How come you don’t answer your phone anymore? You promised me some cash and it’s quite difficult to live in London without dosh in my pocket. Call me, or I’ll have to come round.
Your father, Charlie Grand.
WHEN MONDAY MORNING rolled around, Jools got up and squashed herself in her best Chanel suit. Scraping her hair into a conservative bun, she put on just enough makeup to avoid looking like death in the inevitable photos.
Rodney hated it when she layered on the blusher, so she tried to go easy. It was important to maintain Rodney’s desired façade of dignified newlyweds.
She was already in enough hot water with her father back in the country and Niles skulking about in the undergrowth; she didn’t need any more trouble.
When Jools and Rodney arrived in Hampshire, Jools was horrified to discover that the meet-and-greet was at the head office of the Commercial Bank London – the same bank that had supplied her small-business loan and was taking her to court over non-payment. Shit. She’d meant to ring those court people and sort something out, using one of Rodney’s cheques of course, but with all the wedding hoopla she’d completely forgotten.
Hoping desperately that Horace Fortescue wasn’t around, it was extremely disappointing to find him standing right there at the front door, waiting to greet a very important guest and his new, spendthrift wife.
From the look on his face, it was obvious Horace had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. He didn’t even pause for pleasantries.
‘You owe this institution £25,872.11.’
Shutters were snapping happily now and several reporters, sensing a fresh kill, swarmed in like vultures. Jools didn’t know which way to turn or what to say.
Luckily, Rodney knew what to say. ‘I’m sure there’s some mistake,’ he pulled the banker aside. ‘My wife is actually very good with money.’
‘All our evidence points to the contrary,’ Horace Fortescue replied cynically. ‘Our claim is now a matter for the courts.’
Rodney shot an evil look at Jools. Yet another tidbit of information she’d failed to mention over the past few weeks.
‘Can we settle this like civilised people?’ Rodney whispered, still holding the banker’s arm tightly, his back to the press.
They all trooped inside.
‘Certainly. Just pay this institution every last penny of the money she owes and instruct her never to set foot through our doors again.’
Rodney struggled to keep himself in check when all he wanted to do was turn around and berate Jools. He reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a long, leather wallet. Walking over to a desk, Rodney wrote out a cheque for nearly twenty-six thousand pounds. Jools cringed as the tab she’d been keeping in her head grew to an unfathomable number.
On the ride home, Rodney didn’t utter a word despite her feeble attempts at conversation. He just stared out the window, trying to convince himself that the whole thing was a horrible nightmare and tomorrow morning he’d wake up wrapped in Michel’s firm, hairy arms.
This was the final nail in her already tightly sealed coffin. There was no way he’d win the election now. Not when the press ran their stories tomorrow morning about Rodney Wetherspone’s failed entrepreneur wife and how she’d almost gone to jail over a bank loan.
Rodney’s credit card statement was waiting for him when they got home. In need of a distraction, he tore open the bill. Jools watched his eyes grow wide when he saw the cash advances. Immediately assuming he’d been a victim of identity theft, he informed Jools he was going to the bank to have the cheques traced.
‘This day couldn’t possibly get any worse,’ Rodney shouted as he stormed out of the house, slamming the door.
But Jools knew it could. It was about to get much worse. Once Rodney found out about the cheques, she was a goner. Unable to think, she did the only thing that gave her any comfort: she opened the fridge and started eating. But the first bite of Gouda made her queasy, so she threw the cheese in the bin and went to her bedroom, pondering her very dismal future.
Niles was sharpening his knives in the kitchen when his mobile rang. It was the reporter.
‘Well, Niles, we’ve checked out your leads and it’s looking good. I’m ready to have my assistant make out a cheque. But you’ve got to come down here and tell us the rest of the story. And we want every little detail.’
A smile grew across Niles’ face. He didn’t even say goodbye to the reporter; just dropped the phone, grabbed his jacket and flew out the door.
Chapter 27
By hand.
Dear Mrs Julia Wetherspone (nee Grand),
We called today to discuss our investigation regarding the unauthorised use of credit card cheques. We notice that cheque 004839 was deposited into an account in your name. As the cheques relate to your husband’s account we wish to contact you to confirm that you did, in fact, make these deposits with his knowledge. Please call me on the number below at your earliest convenience.
John Blunting
Fraud Services
International Bank Ltd
THE NEXT MORNING, Jools was pretty sure that life as she knew it was over. Rodney’s bank was onto her, and to top it off, she and Rodney were all over the papers once again – only this time the heat was on him, as well.
As usual, her husband was awake long before her and he’d read every last article in every single paper that had been delivered. He was sitting at the kitchen table when she walked out in her pink La Perla gown and designer bunny slippers. Face white as a sheet, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, Rodney was still in his robe, unshaven. He looked terrible.
He held out one of the papers, the headline visible from Mars: ALL IN THE FAMILY: THE POLITICIAN AND THE PERV! Poster-sized photos of Rodney and her dad were plastered underneath.
Jools froze. If she moved, she might fall over. And she wasn’t wearing any underpants.
‘Happy now?’ Rodney choked out. ‘You’ve officially ruined my reputation, political aspirations, social standing – my life, in fact!’
The paper landed at her feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, meaning it. None of this was meant to happen.
Rodney laughed manically. Sorry? She was sorry? ‘You listen to me, you pathetic woman.’ Pushing back his chair he headed towards her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Jools backed away, terrified. ‘I want every penny of that money back and I want it back within one week. If I don’t have it in a week, I’ll have you arrested for blackmail and fraud. And that’s not all. A few phone calls to the right men, and there’ll be nothing left of you. Nothing. And considering the size of you, that will take a lot of force.’
‘I don’t understand!’ she said in a last-ditch effort to turn the situation around. ‘Maybe we can say I converted you?’
‘No one is going to believe a lump like you turned me straight!’ Rodney screamed.
‘So deny it!’ said Jools desperately, ‘Just tell them it’s all false. Tabloids lie all the time.’
‘You’re so naïve. I can’t fucking deny this. It’s too big. Denying it would just make me seem guiltier. I’m going to have to come clean.’ Rodney slumped over, looking spent. ‘I was only doing this whole political thing, hiding the truth, for my parents. They’re the only people whose opinions mean anything to me. Now that they know, what’s the point in lying?’
Jools looked at Rodney. For a second, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. Even though he’d been awful to her, she really had destroyed his life. Then she remembered that he was threatening to sue and maim her and the sympathy disappeared.
Rodney pointed at the door. ‘I want you out of here. Now!’
She ran from the kitchen and started throwing everything she owned into whatever bags she could find. Luggage, shopping bags, bin liners.
Meanwhile, Rodney got straight on the phone, no doubt to gloat over her eviction with that creep Michel.
Jools climbed into her BMW and was about to turn the key in the ignition when Rodney appeared at
the back door, looking reasonably calm. Maybe he’d reconsidered and she could unpack and go back to their marriage of deception?
She waited for Rodney to cross the courtyard, noticing his tight jeans – usually reserved for nights on the town. A black tank top hugged his taut body and leather sandals showed off his perfectly manicured toes. His hair was no longer stiff and starched; instead, it was spiky and dishevelled. He was like a completely different person.
‘Wow,’ she said as he approached. ‘That’s a new look for you.’
He didn’t answer.
‘I like it,’ she said, ‘It works.’
‘I really don’t care what you like,’ he sneered. ‘All I care about is getting what I’m owed.’
‘You gave me a week, didn’t you? It’s been an hour. I’ll have your money.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ he said, ‘but until you do, I’ll be keeping the car as collateral. I’ll also be keeping all the clothes, shoes and beauty products.’
Jools stared at him with her mouth open. This couldn’t be happening. She was planning to sleep (upright) in that car! Without it, she was truly homeless.
Again.
‘Rodney, please . . .’
‘So if you don’t mind leaving everything you’ve just loaded into the boot . . .’
‘But what am I supposed to do without a car?’ Not to mention eyecreams and designer clothes?
‘The same thing you did before you came here. Take the bus,’ he held out his hand for the keys.
‘You’re a real bastard.’
‘And you, my dear, are something dragged up from the gutter. So why don’t you crawl your rotund backside back there and get the hell out of my life?’
Jools gathered up everything she could hold, cramming as much as possible into various bags and a single carryall and walked away with her head held high, trying to muster a smile for the waiting paps.
Chapter 28
Dearest Julia,
I was horrified to hear that Rodney left you over those nasty little newspaper revelations. However, I do have every faith the two of you will reconcile. A good wife can always bring a man back to his senses, even if he has professed a desire for buggery. As a woman of great character, I know you would like to receive the attached invoice for that little mishap over the pre-wedding party. Given what has transpired, I am sure you agree neither I nor Langston need bear the brunt of your debacle with Rodney. We hope to have payment of the £19,500 within the week.
All the very best wishes,
Lady Margaret Wetherspone
HAVING MANAGED to lose the press by escaping into the loo at Caffe Nero, Jools wandered aimlessly, wondering where to go. There was really only one option: Skuttle’s. A finger of guilt nudged her. Sure she’d given him money, but certainly couldn’t be described as a great friend – never inviting him round to Rodney’s, or even made a proper effort to see him, except when she’d been desperate.
But right now there was little choice but to head to Willesden Green or camp out in the streets of SW7 in the vain hope that Rodney might take pity on her – and that seemed about as likely as her being voted Miss Thinnest Thighs UK.
Heading west towards the bus station, the extent of her predicament hit home. It had just started to pour and although having managed to hold on to the Chanel suit and a few other designer bits and bobs , she hadn’t thought to take an umbrella. Or underwear.
The rain soaked through the thin, dryclean only clothing and lay cold and wet on her skin. Shivering, she picked up the pace.
The last thing she felt like doing was walking, but there was no money for a bus, let alone a cab. Glancing back, she prayed the paparazzi, or worse, that nutter Niles, weren’t following. But there was no movement in the rear-facing shadows.
Up ahead, the glow of a slow-moving bus caught her eye, its cosy warmth tantalisingly close. Christ, just yesterday she was driving around town in a brand new BMW. Now, even standing room on a clapped-out bus was thoroughly appealing.
A crowd of eager commuters was gathering by the bus stop. Maybe I can just slip on with them, Jools thought. When the bus pulled up, she wedged between a very tall man in a dark suit and a very fat woman in a red dress and tried to make herself as small as possible – not easy considering the spare tyre and numerous bags (some of which were perilously close to bursting open).
Jools made it onto the bus and past the driver without being spotted. But as she eased into a seat at the rear, the fat woman in the red dress shot her a nasty glance. At first, Jools thought the woman might have recognised her from the tabloids, until it became apparent she was simply irked at being an unwitting accomplice to a crime.
‘I pay my way,’ the woman hissed at Jools from across the aisle. ‘Why can’t you?’
Jools didn’t have the strength to argue. Her toes were frozen and dripping wet hair was plastered to her head. Even the warmth of the bus couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering.
Staring at the woman like a zombie, she said: ‘No speak English,’ in a strange Chinese-sounding accent. The woman observed her with disgust, then looked away and huffing loudly, got a packet of carrot cake slices out of a duffle bag.
‘Ooh, can I have some?’ Jools asked before she could stop herself. The sight of a frosted cake had a hypnotic effect.
The woman turned, daggers in her eyes. ‘I thought you didn’t speak English?’ Crumbs flew from her mouth.
Shit. ‘No understand.’ The Chinese accent was back again.
‘Humph.’ With a snort, the rotund woman manoeuvred her bulk into another seat as far away from Jools as possible.
Finally, a calm, automated voice announced they were approaching Willesden Green bus garage, where the bus terminated. Something about the familiar sight made Jools feel better. but climbing off the bus, reality hit. Willesden Green was hardly Knightsbridge; her business debtors and Rodney were still after her for money; and that weirdo Niles might be planning to kidnap and/or torture and murder her.
Jools made her way to the chute that led to Skuttle’s squat, threw her belongings in first, then slid down. But Skuttle’s door was shut and padlocked. The small windows that once allowed a dirty glimpse of the pavement above were boarded up and a sign tacked to the door read: ‘Condemned Property. Trespassers will be sued.’
It was the final slap to her rather spotty face.
Jools knocked anyway, just in case the boards, the lock and the sign were some sort of elaborate ruse on Skuttle’s part to keep away unwanted guests. She waited for a response. Nothing. Knocking again, even harder this time, she prayed for a miracle. If Skuttle really was gone, there was absolutely no way of finding him. Which meant she was completely alone in the world.
No joy. Rubbing her red knuckles, she made her way back up the chute. The rain was tapering off now but the day was so dark it felt like the end of everything, like she was the last person left on Earth. The streets were deserted and all was quiet save the soft tapping of intermittent rain drops on the bus station’s tin roof.
She was so wet now there really wasn’t any point in scrambling for shelter. Too tired to move, she sank down onto the grimy concrete and dropped her bags beside her. Pulling frozen fingers through her mucky hair, she contemplated possible options. Maybe launching herself off a cliff, but that would mean finding one first. Throwing herself in front of a bus had a certain poignancy, given the past, but was rather messy for all concerned. No. Right now, she needed to toughen up and get serious.
‘Well, well, well, would you look at who it is.’ A horrifyingly familiar voice. Jools whipped around. Rocco Martucci was standing above her, flashing his big, gold teeth, arms full of kebabs.
Jools scrambled to her feet. No way was she going to give him the satisfaction of looking down on her. Anyway, she was already dirty enough without adding kebab drippings to the mix. Grabbing her bags, she slung them over her shoulder, and stood toe to toe with her ex-landlord.
‘To what do we owe the honour?’ He tapped a ci
garette out of a crisp new pack and popped it between his lips, skillfully balancing the kebabs.
‘Just came back to see an old friend.’ Not that she owed him an explanation.
‘That old wino don’t live here no more, innit.’ Rocco lit the cigarette. ‘Owner came and boarded the place up a week ago. Aint seen him around since.’
‘Good to know,’ Jools said, and not wanting to show how upset she was, she turned to walk away.
‘I seen the papers, Jools,’ Rocco called after her. ‘Everyone’s seen those papers, innit? I know your luck’s run out.’
Jools stopped but didn’t turn around. Why torture herself with the smile that must be plastered on his smarmy, greasy mug. It’d be the last straw – she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from trying to batter him to death with those kebabs. Not a good move, because he’d retaliate with more force than her. Still, death by kebab didn’t sound that bad, Jools thought, her mouth watering.
‘It’s not my luck that’s run out, Rocco,’ she said, ‘It’s my money.’ Rocco walked towards her, the squeak of his rubber-soled shoes making ugly music on the wet pavement.
‘Sounds like a familiar story,’ he said. ‘When you gonna learn, Jools?’ A puff of stale, white smoke reached her nostrils.
She didn’t answer because she had no idea.
‘You need some help? Happy to oblige. For old times’ sake.’
Naked in Knightsbridge Page 22
