Chelsea Wives

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘You know you don’t half talk a lot of rubbish sometimes, Cally Rothschild,’ his breath was hot in her ear as he moved his body up close behind her. He hadn’t called her that in years. He began pulling at her dress, trying to slide it up over her thighs and she could feel his erection digging into the small of her back as he pressed himself into her.

  ‘Come on, old girl, what do you say, eh?’ He was nuzzling her neck now, enjoying the powdery scent of her No. 5, his hard-on straining to free itself from his bespoke Paul Smith trousers. ‘It’s been eons since we last got silly … for old time’s sake …’

  Only a matter of weeks ago, Calvary would’ve welcomed such a surprise proposition from Douglas with more than just open arms. She had spent years trying to make him want her, but things had changed. It was all far too little, far too late.

  She turned round to face him, pressing her lips against his. Unshaven, his stubble scratched her skin and his breath tasted unfamiliar and a little sour. Overwhelmed by a sense of desperate sadness, she let him kiss her. It was a purely sexual kiss, his tongue, sharp and hot, darting in and out of her mouth like a knife. There was nothing tender about it. Not like how Josia kissed her with his soft lips caressing hers, his tongue smooth and soft inside her mouth.

  ‘That’s right,’ Douglas breathed into her ear, ‘let me show you what you’ve been missing all this time, Mrs Rothschild.’

  Douglas was surprised by how turned on he was. Admittedly, Calvary looked pretty decent tonight, but it was the idea that his wife might be having sex with someone else that seemed to have lit a fire under him. The thought of it both riled and excited him in equal measures. Calvary was like a favourite old toy; Douglas might not have played with her for years but he was hardly about to give her away for someone else to have their five minutes of fun. He decided he would have to start keeping more of an eye on her.

  Calvary winced. Mrs Rothschild. Was he saying it as if to remind her that they were married? Well, she didn’t need reminding. She knew only too well who she was married to and what a lying, cheating scumbag he was.

  Douglas undid his belt and let his trousers and boxers fall to his ankles, his erection springing forwards, almost comically.

  Typical Douglas, Calvary thought. They hadn’t had sex in a little over a year and yet instead of making their reintroduction a romantic, tender encounter, he wanted some sixty second knee trembler up against the sink in the en-suite. He really was a bastard.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mr Rothschild.’ Calvary slapped his hand away from her breast, hard, surprising herself.

  ‘Jesus, Calvary,’ he yelped, shaking it out, his face one of wounded pride and shock.

  She turned to look at him, smoothing her dress down with her hands and readjusting her hair. He stood before her, naked, his trousers and pants around his ankles, his shiny Italian leather shoes still on his feet, projecting his own ridiculous, warped reflection back up at him. Looking him up and down, her face a mix of amusement and disgust, she said: ‘I think I’ll pass if it’s all the same to you.’

  Douglas glared at her, dumbfounded. Was he hearing this right? Was his wife turning him down? His own wife. He thought the stupid mare would be grateful that he was showing her a little interest after all this time. Suddenly Douglas felt angry. Angry and humiliated. And it was not a nice feeling.

  ‘Suit yourself, Calvary,’ he hissed nastily. ‘Only I won’t be asking twice.’

  ‘I think I can live with that,’ she retorted, spritzing herself with a little more Chanel No. 5 in a bid to mask his scent on her. She picked up her Alexander McQueen snakeskin clutch from the side of the dressing table and smacked her lips in the mirror once more.

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ she smiled at him convivially as though nothing had transpired, making her way out of the bathroom, leaving him standing there, his erection rapidly diminishing.

  ‘I could always ask Tamara to pop up if you like,’ she poked her head around the door as an afterthought, looking down at his decreasing member with a mournful expression. ‘After all, be a shame to waste it,’ she said before slamming it shut behind her.

  CHAPTER 39

  The Fashion Against Fur party at The Kensington Roof Gardens was in full swing.

  A selection of au courant models, designers and their muses mingled with celebrities and faces from music and politics as waiting staff in traditional Moroccan dress served an exquisite selection of vegetarian entrees from tagines and delicious free-flowing strawberry mojitos in sugar-frosted glasses.

  The three women, seated on enormous Moorish floor cushions in a makeshift Bedouin tent, lit by a smattering of hanging lanterns and heated by real wood-burning chimineas, were deep in conversation.

  ‘Well, ladies,’ Imogen smiled, sipping her strawberry mojito, ‘in just under three weeks’ time Seb is due to fly to Rio de Janeiro for a business conference. At around 7:00 p.m. on Friday the 31st July he’ll leave his office to catch a 10:00 p.m. flight from Gatwick.’ She paused for a moment, a small smile creeping across her lips. ‘By the time he boards that plane we’ll have been in and out of the vault and he won’t have suspected a thing.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Calvary said, raising her cocktail glass, still on a high from her earlier encounter with Douglas in the bathroom. For the first time in their marriage, she had rejected him, and it felt so empowering she wanted to celebrate. But she knew she couldn’t quite relax until she had got her hands on the contents of Douglas’s strong box. It would be her and Henry’s escape money; Lord knows he owed them both.

  As the three women raised their glasses, Carine Herrison, head designer at Parisian fashion label, Clarice, poked her head inside the tent. A tour de force on the fashion scene, she was young, talented, impossibly beautiful and in possession of that indiscernible effortless French chic that women the world over were forever trying to mimic. She was the kind of infuriating woman who could get dressed in the dark and still look better than everyone else in the room. She gave Calvary a cursory wave.

  ‘Carine, how lovely to see you,’ Calvary gushed, making her way over to her and air-kissing both her cheeks. ‘And looking magnifique as ever. One of yours I take it?’ she said rhetorically, standing back to admire the petite designer’s tiny outfit as it glittered and shone like a magpie’s dream.

  Carine nodded with an air of sang-froid. ‘Of course, of course.’ She smiled politely. She had been on the look out for the fashion editor of POP magazine but had instead run head first into Calvary Rothschild and Co. Still, she supposed it wasn’t all bad, wasn’t that Lady Yasmin Belmont-Jones with her? The one all the gossip and fashion mags were raving about?

  Yasmin acknowledged Carine by holding her glass in the air. Great, she thought sardonically, just what the world needs: another stuck-up, skinny French bitch.

  ‘Enchanté, Lady B.’ Carine placed herself delicately down on a cushion next to Yasmin. She was intrigued by what she’d seen and heard of her in the glossies and had secretly been thinking she would be parfait to model for her next collection, one she had already given the working title of ‘La Princesse Chav.’

  As Carine attempted to engage a reluctant Yasmin in conversation, Calvary turned to Imogen.

  ‘You know, the only flaw in our plan is that blasted code. You know it’s practically a non-starter unless we somehow get our hands on it.’

  Imogen raised an arched eyebrow.

  ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Imogen said, detecting the doubt in her friend’s voice. ‘You’ve got to trust me on this.’

  She waved over at a familiar high-profile PR by the name of Susie Flankman, who waved back enthusiastically.

  ‘We’re going to make history, Cal,’ Imogen said from the side of her mouth, squeezing her friend’s arm in a bid to reassure her, ‘and the best part is that no one will suspect us in a million years!’

  Yasmin was only half listening to the silly French bint sitting next to her, chirping into her ear some inane bollocks about wanting her as
a muse, whatever that meant.

  It was laughable, really. Carine Herrison, the Carine Herrison of the almighty international fashion house that was Clarice was asking her to model her clothes on the runway. She wondered if she would be quite so keen to see her sashay up the catwalk if she knew she was really just Stacey Jones from Croydon.

  ‘So you see, I would adore it if you came to my studio in Paris. At a convenient time for you, of course. Maybe we can have lunch at B4, some wine perhaps … discuss my ideas a little further?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Yasmin had stopped listening to her now, her attention fully focussed on the devastatingly attractive, young male model who had just entered the tent. She took one look at his dark brooding eyes and tanned torso just visible beneath his plain white t-shirt and instantly felt the evening improve tenfold.

  ‘Excuse me, Carine,’ she said, pulling on her Isabel Marant boots. ‘I need to use the bathroom.’ Yasmin turned to Imogen apologetically. ‘Something’s come up,’ she said, hastily grabbing her quilted Chanel bag.

  ‘But you can’t leave yet, darling,’ Calvary called out, ‘we’re celebrating, remember?’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Yasmin sang out behind her, already strutting purposefully across the room in the direction of the model, a tigress stalking her prey.

  CHAPTER 40

  Yasmin Belmont-Jones sat on the uncomfortable futon sofa that served a dual purpose in Sammie Grainger’s poky Earls Court apartment, tentatively sipping a skinny soya latte she had picked up at Starbucks on her way over.

  Wrapping her slim, finely manicured fingers around the cardboard receptacle, one DVB denim-clad leg slung casually over the other, she looked up.

  ‘Well,’ she waved the small Dictaphone in her hand and casting her eye around the depressingly shabby studio, ‘you did good, Grainger.’ Yasmin pressed the play button.

  ‘… yes, well, it’s a pleasure …’ Sebastian Forbes’ unmistakable braying tones filled the room. ‘Shall I speak directly into the tape? Good, oh yes, right.’ Sebastian cleared his throat. ‘For the benefit of the tape,’ he announced authoritatively, ‘my name is Sebastian Forbes. Is that clear enough? Seb-as-tian For-bes.’

  Sammie, dressed casually in a fake Juicy Couture tracksuit and Ugg Boots, gave a wan smile.

  ‘For all the good it’s done me,’ she remarked, bitterly. ‘You know that bastard Pugh sacked me last week? All because I wouldn’t get down on my knees and suck his tiny cock.’

  Yasmin raised an amused eyebrow. Secretly though, she admired Sammie for refusing to compromise herself. She only wished she could’ve had some of her resolve herself. Like at that ridiculous Roof Gardens fashion party where she had blown that male model in the men’s toilets without even bothering to ask his name.

  Usually, Yasmin gleaned a sense of power in these meaningless, transient sexual encounters. At least, that’s what she convinced herself. On this occasion, however, she had been left empty and filled with self-loathing. She wondered, when all this was over, if she would ever be able to love another person properly, or if she was damaged beyond repair, incapable of loving or being loved.

  ‘What a drag,’ Yasmin remarked glibly. In reality though, she felt genuinely sorry for Sammie. Once again, a woman’s bright future had been dimmed at the hands of a man.

  ‘You could always sell this,’ she suggested, shaking the Dictaphone in her direction once more.

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Sammie replied sarcastically, reaching for it. As their hands touched both women felt a small jolt of electricity pass between them, though both pretended that neither had felt it. ‘Though I was rather hoping that I wouldn’t have to.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, I was wondering when you might start delivering on your side of the bargain. That is why you’re here – isn’t it?’

  Yasmin smirked in a bid to hide her disappointment. Sammie Grainger was just the same as everyone else at the end of the day, out for herself and what she could get. Fleetingly, she had believed that Grainger had genuinely wanted to help her. And now she cursed herself for having let down her guard.

  Sammie pressed the button on the Dictaphone. ‘… so you see that was in the early 1800s when my grandfather’s grandfather’s father …’ Sebastian Forbes’ self-important voice rang out through the airless room like a public announcement.

  ‘The man thought he was James bloody Bond. “The name’s Forbes … Sebastian Forbes”,’ she said in a low mimic of Sean Connery. Yasmin laughed despite herself. ‘Jesus, that man could talk a glass eye to sleep. There’s three hours’ worth of conversation – largely one-sided I might add. So, I reckon I’ve earned at least the same amount of time from you, interview-wise that is,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, you do, huh?’ Yasmin shot back, her voice a little chilly. ‘Well, like I said, all in good time, Sam, all in good time.’

  Sammie glanced at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that only my mum ever calls me Sam.’

  ‘Why the long face? Is she dead or something?’

  ‘Dead? Jesus, I hope not! No. She’s well and truly alive – and no doubt kicking some arse as we speak.’

  ‘Like mother, like daughter, eh?’ Yasmin deadpanned.

  Sammie smiled. ‘Something like that. Anyway, she’s living in Deptford, telling anyone who’ll listen how fucking great I am, that I’ve got this amazing job.’ Sammie rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘Only I’m not really, am I?’ She shrugged, gesturing around her damp, poky studio apartment. ‘She’s not seen this shithole yet – probably thinks it’s some bijou little crash pad all done out in Laura Ashley – and she’s not likely to either if I don’t pay the rent I owe within a week.’ Sammie’s voice trailed off and she shook her head ruefully. ‘Anyway, I can’t bring myself to tell her that I’ve lost my job.’

  Yasmin nodded as if she understood where the conversation was leading.

  ‘So, how much do you want?’ she said, reaching for her Miu Miu day clutch. ‘I’ve got about a thousand in cash right now or I can write you a personal cheque …’

  Sammie blinked at her, a look of horror clouding over her pretty face.

  ‘No. No!’ she shook her head, ‘you got me all wrong. I wasn’t … I didn’t mean … look, I don’t want your money!’

  Yasmin raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ she said sardonically. ‘Anyway it’s not my money, is it? I’ll quite happily hand some of it over to you if needs be. Say two grand, that do you?’

  Sammie had the grace to look offended.

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ she repeated. ‘Or your husband’s money, or anyone else’s for that matter.’

  Yasmin lit a cigarette and blew the smoke from her lips with some force. ‘Oh come on, Sam, pull the other one,’ she snorted derisively, ‘it plays a fucking tune.’

  Sammie felt her hackles rise.

  ‘Jesus, you’re a bitch, do you know that?’ she said.

  Yasmin shrugged, flicking her platinum mane behind her.

  ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you, Grainger? Nice guys finish last.’

  Sammie raised an eyebrow. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ She glared at Yasmin on the sofa and wondered just what it was about this woman she found so beguiling. It went way beyond her physical appearance. Way beyond anything she had ever felt before. As spiky and caustic as she was, Sammie could not stop herself from wanting to reach out to her with the hand of friendship, even if she was more likely to rip it off than she was to shake it.

  ‘Do you ever take off your armour?’ she asked, looking into Yasmin’s eyes that seemed to change from an icy blue to green right before her. ‘Do you ever let anyone in there?’ She bent down and tapped Yasmin’s chest, the sound of her fingers hollow against bone. ‘You know you might find that you’ll be happier if you open up to someone, talk about it.’

  Yasmin snorted.

  ‘When I need a shrink, Doctor Grainger, I’ll buy one, thanks. In the mea
ntime, if you’ll just let me smoke this cigarette in peace and finish my coffee, I’ll bid you good day.’ She made to place the Dictaphone back in her tote but Sammie grabbed her hand, preventing her.

  ‘Easy, tiger,’ she said, her friendly tone taking on a harder edge all of a sudden. ‘Before I let you walk out of here with that tape, I need some kind of reassurance from you that I’ll see your face again. I mean, we have a deal here, don’t we? I give you the tape, you give me your story. Unless of course, you have no intention of coming good on your side of the bargain.’

  A rush of adrenalin coursed through Yasmin’s body, exploding in her stomach. She looked at Sammie’s hand upon hers for a long moment before saying in a small low voice: ‘Are you going to move your hand or am I?’

  Sammie pulled a face, suddenly furious at the thought that Yasmin might be about to retract on the deal.

  ‘You’ll have to cut it off before I let you walk out of here with that tape and no guarantees.’

  Yasmin laughed, a silly, high-pitched piss-take of a laugh.

  ‘You couldn’t cut your own fringe, Grainger,’ Yasmin barked, switching to South London default setting and tearing Sammie’s hand from her own. She wasn’t going to give up that Dictaphone without a fight. Both women stood then, squaring up to each other, Sammie’s 5 foot 10 inch frame towering over Yasmin’s much shorter 5 foot 4 inch. Wisely however, Sammie did not underestimate her. Tiny she might be but she guessed that Yasmin had the strength and determination of an ox and all the viciousness of a pit bull when provoked. For all Sammie’s height and build advantage, she was no fighter. But she was angry now. They both were.

  The two women began to tussle for the Dictaphone.

  ‘Give it back to me,’ Sammie screeched. ‘I worked for that tape and I’m not giving it up until you give me some kind of guarantee that you won’t double-cross me.’

  ‘What part of: it’s my Dictaphone and my tape, don’t you understand, Grainger? And there I was thinking you had a few brain cells up top.’ Yasmin, her heart thudding like a caged animal, tapped Sammie’s temple with a sharp manicured fingernail. Sammie exploded.