‘Jesus,’ she shook her head, visibly shocked. All those poor people and their families. That was a lot of dead bodies, she thought, a mix of guilt and relief suddenly engulfing her. She could’ve been on that flight herself! Imogen shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Shaken by the news, she felt the urge to order something alcoholic, and, picking up the room service menu she briefly scanned it. She’d get Cress something too, some Dom Perignon and a club sandwich with a side of fries perhaps. She was always so vocal about how much she loathed in-flight food and … Plane journey. London Heathrow to LAX. No survivors. And suddenly it hit her like a comet.
‘OH MY GOD!’ Imogen screamed as the room service menu slid from her grasp. ‘CRESSIDA!’
CHAPTER 12
Sammie Grainger looked up from her desk.
‘Hey, Sammie, the boss wants a quick word when you’ve got a mo,’ her colleague, Lara Bradshaw poked her head around the door and raised an eyebrow. ‘You been missing deadlines again, or what?’
Sammie let out a heavy sigh.
‘I take it he’s in one of his good moods?’ she asked sarcastically, already knowing the answer. Her boss only had one mood that she knew of: surly.
Lara pulled her mouth to the side and widened her eyes.
‘And there was me thinking he might be wanting to congratulate me on the faaabulous Chelsea Wives piece,’ Sammie said theatrically, thumbing the pages of the magazine in front of her until she came to the colourful double page spread.
‘Hmm.’ Lara leaned over Sammie’s shoulder, glanced at the spread and murmured her congratulations. ‘Looks great,’ she said, picking it up and beginning to read the copy aloud.
‘“It’s harder than it looks, maintaining oneself to such a high standard”, says Calvary Rothschild, one-time Fashion Director on the now defunct Dernier Cri magazine, of her twice-weekly hair appointment at Jo Hansford.’ Lara mimicked a posh voice, flicking her short brown bobbed hair behind her.
‘Oh, the heart simply bleeds for you, darling,’ she scoffed, continuing. ‘“We spent a little over a million pounds on our wedding in Capri,” gushes Lady Belmont-Jones. “But it’s not about the money at the end of the day. I would’ve been just as happy with a little do in a local register office”.’ Lara clutched her chest in mock sincerity. ‘Yeah! Right! Course you would, love.’
Sammie laughed.
‘Must be nice,’ Lara sighed, throwing the magazine back down onto Sammie’s desk, ‘all that money.’
Sammie cocked her head and shrugged.
‘Yeah, but you know, they didn’t strike me as being, like, any happier than you or me.’
Lara let out a little whinny of disbelief.
‘You sure about that, Sammie?’ Lara wasn’t convinced. ‘I’m off now to interview Boris Johnson’s missus about the merits of being married to a mayor and riding bicycles around Shoreditch. Woo-hoo!’
Smiling, Sammie shook her head and watched as Lara flounced from the office. She was a great girl; fun and engaging. Not a bad little journalist either. Even if it had been a healthy dose of nepotism that had got her to where she was now. Thanks to her well-connected media mogul father, there had been no grass route slog for Lara Bradshaw; no mountain of rejection letters or three-year underpaid apprenticeship on some old rag with a readership of one for her. Not like it had been for Sammie Grainger. She’d had to chase her dream with all the fierceness and determination of a Rottweiler going after an intruder in a steak suit.
Sammie had always played down her lowly south London, council estate origins. A privileged background still gave you the professional advantage, even today. But it wasn’t just her provenance she was grappling with. Just lately Sammie had been faced with an altogether more intimate struggle: her sexuality.
‘My mum is so proud of me. I know it would break her heart. She wants the whole white wedding and kids stuff, you know. I want to let her have that dream a little longer before I take it away from her,’ Sammie said to her first and former girlfriend of her decision to stay in the closet. She’d not told anyone at work either, not that it would necessarily be a problem, this was the media after all, it was just that she didn’t want her sexual persuasion to become an issue, a potential stumbling block – and she certainly didn’t want to be lumbered with all the gay stories either. She had no desire to fly the flag for lesbians.
No, Sammie Grainger was determined that nothing was going to get in the way of her flourishing career. This job at ESL was a dream role and would afford her the perfect opportunity to make her name in the mainstream.
So far though, and much to her chagrin, the job wasn’t quite living up to expectation. To date, her repertoire had amounted to writing a ‘comedy’ piece on becoming an extra in a play at The Garrick and more recently, this sycophantic homage to brainless rich cows with more plastic in their Mulberry purses than brain cells in their heads. She doubted Jeremy Paxman was quaking in his boots.
Sammie looked at the glossy spread in front of her, the poised faces of the three well-heeled women staring back up at her, and ran her fingers through her black, choppy Victoria Beckham-esque crop. Her eye was continually drawn to one of the women in particular; Yasmin Belmont-Jones. Lady Belmont. She was very attractive in a WAG-ish kind of way. Not really her type though, if indeed she had one, but there was definitely something about her. Something vaguely familiar, she had felt it when they had met too, this odd feeling of déjà vu.
Sammie Grainger never forgot a face, her memory was almost photographic – and as such, this lack of placement was beginning to bother her. Googling Lady Belmont had turned up nothing of note either. Prior to her engagement and subsequent marriage to Lord Jeremy Belmont it was as if she had never existed.
Sammie looked out of her office window at the grey Kensington skyline and pondered, lost in her thoughts for a moment. Her sharp, journalistic nose instinctively told her there was a story behind Yasmin Belmont-Jones, a secret lurking behind that smiling, overly-made-up, oddly familiar face. Sammie was onto something and she knew it. The thought excited her, giving her a rush of adrenalin through her system as potent as a shot of amphetamine.
Her phone buzzed. It was her boss’s PA, Helena.
‘The big guy wants to see you, Sam,’ she said. ‘He’s in his office and he’s getting impatient.’
‘I’m walking through the door right now,’ Sammie said, standing, straightening out her smart black Reiss trousers and applying a slick of clear gloss.
Taking a marker pen from her desk organiser she drew a large black circle around Lady Yasmin Belmont-Jones’s face. The more she looked at her, the more she was convinced she had seen her somewhere before. But where?
CHAPTER 13
‘It’s just shopping, Calvary. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about it, you usually love nothing more.’ Douglas Rothschild turned to face his wife who was sitting at her dressing table, nervously applying and re-applying her make-up, her actions deliberate as she struggled to contain her simmering rage.
‘Just shopping! Just shopping! Well, that’s something, even coming from you, Douglas,’ she spat.
‘You’re being melodramatic,’ he replied, dismissively. ‘The girl only wants you to go with her, give her a bit of advice. Can’t you at least put your own feelings aside for a few hours? It’s not so much to ask really, is it?’
Incredulous, Calvary frantically began pulling a brush through her hair, the sharp bristles scratching at her scalp like a thousand fingernails.
‘So you actually acknowledge I have feelings to put aside at least,’ she snorted. ‘That’s a first for you, Douglas.’
‘How long is this going to go on for?’ He rolled his eyes, exasperated. ‘The wedding is weeks away yet. Are you planning to keep this up until then?’
Calvary fought down the urge to throw her hairbrush at him.
‘If I have my way there won’t be a wedding,’ she replied casually, her tone belying the anger inside that was thr
eatening to choke her.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Calvary,’ Douglas whined. ‘There’s going to be a wedding whether you like it or not. Henry will start asking questions soon if you don’t put a stop to this petulant behaviour.’
Calvary could contain herself no longer. ‘And what could possibly have happened for me to make such an about-turn, hmm? Nothing to do with finding you and Tamara going at it like a shed door in a gale in this very bed!’ She turned round and threw her hairbrush down onto the offending duvet, narrowly missing him. It made a soft whooshing sound as it sank into the goose Yves Dolorme eiderdown.
‘Why can’t you just move on?’ he sighed. ‘I’ve apologised for what happened, after all. I mean, I realise it can’t have been nice for you but …’
‘Nice?’ Calvary growled. ‘Nice?’ She shook her head in despair. ‘I don’t believe I am hearing this, Douglas.’
‘Look,’ his face softened now, giving her a glimpse of the handsome man he had once been, the one she had fallen so hopelessly, so tragically in love with all those years ago. ‘Can’t we just put the whole horrid business behind us and move on?’ he implored. ‘Our eldest son’s getting married in a few months’ time. The least we can do is give him the support he – and Tamara, for that matter – need right now.’
Calvary threw her head back and let out a hollow, shrill laugh, causing him to wince.
‘You are something else, Douglas Rothschild, do you know that? Giving me, me, all the spiel about our eldest son getting married, how we must support him, be there for him like good parents.’ She threw her hands up to the ceiling. ‘It would be bloody laughable were it not so utterly disgusting!’ She faced him now, anger emanating from her like sound waves as she stood.
‘I’ll give that little madam some advice alright,’ Calvary continued, the veins in her neck protruding like rivers of poison. ‘How about not fucking one’s prospective father-in-law behind one’s fiancé’s back? That’s a start, isn’t it?’
Douglas glared back at his wife. He’d eaten more than his fair share of humble pie as far as he was concerned and now he was growing impatient with her histrionics.
‘Calvary, this has to stop,’ he commanded. ‘I told you it was nothing. That I was sorry. It was a silly mistake. We’d had too much to drink one afternoon and got a bit carried away, that was all. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.’
Calvary laughed in derision.
‘You know, Douglas, even if that were true, you should have known better. But you just can’t help yourself. You never could keep it zipped in your pants, could you? Even your own son’s wife-to-be isn’t off limits. You disgust me, Douglas Rothschild. Disgust me!’ Calvary glowered at her husband with a fierceness he had never seen in her before and his heart sank. He had a horrible feeling that this time it was going to take more than an antique sideboard from Sotheby’s to sort this blasted mess out.
The last thing Douglas wanted was a scandal that would invariably lead to divorce. Thank goodness that little receptionist strumpet he’d been seeing to every now and again had given him the nod, allowing him to get a head start on squirrelling away some of his assets. This thought cheered him instantly. Once that wife of his realised she’d be left without a bean she’d soon put an end to any ideas of divorce. Douglas knew her too well; she may be able to give him up, but give up the money? Never.
Why couldn’t she just bloody well do the same with this one? He knew it was a bit of an ask, what with it being Henry’s fiancée and all but still, it was only the one time and hardly his fault; the girl had given him the come on, all big eyed and heavy breasted, parading herself around in front of him in barely-there outfits, sighing breathlessly as she spoke in husky, dulcet tones, licking her glossy lips at him. What was a man supposed to do? She’d been as game as he was. More so, in fact. And on top of things he was now having to contend with her as well, coming to him all teary-eyed and remorseful, terrified that Calvary would put the mockers on her much anticipated nuptials to his son. Even the greatest sex in the world wasn’t worth this much aggravation.
Calvary stared at her husband contemptuously, wondering how she had ever come to marry such a complete and utter shit.
‘I’m taking the dogs for a walk,’ she announced, her voice cracking like the embers of a bonfire as she pulled on a Brora cashmere cardigan. She could no longer stand to be in the same room as him.
With a heavy heart, Calvary knew she would have to live with his dirty little secret. Swallow it down like a particularly bitter pill. At least for now …
‘Listen,’ Douglas made to reach out for her hand but she snatched it away. ‘The Ivanovs have said we can have their house up in Lake Como for a couple of weeks – why don’t you go? Get away for a while, take some friends with you. Have a spa break, or whatever it is that you women do. It’ll do you good to clear your head a bit.’
As usual, he was trying to buy back some kind of equilibrium between them, though secretly Calvary was a little taken with this suggestion. Perhaps a holiday was just what she needed. She’d invite Imogen and maybe even Yasmin Belmont-Jones too. She had grown rather fond of her in recent weeks and was sure Imogen wouldn’t mind if the girl tagged along.
Imogen Forbes was Calvary’s oldest and truest friend. Having been introduced at a rather stuffy charity event by their respective husbands some twelve years ago, Calvary often joked that their meeting was one of the best things to have come out of her marriage to Douglas. Though in fact, it was no joke at all.
Hailing from similar backgrounds – the worlds of fashion and modelling – the two women had struck up an instant rapport and had spent the entire evening in deep conversation and fits of giggles. They had both left the party that evening feeling as if they had met a kindred spirit. Over the years their friendship had strengthened and deepened into something they both cherished dearly. Like sisters, they bickered occasionally, but were fiercely loyal and protective towards one another.
‘You could fly out next week, after the ball,’ Douglas suggested, hopefully. ‘Relax, sun yourself for a few days. Just wait until you see the Ivanovs’ place; it’s absolutely spectacular.’ He detected the slightest flicker of interest in Calvary’s eyes, and felt himself relax a little.
‘I’ll arrange for you all to fly out on the jet,’ he said in a childlike voice, attempting to lock the deal down, ‘and,’ he added as an extra sweetener, ‘you can have free run of the Black Amex card.’ He sang the last bit like a game show host enticing a contestant to gamble for the big prize.
Calvary watched as her body visibly sagged in front of the mirror. She felt utterly defeated.
‘I’ll take Tamara shopping tomorrow,’ she said quietly with her back to him, tucking her jeans into her Tod’s leather riding boots.
A small, satisfied smile crept across Douglas’s face and he had to stop himself from letting out an audible sigh of relief.
‘That’s it, old girl,’ he said, immediately buoyed. He could go and have that game of golf now without all this nasty business hanging over him, threatening to put him off his swing.
‘Get yourself something fantastic for Forbes’s do as well, spend what you like.’
Calvary grabbed a packet of Vogue cigarettes from the stash in her dressing table and threw them into her Smythson tote.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, Douglas,’ she said, brushing his shoulder with her own as she flounced past him. ‘I damn well intend to.’
CHAPTER 14
Yasmin Belmont-Jones hated funerals. Even more so than most people. They reminded her of her sister. And anything that reminded her of her sister hurt. It hurt like hell.
Still, she had to hand it to her, Yasmin thought as she looked around the magnificent church filled with celebrities and VIPs, whoever this Cressida Lucas woman was, she sure was one hell of a well-connected lady.
It had been at Calvary Rothschild’s blithe insistence that she attend today’s ceremony.
‘But I’d never even met
the woman when she was alive,’ Yasmin had protested. ‘It doesn’t feel right me being there.’
‘Minor details,’ Calvary had replied dismissively. ‘It’s the perfect setting to introduce your new look to society, show the press – and your detractors – that you won’t be downbeaten by their pernicious comments. Besides, it’s not as if the deceased will mind, is it?’ she added facetiously, casting an approving eye over the demure Victoria Beckham black shift dress that she had cajoled Yasmin into wearing for the occasion. She was determined to rid the girl of her Chav-Sloane persuasions if it killed her.
Yasmin was silently horrified. Calvary viewed today as little more than a photo opportunity! Reluctantly though, she also knew that she had a point; she had to brazen it out in front of the press, who had so far been most unforgiving about her. Hiding herself away would only serve as fuel to their ever increasing interest. The last thing she needed was them digging for dirt.
Despite her earlier misgivings, as Yasmin looked around at the church humming full of A-listers, she was almost glad she had made the decision to come after all.
‘All these celebrities …’ Yasmin whispered into Calvary’s ear, trying not to sound as star struck as she actually was. ‘It’s like ‘An Audience with …’
A regal looking lady in a huge avant-garde hat with a giant lobster on top of it passed them and took a seat in an adjacent pew.
Calvary raised a critical eyebrow.
‘If it blows off, dear, I wouldn’t chase it,’ she remarked sardonically. Yasmin stifled a snigger. Calvary could be quite amusing when she hit her stride. If she wasn’t careful she might actually start liking the woman.
‘Cal,’ Imogen came towards them, greeting her warmly with a big hug, ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said, enjoying the reassuring warmth of her friend’s embrace. Calvary brushed an imaginary tear from Imogen’s face and smiled affectionately at her. She was dying to ask her friend if she’d heard any news about the campaign from L’Orelie yet but thought it an inappropriate moment, given the situation.
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