I tapped her on the arm. ‘You horrible thing! That is just mean-spirited!’
Her smile broadened. ‘Couldn’t resist.’
‘Tell me about Crystal,’ I said composing myself. ‘We will come back to the clothing.’
‘So, of the nine possible Crystals, four of ’em worked at escort agencies where I used to have clients. So I called my old clients to chat. Said I had their new silver Lady Dior handbags ready for them, all paid for. Like I pretended they’d pre-paid for them on backorder. And now they were ready to go, just waiting for delivery.’
‘Did they really backorder those handbags?’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘No.’
‘Do you have four new silver Lady Dior handbags?’ I asked.
More incredulous looks. ‘No. But you like need to buy some ’cos I promised them.’
That was never going to happen.
‘Anyway, they were like “Really?” and I was like, “Yeah, and I got one for Crystal too,” and they were like, “Really?” and I was like, “Yeah, you know Crystal? Tall, red hair, likes to wear coloured contacts?” and three of them said, “Oh yeah Crystal, you give hers to me and I’ll give it to her.” But the last one, from Magic Model Escorts said, “Nup. Don’t know any Crystal. And I’m on holidays.” And she hung up.’
‘And?’ I said.
‘And, she’s lying. Who doesn’t want a free five-grand handbag? Knock-off or no. And, since Crystal’s dead, it’d be like two five-grand handbags.’
She had me there. Even talking about the Dior bag was making me salivate. I wanted one. Well, I had had one, but it burnt, so I needed another one. Maybe two: one in black, one in silver. Maybe a third in white or blue, or maybe I could get wild and go orange.
Fire, bombing and widowhood silver lining: shopping to replace everything. Providing the insurance company paid. I was feeling increasingly resentful at the thought of replacing all my belongings out of my own pocket when I had dutifully paid for insurance. Well, someone had dutifully paid for it. The point is it was paid for and I should not be footing the bill.
I counted in my head:
26 Crystal escorts – 17 Crystals still working (alive) = 9 remaining Crystals
– 3 escorts willing to forward the Dior handbag to their Crystal co-worker (alive) = 6 leftover Crystals
– 1 escort not willing to accept two Dior bags (assumption: her co-worker Crystal is the Crystal) = 5 Crystals
That still left five unknowns.
‘What about the other five leftover Crystals? How can you be sure she’s not one of those?’
‘You really don’t wanna check this place out, do you?’ she said turning her attention back to the rack of clothing.
‘Of course not! You don’t even want to go!’ I pointed at her turned back.
‘Dude, I can’t go,’ she said turning to me. ‘What if my old client recognises me?’
‘You said, she said, she was on holidays!’
‘She’s probably lying about that too.’
‘That is a risk I am willing to take,’ I said flatly.
Hang on, was I now talking myself into this ludicrous expedition?
I rephrased my question. ‘How do you know that the Crystal was not from one of the other five places where you did not have clients?’
‘Former clients,’ she said. Exhaling in exasperation she stuck five fingers out. ‘Okay, so places one, three and five are way out: Northern Beaches, Shire and way, way west. No way you’d hire from so far away for a city gig. I totally think our girl was city.’
She tucked her thumb and fingers three and five away.
‘And place two was like, way too cheap for a Versace dress.’
She tucked finger two.
‘And number four?’ I prodded.
‘Number four,’ she grinned wiggling her ring finger, ‘was all Asian, dude.’
‘Oh.’
I had nothing.
‘Well … it is only Monday. I am sure Magic Models would not be open on a Monday. Who needs an escort on a Monday?’
‘Dude, you’d be surprised. Besides,’ she said, ‘it’s totally Saturday.’
How long had I been sunbaking by the pool? I needed to cut down on the wine.
My mind raced searching for excuses. Crickets. I was out. I handed her the jumpsuit.
She eyed it suspiciously, smile gone. ‘I’m totally getting double time for this.’
Esmerelda disappeared into the closet, returning with another tiny Alexander McQueen. This one was a low-cut, gold-lamé, metal-mesh, baby-doll dress with a waterfall of gold falling from under the tightly fitted bustier down to the short hemline. It reminded me of an oversexed toga party outfit. It would just have covered Mother’s tiny derrière but would be mid-thigh on me. It looked like my size. Curious, I checked the tag. It had been catalogued as Cat, Maternity Wear (Indigo). It was a woefully perfect fit.
Esmerelda studied me intently. ‘You’re not gonna throw up again are you?’
‘Not on this carpet, that would be a sin. I think I might just pass out. Wake me up when it is all over.’
CHAPTER 14
VEHICULAR HEIRESS
I was awake and it was not over. Esmerelda and I stood in Mother’s garage trying to decide on the most suitable mode of transportation for an heiress and her personal assistant visiting a two-in-one escort agency and brothel.
A car service seemed risky. I could just hear the driver asking, ‘Where are we going today Madam?’
Me: ‘Magic Models.’
Driver: ‘Just hang on while I record this and post to all my social media pages. Better yet I could sell it to a gossip magazine. I’ll tell them Madam is going to see a madam.’
We could have used Grandmother’s driver Mr David, but he would inform on me immediately, not to the media, but to Grandmother, which I felt was infinitely worse.
That left us with self-drive options.
‘Well, I’m not driving that,’ said Esmerelda, pointing to my Bentley Mulsanne, which happily had been having its 1000-kilometre service at the dealership at the time of the inferno and was now politely parked in Mother’s garage.
The truth was I did not want Esmerelda driving my brand new Bentley. It was a ‘graduation’ gift from Richard. And by ‘graduation’ I mean I finally managed to pass my driver’s test after five attempts. Even then I suspected the instructor passed me out of sympathy. Or she was just sick of the sight of me.
I was, however, a little offended that Esmerelda had no interest in driving it.
‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘That,’ I said pointing to the car, ‘is a Bentley.’
‘Yeah,’ Esmerelda said, stretching the word out sarcastically. ‘I can see that.’
‘Well?’
‘Dude, it’s like, an old-person car. Like only old men drive those cars,’ she said, gesturing to it.
‘The old men driving are probably chauffeurs!’ I said.
She nodded emphatically. ‘Yeah, like I said, old dudes, dude.’
I was about to remind her that Bentleys were the vehicle du jour of both rap stars and Kardashian-Jenners when it occurred to me that, in addition to that possibly being seen as a backhanded compliment, this conversation was likely a lost cause and I was now actively trying to talk her into doing something I did not even want her to do. It was the stress. It just had to be the stress.
‘Fine then, I will drive,’ I said. Not a sentence I uttered often.
‘Nuh-uh,’ Esmerelda said, crossing her arms. ‘No way man. I’m not getting in with you. You can’t drive for shit, Heiress.’
‘How do you know that!’ I said, incensed. ‘I mean I can so drive, for, for … I can so drive.’
‘Dude,’ she said, ‘your car crashes are like, famous.’
This statement was sadly true. The press had relentlessly documented every little accident. Okay, so some accidents may have been less little than others. Regardless, the fact that my reputation so vehemently preceded me was made even m
ore painful given I had only been driving for six months.
Esmerelda stood firm, shaking her head from side to side, her long platinum-blonde wig swooshing around her face. A strand of hair got caught in her lip gloss and she tried to unsuccessfully pluck it out. It was like watching a fish try to climb a tree. It was really annoying her, which immediately made me feel better about the whole driving disaster.
I should mention at this stage that a mutual decision had been reached regarding the use of disguises. Neither one of us wanted to be recognised, albeit for very different reasons. Along with the platinum-blonde wig I had chosen green contacts for Esmerelda.
My green eyes were now blue and enhanced with false eyelashes. In a move that was retaliation for the platinum wig, Esmerelda had found a deep crimson-red wig with large soft curls that fell just above the ears. It was fire-engine Marilyn Monroe.
Esmerelda finally managed to work the strand free; it was now coated in sticky pink lip gloss.
‘Your make-up looks fantastic,’ I said brightly.
‘Frigging frig off,’ she said flatly.
We looked around the garage. Our choices were limited. There was a faded blue car that looked older than Grandmother, but with a lot more wear and tear. One of the doors was a different shade of blue than the others, and the side mirrors were held together with what appeared to be duct tape.
Esmerelda pointed to it. ‘What about my car?’
‘Not even for a second,’ I said curtly. There was no way I was getting into that death trap. If the toxic fumes it no doubt emanated did not kill me, I was sure the embarrassment would.
‘That’s a classic,’ she said defensively.
‘So is an Eton Mess, but I would not drive around in one,’ I said, my eyes falling on the remaining suitable car.
Esmerelda’s eyes drifted and the corners of her mouth turned up. I could tell she was thinking about eating Patricia’s famed Eton Mess.
‘So, this is it,’ I said grimly, unhooking a spare key from the back wall of the garage. ‘We’ll have to take Mother’s car.’
Dread filled me as I sat in Mother’s tiny silver Prius i-Tech, Esmerelda at the wheel, making our way into the city, and (for me at least) certain social death. I was holding Esmerelda’s black Louboutin stilettos in my lap. She said she could not drive in them; I believed her since she was struggling just to walk in them. It was an acquired skill.
Magic Models was, true to its Google ad, located in a building on Hunter Street, deep in the heart of downtown Sydney. From the outside it looked like any other old sandstone CBD building. Ten storeys, upper levels with arch-shaped windows, the ground floor windows were square. All the lower windows were blacked out with closed dark wood shutters. It was unlikely I would have noticed the darkened windows previously, but now it was an ominous sign.
There was a driveway on the far right-hand side of the building, and we pulled into it, quickly descending below ground into what I prayed was a car park. Sadly, my prayers were answered: it was a car park. What I should have prayed for was a brick wall. I received the closest thing, a closed boom gate which prevented our entry. I let out a huge sigh of relief. We could see the car park beyond, but there was no way we could get through the boom gate.
Esmerelda pulled up in front of the boom gate. On the driver’s side there was a sleek-looking box with a buzzer and a speaker.
‘Well, that does it I suppose,’ I said, barely containing my relief. ‘No way we can get through.’
Esmerelda ignored me. She was busy powering down her window.
‘What are you doing?’ I exclaimed. ‘Stop that!’
She reached out of the widow and pressed on the buzzer. Several seconds later a deep sexy female voice came through the speaker: ‘Good evening, how can I help you?’
‘We have, like, an appointment at Magic Models,’ said Esmerelda in what was clearly her best effort at being well-spoken.
There was a pause, and I heard an electronic sound. I looked around and saw a camera mounted on the right-hand side wall beside the boom gate. I swear it moved. I felt like we had moved from Pretty Woman to Mission: Impossible.
‘Come in, ladies,’ purred the voice. ‘Level six.’
The boom gate lifted, and Esmerelda promptly drove in and began hunting for a parking space.
‘Is that true? Do we really have an appointment?’ I asked, staring at her.
‘Dude, we’re in, does it really matter?’ she said, backing into a space near a discreet, tastefully decorated elevator vestibule.
‘Yes,’ I said, widening my eyes.
‘Like, there are all sorts of truths,’ she said, and got out of the car and walked away.
That sounded dangerously close to something deeply profound, but I also suspected it was hogwash, so I sat in the car and considered considering it. That is until I saw Esmerelda’s lolloping form heading back to the Prius.
She whipped open my door. ‘I forgot you! And my bloody shoes.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve gotta stop doin’ that.’
I was unsure whether she regularly forgot me, or her shoes. At that point I hoped it was me.
I relented and got out of the car. The car park was occupied by an assortment of vehicles: the Tesla we had parked by, three black and two white Range Rovers, all complete with booster seats, seven Porsches ranging from 911s to Cayennes, a couple of Volvos, a few Audis and an assortment of Mercedes and BMWs. Ours was the only Prius. And the only Toyota.
I noticed with a grimace there were three Bentleys. One still had a driver in it. He was wearing a cap. I was going to have to get a different car.
We stepped into the elevator, which was clean and nondescript, and Esmerelda punched the button for level six.
‘Your name’s Violet,’ she whispered to me.
I gawked at her, astonished. ‘Violet? I think that might be a little too close to home.’
She shushed me.
‘You can be Violet,’ I whispered, unsure why I was whispering. ‘I will be something else.’
‘Fine,’ she muttered, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I’ll be Violet, you be Crumble.’
‘Violet and Crumble?’ I asked incredulously while trying to keep my voice down. ‘Violet Crumble? Like the chocolate bar? Are you kidding?’
‘What?’ she hissed defensively. ‘I like Violet Crumbles and I couldn’t think of anything else.’
‘Why not just say Kit and Kat?’
‘I didn’t think your mum would appreciate that.’
Good point.
‘Why are we whispering?’ I asked in a whisper.
She mouthed the word ‘cameras’.
I looked around but could not see any. Not that that meant anything. I was sure Grandmother had listening devices and cameras secreted everywhere from her hedges and garden beds to her guest toilets.
‘Are there any other choices?’ I asked, quietly hopeful.
‘Nup,’ she said, and the elevator doors pinged open. One elevator to salvation. One elevator to damnation.
At least she hadn’t lied about making an appointment.
CHAPTER 15
HEIRESS FOR HIRE
So this was what the inside of a bordello-come-escort agency looked like. I was disappointed. When the elevator doors opened, we found ourselves in a spacious, tastefully decorated reception area—no beaded doorway curtains, no thick cloud of smoke covering the ceiling, no whips, no chains, no leather underwear and not a red light or pole in sight. I was not exactly sure what, specifically, I expected, but whatever it was, this was not it.
The floor was covered with large polished grey porcelain tiles. They were Italian and they were expensive. The walls were papered in ivory with a pale grey fleur-de-lis motif. The ceilings were high, and the cornices detailed.
The rug on the floor was large and in the same tones, with an identical fleur-de-lis pattern. It was tailor-made from fine Peruvian vicuña wool. I had purchased a vicuña wool jacket for Richard the previous winter from Harrods. It cost $34,00
0.
There was a masculine three-seater lounge and two single armchairs, all in latte leather. They looked plush and comfortable, but I did not recognise the designer. The coffee table was an oval, antique oak, quartersawn affair topped with a thick stack of glossy magazines.
Oh my God! Sitting discreetly in the corner was a fully loaded Eames bar cart. And there on the top, like ghosts sent to haunt me, were two lit candles. My eyes locked onto the flames, bile rose in my throat and I stopped dead in my tracks. I felt Esmerelda bump into the back of me.
‘F-f-f …’ I stuttered. ‘F-f-f …’
Esmerelda peered over my shoulder and followed my eyeline to the bar cart, a dozen bottles of aged Scotch carefully laid out on its glass shelves, a dozen heavy-set Lismore Black crystal tumblers beside them, and the candles flickering away in the centre of the top shelf.
‘Dude!’ she whispered loudly into my ear. ‘Don’t throw up! Don’t do it!’
‘F-f-f-flame,’ I finally managed, staring at the candles so closely surrounded by bottles of flammable, flammable liquor.
Esmerelda pushed me forward towards the reception desk. ‘Stop freaking out, there’s no booze in those bottles.’
I pulled my eyes away and turned to her. ‘Really?’
‘You think they’re just gonna leave expensive shit like that sitting out? No way man, it’s all fake,’ she said confidently.
I was not offered the option of thinking about it. I immediately found myself face to face with the receptionist. She was an attractive blonde in her early twenties with a short pixie cut and a practised smile. She was wearing a pink cowl neck sleeveless satin shirt and high-waisted black pants. She was average height but was dwarfed by the giant reception desk.
The desk was made up of a dark wood frame, with an ivory silk front panel and a black marble top. It was identical to a reception desk you might find in any civil city hotel lobby, but instead of artwork on the wall behind the desk, there was a grid of large, framed photographs. Each photograph depicted an attractive young woman smiling coyly at the camera. The grid was five across and five down. Twenty-five women—well almost twenty-five. There was a gap on the top right-hand side: someone was missing.
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