Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  Of course, Emily would get her mother’s fortune in the end. But Innocence was the kind of mother who’d hang on until she was 105, and Emily saw little cheer in inheriting great wealth when you were older than forty and decrepit. Claudia would get her inheritance in, like, a year. Emily would have to wait for hers for ever!

  ‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘You BASTARD!’ she screamed in his ear, with all her might. Then she felt a warm sensation. She looked down. ‘Fuck,’ she said. Her waters had broken – all over her last pair of Jimmy Choos.

  LONDON, NOVEMBER 1998

  Claudia

  ‘DFK? Billy from AP. How you doing?’

  Claudia smiled, despite herself. She’d met Billy on a press trip and he’d dubbed her ‘Dorothy from Kansas’. She didn’t quite know why, but her instinct told her it was a fond nickname ; vaguely insulting, but fond.

  ‘Billy! I’m … OK, considering. Freelancing. How are you?’

  ‘Doll, I’m fine, but something’s come up you need to know about. Mate of mine, Italian geezer, owns a picture agency – they’ re paps, yeah? There’s a shot come in – you’ll want to have a look. This is a head’s up, doll. I don’t think you can stop it.’

  ‘Oh my, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve put it on a bike. I’m sorry, girl.’

  What on earth could it be? Her father was in a coma. Her mother was in a police cell. What else was there to go wrong?

  Great. Now she couldn’t relax. Thank heaven. Here he was. She signed her name and snatched the package. There was a blue folder inside. She opened it, pulled out the photo, and sat down with a thump. Oh no. Poor, poor Emily. How disgusting. How could he? She was having a baby! He was supposed to be ill – how dare he? Poor Emily.

  ‘Billy? Claudia. Oh God. What can I do?’

  ‘Not much, doll. The snapper stands to make a million. So unless you have a bit of spare change knocking around …’

  ‘Has it gone out yet? Has he talked to anyone?’

  ‘Yours truly. That’s it.’

  ‘Can he give me … a few hours?’

  ‘I’ll put in a call.’

  Oh Christ. She grabbed her coat and took a cab to the station where Innocence was being held.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ said the officer at the front desk. She was kind but firm. ‘She isn’t allowed visitors.’

  ‘But I’m her daughter.’

  ‘No visitors, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then, could you … give her a message? Could I speak to her on the phone?’

  The woman hesitated. ‘Wait there. What did you say your name was?’

  Claudia stood, drumming her fingers.

  The woman returned after a minute. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But your mother doesn’t want to speak to … anyone.’

  Me.

  Claudia sighed. Now what? Ms Green? Ms Green wouldn’t understand. Claudia knew exactly what she’d say. One million pounds? What nonsense! This is extortion! I shall call the police!

  Her parents could afford to buy Bolivia, and yet not one penny of their billions was available to her.

  She caught her breath. There was one more option. Now, Claudia, are you sure this isn’t just an excuse? No. What could be more important? She needed his advice. She glanced at her watch. It was ten to one. She might just catch him as he headed out to lunch.

  The taxi to the City was agonizingly slow. The traffic was just appalling. When she reached Threadneedle Street, she jumped out and ran the last hundred yards. If he didn’t have a work lunch, he always grabbed a sandwich from the Italian deli – tuna, beans, mayonnaise, on toast. There was his building, a tall, grand, shiny, we-make-money building. And, oh, she’d recognize those rugby-player’s shoulders anywhere.

  ‘Alfie, wait!’

  He whirled around. ‘Claudia!’

  A short, barrelly blonde appeared from behind him. Yick, the fiancée! It occurred to Claudia that she had reacted to seeing the woman as a vampire reacts to garlic. She prayed it wasn’t too obvious. From the look on the girl’s face, it was.

  ‘Claudia, let me introduce my fiancée, Polly. Polly, Claudia is a good friend from childhood.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Polly. Claudia found it interesting that Polly managed to smile and shake hands while keeping all the relative muscles slack.

  ‘Poll and I were meeting for lunch. Join us! It’ll be fun!’

  Oh God.

  ‘Alfie,’ she said, gazing up at him. He looked back, his green eyes piercing hers. There was a bemused smile on his face. When she looked at him, she always saw two people: the adult and the child. His blond hair stuck up the same way it had in childhood, and he had the same dimple in his cheek when he laughed. He was so kind. It made her heart ache because she might – had things gone well, instead of terribly – have fallen in love with Alfie. He had saved her once and, in a way, he would always be her hero.

  ‘Alfie, I need to speak to you urgently. In private.’

  He looked startled; she looked as if she’d been slapped.

  ‘Darling,’ Alfie said. ‘Claudia and I will go and talk in the lobby. Why don’t you go on ahead? I’ve reserved a table.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Claudia. ‘Sorry that sounded so cryptic.’

  Alfie grinned. ‘There is no doubt that Poll is now convinced you are about to inform me that you’re expecting our child. I imagine it will cost me at least three very dull evenings at the opera to put right. So, Claudia’ – he smiled again as he opened the door for her – ‘what event could be so terrible that it prevents you from joining me for lunch?’

  She told him, and the smile vanished.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘Emily is about to have a baby. She’s already had bleeding. This could really damage her health. I’m sure – almost – that my parents would want to stop it, at any cost. But neither one is … available. I’ve just thought – I could call the Earl!’

  Alfie shook his head. ‘Claudia, there is no possibility of you being able to stop this photograph from emerging. It’s all done digitally, isn’t it? It’s not as if you can buy the negative. If they want to print it, they will, and one million, two million is not going to stop them. Even if you could get your parents to pay, there’s no guarantee. Someone, somewhere, will have a copy on file and, one day, they are going to sell it. And then your parents will be accused of bribery. It’s a lose-lose situation. Don’t get involved.’

  She was quiet. She wanted to curl up on the silver-flecked black marble floor and go to sleep for a thousand years. She gazed at the huge modern paintings. She liked the one with the bright red splodge in the middle. The place reminded her of one of her father’s homes … Bilbao? She couldn’t remember which. She hadn’t visited for a long time. He mustn’t die. She hated him but … he mustn’t die. And she couldn’t even speak to Innocence. It was crazy to think she had been arrested. She didn’t like Innocence but she cared about her. In a warped, weird way, she needed her.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, slowly. ‘You’re right, Alfie. There is nothing I can do.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Claudia, don’t worry about the baby. People have healthy babies in the most terrible circumstances. She’ll be OK.’

  ‘Look,’ she said, not wanting to let go of his hand, ‘you should go. I’m sorry about getting you in trouble.’

  He winked. ‘Ah, if only.’

  They both stood, and he kissed her on the cheek.

  Ah, if only. It meant nothing. Anyway, she reminded herself, you couldn’t sleep with Alfie. You can’t sleep with a nice guy. You can only sleep with men who confirm your self-loathing.

  She caught the bus back to the office. She had never gone on public transport as a child, and as an adult, it was her treat to ride on the bus. She sat at the front at the top, and let herself be lost in the beauty of London. The dirt, the litter, the spitting in the street: it made no difference. When you loved a person or a place, no matter how plain, they got better looking every time you saw them. The bus
route was long and winding and extremely slow. But there seemed no point in rushing.

  She should call Emily and warn her. It could even be too late. The Standard’s early evening edition would soon be out. Claudia stepped off the bus. It hadn’t yet reached her office but she didn’t want to go back. Tomorrow, they’d see the papers and she wouldn’t need an excuse.

  She sat on the first bench she saw, shoved on her sunglasses and gazed at the people hurrying past, wishing she had their families instead of hers.

  At five, she bought a Standard. She stood still and frantically leafed through it. But there was nothing. Maybe it was too … wrong for the Standard. The Standard aligned itself with all of that type. Perhaps it wouldn’t want to alienate the Earl. It was a shame she couldn’t say the same for The Sun, the Mirror, the Express, and … the Mail would come up with some sly excuse to run it: ‘How dare this photographer take this picture – is privacy no longer sacred?!’

  There was no point going home. She sat in a café, staring at the walls, until the first editions hit the pavement by Charing Cross Station. She scanned the front pages, looking, looking …

  It was midnight. She rang Billy on his mobile. ‘Billy, Billy, what is going on—’

  ‘Easy, Tiger!’ He paused. ‘You at the hospital?’

  ‘What! No! Is it my father? Oh—’

  ‘It’s your sister. She’s gone into labour. It came through on the wire at three.’ He paused. ‘Close, then, are you?’

  ‘I should be with her – there’s no one else.’ She had nearly cut him off before she realized. ‘Wait! Billy, what’s happening with the shot? Who’s bought it?’

  ‘No one,’ he replied. ‘They won’t touch it.’

  ‘They won’t? Why?’

  ‘Ah, DFK. Are you a hack or a girl in gingham with a smelly little dog? Emily is having a baby. She’s a new mother. She’s untouchable. If they run the picture, it makes them look bad. Today, they want baby pics. So you can relax. Today, Emily is safe.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘For as long as she stays useful. Chin up, Dorothy. Go see your sister.’

  THE LINDO WING, MIDNIGHT

  Emily

  ‘I have a son,’ Emily whispered to the pillow. ‘I have a son.’

  THE OLD BAILEY, LONDON, A YEAR LATER, 1999

  Innocence

  She’d known all along that she would not be convicted. She had the best, the most expensive briefs in the country. And her barristers weren’t bad either! Oh, woman, you’re hysterical. Innocence tossed her hair and stuck her nose high, before recalling that Mr Humphrey Slater, QC, head of her legal team, had forbidden her to make what he called ‘provocative gestures’.

  She was a whisker away from telling them all to go to hell. The case was ludicrous and, perversely, it infuriated her that they took it so seriously. Of course they had to mount a ‘spirited’ defence, but their grave faces and their silly wigs and their endless ringed binders gave credence to the ridiculous and bizarre accusations. Of course the sordid truth had been leaked, giving her a motive to want to kill Jack. Hell, yes, he’d lied to her since the day they’d met and diddled her out of everything. But she hadn’t known it. The jury would believe her.

  Even if they didn’t want to, they would believe her because women didn’t bomb people. She might have the wealth to organize a hit, but this was hardly her style. It was a bloke’s idea of murder: I’m gonna blow you up! Duh! Surely every female sitting on that jury would understand that had Innocence discovered the truth – her husband was not her husband, he had married his lover in secret – she would have dealt with it the honourable way: she would have looked him in the eye and stabbed him in the heart with a kitchen knife.

  Naturally, she’d kept this line of reasoning to herself.

  She had done pretty much everything she’d been told to do. She’d tried not to let it show in her face that she thought the jury was a bunch of knuckle-dragging morons. Could they even understand English? She resented having to ‘tone herself down’ so as not to alienate them. Slater had put it tactfully, but what he meant was, ‘They hate you because you’re rich and beautiful and successful, so try and make yourself plain and drab and sorry, so they hate you a little less.’

  She had taken enormous care with her wardrobe. She had called in Jones, who had been marvellous, sourcing forty-nine variations on a sober black Amanda Wakeley trouser suit, and flat black heels. ‘Oh my God, I couldn’t,’ she’d cried on seeing the flats. ‘I’ll look like plod!’ And, cursing the day that Jack was born, she had allowed Patrice to colour her pink hair brown. It would rinse out, but it was miserable.

  The briefs had advised no jewellery, not even her ‘wedding’ ring, because that might imply she was delusional, wanting to maintain the fraud of being ‘married’ to him. She had argued that not to wear it might imply she was bitter. Better delusional and bejewelled than bitter and boring.

  So she’d worn her wedding ring, her enormous rock of an engagement ring and a white gold and diamond Royal Oak watch, £82,850 by Audemars Piguet at Marcus. Slater had done a double take and said, ‘I’m afraid it’s too showy.’

  She had replied coldly, ‘I’m not afraid.’

  Those plebs on the jury wouldn’t know the difference between Piguet at Marcus and the Next Directory. To the untrained eye, she could have been dressed head to foot in Marks & Spencer. For a split second and the first time in years, Innocence thought of her mother. How proud she would have been to have a daughter who could afford to dress head to foot in Marks & Spencer.

  Her mother was dead now. Sad.

  And really, she would go to prison before she dressed in high street clothes in front of a worldwide audience. The media frenzy was pleasing. They’d come from as far as Japan. And all of them wanted to stay in her hotels. Ching! She couldn’t look too drab – that would reek of guilt. The police had been forced to block off the streets, just as at Diana’s wedding (she refused to think of Diana’s funeral), and her armoured van had an escort: five motorcycles. Nice to know they cared. Of course, the attention was also (she was forced to grudgingly admit) to do with the fact that a celebrity was dead, oh boohoo. She’d seen one of Mollie Tomkinson’s films and snapped off the DVD after ten minutes. There was a limit to the number of times you could watch a scrawny teenager suck in her nostrils and make a face like a camel to force her thin lips into a pout. It had surprised her quite how many people were upset about Mollie. Those awful spotty American kids, shouting insults at her, in the street, on the first day. The eulogies in the papers. Even the police hadn’t anticipated such crowds. The second day, she’d been smuggled in through another entrance.

  The case had dragged on. A number of Hollywood stars – did they ever tire of the sound of their own voices? – had given evidence by video-link.

  It wasn’t even evidence. But apparently there were a million different ways to say, with great dramatic edge, trembling emotion, and a troubled, sincere yet courageous expression: ‘I saw her escorted out, I saw she was pissed, and then I was blown off my feet, sustaining a chipped toenail, as everything went boom!’ To them, it was no more than an audition. To be honest, she wasn’t listening to them speak, she was trying to figure out who’d had work. At least one A-lister’s receding hairline had suddenly grown back.

  She was grabbing at straws to keep sane. She felt sick with the stress of it. Every day, some embarrassing detail about her life was pulled to pieces in front of everyone. And Slater was stunningly slow to say, ‘I fail to see the relevance of this.’ It was also the first time she’d heard the details of Jack’s love affair with this Maria woman. It was horrible. It seemed, from what his staff and associates were saying – she hoped the jury would note the absence of any friends – that Jack and Maria had actually fallen in love. How? The woman wasn’t young, she wasn’t gorgeous, she wasn’t rich, she had nothing! She was off the street!

  Slater had encouraged her to cry in front of the whole room. Or at least he’d said, �
�If you do sense the pricking of womanly emotion, do not feel obliged to hold back.’ Slater was quite the twat.

  Anyway, she couldn’t cry. She was too stunned. When she thought back to that brief paradise on Spyglass Island, she was genuinely hurt.

  Jack hated her, but she knew he would not want her to go to prison. She was linked to him – apparently not for better or for worse – but they were still linked and he would not wish to be linked to a felon. Also, she was still the mother of his daughter. She believed the worst of him, she knew the worst of him as fact, but she knew he hadn’t planned this. He’d nearly died himself, for fuck’s sake! No. There was a third person. Someone else had organized the planting of that bomb, not to kill, but to maim. The truth was, whoever it was knew what they wanted, and had achieved their goal precisely.

  The room was hot and stuffy – all these disgusting people breathing their germs into her air – but Innocence shivered.

  Someone hated Jack, and someone hated his family, and that someone had awesome unchecked power, because no one got to Jack; none of his many enemies, forged through the misery and betrayal of his miraculous escape from the Lloyd’s disaster, had ever reached him, though many had tried. His wealth, his influence, his legions of people, his ever-present security – ex-Mossad, the best – all of these impressive, impenetrable layers surrounded him, ensuring that he was inaccessible to the common man. He only travelled by armoured car, he only ate in his own restaurants, he only slept in his hotels, he only flew in his own planes. If he attended a public event, his security swept the area. He was protected. These days, anyone who wasn’t someone never, ever came within spitting distance of Jack Kent.

  And yet.

  Someone had the wit and power and rage to overcome all of this.

  They had got to him.

  The love of his life was dead. The mother of his child was on trial for murder. Even the girls had suffered. There was Claudia’s engagement to her blood father – she’d had some kind of breakdown after finding out. And now, in the context of everything else, could she be sure it was pure coincidence? It had all gone so wrong for Emily. Poor Emily with her dreams of castles, and now, oh God, a mother. Innocence had insisted on paying for a nanny, and a maternity nurse. Alone, Emily would be a dreadful mother; she hadn’t a clue, she was a little girl. There was no way she should have sole charge of a baby, that little angel: one today! Surely, this media circus would soon end – it had been hours – and Innocence would be free to go straight to the apartment in Ecclestone Square to hold her grandson on his first birthday.