Copyright © Rebecca Chance, 2012
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to:
At Simon and Schuster: Maxine Hitchcock, who came up with the brilliant title and equally brilliant cover before I’d even written a line! And to Georgina Bouzova, Clare Hey and Emma Lowth on the editorial side, plus Sara-Jade Virtue and the amazing Marketing team – Malinda Zerefos, Dawn Burnett, Ally Glynn and Alice Murphy - who have done an extraordinarily creative job of promoting and marketing my books. Lizzie Gardiner continues to turn out covers that make everyone gasp in appreciation and admiration. Plus, in London, the sales team of James Horobin, Gill Richardson, Dominic Brendon and Rumana Haider and in Sydney in Sales, Kate Cubitt and Melanie Barton who have all been absolutely amazing.
At David Higham: Anthony Goff, my wonderful agent. Marigold Atkey has been hugely helpful and Ania Corless, Tine Nielsen, Chiara Natalucci and Stella Giatrakou in foreign rights do a fantastic job of selling Rebecca Chance overseas.
My lovely webmistress, Beth Tindall, for whom nothing is ever too much trouble.
Matt Bates, who is the dashing young Tommy Beresford to my Salome Otterbourne.
The dapper Mr Kandee for letting us use his amazing shoes for the covers and giveaways – aren’t they gorgeous?
Laura Lippman, the best exercise/gossip/private whinge buddy that any woman could ever want. And Ruth Jordan, who started us on our workout and health support group. How I wish we all lived closer and could work out together, rather than virtually...
Dr Philippe Chout, who already makes some of the most beautiful women in London just that shade more perfect, and would be my absolute first choice if I ever got any work done. He very kindly bought me cocktails at a private members bar in Mayfair (sometimes my job is almost unbearably demanding) and not only answered all the questions I had about plastic surgery, but volunteered whole reams more of fascinating information.
Hayleigh O’Farrell at Pan Panorama who very sweetly took the time to guide me round one of the most amazing and luxurious skyscraper apartment blocks imaginable.
Randy Nebel, top gymnastic coach, who once actually had to sweep me off my feet and into his arms like Rhett Butler with a particularly inept Scarlett O’Hara when a roundoff back handspring I was trying went even worse than usual. Thank you, Randy, for stopping me from breaking my neck on multiple occasions - and for not laughing at me too much...
The real Jon Jordan, plus of course Ruth, Diane, Jennifer and Paul, my - and the whole world of mystery writers’ - Milwaukee family.
I honestly don’t think I could have written this book in a very short amount of time without the Rebecca Chance fanfriends on Facebook to cheer me up, distract me and give me lightning fast advice on whether Brazilian men are circumcised/sex toys called Man Rammers. (The latter was John Holt, who is also entirely responsible for “Putin’s Surprise”.) Truly, without you lot to laugh and joke with as I tore through writing, I’d have gone absolutely mad instead of only slightly barking round the edges. Angela Collings, Dawn Hamblett, Tim Hughes, Jason Ellis, Tony Wood, Melanie Hearse, Jen Sheehan, Helen Smith, Ilana Bergsagel, Katherine Everett, Julian Corkle, Robin Greene, Diane Jolly, Adam Pietrowski, John Soper, Gary Jordan, Louise Bell, Travis Pagel, Lisa Respers France, Stella Duffy, Shelley Silas, Serena Mackesy, John Holt, Tim Daly, Lev Raphael, Joy T Chance, Lori Smith Jennaway, Alex Marwood, Sallie Dorsett, Alice Taylor, Marjorie Tucker, Teresa Wilson, Jason Ellis, Margery Flax, Clinton Reed, Valerie Laws, SimonPeter Trimarco, and Bryan Quertermous, my lone straight male reader (bless). Plus Paul Burston, the Brandon Flowers of Polari, and his loyal crew – Alex Hopkins, Ange Chan, Sian Pepper, Enda Guinan, Belinda Davies, John Southgate, Paul Brown, James Watts, Ian Sinclair Romanis and Jon Clarke. Plus the ineffable sisters Dolores Feletia von Flap, Phyliss du Boire and Ida May Stroke. If I’ve left anyone out, please, please, send me a furious message and I will correct it in the next book!
Nicola Atkinson, Zarina de Ruiter, Georgina Scott, Laura Ford, Vikkie Cowey and Rose McClelland for their lovely reviews.
All the fans who volunteered their names for the escorts in the book!
McKenna Jordan and John Kwiatkowski for bringing my smut to Texas.
And as always – thanks to the Board. They are always there, watching. Like good angels.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Melody
Aniela
Jon
Grigor
Dasha
December 23rd
Melody
Aniela
Grigor
Dasha
Jon
Jon
Aniela
Dasha
December 24th – Christmas Eve
Andy
Jon
Melody
Aniela
December 25th – Christmas Day
Andy
Melody
Jon
Aniela
December 26th – Boxing Day
Melody
Jon
Andy
December 27th
Melody
Aniela
Jon
Andy
December 28th
Aniela
Dasha
Jon
December 29th
Aniela
Jon
Andy
Jon
December 30th
Melody
December 31st – New Year’s Eve
Andy
Aniela
Grigor
Andy
Jon
Melody
Dasha
Aniela
Absolutely Everyone
Melody
I should have known better. Why on earth did I ever let someone take a scalpel to my face?
Melody Dale stared at her reflection, experiencing a brutally bitter comedown.
Only last year, she had been voted not only the most beautiful woman in Britain, but the sexiest one too. Her agent had been over the moon with joy: this simply never happened. It was an almost-impossible balancing act, but Melody had pulled it off. She had been pretty and approachable enough to appeal to women, avoiding being so overtly sexy that she alienated them, while still projecting enough sex appeal to have the readers of GQ casting their votes for her in droves as the girl they’d most like to spend the night with.
It wasn’t a surprise that Melody had been voted Most Beautiful: her ethereal face, with its almond-shaped blue eyes and white skin, framed by a cloud of naturally jet-black hair, was hauntingly angelic, and her lithe body was elegantly slim, the figure of a twenty-four-year-old lucky enough to be able to eat anything she wanted, as long as she went to the gym on a regular basis. Winning GQ’s Sexiest Woman of 2010 had been more of a feat, as Melody had resolutely refused to do any of the men’s magazine covers or photoshoots that were usually the road to winning that particular accolade.
‘I’m not taking my clothes off and letting my naked body be projected onto the House of Commons,’ she’d said firmly to her very disappointed agent. ‘I’m not putting on a bikini and Perspex heels and squatting down with my finger in my mouth. I’m not lying on a bed in lingerie sucking a lollipop, not even for Agent Provocateur. I went to RADA, I’m a serious actress – if I do one shoot like that, it’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. I want to play Juliet at the RSC, not the hot-pants-wearing heroine in Transformers.’
‘But you were a Bond girl!’ Anthony, Melody’s agent, had complained.
&nbs
p; ‘Exactly,’ Melody had said passionately.
She’d been picked straight out of drama school for the Bond girl part: she’d been cast as Angel Malone, a gorgeous burlesque dancer who made her entrance onstage in a tiny sparkling costume and huge feathered silver wings. After her night of passion with Bond, Angel was thrown off the turret of a French chateau by the villain’s henchman. It had been a dramatic death, the white silk dressing gown she had worn photographed to billow out behind her like the wings she’d worn for her costume, her black hair blowing in the wind. Bond, in the courtyard of the chateau, had helplessly watched her fall and vowed vengeance as the villain commented sarcastically: ‘Not all angels can fly.’
‘It’s because I was a Bond girl that I have to be extra-careful,’ Melody had insisted. ‘People will expect me to sell sex. I’m not taking my clothes off for anyone.’
God, and look at me now, Melody thought miserably, staring at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window of the luxurious apartment in which she was holed up. It looked directly over the Thames, whose grey-brown waters were murky and dismal in this cold London winter, dappled by big, heavy drops of December rain that was gradually turning to sleet. Just down the curve of the river were the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf, their glass and steel gleaming through the falling water, a cluster of the tallest buildings in the country, the Citigroup red umbrella shining through the mist. At night, lit up, the towers dominated the panorama, glittering with ruby, diamond, emerald lights; Melody would sit in front of the window and gaze out, down to South Quay, looking at the halogen strips that picked out the whole length of the Pan Peninsula building, wrapping around its sides like ribbon, turning it into the most expensive present in the world.
But by day, with the mist blurring the view, the glass became a kind of translucent mirror, and what it mainly showed Melody was her own splinted and bruised face.
The doorbell rang. Melody turned to look at the clock; in keeping with the five-star designer luxury with which all the apartments in Limehouse Reach were decorated, it was projected onto the high pale living-room wall, an elegant shadow tracery between the twin Damien Hirst dotted lithographs that hung over the Ligne Roset white leather sofas. It read 11 a.m. precisely: the new nurse was clearly very punctual. The last one had wandered by whenever it suited her, well aware that Melody was – as it were – a captive patient.
Wincing as she went, constricted by the bandages round her chest, Melody crossed the living room and made her way down the hallway, which was lined by sleek striped wengewood cupboards. She didn’t even bother to look through the peephole: she only ever had one visitor, apart from the room service brought by the Four Seasons hotel next door, whose waiters could access the apartment building through a custom-built tunnel that connected the hotel’s kitchens to the Limehouse Reach service elevators. She’d already had her breakfast – egg white omelette and berries – and wasn’t due for her smoked salmon, beetroot and pea shoot salad till one.
The nurse had a surprisingly impressive presence. Melody’s instincts as an actress acknowledged that immediately. It was like walking into a rehearsal room and instantly becoming aware that there was another actor present who would give you a real run for your money. Calm and centred, the nurse stood stolidly in the hallway, her white uniform perfectly ironed and starched, her dishwater blonde hair slicked back smoothly, not a hair out of place. She wasn’t good-looking: her figure was square and solid, her features blunt. But her eyes, light blue and very clear, were full of intelligence and focus.
‘I am Aniela,’ she said simply, her accent Eastern European but her English careful and precise. ‘I will be on duty over the holiday period. Siobhan should have told you yesterday that I was taking over the shift.’
‘Yes, she did,’ Melody said, moving her sore and swollen lips with care.
‘Hello, Melody,’ Aniela said, bobbing her head in a formal greeting. ‘May I come in? I need to check how your surgery is doing.’
‘Of course.’
Melody turned away, letting Aniela follow her into the apartment. In the gleaming glass window, she saw Aniela’s figure shutting the front door, coming down the corridor, the white nurse’s uniform widening her hips, the clumpy white orthopaedic shoes making her feet look even bigger.
‘I need to check to see if I must put more gel dressing on your chest area,’ Aniela said. Melody couldn’t help mentally filing away Aniela’s accent in case she needed to use it for a part in the future: that is, Melody thought miserably, if I ever get a decent part again...
Melody obediently sat down on the only dining chair that she ever used, one of a set of six around the glass table. Aniela placed her nurse’s bag on the table and, very carefully, helped Melody slip off her pewter cashmere and silk cardigan wrap, and then the button-front T-shirt which allowed Melody to get undressed without having to reach her arms over her head to pull off clothing. When the wrap and T-shirt were removed, it was clear why lifting her arms should be avoided wherever possible. Melody’s breasts were mottled with bruising at each side, small curved scars outlining the lower quadrant.
‘Oh, very good,’ Aniela said, nodding, her expression very concentrated as she knelt down to check out Melody’s scars from below. Melody looked down at Aniela’s head, at her blonde hair sleeked back into an almost painful-looking bun at the nape of her neck; everything about Aniela was impressively professional.
‘These are healing very well,’ she continued. ‘You should be happy. It has been only a week since your surgery, correct? This is good progress.’
‘Will the scars show?’ Melody asked, her voice faint.
‘You will have to ask Dr Nassri,’ Aniela said. ‘He will be back after Christmas. It is hard for scars to disappear, but I can tell you that you are healing very well – the wounds are completely closed, you don’t need any more of the gel dressing. Soon we will give you Vitamin E oil and rosehip oil, to help the scars go.’
She drew a small packet from her bag, ripped it open and produced a sterilised wipe; cleaning her fingers with it, she then blew on their tips to make sure they were warm enough, and, with great gentleness, ran them over each scar in turn, something the previous nurse had never bothered to do. Melody felt her body respond, not sexually, but with desperate gratitude at having this moment of human contact.
How pathetic am I? Melody thought bitterly. I was a movie star – I played Cathy in Wuthering Heights, Ophelia for the Royal Shakespeare Company. I was half of the hottest young power couple in Britain, I had a boyfriend I loved with all my heart, I was surrounded by people doing my hair, my make-up, costume fittings, glossy fashion magazine shoots. And now I’ve got tears in my eyes because some agency nurse comes to visit and actually touches my skin, gives me the warmth of another body against mine for thirty seconds...
‘You had implants removed. It’s much harder to take them out than to put them in,’ Aniela said, her gaze concentrated on Melody’s wounds. ‘But these scars are already a little flatter. You are lucky, your skin heals well. I cannot promise that they will not show a little. But I think they will be smooth.’
‘Which means they can be covered up with make-up,’
Melody said with huge relief.
‘It is a shame you had the implants,’ Aniela said with brutal frankness, smoothing a little cream onto the scars. ‘Like this it is better. You are in proportion.’
Melody looked down at her tiny breasts on her slim frame. ‘I know,’ she said wistfully. ‘But I can’t help missing my D cups a bit. They weren’t even that big, really.’
Melody was the size 8 that leading actresses were now required to be, and D cups on a barely 30-inch back weren’t the enormous melons of a curvier glamour model. ‘I didn’t even want to get them, but after the operation, I used to hold them a lot,’ she confessed to Aniela, surprised that she was telling her something so personal. ‘You know, just put my hands there and feel them. They were so nice. I never had boobs before.’
‘Then why
did you take out the implants?’ Aniela asked with paralysing directness. ‘If you were so happy? You had no marks from the surgery. They put them in through your bellybutton, very clever. Let me look at your face now.’ She pulled out another chair and sat facing Melody, very close now. The nurse smelt of soap and water. Her white skin was devoid of make-up, not even lip gloss; she didn’t tint her blonde eyebrows and lashes. She doesn’t have a scrap of vanity, Melody thought sadly. If I’d only been a little more like her, I wouldn’t be in this mess now. Aniela leant in, squinting closely at Melody’s face. ‘The bruising is also good,’ she said, surveying the twin black eyes that were now fading. ‘I looked at the photographs
Siobhan took three days ago before I came this morning. There was a lot of purple then, but now it is all gone, and almost all the green is gone too. When it is just yellow, you only have a few more days before it stops to show.’
‘It’s still really swollen,’ Melody said in a small, frightened voice, reaching up her hand to touch her cheeks. Aniela promptly removed Melody’s hand, placing it back in her lap. It was a swift, efficient gesture, detached and professional, and it made Melody feel surprisingly relaxed: this nurse knew what was best for her, would have no problems at all telling her exactly what to do. And that means she’s not lying to me about my recovery going well. I can trust her not to sugar-coat things.
‘Pff ! You have had major surgery, of course it is swollen!’
Aniela said, shrugging dismissively. ‘Remember what Dr Nassri says? Eight to ten days for the bruising to fade, but twenty-one for the swelling to go completely. You were in surgery for nearly five hours. He had to file down your nose, take out the cartilage implant, put cannulas in your cheeks to suck out the fat the doctor in Los Angeles injected into them.’ The nurse raised her near-invisible eyebrows. ‘You were very lucky that doctor didn’t use fillers,’ she observed. ‘Once they go in, you cannot take them out because of the risk of nerve damage. If they move, there is nothing you can do. They are very bad.’ ‘I know,’ Melody said devoutly, thinking of some of the
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