‘I’m fine, Nikolas,’ Calvary said, though both of them knew this to be to the contrary. ‘Tom is all set for Oxford and Hen, well, yes, Henry is planning to tie the knot with his fiancée, Tamara.’ She hissed the girl’s name as though it were blasphemous. ‘Actually, Hen’s the reason I’m here, in a manner of sorts.’
‘Oh?’
There was a brief knock at the door before the beaming receptionist walked in with a tray of refreshments.
‘Thank you, Luci,’ he smiled, pouring them both coffee in a Wedgwood china cup as the young girl withdrew from the room once more.
‘I need your help, Nikolas,’ Calvary said, shocked by the sound of her own desperation.
‘I need a divorce.’
Nikolas sighed. He had heard the divorce word a thousand times over during his career and yet still it continued to provoke a genuine sadness in him.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Calvary,’ he said softly. ‘Have you thought about counselling?’
Calvary snorted derisively.
‘Douglas at Relate? I hardly think so!’
Mystern linked his fingers together and let them rest on top of his polished desk.
‘I can recommend a terribly good woman …’
Calvary let out a hollow laugh.
‘Knowing Douglas he’d probably be screwing her within the week,’ she remarked dryly.
Over the years, Calvary had fought so hard to prevent her marriage from becoming the ridiculous charade that it was. She had tolerated Douglas’s need to find his jollies elsewhere for nigh on two decades, turning a blind eye to the hastily scribbled numbers on the back of napkins, the scent of another woman on his shirt, little gifts she had found that she would never receive …
Calvary considered it to be her lot in life; most society wives had to turn the other cheek at one time or another throughout their marriage. It was par for the course if you wanted to keep the status and the trappings. Trappings being the operative word. Up until now though, Douglas had stuck to the unspoken rules between them regarding his ‘dalliances’. Discretion was key; as long as he didn’t flaunt it, Calvary could look the other way and console herself with extravagant purchases and luxury holidays. But not this time; this time Douglas had gone too far.
Calvary took a deep breath. What she was about to say was not going to be easy for her but she knew it was necessary if Nikolas was going to secure her the payout of the century. Even a cheating, immoral son-of-a-bitch like Douglas would want this particular indiscretion kept quiet.
‘He’s been screwing our son’s fiancée.’ Calvary fought to banish the image inside her mind of a naked Tamara on top of her husband, her glossy chestnut head thrown back in ecstasy as she rode him furiously, Douglas’s hand grabbing at her pert young breasts as they bounced in slow-motion. She glanced up at Nikolas. If he was shocked by such a revelation he certainly didn’t show it. Perhaps he had seen and heard it all. The thought made Calvary feel deeply depressed.
‘I am sorry, Calvary,’ Mystern said finally, his tone one of fatherly concern and causing a lump as hard as granite to form in her throat. ‘That must’ve been a dreadful shock.’
Calvary nodded, unable to speak for fear of unravelling like a ball of wool. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you a drink? A real drink, perhaps?’ Nikolas stood, straightened his braces and made his way over to a huge antique globe that stood proudly by the large sash window like a prop from a James Bond film set. It was a little early to start on the hard stuff but today he felt like making an exception.
‘Care to join me? A G&T perhaps?’
‘What the hell,’ Calvary sniffed.
‘That’s a girl,’ Nikolas said, pouring her an exceptionally large measure.
Calvary gulped back half the contents of her glass and hoped it wouldn’t be long before she would feel the warming effects of the alcohol.
‘I want half of everything,’ she announced, her change of tone causing Nikolas to look up from his glass. ‘All of it. The houses, the cars, even his beloved bloody jet! I want to keep the jewellery and, of course, the dogs – definitely the dogs …’ Calvary was animated now, almost up out of her chair, years of hurt and anger emanating from her like radiation. ‘I want to nail that bastard so hard to the wall he really will think he’s bloody Jesus Christ!’ she spat. ‘I deserve to be handsomely rewarded for the years I’ve put up with him sniffing after anything in a skirt, Nikolas. Humiliating me, robbing me of my self-esteem and dignity. But above all, above everything, I want him to pay for betraying our son; his own son, for God’s sake!’ Tears were stinging her eyes now and she sniffed them back.
Nikolas Mystern drained his glass. He was up on his feet now too, pacing behind his desk, his brow furrowed in thought.
‘Did you tell Douglas you were coming to see me today?’ he enquired earnestly.
‘Of course not!’ Calvary laughed incredulously. ‘I’ll be the first to admit that I have been foolish over the years, allowing that bastard of a husband of mine to continue to make a mockery of our marriage, but even I’m not that stupid!’ The look on Nikolas Mystern’s face was beginning to trouble her. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It’s odd,’ Nikolas said, continuing to pace the room, ‘but it seems as though Douglas may have pre-empted your moves.’
‘What do you mean, pre-empted my moves?’ Calvary felt the first flutters of fear inside her stomach.
‘Well,’ Mystern began, ‘I figured when you called a few days ago and said you wanted to see me that it might be prudent, if a little premature of me, to start looking into Douglas’s affairs – financial affairs you understand,’ he felt the need to clarify.
‘Go on,’ Calvary encouraged him, her heart beating a song in her chest.
‘Taking into account the businesses and his portfolio of properties, Douglas must be worth in excess of £200 million, would you agree?’
Calvary nodded.
‘Tell me, why do you ask?’ she repeated shakily.
Nikolas took an audible breath, sat back down into his chair and fixed Calvary with a watery-eyed stare. In the most part he enjoyed his job, always had done, but there were times, like this, when he wished he was retired and enjoying his twilight years out on his yacht somewhere on the French Riviera.
‘Well, according to my well-placed sources, Douglas Rothschild is worth a big fat sum of nothing.’
Calvary met his gaze. The room suddenly felt hot and airless.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she snorted dismissively after a long moment. ‘Douglas is the walking epitome of “filthy rich”.’ She laughed then, a hollow, bitter sound.
‘That may be,’ Mystern said solemnly. ‘But according to my sources whatever fortune he may have amassed over the years, it’s gone.’
‘Gone? Gone?’ Calvary repeated the word as though it were foreign. Her first flutters of fear had now rapidly escalated into full blown panic. ‘But I … I don’t understand,’ she said. The room had begun to spin and she placed a hand on the walnut desk in a bid to steady herself.
‘It’s very odd,’ Mystern continued, picking up his Mont Blanc ink pen and stabbing a fresh clean sheet of notebook paper. ‘But the day after you called to make an appointment here, large sums of money were withdrawn from various bank accounts belonging to your husband and an application was made to liquidate his business. It’s as if he somehow knew, or suspected that you were coming to see me.’
Calvary’s jaw loosened and she began to feel a little faint.
‘But … but that’s impossible …’ she stammered.
‘Calvary, are you alright? Here, have some water,’ Mystern said, pouring her a glass.
Douglas Rothschild was a hugely successful property tycoon and was what was known as a ‘fixer’ to the wealthy. If someone needed a house, Douglas would get them a house. If they needed a nice car, he’d get them a car. His main business was peddling expensive properties though, which he largely sold to Russian oligarchs and European billionaires.
&
nbsp; ‘My guess is that somehow he’s got wind of our meeting,’ Mystern said. ‘He suspects you’re looking into divorcing him and he’s squirrelled all his cash away somewhere. Somewhere you can’t get your hands on it.’
Calvary’s mind was racing in time with her heart. Douglas would never suspect her of seeking a divorce from him, such was the extent of his inflated ego. He’d betrayed her a million times before now and she had never so much as threatened him with the ‘D’ word, not once. So how had he got wind of her intentions?
‘You’ll have to find the money!’ Calvary shrieked, standing now, the full force of what she had learned piercing her mind with vicious clarity. ‘It has to be somewhere! He can’t … oh God, that bastard! He can’t do this to me!’
She finally started to cry then. Big fat sorrowful tears streaking her carefully made-up face.After everything he had done to her, Douglas would have the last laugh; he would cut her off financially, see her penniless on the street!
‘I assure you, Calvary,’ Nikolas Mystern said, his tone low and reassuring, ‘that I will find what has happened to your husband’s money and, assuming you wish to appoint me and follow the divorce route, ensure you receive what you’re entitled to.’ In fact, Nikolas Mystern would rather look forward to it. ‘In the meantime,’ he said authoritatively, ‘I urge you not to panic. I will get my people onto this straight away.’
Calvary nodded, glad of his reassurances. It was what she needed; someone to take control, tell her it would all be alright. The fact was, she would rather be dead than have to scrimp and scrape by after everything she had put up with over the years.
‘I’ll have more to tell you soon, I promise,’ Nikolas said, his voice settling into the kindly fatherly tones of earlier. ‘In the meantime I suggest you mull everything over. Maybe even talk to Douglas. You don’t have to tell him any of what we’ve discussed here today. In my experience a holiday together sometimes helps put things on the right track. You’re welcome to take a trip out to my place in Mustique. It might do you both the power of good.’
Calvary smiled at Nikolas but it was an empty gesture and he knew it.
‘You really don’t have to follow the divorce route, Calvary,’ he added in a last ditch attempt to dissuade her. ‘It can get awfully messy – and very expensive.’
‘Thank you, Nikolas,’ she replied, her tears dried and her demeanour back to businesslike. ‘I really do appreciate it.’ Calvary stood to leave. It had been a draining conversation and she needed time to get her head around it. In short, she realised that dissolving her marriage meant risking her status as a prominent Chelsea wife and everything she owned.
After saying her goodbyes, Calvary walked soberly through the plush reception area of Mystern’s office. The smiling, raven-haired receptionist was sitting behind a large ornate desk, admiring a huge, impressive bouquet of the most beautiful blood red roses, Calvary’s favourites and she couldn’t help but give a small smile as she passed.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she commented, suddenly wishing she too was young again and in the first flushes of love. Oh, how she would do it all so differently, given the chance.
‘Aren’t they just?’ the girl said, looking terribly pleased with herself.
‘Whoever he is, he obviously thinks the world of you,’ Calvary remarked.
The receptionist smiled.
‘You really think so?’
‘Oh yes,’ Calvary replied before stepping into the lift. ‘A man who sends you flowers as beautiful as that shouldn’t be kept waiting too long. Mark my words!’
As the lift doors closed behind Calvary the receptionist inhaled the scent of one of the roses and sighed as she read the accompanying card; ‘To Luci, thanks for everything. Dinner tonight? Douglas. X’
She smiled smugly as she picked up the phone and began to dial.
CHAPTER 9
Yasmin observed herself with pleasure in the ornate full-length mirror and poured herself a glass of pink champagne from the well-chilled complimentary bottle. The skin-tight grey boned cashmere Bottega Veneta dress she was wearing caressed her neat curves perfectly, displaying her breasts to their pneumatic best. She ran her hands along her minuscule waist and down to her thighs satisfactorily. Hmm, not bad, she thought approvingly. But not quite right for the ball. Not fancy enough, she mused, unzipping herself and allowing the dress to slide provocatively to the floor.
‘I want people to gasp out loud when I enter the room,’ she called out to the assistant loudly without taking her eyes from the mirror. ‘It has to be a complete show stopper.’ The harried-looking sales assistant nodded emphatically from behind her.
‘Ah, now that’s more like it,’ Yasmin said, spying an Oscar de la Renta strapless feather embellished number and snatching it up from the assistant’s arm.
‘Help me into it, will you?’
‘Certainly, madam,’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. She had been helping Lady Belmont-Jones try on dresses solidly for the past two hours, watching as she stalked up and down the plush carpeted dressing room, casting admiring glances at herself in the mirror only to discard each and every one, tossing thousands of pounds’ worth of designer gowns onto the floor in a heap like they were cheap tat from Primark. ‘This special something you’re looking for, Lady Belmont, is it for Forbes’ annual ball?’ she asked, feigning interest.
‘It is for the ball, as a matter of fact,’ Yasmin said, her ears pricking up. ‘I have to look better than divine because we’re on the table with Mr & Mrs Forbes this year. You know, all eyes on us.’
‘It’s always the same this time of year,’ the assistant said, barely able to hide her weariness as she fastened the zip of Yasmin’s dress. ‘Everyone coming in for a last minute fitting. I must say though, Lady Belmont, none of them have your amazing figure.’
Yasmin smirked. She knew she had a figure to die for and was not afraid to use it to her advantage.
All the women in the Jones family had been blessed with killer bodies. Her mother, who had ended up using her own to feed her crippling addiction, had said it was more of a curse than a blessing. Yasmin, however, was determined that in her case it would be the latter.
Catching sight of herself in the mirror once more, she wondered what her mother might think if she could see her now; standing in Harvey Nichols, a glass of Perrier-Jouet vintage rose champagne in her hand and a pile of designer dresses being handed to her by an obliging assistant who would break into song if she was asked to. Would she be proud? Envious perhaps? The truth was she probably wouldn’t have given a toss. Junkies cared about nothing save for their next fix. A fact Yasmin knew only too well.
When their mother’s miserable life was eventually claimed by a heroin overdose, Chloe, at just seventeen years old, had given up her ambition to go to beauty college and became a mother to her seven-year-old sister. Social services had wanted to take them both into care but somehow Chloe had managed to convince them that she was responsible enough for the both of them, and, when she had turned eighteen just three months later, with their errant father nowhere to be found, Chloe had been awarded custody of her baby sister, Stacey. They had even got to keep their poky little council flat. A right result.
Though money was tight, they scraped by – and they were never short of what counted most: love. If only Chloe had never met that wretched old slag, June Larkin. That woman had been trouble from the very moment she had set a cheap stiletto-clad foot through their front door. Even at her tender age, Stacey Jones had sensed a bad vibe about June. The very air around her seemed somehow thick with discord.
June Larkin was a local brass who had lived on their estate; she was a looker right enough, but a brass nonetheless. At thirty-one, she was a good few years older than Chloe, wore nice clothes and drove a flash motor and therefore had a bit of sway on the estate. For all her loose morals however, June Larkin had been an astute woman with a nose for business. She had a little number going whereby she supplied ‘hostesses’ t
o rich men who liked to party with good-looking girls to make themselves feel more attractive than they really were. At least that’s how she had sold it to Chloe anyway.
‘It’s not prostitution, love,’ she had said to her sister, her cheap jewellery rattling in earnest. ‘They just want to hire you for the night to sit there and look pretty. I promise ya, there ain’t no funny business. You get paid a few quid just to wear a pretty dress.’
It had sounded like easy money. Money they had desperately needed.
Chloe had been a striking girl; prettier than most with long naturally blonde bouncy hair and huge, kind brown eyes that were unusual for her colouring. She looked older than her years and her long legs and full bosom were already beginning to draw admiring glances from men and envious ones from women wherever she went.
Yasmin thought of June Larkin then, all teeth and tits and yellow blonde hair and felt a sudden rush of hatred for her. Her sister had trusted her, thought of her as a friend. As it was, not even June Larkin herself could’ve known just what part she would eventually play in the Jones sisters’ destiny.
As far as Yasmin was concerned, there were three people responsible, in their own way, for what had happened to her beloved sister. Fate had taken care of the first two; with her mother already dead, some years later June Larkin would eventually take her own miserable life, citing her guilt of what had happened to Chloe as one in a long list of reasons. Now it was up to her to deal with the third.
Up until the day June Larkin had done the decent thing and topped herself, Stacey had always believed that her beloved sister had died in a tragic car accident.
‘You were too young to know the truth,’ June had written in a final swan-song letter to a fifteen-year-old Stacey. ‘But you’re old enough now to know what really happened.’
She had enclosed a large file of newspaper cuttings in with the note that had taken Stacey a whole evening to read, the print blurred from the tears she cried, her heart burning with hatred as she digested every word.
Chelsea Wives Page 6
