the cops are comin’ to your nanna’s today,’ she said opening the last window. ‘Besides, I don’t know how to say this, but dude, this place was like, a little too lived in.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ I said bolting upright in indignation. I knew what it meant. It meant I had been living in the pool house sans maid for too long.

  ‘You’re not a morning person, huh?’

  ‘Is anyone?’ I demanded, poking my head out from my heavily threaded white sheets. ‘You have to close some of those shutters! I have not even had coffee.’

  There was a knock at the door. Mother’s maid Patricia stood with a tray containing various silver and china Vera Wang items including a coffee pot smelling of a Brazilian Arabica and a platter filled with warm Danishes.

  Esmerelda eyed the tray. I thought I saw drool escape from one corner of her mouth.

  I smiled at her. ‘Shutters closed, and I will share my coffee with you.’

  ‘What about them?’ she said, pointing her chin to the tray of buttery-looking pastries.

  ‘Thirty–seventy, my favour,’ I said.

  ‘Forty–sixty,’ she shot back. ‘And you keep two windows open.’

  I nodded. ‘Deal.’ I may not have acquired all of Grandmother’s business acumen, but my negotiation skills had been honed over many years of shopping.

  Shutters slammed shut around the room as I motioned Patricia in. ‘Just sit the tray on the bed, Patricia.’

  Patricia shook her head uncomfortably. ‘Your mother says you have to get out of bed if you want the tray.’

  It was Esmerelda’s turn to smile. She snorted, ‘Dude. Suck it up princess.’

  I threw the sheets back in a dramatic sweep. ‘What is everybody’s problem! I am a woman in mourning. My husband is dead. My home is in ashes!’

  I heard Patricia say under her breath, ‘I think your sense of smell also died.’

  I shot her what I hoped was a withering look as she scurried out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the dining room with her tray of goodies.

  ‘Dude, if you don’t get up your new home is gonna be in Silverwater. The cops are comin’ today and you gotta think of a good story.’

  I swung my legs out of bed and noticed the growth on them was enough to put what was left of the Amazon to shame. I really needed to be more committed to laser. I reached for a robe sitting handily on an overstuffed mahogany and velvet chair. It was new. I guess even washing was not an option for the last one. They probably burnt it. The indignity.

  Silverwater. There was that name again.

  ‘The finishing school?’ I asked, walking into the dining room where Patricia was setting out breakfast and seating myself.

  Esmerelda picked up a glazed coffee hazelnut scroll and bit into it.

  ‘Isn’t Silverwater the finishing school you went to, Esmerelda? Why would the police send me there?’

  Patricia’s head swung quickly towards Esmerelda, her eyes darting to the Vera Wang cup carelessly hanging in her hand. Esmerelda’s eyes went wide as she choked on her scroll.

  I glanced back at Patricia, who was distancing herself from Esmerelda by bringing me a cup of coffee.

  ‘Prison!’ Patricia hissed, handing me the cup. ‘It’s a prison!’

  ‘It’s like a prison?’ I asked Patricia, taking the cup. ‘Is it a very tough finishing school? Strict?’

  If this amazing school was right here in Sydney why had all the rogue SILC girls, including Anna, ended up with a one-way, first-class ticket to Switzerland, a pre-paid place at Brilliantmont in Lausanne and a gold AMEX?

  Patricia patted my shoulder. ‘Oh dear.’

  Esmerelda recovered from her scroll-choking. ‘Dude, it’s not like a prison, it is, like a prison.’

  I slapped my cup down on the table. ‘Speak English Esmerelda! And do not use the word “like” in your next sentence.’

  Esmerelda stuffed the remainder of the scroll in her mouth and spoke without swallowing it all.

  ‘You know, like you go to court and the judge says, “Esmerelda, you’re a smart chick, but you’ve been before me like seven times and I told you I didn’t wanna see you again” and she gives you eighteen months at Silverwater.’

  My mind’s rusty gears began to creak and grind, trying to shake off too many days of too much wine and too much shock. I drank more coffee and prayed that would help me. My brain finally managed to make the connection between Silverwater and jail. She was right: it was a prison.

  ‘Silverwater is a prison!’ I said, incredulous, my eyebrows moving as high on my face as my rapidly fading Baby Botox would allow. ‘You were in prison?!’

  ‘Yeah, but like only once. And like only because I got caught. Plus, with your mum’s help I was out in six months.’

  I was suddenly interested in the china cup in Esmerelda’s hand too. My eyes began racing around the room looking for valuables that might have already been lifted by this jailbird. My right hand automatically moved to cover my engagement ring. It was a Cartier replica of Princess Grace of Monaco’s engagement ring (10.5 carets, emerald-cut). The ring was gone. I panicked. Then I remembered where it was. It was at Cartier. It had been chargrilled in the fire and had been sent back for cleaning, and whatever else happens to smoked diamonds at Cartier HQ. My wedding band was with it.

  My hands moved to my ears. I felt the round diamond studs, a gift from my father on my fourteenth birthday, and exhaled. I lost one while swimming in the Maldives once. I had to hire a scuba team to retrieve it. Once found I had threads put in the posts and literally screwed them into my lobes.

  So, diamonds and china accounted for.

  Esmerelda was devouring her second chocolate croissant; the only valuables she seemed interested in were butter, chocolate and French flour.

  ‘How is it that you managed to get hired as a personal assistant?’ I asked her.

  ‘Ah, personal shopper,’ she said, correcting me. ‘Your mum, she’s like my mentor, for the Model Mentor Prison Program. It’s part of my parole.’

  Creak, creak. Cogs slowly moved. I recalled Mother’s chatter about ‘giving back’ by mentoring young women in the community. I thought it was a prelude to a judging position on Australia’s Next Top Model, not soliciting delinquents.

  This was not going to work. I could not have a felon in my employ. The personal assistant idea was still genius, but what I needed was a Harvard graduate, Oxford at the least. Someone who was, well, without a prison record.

  I squinted at her. Did my assistant have eight holes in her ears? The humiliation.

  Esmerelda continued her chatter oblivious to my horror.

  ‘So, she like took me to her agent, and they like sent me on some modelling jobs.’ She was now picking a chunk of chocolate ou
t of her front teeth with a ragged nail. ‘But like the guy, the photographer dude, he was an asshole. I might have kicked him in the nuts. Like, maybe. Possibly I did. Possibly I also punched him in the face.’

  It was my turn to choke and a small amount of soy latte escaped through my nose.

  ‘So I don’t think I’d like that as a job. Like being a model and shit. People are always telling you what to do and touching you.’

  Most models do put up with a lot of rubbish from some highly opinionated, cliquey, self-important people, who think it’s fun to call you ‘Cat’s Little Kitten’.

  ‘So now I’m your personal shopper,’ she finished.

  ‘Do you actually know anything about shopping?’ I asked.

  ‘Dude, do I know about shopping!’ she grinned, using her sticky fingers to make air-quote marks when she said ‘shopping’.

  I clutched my cup more firmly. Patricia blessed herself.

  ‘Every judge, every parole officer I ever had told me I was real smart. And,’ she winked at me, ‘I know how to get shit done, if you know what I mean.’

  Okay, so this wasn’t quite the top college graduate I had imagined, but something about the way she spoke gave me hope. I was in the murky waters of the criminal justice system, about to be charged with murdering my husband and a complete stranger. Perhaps it wasn’t such a terrible thing to have an assistant who knew about women’s prisons and punching people. She might be an asset. A hidden asset.

  She wiped her gummy fingers on her rear end and produced the iPhone.

  ‘Dude, I got all your shit in here,’ she said, tapping away. ‘I know who you gotta see and what you gotta do. I’ve even made appointments for some of them.’

  I felt a large lump rise in my throat. Felon or not, I needed help and Esmerelda was already here … Hang on. Is that really where I was in life? That Esmerelda seemed like a good idea?

  A look of concern passed across Esmerelda’s face and she closed the distance between us apprehensively putting her hands on my shoulders.

  ‘Indigo, dude, like, you gotta calm down man. You’re white. I mean whiter than usual. I don’t like you passing out, you tend to chuck before you do it. It’s gross.’

  My head swirled. ‘I—I am perfectly fine.’

  ‘Don’t freak out. We’re just gonna do one thing each day,’ she said, a practised bartering tone in her voice. ‘But you gotta do the coppers today.’

  My eyes began to roll back in my head.

  ‘Don’t puke, don’t puke!’ she said frantically. ‘I’m real good with cops. I got away with loads of shit before I got caught,’ she said confidently. ‘I got this.’

  ‘I’m going to need more coffee,’ I said to Patricia who was standing, stunned at the door. She looked like she was the one who needed to throw up and pass out.

  CHAPTER 3

  HEIRESS ON FIRE

  Two hours later I had showered, brushed my teeth twice and Franny, my hair and make-up stylist (and Anna’s cousin) had come and gone. An hour after that I was dressed in black widow Chanel: wide-legged pants, a silk shirt, a three-button jacket, skinny belt and black calfskin Jimmy Choos. My first new pair of Choos. Maybe I would wait until tomorrow to kill myself.

  Mother was in what was once the previous owner Lord Merton’s much-famed ballroom and was now a yoga and meditation space. The yoga/ballroom had been revitalised in the theme of exploded peacock and was scattered with cushions the size of life rafts.

  A gold shrine with Buddha, fruit, flowers and a constant stream of incense sat at one end. The shrine went with the original 24-carat gold-leaf ceiling, which had not been ‘revitalised’ in peacock. Although currently a democratic socialist, Mother’s working-class roots and hard-won fortune wouldn’t allow her to discard a 24-carat ceiling.

  She was four years, two failed marriages, three criminally incompetent managers and one near-bankruptcy into her career before she found Eddy. Eddy was a savage and savvy business advisor, who had shown her absolute loyalty from day one. Everyone except Mother knew Eddy was in love with her.

  They had worked together to build an impressive empire spanning make-up and underwear lines, breakfast cereals and bed linens. There was even a range of furry koala floatation devices. Don’t ask. To the best of my knowledge koalas can’t even swim.

  Mother was a designer darling (meaning she got her haute couture for free) and had a digitally catalogued wardrobe that resembled a fashion museum.

  Her bedroom looked like the inside of a genie bottle, complete with a huge round pink bed. Her pools were swum in, her lounges were lounged in, her gazebos were meditated and dined in. Even the herbs in the herb garden got eaten.

  She finished her Añjali Mudrā pose, bowed to the Buddha and got serenely to her feet. It was like watching an elegant baby giraffe stand up. She was wearing a floor-length Camilla and Marc dress that gave the impression she walked on air, no mortal feet required.

  Three minutes later we were in the back of Grandmother’s limousine, her driver, a large Samoan man called Mr David, at the wheel, heading for the meeting with the police.

  It was happening.

  ‘Dude, you’re gettin’ that look again,’ said Esmerelda, moving across the seat and away from me. ‘You’ve gotta stop throwing up and passing out. You’re really killing the whole Heiress on Fire superhero thing for me.’

  ‘I killed him,’ I said.

  ‘Not on purpose,’ Mother said quickly and defensively patted my hand.

  Two minutes later we arrived. Grandmother lived less than 700 metres from Mother, although she might as well have lived on the moon—or worse, the suburbs. They never spoke. Grandmother thought supermodels marrying titled magnates was trite. She undermined her daughter-in-law every chance she got.

  Mother was practising meditative breathing. I felt a twinge of guilt: not for making her watch the police arrest her daughter for murder, but for making her sit in a room with Grandmother.

  ‘You absolutely do not have to come in,’ I said to her.

  Her eyes flashed open, their famous thunder-cloud grey turned hard steel. ‘I absolutely do, and I absolutely will. I assume your grandmother will have her usual lawyers in attendance.’ She straightened her back. ‘I have asked Eddy to attend with Nigel Barker.’

  ‘Get the frig out! Barking Barker?’ said Esmerelda, clearly impressed.

  ‘Who is Nigel Barker?’ I asked.

  ‘Nigel Barker is the best criminal defence lawyer in the country,’ said Mother. ‘And a close friend of Eddy’s.’

  Esmerelda nudged Mother’s shoulder. ‘Get. Out. You know Barking Barker?’

  I peered quizzically at Esmerelda: what type of young woman has a criminal defence lawyer and a flammable heiress as her heroes?

  ‘You know he got Tussell Bird out of a shoplifting charge years ago,’ Esmerelda said in impressed tones.

  Now she had my attention. ‘Tussell Bird, the movie star? What did he shoplift?’

  ‘A hat,’ Esmerelda said knowingly. ‘From Target. And a Rolex.’

  ‘A Rolex, from Target?’ Mother asked.

  ‘Nah, the Rolex was from the Rolex shop at the airport.’

  ‘Really?’ Mother said. ‘How did he get him off?’

  ‘He said it wasn’t shoplifting if the thing you took was destined to be with you.’

  ‘That is completely ridiculous,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mother nodding vigorously, ‘exactly. Imagine what he can do for you.’

  Wait. ‘Isn’t Tussell Bird in jail?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Esmerelda, ‘he totally is. He’s sheep-shit bananas.’

  Grandmother’s manor resembled Downton Abbey and was larger and grander than Mother’s Barbie Life in the Dream House property. It was filled with furniture, art, tapestries and statues that should have been in museums. Pools were not swum in, gazebos were not gathered in, herbs were not grown and there were certainly no pink genie beds.

  Grandmother’s live-in staff included h
er driver Mr David, her PA Loraine Bitsmark and her housekeeper Mary Moore. She never had house guests.

  We were ushered inside by a maid who scurried down a long, thin, dark hall with no doors. The hall led to the Formidable Formal Lounge. This was where she hosted her biggest foes, business and personal. It looked like an Oval Office–Ritz Carlton foyer mashup, but it was actually a psychological booby-trap.

  Monet, Vermeer and Rembrandt hung on the cream walls: a deliberate exercise in premeditated intimidation. No Dali, no Lichtenstein. Grandmother liked her art like the rest of her assets: concrete and traditional.

  The mesmerising parquet floors were designed to draw your attention to the floor and keep it there, allowing Grandmother to pounce on you like Red Riding Hood’s wolf.

  An almost-priceless Persian rug that should have adorned a gallery wall sat under her Conniving Coffee Table. Walking on a $34-million-a-square-metre rug was disconcerting, and many a CEO tiptoed uncomfortably over or around it, like a child avoiding the wet patches on their mother’s freshly mopped kitchen floor. This brought Grandmother great joy. I suspected the rug was a copy. The original was probably locked up in a humidity-controlled vault somewhere.

  A sumptuous spread served on Flora Danica porcelain always appeared on the Conniving Coffee Table: lemon curd tartlets, nutmeg shortbread, smoked duck with truffles, salmon carpaccio. The Conniving Coffee Table was three feet from the seating, so unless your arms were three feet long you either starved or stood and served yourself. Most people opted for self-service, which is still seen as an uncultivated act in some circles of polite society. And in case you were unaware of these social rules, the moment a single morsel passed your lips, a maid would miraculously appear to serve those with the grace and moral fortitude to remain patiently and politely seated (this category always included Grandmother). Thus allowing Grandmother to roll her eyes in disdain as she looked down at you.

  The Chesterfield of Doom was imperceptibly too deep, too close to the ground and its leather cushions overly polished and stuffed. It was like sitting on an uncomfortable slippery-slide.