I almost threw up then and there.
‘I’m sure Josephine and Halle would be happy to accompany you,’ she said, flicking non-existent lint off her cheap pantsuit.
Josephine surveyed the group Abby had gestured to and said to me, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll give you the talker.’
‘The talker?’
‘Yeah, you know, he just likes to talk. Nothing else,’ she said.
Before I could ask which one was the talker—and I prayed to a God I was not entirely sure I believed in that it was Matteo—the plump non-Spaniard who had sent the Dom earlier arrived at our little gathering. He seemed somewhat flushed from the exertion of making his way across the increasingly busy room. His entrance put Abby into work mode, and she moved immediately to seat him. She fussed as he slid his ample body, clad on closer inspection in off-the-rack Armani, into an overstuffed armchair with leather so buttery it could have been stripped off the first-class seats on the Orient Express. What a sad ending to such an auspicious beginning that would have been.
The Italian immediately focused on Halle. ‘Ciao bella!’
Halle smiled back at him with what looked like, at least in part, genuine affection.
‘Good evening Henry. Thank you for the Champagne.’
Halle’s voice went from table wine to 1982 Château Pétrus. It reminded me of Esmerelda: different faces for different worlds. I realised I had been privy to her real face, her true voice, something a $20,000 minimum spend could not buy the Italian. No matter how fond of him she was.
‘L’amabile Giuseppina,’ he said, kissing Josephine’s hand.
She giggled. ‘Henry! Everything sounds so delicious when you say it!’
‘And what is your friend new, also lovely?’ he said, switching to bumpy English and turning his attention to me.
Abby spoke for me: ‘This is the newest member of the Magic Models family, Violet.’ I opened my mouth to object, but nothing but Champagne vapour escaped.
‘Che foto! Che dolce!’ he exclaimed, switching back to Italian and taking my hand.
I do not know if it was the way he spoke, what he said, or the touch, but I suddenly had a very familiar feeling: I knew this man. Or at the very least I had met him, possibly several times before. I froze. This room was not that big. How many more of the men in it were going to come from my somewhat restrictive social circle?
He pulled me in for a kiss on both cheeks and my mind raced as I continued to struggle to place him. I turned my face as far away from his eyeline as possible, and he almost kissed my ear. I was close to his neck, and he smelt very distinctive. Under the Tom Ford Oud Wood perfume I could just make out the smell of something familiar, not sweet, not woody … Was it—Sennelier oil paint? He pulled away from me and the memory vanished.
‘Più Champagne!’ he cried, emptying the remaining Champagne into our flutes.
‘Oh Henry!’ exclaimed Abby in mock pity. ‘The young men over there have already asked to buy Champagne for these three. But perhaps when they’ve finished?’
The Italian shot Abby an intense look and grew red with what was either anger or embarrassment—I was unable to distinguish in the increasingly low light. The fact that I was actively trying to block his view of my face somewhat hampered my view of his face. His manicured hands, which were speckled with something, or perhaps it was just sunspots under the lights, were heatedly tapping out a few words on his phone.
Frankly I did not care if he turned red, green or purple. If I recognised him, even vaguely, he might be able to recognise me too. I also wanted to be nowhere near Matteo or his now decidedly tarnished buddies. I wanted out. I did not want to go from Heiress on Fire to Heiress on Fire Sale. Bloody Esmerelda, where was she!
As I did another desperate sweep of the room, Abby pulled out her smartphone and punched in a few words before returning it to her pocket.
She looked up and motioned to a waitress. ‘A bottle of Dom Pérignon Pink Rose for our new friend Violet please. Vintage.’
While the waitress looked impressed, Halle and Josephine did not. Josephine stared at me urgently, shaking her head in a tiny motion, left to right; barely noticeable, it was a subtle but clear warning. I agreed with her, pink Champagne was trite and reminded me mainly of dull baby showers and hen’s nights I was forced to attend by my grandmother, but it was hardly worthy of such dramatic, clandestine warning.
Abby had no sooner put her device away than it was apparently pinging and out again. She smiled with her crooked, overly white teeth and fingered the device. She looked behind her to Matteo and his friends. One of the boys turned towards her, phone in hand, eyebrows raised and shook his head in defeat. Abby nodded and looked to the red-faced Italian.
‘My apologies for the misunderstanding, Henry,’ she said to the plump European. ‘Halle and Josephine would be delighted to share Violet’s pink rose with you this evening. In our private VIP suite.’
Suddenly bile rose in my throat and a feeling of absolute dread lurched through my stomach. Was I the Pink Rose? Had I just been sold? Auctioned off via some app? Had I been eBay-ed? Jail was suddenly looking good. Silverwater. It sounded quite nice. At the beginning of the week I had thought it sounded like a rather lovely finishing school. The world began to spin.
‘Jesus,’ Halle said tightly under her breath. ‘She doesn’t look good.’
‘Henry darling,’ I heard Josephine say quickly, ‘why don’t you and I have a friendly little chat while Halle and Violet get the suite ready for us?’ As my head lolled and my shoulders began to hunch over I could see Josephine place her hand on the highest part of Henry’s thigh without actually technically touching his crotch.
I heard no response. I could imagine Henry shaking his head, no. He had no intention of giving up his prize so easily after he had just prised it from the sticky fingers of a young man a quarter of his age and half his weight. God help me, I was a prize! My stomach cramped and I curled over, squashing the lookbook. No! The MM magazine!
‘Oh, darling Henry,’ purred Josephine. ‘I’ll let you do that thing you like so much.’
With the last of the focus in my eyes I could see him move forward towards her on his chair, ‘With lamponi e crema?’
‘Sì,’ she giggled.
My internal translator whirled slowly. Cogs creaked. Lamponi e crema. Lamponi e crema. Raspberries and cream? Better than salmon and marbles, but still too much for me. I was gone. Before I could finish my convulsions Halle had me on my feet, champagne bucket pressed against my chest. I threw up on the bottle of pink Dom. I did not think I was the first heiress to throw up on a bottle of pink Dom. Or the first escort to throw up on a bottle of pink Dom. But I bet I was the first heiress escort to throw up on a bottle of pink Dom. New ground for me. I was obviously progressing as a person.
Halle hustled me to the edge of the room, now loud and dark, and down a hallway previously unseen to me. She had one hand around my waist and another holding the bucket under my chin. I heaved again and I could hear her swearing underneath her breath. She pressed on and we stumbled into an enormous pink and gold suite. The bed was a gargantuan double king. I was tantalisingly close to it when I realised that Halle was no longer holding onto me. The hand around my waist had been used to open the suite door. Damn. I crumpled face first into the lush, pale carpet. Oh well, I thought, at least I would wake up on what I was guessing was a very expensive and soft bed.
CHAPTER 17
NAKED IN A BATHTUB
Alas, I was wrong. I woke up essentially naked and stuffed into a bathtub. Josephine was sitting on the edge of the claw foot tub wearing a see-through tulle La Perla triangle bra with black embroidery and matching knickers, smoking a cigarette and, ironically, drinking pink Dom. I hoped they’d washed that bottle thoroughly. She beamed down at me.
‘Hey, Elizabeth Bay,’ she said, exhaling smoke.
I looked down at myself. I was wearing a bathrobe, but not much else. The tub had been lined with super-soft white towels and ther
e was a satin pillow under my head. All in all, it was surprisingly comfortable.
‘My clothes?’ I croaked in a much weaker voice than I had hoped.
‘Oh yeah, so sorry about that. Halle’s got them. And your wig. And your shoes.’
I felt my head and wiggled my toes. She was right—gone and gone. I began to panic.
‘Don’t worry darling. Old Henry’s as blind as a bat without his glasses, and as drunk as a skunk. She’s been in there dressed as you for thirty-five minutes, so you—that is she—should be done any second now. He’ll sleep till Christmas. We put some Valium in the raspberries.’ She giggled and winked at me. ‘You’re good to go, Elizabeth Bay.’
‘But, I’m, I mean, I’m sure …’
‘Oh yeah, sure you’re new, just looking for a big-dollar job,’ she said inhaling deeply on her cigarette and winking at me again.
The bathroom door opened and Halle strolled in wearing nothing but the gold Jimmy Choos. They clicked on the white quartz tiles and she looked like the most perfect human ever formed. She had my red wig in one hand and my McQueen dress in the other. She laid them on the side of the tub.
‘You awake now, Elizabeth Bay? Typical, when all the work is done you Eastern Suburbs chicks are suddenly up,’ and she took the cigarette from Josephine’s hand and sat next to her.
The Eastern Suburbs, in the main, ran along the water from the iconic Sydney Harbour to the famed Bondi and Coogee beaches. They housed many of Sydney’s wealthiest harbour and beach suburbs: Rushcutters Bay, Double Bay, Point Piper, Rose Bay, Vaucluse, Bondi Beach, Coogee Beach, Bronte Beach. The list went on. It was stuffed to bursting point with single sex private schools, marinas, mansions, hotels, and renovated (on the inside), redecorated three-storey units and luxury car dealerships.
Its main thoroughfare New South Head Road was lined with local businesses, high-end fashion houses, many ‘fusion’ and ‘modern Australian’ restaurants, at least 500 homewares stores and just as many gyms.
Sydney Plastics was located on New South Head Road. Its six lanes existed in an almost constant state of traffic congestion and frustration.
My mother, grandmother and almost everyone I knew lived in the Eastern Suburbs. SILC, the private girl’s school I had attended from age four, was cuddled next to the bay there. My childhood home was just 500 metres away, the penthouse less than 2 kilometres from that.
I still lived there.
‘Oh no, I’m not one of those,’ I fibbed as gravely as possible. ‘I don’t live there.’
Technically I also had a holiday home in Palm Beach, which was in the Northern Beaches about an hour from Sydney. Did that count? I spent a lot of time in New York and Florence. I had homes in both. Did that count? Or was I missing the point somewhat?
They both started to laugh. ‘Yeah, you sound like rough trade.’ And they laughed again.
‘The earrings,’ Halle said, gathering herself and pointing her white cigarette at me. ‘The earrings gave you away, Elizabeth Bay.’
I put my hands to my ears and felt the round diamond earrings, Father’s final birthday gift.
‘Not too many newbies sporting diamond studs. What do you think they are Jo?’ Halle asked her friend, passing the cigarette back and putting her black lace French knickers and bra on. Thank God. I was having trouble not staring.
‘Astor Ideal cut,’ Josephine said easily, leaning closer into the tub. ‘D colour, VVS1, maybe IF.’
‘Three carats?’ Halle asked, retrieving her tiny dress and silk stockings from a hanger on the back of the bathroom door.
‘Minimum,’ said Josephine. ‘Set in platinum. Am I right, Elizabeth Bay?’
I swallowed hard and considered proposing they were fake, but I could see that strategy was not going to work. I nodded. Josephine was clearly a woman who spent a lot of time around diamonds.
Josephine winked at me again. ‘They’re beautiful. Around $400 to $500k I’d say.’
‘A casual half mill in earrings, but you’re looking to makes some extra cash escorting?’ Halle stepped into her dress. ‘I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that.’
There was a just-audible knock on the outside suite door. The two women looked at each other.
‘You?’ said Halle.
‘No,’ said Josephine. ‘You?’
Halle shook her head. They both looked at me.
‘Well, you’re all sorts of fun aren’t you, Elizabeth Bay!’ exclaimed Halle raising her eyebrows at me, and she headed for the door of the enormous quartz and gold bathroom.
Josephine stood, ran the last of the cigarette under the tap, then flushed it down the toilet. She stood and opened the mirrored vanity door over the double sink. The MM magazine was inside. She handed it to me.
‘That’s a collectible,’ Josephine said seriously, indicating the magazine. ‘Be very careful with it.’
I took it and nodded, not knowing what to say.
I heard Halle open the suite door. ‘No boys,’ she said brightly. ‘She’s booked out for the rest of the night. You know Henry doesn’t like to share. I think I saw someone new who used to be on Home and Away at the bar. Go find her.’
I heard the door to the suite close. I exhaled deeply and Josephine helped me to my feet. She turned away to give me some privacy, which I felt was very generous considering her friend had just had sex with a man on my behalf. I stuffed the magazine back into my underwear, which I was thankfully still wearing, and slipped the gold dress over my head. I forced myself not to think about what might have been left on the dress. It would require more than dry-cleaning. It might need psychotherapy. But then again it was McQueen, so maybe it would cope.
There was another knock at the suite door.
‘Geez Elizabeth Bay, you’re one hot property,’ giggled Josephine, helping me out of the tub, which was not easy; the tub, like the room, the bathroom and the bed was oversized and gilded. The interior designer evidently considered ‘lots-of-gold’ a theme. It is not. But then I paid my interior designer $200,000 to turn my penthouse into a fire trap.
‘Don’t worry yourselves,’ Halle yelled sarcastically, ‘I’ll get it.’
As I stepped onto the cold tiles, I could hear an argument beginning at the front door.
‘You’re her what?’ I could hear Halle saying.
‘Personal shopper, dude. You know, her Crumble.’
Esmerelda.
I hurried out of the bathroom with Josephine fussing beside me. I stopped short when I hit carpet. Boy the suite was a scene. The massive bed looked like it had been through a hurricane. Gold satin sheets were strewn about the place, pillows and cushions of various shapes and sizes were scattered all over the floor. Furniture was moved. One sheet had been twisted into a satiny gold rope and used to create a Tarzan swing over one of the bed posts. I could have sworn I saw a tray of paints and a life-size canvas, but no brushes, tucked into the alcove on the far side of the room. There were three empty champagne buckets and a gold dish full of the most enormous raspberries I had ever seen. There was also an empty gold dish, stained with what I hoped were raspberries.
Henry was passed out (or drugged), naked in the middle of the bed, a small satin cushion placed strategically over his crotch. He really needed to cut back on the pasta. Raspberries were obviously only a ‘sometimes’ food. He still looked familiar, but I’d lived in Italy for several years while completing my Art and Design studies at Politecnico di Milano, so maybe he just looked like a sixty-something Italian. I could hope.
I regained my focus and heard Halle say in annoyed tones, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Get back to work.’
Uh-oh.
I hurried to the front door of the suite to let Esmerelda in. Although into what I was not sure.
I heard a buzz and the sound of deflating air and the suite door closed.
I do not know how Halle got rid of Esmerelda so quickly, but I was keen to have her divulge the secret to me. I had a premonition it would come in extremely hand
y in the future.
Instead Esmerelda strolled into the suite with Halle slumped over her shoulder. Damn. I knew it was too good to be true.
‘Dude!’ she said to me, heaving Halle onto the bed next to Henry. ‘What the frig?’
I noticed two things. The cushion had moved and Henry was now fully exposed. He was still in full flight and I felt some comfort for Halle. He might not have been twenty but he was extremely well equipped. The man had girth. No wonder Renaissance artists spent so much time sculpting naked Italians.
And more shocking, I could now see Esmerelda was dressed in a French maid-waitress outfit, complete with fishnet stockings and platform stilettos. Her platinum wig was gone and her long dark hair sat perfectly straight, falling halfway down her back.
My hair, post-wig, was a bird’s nest. Of course.
I looked up at her. She was over six foot in those heels and I was barely five nine in my bare feet. My gold Jimmy Choo heels were still attached to Halle’s pedicured feet.
I’m guessing not a lot shocked Josephine. It was not the sight of Henry—she had seen it all before I was sure—that had her gaping; it was the unconscious Halle.
‘What happened?’ Josephine said quietly.
Esmerelda completely ignored her. She had her hands on her narrow, surfboard hips.
‘Where’d you go!?’ Esmerelda growled.
‘Me?’ I said, the indignity of recent events springing up. ‘You left me!’
‘No way, dude. I just went to rifle her office. I got back in there and you were friggin’ gone!’
Josephine recovered herself further and looked at Esmerelda with wonder. ‘What did you do to her?’
Esmerelda waved a hand at Halle. ‘Don’t worry about it. I just tasered her a little.’
And she pulled a small, black, metal device that very closely resembled a slim torch out of her corset and showed it to Josephine. ‘Very small voltage, she’ll be awake in a few minutes.’
‘Is that a taser?’ I asked her.
‘Yep.’
Heiress On Fire Page 17
