Chelsea Wives

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  Surreal as the moment was, initially he found himself more confused than scared, his mind struggling furiously to make sense of the scene before him. Always a glass half full kind of a man, he tried to rationalise the situation, telling himself it must’ve been an oversight on Mr Forbes’s part.

  Shaking, he tentatively made steps towards the open doors, the sound of his own heartbeat pulsing an elaborate pattern loudly in his ears. It was only when he got within spitting distance that Dickie realised that something was wrong. Horribly, diabolically wrong.

  The diamond, usually cradled by the cushioned plinth that stood regally in the small white room, was missing. It had gone.

  Blinking furiously, as if he did not trust his own, ageing eyes, his hand instinctively clutching his chest, Dickie made to move towards the empty plinth, only the room had begun to spin now and the movement made him feel a little light-headed. Suddenly, all too aware of his solitude, his heart racing so furiously that it had begun to hurt, Dickie made to press the panic button – a big red beacon of a switch that was positioned on the other side of the room. But as he went to move, he stumbled, struggling to put one foot in front of the other, as if the bones in his legs had been removed.

  As a younger man, Dickie had fantasised about what he might do faced with a robbery situation. Not because he wanted it to actually happen, more that he enjoyed the idea of reaching his full potential as a security guard. Now, faced with the reality, Dickie was not quite the sharp-thinking hero he had always imagined himself to be. He tried to gather his thoughts, to compose himself, but his heart was beating so loudly inside his chest that he found it almost impossible to concentrate.

  As he fell to the floor, clutching his chest, Dickie realised the ugly, rasping gurgle he could hear was coming from him. He did not think about his wife or his children as his head made contact with the cold, hard stone beneath him, of never holding his grandchildren in his arms, kissing their tiny fingers and toes. Instead he thought how Mr Forbes would undoubtedly sack him after this little scenario came to light. Shame really, he thought as he began to lose consciousness. He knew at his age that he’d never find another job that carried as much kudos and gave you £5.75 a day for sustenance.

  CHAPTER 49

  ‘Three cheers for the Forbes Three! Hip Hip!’ Imogen pushed the cork from the bottle of 1990 Vintage Tattinger and squealed as it exploded with a gaseous bang, spraying the contents over an elated Calvary and Yasmin, shrieking and flinching as they joined in with the celebrations.

  ‘Hooray!’ the three women sang in unison, the sound of their crystal glasses making contact sending a melodious, triumphant ring throughout Calvary’s perfectly designed, if a little austere, drawing room.

  ‘I can’t believe we did it!’ Imogen bit her lip as she squealed. ‘We actually bloody well did it!’ she laughed as she threw herself down onto the antique chesterfield, kicking her legs up in the air with girlish abandon. ‘I can’t wait to see Seb’s face come Monday morning,’ she giggled, clearly thrilled by the prospect. ‘Watch that smug look disappear …’

  Calvary laughed along with her.

  ‘Darling, it was genius. We were genius.’ She was buzzing with adrenalin and excitement; she didn’t even care about the champagne spray all over her soft furnishings.

  ‘And no one suspected a thing,’ Yasmin chipped in. She was flying high on endorphins, and it was even better than a champagne and coke buzz. ‘I mean, that security guard, he didn’t have a clue! “Goodnight, Mr. Forbes!”’ she mimicked Dickie’s low, masculine voice. She tossed her platinum hair over her shoulder victoriously, pulling her silky pyjama-clad legs up to her chest. ‘We made it look like a walk in the park. I tell you, wasted talent, that’s what we are. We could make a killing if we turned pro.’

  As per the plan, with Douglas away ‘on business’, or so he had said, the three women had returned to Calvary’s house to dispose of their disguises and change into something more comfortable. Calvary had ensured there would be plenty of vintage bubbly on ice and a selection of delicious canapés waiting for them upon their victorious homecoming, and Yasmin was taking full advantage of her host’s generosity. As far as she was concerned, tonight had been one of the greatest nights of her life so far. Now that she had that tape in her clutches, there would be no stopping her. She was on a home run.

  Snatching a glance at Calvary, Yasmin briefly wondered if that all-seeing eye of hers had caught her rifling through Jeremy’s possessions while they had been down in the vault together. Knowing Calvary, as she had come to over the months, Yasmin assumed she would have mentioned it by now if she had. After all, she was hardly the reticent type.

  Calvary, pulling the peaked workman’s cap from her head, allowing her silky auburn hair to tumble to her shoulders, threw it onto the open fire and listened satisfactorily as it crackled.

  Although the evening had not entirely panned out as she had expected, it was still a roaring success as far as she was concerned. Her heart had initially plummeted through the floor when she had opened Douglas’s strong box only to find it empty – or so she had thought. Upon closer inspection, however, she had found something she now, with hindsight, deemed even better than the cold, hard bundles of cash she had hoped to find: details of a Swiss bank account and information of a transfer of funds written in her husband’s instantly recognisable, elaborate scrawl.

  As far as Calvary was concerned, and no doubt any courtroom would be too, this small scrap of paper was existing proof that Douglas had deliberately liquidated his assets and hidden them in a secret bank account for the sole purpose of hiding it from her. The devious bastard would be begging to give her half of everything by the time Nikolas Mystern was finished with him.

  Calvary glanced over at Yasmin, watching as she and Imogen laughed and chatted animatedly together. It was odd but she was sure she had seen Yasmin rummaging purposefully around Jeremy’s strong box herself while they had been in the vaults. She had got the distinct impression that Yasmin had been looking for something, something specific. Calvary dared not ask any questions, however, just in case Yasmin started making enquiries of her own. If Calvary had seen her, then it was just as likely that she herself had been seen.

  ‘I could never have done any of this without you both, you do realise this, don’t you?’ Imogen looked over at Calvary and then back at Yasmin, her eyes glassy with emotion. ‘I mean it,’ she said, her voice dropping an octave. ‘I owe you both, so much.’

  ‘Oh stop it, darling, you’ll set me off,’ Calvary said, tears pricking the backs of her eyes. ‘And you owe us nothing,’ she scolded her like a child, her conscience not allowing Imogen to dwell on her gratitude for too long.

  ‘When you were about to punch the code in – Jesus,’ Yasmin rolled her eyes and bit her lip, reliving the excruciating moment over again, ‘I could barely breathe I was so nervous!’ She clutched her chest in an over-dramatic rendition. ‘When I heard those clicks, let me tell you, I have never felt such a sense of relief in all my life!’ Yasmin sat back on the chaise longue. ‘I’ll say this for you, Imogen Forbes,’ she turned to face her, wishing in that moment that it was she who could thank her, thank her for providing her the tape, ‘you’re certainly more than just a pretty face!’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ Imogen replied graciously. ‘But you know what they say, where there’s a will, there’s always a way.’ She got up and walked over towards the enormous bay window and looked out onto the pretty London square, lit up by street lamps.

  The whole situation felt unreal, surreal, but by God, she had done it! She had outsmarted the mighty Sebastian Forbes and his unrivalled Interface Locking Security system! Soon, everything he believed in would come crashing down around his ears and Imogen could barely contain her sense of vindication.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but all this excitement has given me an appetite, I’m starving. Where’s Lucia with those canapés I asked for?’ Calvary enquired crossly. ‘Honestly, that girl is about as much us
e as an ashtray on a speedboat – ah!’

  As if on cue, Lucia entered the drawing room, carrying a large platter of amuse-bouche.

  ‘Perfect timing.’ Calvary smiled at the girl. Nothing was going to dampen her spirits this evening.

  Lucia nodded, placing the tray onto the low antique day table. It struck her as a little odd that Mrs Rothschild had the fire going, it being the middle of summer after all.

  ‘Mrs Bridges in the kitchen says you might want to switch on the TV, Mrs Rothschild,’ Lucia announced nervously, her heart pounding in her chest at having to speak so openly to her new employer. ‘She says you should take a look at BBC News 24, that there’s something that might interest you and Mrs Forbes.’

  ‘Thank you, Lucia,’ Calvary nodded, the lightest flutter of fear settling upon her euphoric mood. She glanced at Imogen who shrugged.

  Switching on the TV screen, Imogen instantly recognised the front of Forbes Bank, even flanked, as it was, by police cars and sealed off with tape. Sitting bolt upright and staring at the screen, her heart fighting to free itself from her ribcage, Imogen felt her euphoria come crashing to the ground and violently explode in a cloud of debris and ash.

  ‘A night security man, known to colleagues simply as “Dickie”, was rushed to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital just moments ago with a suspected heart attack. It seems, Sandra,’ the BBC female reporter spoke earnestly to the studio presenter, ‘that Mr Richards may in fact have stumbled upon a robbery and collapsed at the scene, at least that’s what the police are currently suggesting …’

  ‘Is there any news as to the diamond, Vasha? What’s happened to the Bluebird?’ Sandra asked, her heavily made-up eyes intense as she looked directly into the camera. There was a delay in the live link before Vasha replied, ‘Not as yet, no. We can’t confirm whether it is missing or not at this stage.’

  Calvary’s champagne flute slid from her grasp and exploded onto the polished wooden floor.

  ‘Jesus Fucking H Christ,’ Yasmin said in a thick cockney accent.

  Blinking at the screen, Imogen, stunned into silence, suddenly became aware of the latex mask of her husband’s face lying next to her on the chesterfield where she had discarded it. Even now, it appeared to be smirking at her.

  Snatching it up, she half screamed as she threw it on the fire, watching, her chest heaving, as it began to bubble and melt, the features twisting and contorting until there was nothing left of it at all.

  CHAPTER 50

  As the plane touched down in Rio de Janeiro, Sebastian Forbes contentedly threw back the dregs of his scotch and popped a stuffed pimento olive into his mouth.

  It had been a long, albeit comfortable flight, and he was looking forward to making it to the hotel suite in the Copacabana for a nice hot shower and room service. Hell, he might even push the boat out and get himself a chilled bottle of Krug to wash it all down with while he was at it.

  Alighting the Boeing 747, Sebastian jauntily skipped down the aircraft steps and breathed in the warm, tropical evening air, sweet and fragrant. The smell of success, he thought as he handed his Vuitton flight bag to an obliging minion.

  ‘Meester Fords? Copacabana Palace, si?’ the young man nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes. The Royal Penthouse Suite,’ Sebastian muttered, handing over his luggage. ‘And it’s Forbes.’

  ‘You have good flight, sir, from England, yes?’ the boy asked, his broad, bright grin displaying perfectly white teeth.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Sebastian replied irritably. ‘And a long one. So I’d appreciate a little peace and quiet if you don’t mind.’ He put his hand patronisingly to his lips, as if the man might not have fully understood him. ‘No talking on the way there, si?’

  ‘Si,’ the boy nodded, wondering why he always seemed to get stuck with the assholes. His colleague, Davi, always got the chicas caliente and he got the assholes. Life was a load of kahunas colhoes sometimes.

  Settling into the backseat of the Mercedes C-Class saloon, Sebastian allowed his head to rest against the warm leather seat.

  ‘You here on business, sir? For the conference, yes?’ he asked, watching his passenger from his interior mirror. ‘I tell by the suit you are wearing. Rio, today, it is filled with suits!’

  ‘What?’ Sebastian muttered, distracted. ‘Yes, yes, here for the conference.’

  ‘You have time for a leetle holiday while you are here, sir?’ the boy continued, seemingly oblivious to his passenger’s earlier request for silence. ‘The weather is good. Always good here in Brazil,’ he chuckled, his hands barely making contact with the steering wheel as he gesticulated wildly. ‘Not like in England, no?’ He had heard that the weather in England was dire. No wonder these businessmen that flew in all looked so miserable.

  Sebastian ignored him, and closing his eyes, willed him to shut up and drive. Thankfully, the boy’s mobile phone rang and Sebastian tuned out as he spoke into it in lightning fast Portuguese.

  ‘Sir, it is for you,’ he said after a moment, passing the phone back to Sebastian. ‘It is someone from the Copacabana. They say it is very important they speak with you.’

  ‘For me?’ Sebastian pulled his face into his neck, surprised. What the hell was all this about then, he wondered, taking the handset from him. There had better not have been a mix-up with his room, he thought, already on the offensive. Walmsley had guaranteed him the Royal Suite and he would be making damn well sure he got it. He was their key speaker after all.

  As Sebastian listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, the young driver watched inquisitively from his interior mirror as his offhanded passenger’s eyes widened and his skin turned a deathly shade of white. Whatever the news was, he had a feeling it was not especially good. Straining to understand the conversation thanks to his limited English, he almost crashed the car in shock when the man in the back seat suddenly bellowed:

  ‘Stop the car! Goddamn it, man, I said STOP THE CAR!’

  CHAPTER 51

  The sound of the curtain rings sliding against the pole was somehow ominous as Yasmin drew the heavy drapes in the study, blocking out all daylight.

  Her heart was galloping inside her chest so fast that it almost hurt as she settled down onto the cream leather sofa and pressed the play button on the VHS recorder. This was it; her moment of truth, and the gravity of it was not lost on her. She felt sick to her stomach as the grainy images began to come into focus on the huge flat-screen TV that suddenly seemed to take up half of the wall space.

  It was a party, that much was obvious; men and women were dancing with abandon, cocktail drinks in hand and Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted to Love’ was playing in the background. She could tell the rudimentary footage had been shot in the 80s by the hairstyles alone – women in too much make-up sporting cropped wedges and huge, crimped bouffants held stiff in place with hairspray, and the men with their mullets and flicked fringes reminiscent of George Michael milled around, gesticulating wildly. Their glamorous attire, tuxedos and loafers, the women, all spray-on minidresses and giant shoulder pads, white stilettos and enormous earrings, were straight out of a scene from Dynasty.

  ‘Jezza! Get that damned thing out of my face, won’t you?’ a man’s voice rang out. His face came into view, young and tanned and handsome, though she did not recognise it. A woman openly snorting cocaine from a glass coffee table attempted to disguise herself by holding a puffed sleeve denim jacket over her head as the person behind the camera zoomed in on her.

  ‘Naughty naughty, Eliza,’ the male voice said. ‘Save a line for me.’ This time she recognised the voice: It was her husband’s. Jeremy was the man behind the camera.

  The screen started to flicker then, distorting the images, and Yasmin felt her heartbeat accelerate in anticipation.

  ‘… and this is Lady Rosemary Keane, Keane by name and very keen by nature. Don’t let the title of “Lady” mislead you!’ Jeremy was giving a running commentary of his guests as he weaved through the room and … June Larki
n! Yasmin sprung forward from her seat. There she was, in amongst the crowd, talking to a group of men, her short peroxide cropped hair, fag in hand and a sneer on her pinched face, dressed in a garish coral pink dress that looked as if someone had poured her into it and forgotten to say ‘when’.

  ‘Oh God,’ Yasmin whispered aloud, the intensity of the moment making her feel a little giddy.

  People were littered throughout the whole house, couples draped over each other on arm chairs and bodies losing themselves in one another on sofas. The footage cut out for a second, causing Yasmin to hold her breath once more, before suddenly resuming. She could tell that some time had occurred between filming as the guests suddenly seemed much more worse for wear; people had stripped off now; a young, androgynous looking woman with tiny tits was dancing, naked, up on a table while Jeremy zoomed the camera into her crotch, laughing lasciviously as she twirled around and shook her hips to the sound of ‘Wham Rap’.

  Yasmin searched the crowds for her sister’s face but she was nowhere to be seen. Why had that bitch June Larkin left her all on her own? The film resumed once more with Jeremy walking precariously up a flight of stairs and tremulously opening a door.

  ‘Well, look what we have here!’ he exclaimed as he focused on the bodies of the men on the bed. There were three of them at least, though it was difficult to tell in the darkness of the room, and they were all in various states of undress. The sound was inaudible, muffled, as they all seemed to speak at once. And then she saw her.

  ‘Chloe,’ Yasmin yelped, touching the screen as her sister’s face came briefly into view, ‘Chloe …’

  Chloe was on the bed, her nakedness illuminated in the dim light, her beautiful young face, small and pale, though otherwise just how she had always remembered it. She was silent as one of the men pushed her back down onto the bed and mounted her, the others jeering in the background. Yasmin saw the camera momentarily zoom in on her sister’s young face, her eyes tightly shut, her mouth a grimace as the faceless body pumped away on top of her.