In truth however, Yasmin had secretly wanted to see Sammie Grainger again. She needed her help. As well as needing to know more about this tape, she wanted her to do something for her.
Only trouble was, she didn’t want to have to admit that Grainger had been right about her true identity all along. It was a catch-22 and she would have to strike the balance right if she was to get what she wanted and protect her alias.
The two women stared at each other for a moment, face to face, unblinking. The brittle tension between them almost at breaking point.
Sammie waited a few seconds before speaking.
‘Are you sure you won’t stay for champagne?’ she asked, glancing in the direction of the chilled bottle of Laurent Perrier on ice. ‘Seems a shame to waste it, though it’s probably just tap water to the likes of you now. Oh, how things change, eh?’
Yasmin turned on her.
‘Don’t try and fuck with me, Grainger,’ she spat, ramping it up a gear. It worked as Sammie looked up, startled. ‘This is a warning from me to you. Just remember what I’ve said.’ Yasmin turned to leave. It was an orchestrated move, deliberately designed for Sammie to try and stop her.
‘Don’t you want to know more about the tape?’ Sammie said quickly. ‘The one your husband keeps down in Forbes Bank …’
Yasmin gave a small, secret smile before swinging round to face her.
‘Tape? Ah yes, the one that the police never found but you seem to know all about. Another figment of your wild imagination, I fear.’ She was playing devil’s advocate, trying to flush out information.
Sammie shook her head.
‘Look, Yasmin. I know you don’t believe me, but I really do want to help you, and I can only do that if you’ll talk to me. I know about your childhood, about your mother’s addiction and subsequent death; I know about Chloe, about the circumstances of how she died – I know everything.’
‘MURDERED!’ Yasmin screamed, the veins in her neck protruding, her face reddening with the injustice of her whole life. ‘She was murdered!’
Sammie felt herself visibly relax. This little outburst was tantamount to an admission and she seized the opportunity to continue the thread of the conversation.
‘Is that why you married Belmont? Are you out to get your revenge because you think he killed your sister?’ The words fell from her mouth before she could stop them.
‘Oh, hang on a minute,’ Yasmin slapped her smooth forehead with her hand, recognising her own stupidity. ‘You’re wearing a wire, aren’t you?’ She glanced at Sammie accusingly. ‘Jesus, Grainger, you really must have me down as a mug,’ she sneered, marching round the table towards her, ‘pissing in my ear and telling me it’s raining. Come on then,’ she spat, lunging at her, starting to pat her down, ‘where is it? Where’s the fucking wire, you slippery bitch?’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Sammie attempted to smack her probing hands away. ‘Stop it … stop it … I’m not wearing a bloody wire, I swear.’
‘Prove it.’
Sammie backed away, holding her hands up in surrender. ‘Look, there’s no wire. I promise!’
‘Strip, or else I walk right now. Prove to me you’re not wearing a wire and we’ll talk.’
Sammie stared at her, incredulous. The woman was a nut-job.
‘You’re not serious?’
Yasmin fixed her with a stare that told her otherwise.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Sammie sighed, reluctantly beginning to undo the buttons on her jeans. Yasmin watched as they fell to the floor, exposing her slim, athletic legs. ‘This is ridiculous.’ She pulled her Breton top above her head, static crackling in the air as she discarded it onto the sofa. Finally, she stood in only her underwear, a soft white cotton bra and shorts from Marks and Spencer. Having seen one black sock too many, they were a little on the grey side, but at least they were matching. She was grateful for that much.
‘There.’
Yasmin found herself staring. Sammie’s body was much more aesthetically pleasing than she had thought it would be, hidden under all that baggy denim; her legs, toned and shapely, were long and her hips slim. She had a full bust too, and long, slender arms like a ballerina’s. It was her skin, however, that was undoubtedly her best asset. It was a natural light toffee colour and looked as soft as cashmere. Suddenly, Yasmin was overcome with the desire to reach out and touch her, to see if it was really as smooth as it looked.
‘Satisfied?’ Sammie asked. Although she felt beyond mortified standing there half naked, she recognised it as a step in the right direction towards winning Yasmin’s trust.
‘I suppose.’
The tension in the air was finally beginning to lift and good as her word, Yasmin took a tentative seat on the chaise longue.
‘Not bad,’ she said, surveying the Victorian splendour of the hotel room, looking up at the huge 15-arm chandelier hanging regally from the ceiling, the heavy brocade drapes bringing an austere charm to the place. ‘They’re obviously paying you too much if you can afford to stay in Marie Antoinette’s bloody boudoir.’
Sammie found herself laughing.
‘They are the ones paying for it, actually,’ she said, doing the last of her buttons up. With her embarrassment fading, she felt surprisingly comfortable standing there in just her bra and jeans. Too comfortable in fact. Perhaps it was because she was half-naked in a hotel room, but Sammie felt the first flutters of sexual excitement. She brushed the feeling away, a little embarrassed.
‘So you are here to do a story on me, then?’ Yasmin sneered. ‘Well, listen up, lady. There is no story.’
Sammie quickly pulled her head through her t-shirt, blindsided.
‘I think we both know that’s not true,’ she replied, cocking her head to one side.
‘Look.’ Sammie was keen to keep the tone soft and friendly. ‘I know that you adored your sister and that she was all you had left. I know that when she died – when she was murdered – that you went into care and I know that you suffered. What I don’t know is why you’re where you are today. Why you married Belmont. Do you blame him for her death? Are you planning to fritter away all his money to avenge her, is that it?’
Yasmin felt her body stiffen. Suffered? She had no idea. Sometimes, when she was alone in her bed at night, she still heard the ominous creak of the dormitory door, the soft footsteps approaching her bed in the darkness and the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach as the rough, unforgiving hands covered her mouth, stifling her screams.
She had spent years trapped in that hell from which there was no escape, no one to hear her cries or wipe her tears, tell her that everything would be alright. All the memories of that pain and anguish had, over the years, manifested itself into a hatred and resentment so potent and fierce that it had become her only friend in the end. And now it was payback time. Someone had to be held accountable for the terrible atrocities she had suffered as a young orphan girl. And that someone, Yasmin had decided, was Jeremy Belmont.
‘You ask a lot of questions, Grainger,’ Yasmin said, maintaining her composure with such effortlessness that for a moment Sammie wondered if indeed she had got it all completely wrong.
‘So you don’t deny it, then?’ Sammie sat upright now, her eyes wide. ‘I want to know what you’re planning. Whatever it is, I’ll help you with it.’
Yasmin took a cigarette from her clutch bag and lit it, watching as blue smoke curled slowly up into the air above her like a serpent from a basket.
‘If you really want to help me, then there’s something you can do for me.’
Sammie’s skin prickled with apprehension.
‘Name it,’ she said.
Yasmin paused for a moment, eyeing Sammie carefully, weighing her up with every blink of her false lashes. She began to pace the room.
‘First though, I need to know I can trust you – can I trust you, Grainger?’
Sammie glanced up at her.
‘The question is, can you afford not to?’
/> Yasmin threw her head back and laughed.
‘I like you, Grainger. You’ve got balls. And right now, balls are what I need.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You’ve heard the name Sebastian Forbes?’
‘Of course. I was at the ball this year, remember?’
Yasmin gave a rueful smile. How could she forget?
‘I want you to request an interview with him. A profile piece for the magazine. Tell him that you’re keen to hear all about his fascinating life, his meteoric rise up through the banking ranks, his family history, that sort of shtick. The key is to make it sound big and exciting, an offer he can’t refuse – not that he will anyway, not with an ego the size of a small continent.’
Sammie smirked. She’d got that right at least.
‘This is the important bit.’ Yasmin reached inside her bag and pulled out a small shiny chrome Dictaphone, placing it down onto the glass coffee table.
‘It’s brand new. State of the art technology from Japan,’ she said, pre-empting Sammie’s next question. ‘This little baby could pick up the sound of a sparrow farting in the next room clear as crystal. It’s worth a small fortune – and it’s yours.’
Sammie leaned forward to pick it up.
‘Nice,’ she said, giving it the once over. ‘It’s a pretty decent piece of kit.’
‘It’s very important that you get him to say his name clearly into it – no background noise, no interruptions. His full name: Seb-as-ti-an Forbes. Loud and clear. Think you can get him to do that?’
‘Of course,’ she shrugged, puzzled.
‘Good.’ Yasmin smiled then, her expression softening slightly.
Sammie’s mind started to go into overdrive. What did Stacey Jones want with the likes of Forbes?
‘Why do you want to set Forbes up?’
‘Who says I want to set him up? Look, ask no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’
‘So, what’s in all this for me? Sebastian Forbes is an important man. The kind of man you don’t want to upset. He could ruin my career if he catches me out.’
‘That won’t happen.’
‘And how can you be so sure?’
‘Because I’m going to grant your wish, Sammie Grainger. I get the tape – you get the story.’
‘Story?’
‘The story – my story, stupid. The one you’ve been bugging me about ever since we met, you idiot.’
Sammie’s heart leapt into her throat. At last, Yasmin was finally admitting that there was a story to tell. She felt her spirits soar.
‘… but I want to get one thing straight, Grainger,’ Yasmin’s voice cut through Sammie’s euphoria like an axe. ‘If I’m going to spill my guts to you, make you a name in journalism, then I call the shots. It’s my story and I want to tell it my way, understand?’
Sammie fought back the urge to run to her and plant a huge kiss on her lips.
‘Of course, of course,’ she nodded emphatically. Just wait ’till old Sasquatch found out about this one – he’d shit glass.
‘But there are things that need to be done first. In the meantime, you must set this interview up – as soon as possible. I’ll be back to collect the tape once your mission is complete.’ Yasmin extinguished her cigarette in an antique vase on the side table. ‘So, Grainger, do we have a deal or not?’
Sammie stood up from the sofa and faced Yasmin, her mind burning with a thousand unanswered questions.
‘A full exclusive, right?’ Sammie said, lowering her eyes and fixing her with an earnest stare.
‘Lock, stock and front page exclusive,’ Yasmin said, accentuating the words slowly and deliberately.
‘In that case, Stacey Jones,’ Sammie smiled, holding her hand out, ‘you’ve just got yourself a deal.’
CHAPTER 31
Calvary switched her wiper blades to maximum as the rain pelted down onto the windscreen of her Range Rover, distorting her vision. The country lane was dark and narrow and with such poor visibility, Calvary wondered if she might in fact make it home at all.
It had been a spur of the moment decision to take a weekend sabbatical up at her old friend’s gorgeous Georgian bolt-hole in Bath, but it was a much needed one. She needed time to think, to get her head around what had happened with Josia. Calvary bit her lip. She had committed the ultimate sin: she had let him make love to her.
‘Josia, look … I don’t think this a good idea … I … I’ve never done this kind of thing before.’ Calvary could barely speak her throat had been so tight with desire. Her head was fighting against it with all the ferocity of a tiger but the truth was her body had already surrendered, her legs having wrapped themselves around his back almost subconsciously. It had been so long, she thought, since she had felt such strong sexual desire for a man that every nerve ending in her body had fizzed and crackled with electricity, and he had hardly even touched her yet.
But it was wrong. God, it was so wrong. She had a husband, albeit a rotten, faithless one. And in Calvary’s mind, sleeping with another man would make her no better than him.
‘Really? There’s been no affair?’ Josia asked, covering Calvary’s neck with small scattergun kisses.
‘Really,’ she replied, lowering her eyes. ‘You are the first …’
Josia was as thrilled as he was surprised. He had stopped for a moment to look at her, his floppy fringe framing his glossy chocolate eyes. And he had smiled at her modestly, a little part of him falling in love with her there and then. She was such a paradox; haughty and stand-offish on the surface, yet soft as melted butter underneath. He was fascinated.
With her eyes closed Calvary had been able to pretend that what was happening to her was just a dream, a lovely indulgent fantasy, but when he spoke, his distinctive, clipped tones whispering in her ear, it forced her to remember that she was actually lying on a stranger’s bed, with a stranger’s body on top of hers. And it felt so goddamn good that she wanted to cry out.
‘Beautiful,’ he breathed hotly into her ear, causing her to moan with pleasure. He had wanted to make love to her slowly, carefully, to take his time with her, but he struggled to stop himself from losing control, from thrusting himself deep into her too soon.
Wet with desire, Calvary had almost bit right through her lip trying to prevent herself from crying out. But in the end it had been too much for her and she had let it go, moaning as pleasure ripped through her body, every inch of her skin prickling with the intensity of her orgasm.
Afterwards, they had lain together in silence, with just the sound of low breathing and the warmth of each other for comfort.
‘Why don’t you just leave him?’ Josia had quietly said after a few moments. He was stroking her shoulder with his hand. Enjoying the softness of her.
Calvary had sighed, a deep sigh of resignation.
‘It’s not as easy as you think.’
‘It’s about money, right? You said he would cut you off financially.’
Calvary wished they didn’t have to have this conversation right now. She wanted to savour the feeling a moment longer before the blackness of reality seeped into the present like a poisonous fog.
‘It’s not just about the money,’ she answered brusquely, unconvincingly. ‘You make me sound like I’m shallow and materialistic. There’s more to it than that.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ she answered, irritation apparent in her voice now. She pulled herself away from him abruptly, covering her nakedness with the bed sheet.
‘You have to understand,’ she said, wishing she had a cigarette to hand, ‘I come from wealth. I married wealth. My whole life has been about money and status. I mix with society and aristocracy. My children were privately educated, I holiday at least four times a year and fly via private jet, or first class at the very least. Some of the dinner parties I’ve thrown have cost more than an average person’s annual salary. And do you know what, Josia? I have worked for all of it. Every diamond, every piece of art, I have sweated, toiled and sacrificed for.
So you see, I can’t just give it all up tomorrow.’
Josia raised himself up on his elbow and watched her, her auburn hair a little mussed up from their passion, her smooth ivory shoulders drooping as if they carried too much weight upon them. She was over ten years older than him, he knew, yet sat there, her face a picture of indignation, she looked for all the world like a little girl lost.
‘You think money buys you freedom, Calvary. But you’re wrong,’ Josia had said, his accent sounding stronger with the weight of his words. ‘Money is your ball and chain; you are shackled by it.’
‘So you call this freedom, do you, Josia?’ she gestured around the tiny room. ‘Living in a box painting pictures that no one wants to buy?’
Josia shrugged. If he’d been hurt by the comment he hadn’t shown it. ‘I have all I need to make me happy.’
‘All?’ she asked sheepishly, regretting her words. Douglas was right; she had a nasty tongue on her sometimes.
He smiled at her then, a rueful, half smile. ‘Almost.’
*
‘Shit!’ Calvary swerved as a set of oncoming headlights appeared from nowhere, forcing her onto the grass verge and her mind back to the here and now with unwelcome abruptness. Her BlackBerry slid from her lap into the foot well with the force of her braking.
‘Shiiit,’ she hissed again, pulling over for a moment, her heart galloping like a racehorse in her chest. Calvary exhaled loudly and let her head rest against the seat, momentarily enjoying the soft warmth of the leather against her skin. Leaning over she flipped open the glove compartment and sighed with relief as she located an emergency packet of Vogue cigarettes.
‘Oh, thank God.’
Calvary regretted how things had been left between her and Josia. She had dressed in haste and stormed out of his apartment like a stroppy teenager. Worse, he had not even tried to stop her.
As tricky as the encounter had ended between her and Josia, the experience had left her with a renewed sense of vigour; she would sort out the mess her life had become, stop this ridiculous charade of a wedding taking place and leave that husband of hers high and dry – and, thanks to the lifeline given to her by her dearest friend, she would make sure she wouldn’t lose a penny in the process. Calvary flicked her cigarette out of the window and blew the last of her smoke in its wake. Smiling, she started the engine and listened as it began to purr. It was time to make tracks.
Chelsea Wives Page 20
