Heiress On Fire

by Kellie McCourt

  Conversely the perfect-in-every-way Drowsy Divan was so bewitchingly comfortable it sent almost everyone to sleep.

  The pink love seat was not customised. Anyone who chose the lone feminine lounge was deemed worthy of her attention without further disadvantage.

  Grandmother sat on a moustache-back, tan leather club lounge that was subtly taller than all the other seats.

  There were also cameras, thermometers and motion sensors. They were attached to a suite of computers applying algorithms to everything from facial expressions and heart rate to walking gait and core body temperature.

  Esmerelda was the first to make her way out of the darkened hall into the light. She slowed, the spring in her step gone, her movements deliberate and restricted. She’d caught the scent of a triple threat: police, lawyers and Grandmother. If she was a dud as a personal assistant she could be a bodyguard. She had excellent instincts.

  Mother followed: soft, beautiful, smelling like incense. I was last. Dead woman walking. I had killed my husband and was about to be arrested. I knew it. The police knew it. By now villagers in unpronounceable faraway countries knew it. Well, those with wi-fi anyway.

  We walked for some time before stopping. All I could see were my feet and the surrounding floor. The parquet here was gorgeous.

  My legs went weak and I felt a firm hand on my back. ‘Indigo, dude. No chucking. No fainting.’ It had been less than twenty-four hours and she already knew me on a frighteningly intimate level.

  I couldn’t live in the pool house forever. Although, it was a very nice pool house and there were still bottles of wine left.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, holding my head high, pretending I had not thrown up on the lavender bush in Mother’s serenity garden on the way to the house. ‘I am perfectly fine.’

  Grandmother was seated on the moustache lounge next to her long-time lawyer Earl Stevenson. Earl looked exactly like a $5000-an-hour lawyer. Dark hair flecked with grey in the right places, an immaculately tailored suit made in Savile Row and eyeglass frames too young for a man his age.

  The Drowsy Divan to Grandmother’s right was occupied by Mother’s manager Eddy and a man I assumed was Nigel Barker, legal magician. Eddy was built like a fire plug, thick black hair (everywhere I suspected), a carefully constructed five-day growth, tanned skin and a passion for good Italian food. Over the years Mother had given him many makeovers. He was currently Zegna-meets-junkyard dog. Off duty he was a street brawler stuffed into high-end Ralph Lauren leisurewear. Seeing Eddy made me smile.

  Nigel Barker also wore an expensive suit, but his looked eco-friendly. Probably bamboo silk. Expensive enough to impress old money, organic enough to soothe hipster actors, green-branded supermodels and Tesla-driving e-billionaires. He was average height, overly Botoxed and wore too much aftershave.

  I could see the backs of two heads on the Chesterfield of Doom opposite Grandmother. The police. A tall, broad man with thick, wavy brown hair. And a not so tall, not so broad woman, with fire-engine red hair pulled back into a headache-inducing, unforgiving braid. Her blue collared shirt had not been ironed and was unevenly folded. Conversely the man’s suit was either a lucky perfect fit or tailor-made. It was crisply, professionally pressed. This was unexpected and somehow terrifying.

  Grandmother stood and held her hands out to me. A shockingly intimate move. Thank goodness Franny had gone with waterproof make-up. She held me close and whispered in my ear, ‘Do not answer anything unless Earl tells you to.’ She put her hand on my shoulder pressing me to be seated. I guess I was sitting on the moustache lounge.

  Mother and Esmerelda got the pink love seat on the left. At least it wasn’t booby-trapped. I longed to sit there but had been manoeuvred onto the moustache lounge and in my stupor had not even noticed. Grandmother was good.

  ‘What about Mr Barker?’ I whispered.

  ‘No. Earl represents us.’

  ‘Two heads are perhaps better than one, Grandmother,’ I murmured, looking away before a retort could be offered.

  I focused on Mother. A wild, wide smile was fixed on her face. She looked drunk. She wasn’t. Not for fifteen years. I looked to Esmerelda. Her mouth was open a fraction and her eyes darted about like a highly amused lizard.

  What was wrong with those two? I followed their eyeline over to the policeman on the Chesterfield of Doom. And there it was … one of the most attractive men I had ever laid eyes on. I do not say this lightly. I have spent a lifetime front row at fashion parades, backstage at concerts and plays, watching, meeting and mingling with models, actors, musicians, even the occasional prince. But this man, this policeman, was up there with the greats: Brad Pitt, Harrison Ford, Bradley Cooper, Clint Eastwood, Scott Eastwood …

  It was his skin. It was flawless, smooth, glowing. I wanted to touch it. His eyes were a light golden brown. His teeth white and perfectly formed.

  Esmerelda shook her head and mouthed the word, ‘Dude’.

  Mother inhaled deeply and tried to gain control of her smile.

  Grandmother directed a small but rigorously disgusted shake of her head towards the pink love seat and a pat on the hand to me that felt more like a slap on the wrist.

  Was this the detective I had been hiding from for the past week? Was I crazy? Who would hide from this guy? His scary redheaded partner, yes, hide, definitely, but not him.

  All the drooling and staring must have disturbed him, because he looked from Mother to Esmerelda and then to me. His eyes stopped on me and he stood. Tall, broad and Thor-ish, he extended a hand. I stood clumsily and took it.

  I immediately found myself fantasising he was shirtless, stretched out on a white linen hammock, a warm breeze rocking him between two palm trees, the turquoise ocean transparent and calm in the background: he was sculpted but not shredded, tanned but not baked and was reading something intellectual but not pretentious.

  If I had known the detective was a demigod I might have spent less time in the pool house and more time in the police station. Or the gym. It’s possible I murmured, ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Mrs Hasluck-Royce-Jones-Bombberg?’ he said. He sounded the way he looked, delicious.

  I fear he had been saying my name repeatedly before I was able to break free of my salacious thoughts and muster an answer.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, coming to my senses. ‘Yes I am.’

  He handed me a card: Detective Sergeant David Searing, NSW Police Force.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Searing,’ he said. He pronounced his name Sea-ring instead of Sear-ing. Understandable. My kitten complex and I empathised.

  I think Mother and Esmerelda were introduced as well. I cannot be sure. My brain had gone mushy. I was a terrible widow. I was going straight to hell for having these thoughts a week after killing Richard, my kind, reliable, perfect Bran Muffin Husband.

  During my childhood Mother had dated a series of extremely handsome, charming and unreliable models, actors, rock’n’rollers, and billionaires. All cheated, my father included. Undeterred by these examples I followed Mother’s fraught family tradition of falling for beautiful Lotharios when at sixteen I fell in love with Dylan Moss.

  Dylan Moss was seventeen and came from our brother school Saint John’s. Not only did he look and sound like Harry Styles, but he also acted, landing the lead role in the SILC–Saint John’s school production of Romeo and Juliet. He was clever, talented and his mother loved me.

  After three months of hot and heavy dating, and a week before my seventeenth birthday, I found my Romeo making out with SILC’s Juliet (Tiffany Goldstein) behind the orchids in the school hothouse.

  My own disastrous experience enabled me to finally understand the relationship lesson my mother had taken so many years to learn: delicious men are untrustworthy cheaters.

  Richard and I met in Italy during my last year at Politecnico di Milano. He was a pale Englishman, who did not speak Italian. Or French. Could not dress to save himself, was shortish with thinning blond hair, a soft body and a freckled butt
on nose. But, apart from being a phenomenal reconstructive and plastic surgeon, Richard was incredibly stable, consistently reliable and would be mortified at the thought of hopping in a Ferrari with Mia and Tia, making out with Tiffany Goldstein or not swimming between the flags.

  He proposed three months later with the Grace Kelly ring. We had a simple 500-person wedding at the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo in Monaco, unfortunately without family on his side: his parents had perished in a car accident years before and he had no siblings. Sad yes, but our wedding stationery was gorgeous. Japanese linen.

  I knew he would love and cherish me till death did us part. And he did.

  He was my perfect Bran Muffin in a display cabinet stacked with dangerous decadent desserts.

  Searing’s partner stood up and introduced herself. ‘Detective Sergeant Nicole Burns,’ she said shaking my hand firmly and briefly. There was nothing gooey about Burns. Wait. Searing and Burns? Here to arrest me for setting fire to my husband? It was, as I had suspected: I was officially a cosmic joke.

  ‘Thank you for meeting with us today,’ Searing said.

  Burns smiled tightly. She did not look thankful, she looked impatient and annoyed.

  We all sat.

  ‘This must be a very difficult time for you,’ Searing said.

  I nodded, a little surprised he was being so polite. I am not sure what I expected but rough manners, shouted accusations and pointed fingers figured heavily, followed by a reading of my rights and being packed off to places beyond conception.

  ‘We would very much just like to hear your version of events,’ he said gently. ‘Could you tell us?’

  I looked to Earl for permission to answer Searing’s question. He gave a taut ‘proceed with caution’ nod.

  ‘It’s hard to remember,’ I started, trying to avoid recounting the humiliating and incriminating truth.

  ‘Maybe this will jog your memory,’ Burns said, obviously prepared for that exact response, placing an iPad in front of me. There it was, the 100-million-people-had-watched-it Heiress on Fire YouTube video. She tapped play.

  I peeked at it. No queasiness. I peeked again. Only the seventh storey was on fire. Our penthouse took up storeys six, seven and eight.

  The renovation was so new I had not even had time to hire an estate agent to let and manage the remaining apartments. The eighth floor, our living quarters—bedroom, bathrooms, wardrobes and dressing rooms, all overlooking Sydney Harbour, Bridge, Opera House and city—were untouched.

  Was it possible my shoe and handbag collections were safe? My babies.

  Richard also had a collection he babied. A shameful model train collection which had spread like an overfed octopus from his wardrobe into his dressing room, its tentacle tracks everywhere. Richard’s fashion priorities were low.

  The sixth floor was staff living quarters and back-of-house things like kitchens and laundries. I was accustomed to live-in maids, nannies, gardeners and chefs but Richard felt uncomfortable with it. Instead everyone had to shuffle in and out each day. We had no permanent staff, all agency. Most disconcerting. So many unnecessary NDAs.

  Once we had children and needed a nanny for 2 am feedings he would have changed his mind. I sucked in some air. We would never need a nanny.

  The seventh floor was where we entertained. It housed a small ballroom with hardwood floors and Swarovski chandeliers, an eco-Hollywood-style powder room filled with handblown Venetian oil diffusers, a thirty-seat dining room, a Michelin star chef-designed kitchen and a cocktail room.

  The cocktail room was my favourite, filled with gorgeous Italian soy candles and eclectic bar carts. It felt calm, light and shimmery.

  Bang! A window on the seventh floor exploded, showering glass all over the lawn. Bang! Another window. Black and grey plumes of smoke rolled out at an alarming pace and the flames suddenly looked like they were a living thing, growing at astonishing speed.

  My stomach contents remained in place. I kept watching.

  The wail of fire engines drew closer, a massive red truck soon rolling in, crushing my freshly landscaped harbour beach garden. Chunks of soft grass, white roses and camellias were spat out under huge black tyres.

  Firemen and women dressed in blue with yellow reflective stripes were suddenly everywhere pulling hoses, extending ladders, dashing about.

  There was an explosion somewhere deep in the building and screams of terror began emanating from within. Now I felt sick.

  The firefighters frantically focused on the seventh floor. The cocktail room. I knew why: they were hoping for survivors. The cameraperson, however, grew bored of the smoke and flames and turned their attention to the action on the ground.

  I could now see two of our guests, Dr Bradley White and his wife Rachael White, sitting in the open-backed ambulances with silver blankets wrapped around them. Even though I had been told they had survived, I breathed a sigh of relief seeing for myself.

  Two guests were missing: Dr Sam Bruce and Dr Sam’s mysterious new girlfriend, Crystal.

  I looked desperately for a sign of Dr Sam. I stared for long seconds at the screen. More explosions. More running. Eventually Dr Sam appeared, strapped to a gurney, an EMT sitting on top of her performing what looked like CPR. I felt faint. Another EMT was attempting to get an IV in, a third was pushing the gurney towards an ambulance.

  ‘How is she?’ I choked.

  ‘Still in a coma. They’re “cautiously optimistic”,’ Searing responded.

  Someone yelled, ‘Oh my God!’ and the cameraperson focused in on the ground floor entrance, fronted by floor to ceiling glass with glass doors in the centre, then to the foyer beyond with its marble floors, hand-painted Japanese silk wallpaper and high-tech reception.

  ‘Look! Look!’ said the cinematographer. ‘There!’

  I could see it too. Someone was crawling across the marble floor trying to make it to the front doors.

  ‘Who is that?’

  One of the firefighters took off from left of screen towards the lobby doors. He was a tall, solid man with George Clooney salt-and-pepper hair and looked to be in his fifties. You could tell from the way he moved that he was the boss.

  ‘Hey, is that—is that that heiress chick?’

  The figure crawling along the floor was all oranges and reds, and I realised it was me in my new orange floor-length Alex Perry gown. Between the colour of the dress and the reflection of the flames engulfing the building around me, I really did look like I was on fire.

  I squinted at the screen. Wait. I was on fire. The fine fabric on the sleeves and the hem on the dress were alight and I could see myself desperately trying to bat them out, while they determinedly kept catching fire. The big fireman pulled up in front of the glass doors.

  ‘It is. It’s that heiress chick! She’s on fire! Holy shit man!’

  A flaming caption appeared onscreen: HEIRESS ON FIRE! I immediately knew the nickname would haunt me forever. Okay, so it wasn’t as bad as the kitten thing, but it was still bad.

  The fireman looked in at me, then past me into the darkness of the foyer, to the reception desk and elevator. He looked back at me.

  I knew for a fact those glass doors were locked. I needed my swipe card, which was upstairs. Who carries a swipe card in a cocktail dress?

  Brad White and Sam Bruce had both been given visitor swipe cards by Richard’s PA Michelle Little prior to the cocktail party. One or both must have had their swipe cards on them. Easy to do when you’re wearing a suit.

  I watched myself look back over my shoulder: the foyer was rapidly filling with smoke. I looked up at the fireman, shook my head and said something.

  Suddenly he was all movement, the mask came down from the top of his head onto his face and from nowhere a sharp, shiny fire axe appeared in his hands.

  He shouted at me, I hugged the tiles and crack—the red and silver axe went through the glass.

  An inferno erupted from the dark smoky depths of the elevator shaft. Orange flames moved across the silk
walls and moulded ceiling like a quick-fingered couturière.

  The massive fireman was like lightning, in over the broken glass, through the now empty doorframe and in two long strides had swooped me up. Shielding me from the heat and smoke he turned heel and in two more strides was out of the building.

  Burns tapped the screen. It froze.

  Mother was a statue, perfect tears streaking her perfect face.

  Grandmother’s hand shook as it squeezed mine.

  Esmerelda grinned. ‘Dude! You’re totally the Heiress on Fire!’

  Burns looked at me. ‘Coming back to you now?’

  CHAPTER 4

  THE CHESTERFIELD OF DOOM

  ‘I did it,’ I said. ‘I killed them.’

  Both lawyers stood at once, but Barker was younger and slightly quicker: ‘That’s it, Mrs Jones-Bombberg! No more talking!’

  Burns sparked up at this. ‘Mr Barker,’ she said curtly, ‘we’ve waited for well over a week to speak to your client—’

  Earl was fully on his feet now and cut Burns off mid-sentence—‘Mrs Hasluck-Royce is my client.’

  ‘For estates and taxes maybe,’ barked Mr Barker, ‘but when it comes to real law, criminal law, she is my client and you, my friend,’ he said poking a finger Earl’s way, ‘are out of your depth.’

  Grandmother stood up slowly and purposefully. Oh boy. I had seen her stand like that before. It never ended well.

  ‘For all matters,’ she said icily.

  It was Mother’s turn. She uncurled herself like a bud blooming into a massive, beautiful flower. She rarely used her height for power, but she turned her statuesque six-foot figure on Grandmother’s medium build, and nowhere-near-tall-enough-in-this-fight five foot seven frame, and addressed her in a caustic tone I had never heard before. ‘No, Florence, not in all matters. What Indigo needs today is someone with Mr Barker’s special expertise.’

  Mother turned to Earl and extended a sympathetic hand gesture. ‘Sorry Earl.’

  He held his hands up in a no-offence-taken gesture.

  From nowhere Grandmother’s PA Loraine Bitsmark appeared offering her a document to be signed.