Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  Boom!

  Claudia had recognized a soulmate and written back, eagerly. Poor Lucy. It was her stepfather who was the problem. He was an alcoholic who beat her. Her mother was in love and preferred not to see it; she had once offered Lucy a cover-up stick for a black eye, claiming ‘this heals bruises’.

  Claudia’s life story poured out into those letters to Lucy. God, if Innocence only knew! There was no way they could meet now; Lucy’s stepfather was a control freak and Lucy wasn’t allowed out of the house without an ‘adult’, even though she was sixteen, for Christ’s sake! But Lucy was planning her escape. She was going to get a job at a newspaper, doing something, anything, even if she started off on work experience; it would be so glamorous! They should both do it, then they could chat all day – well, apart from the work. Look, it would be easy, they could both write, couldn’t they?!

  Lucy made Claudia laugh. And her idea about working on a newspaper wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t as if Daddy was going to offer her a job anytime soon. Not that she’d want one – she was looking to escape her parents, not spend more time with them.

  Claudia smiled to herself as she approached Ruth’s front gate. Ruth lived in a house that was ‘far too big’ for her. She hated it, ‘but Jack insisted’. That was Daddy, thought Claudia, imposing his will on others. He did a really crappy impression of love, like an alien reading instructions from a book. She hurried up the stone steps and pressed the buzzer. JR was already barking, which was normal. He really was an annoying dog. If he were human, he’d be gay: an elderly actor, waspish, swishing around his townhouse in a red velvet housecoat, smoking a cheroot.

  Ruth was usually waiting at the window. Claudia knew she was lonely and Ruth hated that she knew. Claudia peered in, cupping her hands to the glass. Oh, God. Oh, no. It couldn’t be. On the floor, by the lounge door, she could see – an arm. The hand was moving, stretching towards – anything ? Claudia felt her knees turn liquid. She hammered on the glass, shouting through the letterbox, ‘Ruth! I’m here. It’s all right, you’ll be OK. I’ll call an ambulance. They’ll be here – wait …’ You idiot. ‘Wait!’ She’d had a heart attack or a stroke, she was lying on the floor close to death, and Claudia said, ‘Wait!’

  Even as she fumbled for her mobile and dialled 999, even as the ambulance screeched to a halt, the fire engine with it, the fire-fighters breaking down the door, even as Ruth was lifted on to a stretcher, an oxygen mask placed over her mouth and nose, even as she sat in the ambulance as the medics tried to revive her grandmother, and even as the doctor, his sombre look lending a sad finite authority, said the words, ‘I’m so sorry,’ her head was lousy with thoughts of her own stupidity.

  But then, as she splashed cold water over her face, trying to erase the image of JR’s furry bulk being lifted into a white RSPCA van, she said, aloud, ‘No.’ And then, ‘I am not to blame.’

  It was not her fault. She had done all she could to look after her grandmother, but she was, effectively, a child, and powerless. Those with the real power – Jack and Innocence – had done nothing. She could discount Innocence; Innocence was a wicked witch, what did you expect? But Jack. Daddy. He was Ruth’s son. Her only child. And, as in every other area of his personal life, he’d chucked money at the problem, because to him, people were problems.

  He’d stuck Ruth in a big house, miles from anywhere, so if some business associate asked, he could say he’d ‘taken care’ of his mother. Yeah. He’d taken care of her the way the Mafia took care of people. And now, thanks to him, Claudia only had two friends in the world.

  Her mouth set in a thin hard line.

  ‘I tell you something,’ she said to the pale ghost in the dirty mirror – and it was as if the ghost was making a vow to her, not her to it – ‘that bastard has it coming. And I will bring it.’

  NEW YORK, 1993

  Innocence

  ‘That. And that. Both. No. The Prada. And the Chanel. The black and gold! Do they have it in pink? Tell them to get it. Have it all delivered to my suite at the Core with the shoes. So hire a truck.’

  Innocence snapped shut her mobile and brushed some imaginary speck off her shoulder pads. The new hair looked fab. Big – Bonnie Tyler didn’t know the meaning of back-combed – and a fierce fuchsia pink. Fekkai had been reluctant, murmuring that the eighties were no more, but she’d pressed.

  The pink hair was more Essex than Eton, and Jack would faint when he saw it, but tough shit. She owed nothing to that fool. Not now. All her life she’d wanted to have fun and you know what? She was fucking having it. Her new dog, a tiny little thing, was dyed pink to match.

  The spending frenzy had started after lunch, when she’d caught a newsflash before the LCD was hastily switched off. Jack hadn’t bothered to ring.

  She’d swept into Tiffany & Co. en route to her hair appointment, and bought a three-row diamond and platinum necklace for $52,000. It felt a little bargain basement, so she’d sat in the salon, flicked through Tatler, and asked her assistant Jamie to ring Bvlgari in Bond Street and pay cash for the unique 87-carat diamond necklace that was – according to an advertisement in the mag – available exclusively for private viewing. There was a photo. She didn’t need a private viewing. Who cared about cost? Just box the thing and send it over! It was an 87-carat diamond necklace: what’s not to like?

  There was also a page entitled ‘Priceless is More’, a sentiment with which she agreed, so she’d ordered a pair of cabochon sapphire earrings with briolette diamond drops at £500,000 from David Morris, and a 44-carat cushion-cut sapphire necklace with 182-carat diamonds (POA) by Harry Winston. POA my arse! POA was like a red rag to a bull. She wasn’t going to make an application. Students made applications. There was also a POA platinum ruby and diamond necklace by Moussaieff, so she told Jamie to buy that too. Afterwards, she felt better. In fact, the new jewellery plus the pink hair and the dog were a real lift.

  Fekkai was a sweetie. He’d told her, ‘It’s important that your hair says a lot about your personality, and gives a sense of your lifestyle and the mood you’re in.’ Quite. And for a long time, her hair – in that stupid Alice-in-Wonderland style that Jack so adored – had proclaimed the exact opposite of her personality.

  As from today, Innocence and her new pink hair were all about her.

  The salon was a nice cocoon and she was going to emerge from it as a butterfly. Not a whisper about today’s events. Her people made sure that she didn’t set eyes on a British newspaper. She sipped her coffee, relaxed as her feet were massaged and admired her perfect skin in the mirror. The light flattered, but with her face, every light flattered. She tried not to think about the nightmare of the last six months, but today – the day that their beautiful house in Hampstead was emptied of every last stick of furniture and possessed by Jack’s creditors – it was impossible. Yes, they had other homes: the brownstone apartment on the Upper East Side and the place in Bermuda. But the Hampstead house was the flagship property. It was mortifying. It shouldn’t have happened. She knew it was ‘only a house’ but it was her dream house, and she’d imagined that it would be his – hers, for ever. She hated that Emily had to go through this, losing her home. It was traumatic. She was traumatized.

  A disaster such as this revealed who your friends were. Innocence believed that most people were as shallow as puddles. People liked you but your money was an intrinsic part of their like, because in their cold little hearts they felt that having money said something desirable about your personality, just as losing money (or worse, being poor) suggested something unappealing. Perhaps you were stupid, or uneducated, different. Perhaps you might try and drag them down with you: your poverty and bad luck might be in some way catching.

  So when, six months before, Jack had turned up on the doorstep at 2 a.m., pissed as a newt and a dishevelled mess, his Thomas Pink shirt ripped on one sleeve, his black Lobb shoes muddy and scuffed, reeking of whisky and cheap cigarettes, his eyes wild as he slurred out a list of crazy numbers and rambled about u
nlimited liability and asbestos claims totalling two billion pounds before finally collapsing face-down on the recovered antique oak wood floor at her Christian-Louboutin-encased feet, and croaking, ‘I’m ruined,’ Innocence felt her indifference turn to hate.

  She had expected this. She had planned for this. His loss would be her gain. So she was aghast at the overwhelming waves of seasick terror that chopped around her insides at the news of the inevitable. She was the architect of this torment. Jack’s belief in his own ruin was essential to achieve her goals. And yet the situation – brought about by her own free will – still scared the hell out of her.

  But this was because his stupidity affected her.

  In the weeks that followed, she saw that Jack was shocked at the so-called friends who snubbed them at parties. She was astonished at his naivety: what did he expect? Yes of course she was angry at those people who had attended their parties, eaten their food, snorted their coke, drunk their champagne, fucked their guests, who now treated them as if they were invisible; yes of course if an opportunity to wreak revenge on these morons arose then she would grab it with the greatest pleasure. But the huge storm of cold everlasting fury and hate brewing inside her small frame was reserved for Jack.

  She’d let him stew in his misery for a month while the list of assets that Lloyd’s would grab grew longer and longer. All their properties, their cars, their paintings, the business – they had six gorgeous, exclusive Élite Retreats dotted around the most beautiful and awe-inspiring places the planet had to offer. All of this belonged to Jack and so all of it would be seized. Emily would have to quit her exclusive private school and attend the local comp, where the drugs were altogether inferior and the pupils smoked Superkings rather than Silk Cut. Their household staff would be ‘let go’, and there would no longer be a wardrobe budget.

  Jack took to stumbling home drunk and not shaving.

  ‘Get up,’ she’d said, after four weeks of enduring his impression of a tramp. ‘Meet me in the drawing room when you’re sober.’

  The order was made with a confidence she didn’t quite feel, because how do you explain to your husband fraud and theft on a grand scale, and how do you persuade him that each crime was committed for, ahem, his benefit? She must choose her words carefully. After all, her methods of preserving empires and fortunes were a little quirky … She smiled as she remembered her business meeting with Mr Jones, all those many moons ago …

  LONDON, FEBRUARY 1983

  Innocence

  Lancelot Jones, QC, sat behind his enormous oak desk and looked sternly over his steel-rimmed half-moon spectacles at his client, who was perched meekly on a small hard chair in the middle of his huge velvet-curtained office.

  ‘I’ll reiterate,’ he said. Ladies were always impressed by legal jargon and long words. ‘If your husband has no liabilities, he can do with his assets what he wants. He can give them to the man in the moon. But if he has people with possible claims on him, and he gives them to the man in the moon, then he is transferring his assets with a view to defrauding his creditors. If he does this, the transfer he makes is voidable rather than void. A court will say it shall be set aside.’

  Lance paused to check that his client was looking suitably awed. She reminded him of Sophia Loren in that silver mink coat that swept almost to her elegant ankles. She wore a diamond necklace, and a silver mink box hat, and black lace-up boots with high heels. What a saucy little minx. A warm feeling of pleasurable anticipation stirred inside him. ‘However,’ he continued. ‘If your man doesn’t expect to be in trouble – and he doesn’t, for the poor fellow has not been given notice by his syndicate of a bad year, and we are certain of that – then, if he puts some of his assets in his wife’s name: grand! Absolutely fine and dandy! Of course, the judge would have to know what information the individual had at the time he made the transfer.’ Lance removed his spectacles, and smiled. ‘I should say, at the time he allegedly made the transfer.’

  He paused, licking his lips. She was hot totty but he was none too shabby. Since the cholesterol test he was off fatty meat, and had scaled back the booze: his belt was tighter by three notches, and all the walking he did over the Downs – he was in good shape. His hair was all his own; silvery-grey, very distinguished.

  A small show of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.

  His client smiled demurely and fanned the air in front of her face. ‘The winter sun turns this office into a greenhouse, Mr Jones. Would you mind terribly if I drew the curtains?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Suddenly his throat was dry.

  His client rose with smooth feline grace, sashayed over to the window and pulled the curtains shut. Then she returned to her seat and sat, smiling, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the voluminous mink pulled close around her. Damn, she was good. He had a tent pole in his trousers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she purred. ‘I interrupted. I believe’ – a flutter of those incredible eyelashes – ‘you have something for me.’

  He coughed. ‘I do indeed. The Land Registry has been most obliging. Very relaxed. As agreed, I lodged the Land Certificates – or the Title Deeds – on your behalf, with a … hmm, I do dislike the word “forged” – let us say “inspired” … an inspired request for transfer. Naturally, the Land Registry requires an indemnity from the owner. I must say your impression of your husband’s signature is excellent, I doubt a graphologist could tell the difference. On your instruction, an expedition fee was paid, and the new documents, for all six of the hotels plus the homes in Bermuda and Manhattan, were returned to my office by registered post this morning. I backdated every transfer as per your request – thus, to all intents and purposes, Jack signed everything over on the day you became his bride. Congratulations, Miss Ashford. You are now blessed with a rather splendid property portfolio.’ He looked up.

  Innocence arched an immaculately plucked eyebrow. ‘It seems almost too simple. Are you sure the Land Registry has actually transferred ownership? Don’t they carry out checks?’

  Lance smiled. ‘My dear, why should the Land Registry suspect a thing? Not many wives do what you have just done. Which is fortunate. It makes it easier for you to be a naughty girl.’

  Innocence showed her teeth. ‘Mr Jones,’ she breathed. ‘You have no idea.’ She smiled again. ‘But you will.’ She carefully removed her hat and the coat. Underneath, she was wearing a black Yves Saint Laurent bustier and corset. Her stockings were fishnet, and her black lace panties were barely there. Her breasts were pushed up and together, serving-wench style. He froze where he sat as she slid from the chair on to all fours and crawled towards his desk. He almost lost control then and there. He gripped the sides of his chair as she deftly unzipped his trousers.

  ‘By the way, Miss Ashford,’ he choked, gasping at the sensation. ‘Thank you most heartily for your swift settlement of my fee note. It’s a rare treat, in these boom and bust days, to receive a cheque by return of post. Your husband, if I may say, is not quite … so … fastidious.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ murmured Innocence, and she pushed his chair back, wriggled herself up and over the desk, so that her peachy behind was inches from his face. ‘Help yourself,’ she said.

  God. She was worth everything. Not that anything was at risk: they were both as safe as, ahem, houses. When his wife’s duplicity was discovered – or revealed – Kent would be forced to keep his cakehole shut and cooperate, or he’d be left with nothing. It was the E-type Jaguar of plans: elegant, classic.

  He was panting like a dog as she led him by the pale blue Turnbull & Asser tie to where the silver mink lay on the floor. She ordered him to lie down on it, and straddled him, her gorgeous pussy in his face, and gave him the beginnings of another explosive blow job. He couldn’t restrain himself a second longer. He pulled away, leaned over her and thrust into her from behind, rutting fiercely. My God, she was a beauty. When, finally, he couldn’t hold back any longer, the waves of ecstasy were so intense they made him feel faint.

  She wiped h
is prick on the silver mink, zipped him up and straightened his tie.

  ‘Can I fetch you a glass of water, Miss Ashford?’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Jones, but no. You could fuck me again if you like, though.’ She glanced at the mini-fridge in the corner of the office. ‘Is there butter in that fridge?’

  Afterwards, dizzily, he helped her into her coat. She reapplied her shimmery pink lipstick, brushed her hair, and powdered her nose. He watched in awe. What a woman. He handed her the hat with reverence.

  She pulled the mink closely around her, and reluctantly he sprang to the door and held it open. ‘Let me walk you to your car.’

  She pressed a restraining finger to his chest. He wondered if she could feel its wild effect on his heart. ‘You’ve done more than enough, Mr Jones,’ she replied, and winked.

  He gazed after her, wishing that there were more papers to sign – anything to keep this visiting angel in his grasp. ‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ he called after her, and listened, until the sharp click-clack of her stiletto heels on the stone steps was swallowed into the hum of yet one more busy day in the big city.

  LONDON, 1992

  Emily

  When Emily was five she’d snogged her own father. He was kissing her goodnight and she tried that twisty-mouth kissing she’d seen on TV. Daddy had pulled away and laughed, but she didn’t see what was funny. Now, when she remembered, she giggled with embarrassment. So naive!

  Not any more. She was pretty sussed. She was ten, after all, nearly a woman. She smoked (into the Hoover, if Daddy was in the house), she drank (Kir Royales – everyone did in Verbier – or Jack Daniel’s and Coke) and she had perfected the art of the blow job – using a cucumber. (‘I like eating vegetables,’ she told Cook. And she did. The cucumber doubled up as a vibrator. It was important to know your pleasure, not only his.)