Naked in Knightsbridge

by Schmidt, Nicky

  ‘Great,’ Rodney said, ‘more money. I’ve already spent too much on this woman. I can’t waste anymore.’

  ‘It’s a matter of what’s important,’ the man said. ‘If I’m important to you, it’s a no-brainer.’

  ‘Of course you’re important to me. I love you and I want to be with you.’

  ‘Then you have to stick it out.’

  ‘Alright.’ Rodney hung his head. ‘Can I come over? I told her I’d be out all night.’

  ‘Get that bad ass over here,’ the man said in a sexy low voice, disconnecting with a soft click.

  Rodney couldn’t leave fast enough. He hopped into his Benz and sped off, roaring by a popular bakery along the way. And failing to notice Jools’ car parked out front.

  *

  Jools however, definitely saw Rodney zoom past, mainly because he was driving much faster than his normal ‘vote-for-me-I’m-responsible’ speed. What the hell was he up to now? Where was he going?

  Whatever it was, she should find out. Maybe it was something dodgy and she could use it as further ammunition. It never hurt to have a back-up plan.

  Running to her BMW, Jools gunned it and managed to catch Rodney’s car at one of the many traffic lights along the park. Tracking the Benz past Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, she followed as he made a left into a very familiar street. Mel’s street. And pulled into a spot right out front of her mansion block.

  Surely he couldn’t know someone else in Mel’s building? He would have mentioned it?

  But the alternatives were just as baffling. Was Rodney really straight? Could he possibly be sleeping with Mel? It didn’t make sense.

  Rodney got out of the car, mounted the stone stairs, looking carefully around him before buzzing.

  Shit. Jools ducked down. The deal would definitely be off if she was discovered stalking him – particularly if she couldn’t uncover anything worthwhile to support her position.

  Pushing herself further towards the pedals she wedged her large frame under the dash, planning to hide long enough for Rodney to get inside. She munched a couple of cupcakes while she waited.

  Finally, she poked her head above the rim of the driver’s door window. All clear.

  Struggling to free her bum from the small space under the wheel, she managed to get out of the car. Creeping cautiously to the side of the building, she snuck around to Mel’s bedroom window.

  Thank God Mel was on the ground floor. Jools was in no condition to climb walls. The blinds were drawn, but she peered through a narrow gap and tried to focus on the room’s dim interior. At first nothing was visible. Then, Rodney entered the room, half-dressed and red-faced. Bloody hell, that was fast.

  He was sporting a strange expression Jools had never seen before. She squinted, realising it was a smile. He was grinning and playfully beckoning to someone, exuding happiness.

  Jools held her breath. Who was there with him? It must be Mel. How could she? Sure, he was only a fake, gay husband-to-be – but he was still hers.

  Eyes glued to the window, she waited until the pertinent someone else entered the room.

  No. Surely not.

  It wasn’t possible.

  Michel. The boyfiend.

  Michel was supposed to be getting it on with rich old women! Not her pretend fiancé.

  Michel ran a slimy hand down Rodney’s chest and Jools felt bile building at the back of her throat. Backing away from the window, she tried not to look but it was strangely fascinating, like watching a car accident in motion. Rodney was supposed to be sleeping with a bevy of anonymous blokes, which hadn’t bothered her — much. But this was too close to home.

  And too bloody confusing!

  Mel really needed to know this particular home-truth about her fiancé. But after everything that had happened, Mel was unlikely to believe this. Even Jools didn’t quite believe it after seeing it with her own eyes. It was almost too ridiculous to be true.

  Rattled by the turn of events, Jools decided to head back to the house, get her head on straight and figure out a plan of attack. But a lorry carrying scaffolding decided to make a three point turn into a bus, and The Gore was blocked for what felt like hours. Traffic fumes combined with the horrific vision of Rodney and Michel grinding away turned her stomach. She got out of the car and threw up in the gutter.

  ‘Hope you’re not drink driving,’ called the man in the Volvo behind her.

  ‘I wish.’ Jools dragged herself back to the BMW.

  Fifteen minutes later she was home and not surprisingly, there was no sign of Rodney.

  Unloading the three boxes of cupcakes and carrying them into the kitchen, she stared at them solemnly. A few hours ago they’d been the highlight of the day. Taking one from its bright box, she realised she had no appetite. For the first time in ages she did not want to eat.

  Tossing the cakes into the rubbish, she made a massive pot of soothing camomile tea instead.

  How had things gone from worse to even worse so quickly? The maid had been and for some reason had gathered the tabloids from Jools’ room and re-stacked them on the kitchen table, showing her humiliation off to full effect. How very thoughtful of her.

  Jools looked at the picture of her bulging belly and felt the nausea creeping up on her again. Even if Rodney agreed to continue their deal, would she even fit into that horrendous wedding dress? There was no more time for any more adjustments. She might have to settle for a bed-sheet.

  Jools let her head hit the table. She had nothing left, not even tears. Just exhaustion. And possible sugar poisoning.

  God, she was sick of pretending, sick of stuffing her face and sick of watching Mel fall for Michel’s bullshit time and time again.

  Wanting desperately to call Mel and tell her what she’d seen, that stern little voice inside her head curbed the idea. Even if she did manage to convince her friend that Michel was untrustworthy and apparently bisexual, Mel would be unlikely to let sleeping dogs lie (literally) and Rodney might decide Jools was too much hassle and demand his money back. Again.

  She was definitely caught between a rock and a concrete-reinforced place.

  The doorbell rang. Jools was tempted to ignore it. Probably just photographers and she’d had enough of them. But it rang again, more insistently. Jools finally dragged herself up and went to answer it.

  ‘Darling, you look dreadful.’ Lady Margaret was smoking, with the aid of a ridiculously long cigarette holder, her yappy little dog cradled in her arms. Mercifully the dog was asleep and snoring softly. Jools gave her future mother-in-law a quick peck on the cheek and invited her in.

  ‘After those hideous photographs in the papers this morning, I thought I’d come by for moral support. Looks like you need it. My dear, you’re positively green.’

  Understatement of the millennium. Jools stifled the impulse to tell the truth. Instead, she told Lady Margaret it was just cold feet.

  ‘I’m not sure he wants me anymore,’ she added, snuffling into her sleeve.

  Lady Margaret patted Jools’ hand and passed her a tissue. ‘There, there. Of course he does. Getting married is very stressful. Lots of pressure, especially when you’re in the public eye. You really need to give cocaine a chance, my dear.’

  ‘The press are so cruel,’ sniffed Jools. ‘I think even Rodney is beginning to believe them.’

  Lighting another cigarette off the existing one, Lady Margaret inhaled toxic chemicals and exhaled into Jools’ face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, dear. He loves you, he told me so.’

  Jools could see where Rodney got his excellent skills of deception.

  ‘You know, women are far superior to men when it comes to emotional strength. In a few years, you’ll be used to your life, dear, and you will have found your own ways to cope. Especially once you’ve had a few children.’

  Lady Margaret balanced her cigarette on a nearby ornamental relic and removed an antique snuffbox from her purse. She flipped it open and dipped her long pinky finger into the fine white power piled up wi
thin. She took a sniff, waited a moment, smiled and breathed a giant sigh.

  ‘It’s high time you got yourself a new vice, Julia dear.’ She looked over and spied the cupcake box in the bin. ‘After all, the current one won’t get you anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t want anything right now, except to be left alone.’

  Lady Margaret’s well-Botoxed face strained to form a grin (she and Mrs Pho must go to the same shonky practitioner). ‘Come, come, my dear. We all want something, no?’

  Jools had the uncomfortable feeling Lady Margaret was subtly bribing her. And it was working. Who didn’t want a nice place to live; money to buy life’s little luxuries? And if Rodney would just agree to go through with this wedding, the deep pockets of the Wetherspones would be at her disposal.

  *

  Rodney finally rang a few hours later. ‘Alright, I’ll go through with it – on one condition. Any more nasty surprises or misbehaving on your part and that’s it. I mean it this time.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Do we understand each other?’

  What did he think she was, stupid? ‘Of course.’ Jools could finally breathe properly again. She hung up the phone and felt her muscles relax.

  There was only one more day until the wedding, anyway.

  What could go wrong now?

  Chapter 24

  For the attention of Miss Julia Grand,

  Please find enclosed the requested photographs pursuant to your threat of legal action over the article ‘Doughnut MP Wife Wedding Party Faux Pas.’ As you can see, the originals, with written authentication from the Kodak professional laboratory, perfectly match those printed on our tabloid pages. If you require any additional information about our publications, we ask you to contact our solicitors Bradford, Berry and Co.

  Yours faithfully,

  Samuel P. Wringer

  Editor-in-Chief

  The Daily London News Review

  BEFORE SHE KNEW it, the big day had finally arrived. As nervous as she was, it was best to get it over with so that the next phase could begin – her new life with Rodney (the man who loathed her and could barely look her in the eye without calling for a sick bag).

  The good news was she hadn’t eaten in sixteen hours, so at least the wedding dress might actually zip up. The thought of not fitting into it filled her with dread. She should have tried it on yesterday to be sure, but short of resorting to Lady Margaret’s coke-filled snuff box in the hope of an overdose, there was nothing more she could do, then or now.

  Rodney had enlisted Percys’ Terrible Trio to work their torturous magic. They were practically pulling her hair out by the roots when her mobile rang. A glance at the local number on the screen caused mild panic. Her father! Bloody hell, obviously he’d managed to make it into the country.

  She could choose to let the answering service take it, but then he might call Lady Margaret for directions to the church. And as coked-up as she was, the old bitch would definitely give them to him.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ Jools whispered.

  ‘Hiya, darling! How’s my little girl on her special day?’

  Jools tried not to throw up all over her robe. ‘Fine. Can’t talk though. Having my hair done.’

  ‘Alright, I won’t keep you,’ he said. ‘Just need the lowdown on directions to the big event.’

  Shit. There goes the vain hope that he had forgotten all about the wedding and had legged it to Topshop to trawl for a new girlfriend. Jools thought for a moment. The only choice was to send him so far in the opposite direction, there would be no chance of his making the ceremony.

  There was a church near Southend-on-Sea, wasn’t there? At least a couple of hours away, one way. By the time he figured out where he was, she’d already have said ‘I do’ and be cutting cake at The Dorchester, where she’d have told the doorman he was a crazy on the run from the law and needed to be kept out at all costs.

  ‘Really?’ Charlie Grand queried as he took down the address. ‘Kind of a long way out of town. Why would the Wetherspones change plans and have the wedding all the way over there?’

  ‘We’re trying to avoid the media attention,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, right. Well, that makes sense. Those photos were pretty gruesome. You should get that cellulite sorted, love. Anyways, see you at three, Joolsy. Can’t wait.’

  Jools hung up and took a deep breath. Thank God that was sorted. She’d have to face her father at some point, just not today.

  The Trio finished with hair and moved on to makeup.

  ‘Lots of spots,’ said Tangy, shaking her head in disgust. Obviously, Jools was not yet forgiven for taking the precious Pradas.

  ‘Forget that, look at the legs.’

  ‘Pity Debonaire can’t force you to give her your legs, too!’

  The three of them poured over Jools’ cellulite. But Jools was too worried and knackered to even resist.

  Her nemesis, the ten thousand pound organza-and-silk white whale in size 12, hung from the top of her wardrobe. The stylist – a new one on loan from Harvey Nicks since Debonaire was somewhere in the Med styling Kylie – led her over to it, eyeing them both gloomily.

  ‘Let’s give it a go, shall we?’ the stylist chirped, her tone at odds with the look of doom on her face.

  She handed Jools an industrial-grade girdle, which she slipped on over her BIG LIE pants. Then Chirpy commanded her to suck her gut in as much as was humanly possible. Chirpy pulled and yanked and squished poor Jools’ internal organs into an arrangement that couldn’t be healthy and definitely wasn’t natural.

  It was massively uncomfortable, but when she got into the dress and the zipper actually went up, Jools was so relieved that the fact she couldn’t breath or bend over was of little concern. At least, the paparazzi wouldn’t see flesh oozing out of the dress like lava from a volcano.

  The door swung open and Lady Margaret appeared.

  ‘Oh, how lovely.’ She sniffed. ‘It does fit. See, Julia dear, all of that worry for nothing.’

  Jools tried to answer but she couldn’t catch her breath to speak and struggled to take in air.

  In response, Lady Margaret removed a small camera from a miniscule Dior handbag, took a photo, and burst into tears.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jools asked worriedly. She’d never seen the woman cry. Maybe she’d forgotten her daily dose of coke. Or maybe Lady Margaret was having second thoughts and was planning on telling Rodney not to marry and to live a full and free life as a gay man?

  ‘It’s just, you look so lovely, dear.’ Lady Margaret dabbed her eyes.

  That wasn’t possible, but she was touched just the same.

  But Lady Margaret motioned for her to turn around. ‘See for yourself.’

  Obligingly, Jools swung about and looked at the image in the full-length mirror.

  There stood a slightly overweight but glowing bride. Her loosely curled hair framed her face in a way that was actually flattering. She did look lovely. Well, about two stone overweight but aside from that, the Trio had done an exceptional job. She looked like a bride. Tears filled her eyes but she managed to stop them from spilling over. Tangy would stab her with her tweezers if the makeup got ruined.

  Despite the transformation, Jools was melancholy as she considered her reflection. She’d never been the kind of girl to dream about weddings. But the few times she’d actually thought about it, this certainly wasn’t how she imagined it – slathered in makeup, wearing a frothy white wedding gown two sizes too small; marrying a gay man she didn’t love for money; and settling into a life of lies and deception.

  Lady Margaret interrupted her thoughts. ‘The car, dear. Try to suck in that huge stomach, and let’s go.’

  So much for the tears, then.

  Her car pulled up in front of the church at quarter to two. What if Rodney failed to show? She definitely got to keep the money then, didn’t she?

  As it was early she stayed in the car, watching people flood through the massive ornate doors, protected from view by
the car’s tinted windows.

  She’d specifically requested one of the Wetherspones cars instead of a wedding limo – wanting to remain anonymous until the last second. Rodney had decided to drive himself and was just now pulling up in his Mercedes, his best man (yet another balding MP – there must be a factory somewhere churning them out) beside him. The two of them got out and the paparazzi swarmed as they headed into the church. Some police officers did their best to keep the aggressive photographers away, but their diversionary tactics did little to curb the seasoned professionals.

  But Rodney didn’t seem to mind. He stopped at the top of the church steps and posed for a few shots, shook a few hands and smiled for the cameras.

  Jools watched him, imagining what the faker was saying to people. ‘So good of you to come. We’re so happy to have you here on our special day. Yes, I am a lucky man to be so very much in love with my bride. We will be happy together, thank you for your kind wishes.’

  It was enough to convince her to tell the driver to turn around and head for home.

  Calm down, she told herself sternly. One throbbing vein and her horrid dress might split down the back.

  Then someone caught her eye. She did a double take.

  It couldn’t be.

  Oh shit. It was.