Chelsea Wives

‘The keys will be delivered to you personally by courier the very moment I get the news that she hasn’t got the job. Have I made this all very clear, Mylo?’

Mylo closed his eyes and opened them again as if this somehow might give him more clarity on the situation.

‘OK, dude. So you’re telling me you’re going to give me 300,000 bucks’ worth of car if I take dud shots of some British broad so that she don’t get this L’Orelie gig, right?’

‘In a nutshell, Mylo, yes.’

‘And if I don’t …?’

‘Then the deal’s off and you go back to driving your mother’s old Chevvie, I suppose.’

Mylo frowned.

‘Hey! How’d you know it was my mother’s …?’

‘Do we have a deal, Mylo?’ the caller repeated, impatient.

The blonde in the bed stirred suddenly, lifting her head from the pillow.

‘Morning, baby,’ she husked, her southern drawl breaking the intensity of the moment.

Mylo put his finger to his lips angrily and waved her away.

He lifted the curtain back from the window again and glimpsed the glossy red masterpiece on the pavement. He could almost hear it purring softly as he imagined himself turning the key in the ignition and hitting the big red START button. He thought of all that willing pussy making itself available on the buttery soft leather interior, of all the heads that would turn when he roared up in that little baby. Mylo: photographer du jour. He didn’t stop to think why the caller might want to scupper the British chick’s chances of getting the gig. Like the caller said: no questions asked.

Mylo dropped the curtain and allowed a small chuckle to escape from his lips.

‘You have a deal, my friend,’ he said finally. Frankly, it was a no frickin’ brainer.

CHAPTER 8

‘Mr Mystern will see you now, Mrs Rothschild,’ the young, raven-haired receptionist said as she ushered Calvary through to the modestly grand offices in Temple where Nikolas Mystern was sitting in his perfectly worn leather chair, hand outstretched in warm acceptance.

‘Calvary,’ he stood, smiling. ‘It’s been too long. You look wonderful. Please, sit down, sit down. Luci, fetch us some coffee, will you.’

Calvary waited until the door had firmly shut behind her before grasping Nikolas’s hand in both of her own.

‘Nikolas, it’s so good of you to see me,’ she said, gratitude audible in her voice. ‘I know it’s terribly short notice.’

‘Never too busy to see an old friend,’ he replied with genuine warmth.

Nikolas Mystern QC was one of the top divorce lawyers in Britain and an old family friend. Having secured some of the heftiest alimony payouts on UK record, including £5 million for a spouse married to her cheating footballer husband for all of eighteen months, he had deservedly earned the moniker, ‘Nik the Great’ and certain others he would rather not have mentioned.

Somewhat of a dandy in his de rigueur braces, perfectly styled hair and Gucci brogues, he looked younger than his sixty-eight years, his soft, rather jovial features belying his fearsome reputation; he was not nearly as frightening in the flesh as he could be in the courts.

‘Tell me. How are you keeping?’ Nikolas asked brightly, detecting her lachrymose mood. He imagined she wasn’t here to catch up on old times. ‘And the boys? Though I say boys … I heard on the grapevine that your eldest is getting hitched no less. Good Lord, I remember that boy in his Moses basket!’ He shook his head. ‘Where do the years go?’

‘I’m fine, Nikolas,’ Calvary said, though both of them knew this to be to the contrary. ‘Tom is all set for Oxford and Hen, well, yes, Henry is planning to tie the knot with his fiancée, Tamara.’ She hissed the girl’s name as though it were blasphemous. ‘Actually, Hen’s the reason I’m here, in a manner of sorts.’

‘Oh?’

There was a brief knock at the door before the beaming receptionist walked in with a tray of refreshments.

‘Thank you, Luci,’ he smiled, pouring them both coffee in a Wedgwood china cup as the young girl withdrew from the room once more.

‘I need your help, Nikolas,’ Calvary said, shocked by the sound of her own desperation.

‘I need a divorce.’

Nikolas sighed. He had heard the divorce word a thousand times over during his career and yet still it continued to provoke a genuine sadness in him.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Calvary,’ he said softly. ‘Have you thought about counselling?’

Calvary snorted derisively.

‘Douglas at Relate? I hardly think so!’

Mystern linked his fingers together and let them rest on top of his polished desk.

‘I can recommend a terribly good woman …’

Calvary let out a hollow laugh.

‘Knowing Douglas he’d probably be screwing her within the week,’ she remarked dryly.

Over the years, Calvary had fought so hard to prevent her marriage from becoming the ridiculous charade that it was. She had tolerated Douglas’s need to find his jollies elsewhere for nigh on two decades, turning a blind eye to the hastily scribbled numbers on the back of napkins, the scent of another woman on his shirt, little gifts she had found that she would never receive …

Calvary considered it to be her lot in life; most society wives had to turn the other cheek at one time or another throughout their marriage. It was par for the course if you wanted to keep the status and the trappings. Trappings being the operative word. Up until now though, Douglas had stuck to the unspoken rules between them regarding his ‘dalliances’. Discretion was key; as long as he didn’t flaunt it, Calvary could look the other way and console herself with extravagant purchases and luxury holidays. But not this time; this time Douglas had gone too far.

Calvary took a deep breath. What she was about to say was not going to be easy for her but she knew it was necessary if Nikolas was going to secure her the payout of the century. Even a cheating, immoral son-of-a-bitch like Douglas would want this particular indiscretion kept quiet.

‘He’s been screwing our son’s fiancée.’ Calvary fought to banish the image inside her mind of a naked Tamara on top of her husband, her glossy chestnut head thrown back in ecstasy as she rode him furiously, Douglas’s hand grabbing at her pert young breasts as they bounced in slow-motion. She glanced up at Nikolas. If he was shocked by such a revelation he certainly didn’t show it. Perhaps he had seen and heard it all. The thought made Calvary feel deeply depressed.

‘I am sorry, Calvary,’ Mystern said finally, his tone one of fatherly concern and causing a lump as hard as granite to form in her throat. ‘That must’ve been a dreadful shock.’

Calvary nodded, unable to speak for fear of unravelling like a ball of wool. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you a drink? A real drink, perhaps?’ Nikolas stood, straightened his braces and made his way over to a huge antique globe that stood proudly by the large sash window like a prop from a James Bond film set. It was a little early to start on the hard stuff but today he felt like making an exception.

‘Care to join me? A G&T perhaps?’

‘What the hell,’ Calvary sniffed.

‘That’s a girl,’ Nikolas said, pouring her an exceptionally large measure.

Calvary gulped back half the contents of her glass and hoped it wouldn’t be long before she would feel the warming effects of the alcohol.

‘I want half of everything,’ she announced, her change of tone causing Nikolas to look up from his glass. ‘All of it. The houses, the cars, even his beloved bloody jet! I want to keep the jewellery and, of course, the dogs – definitely the dogs …’ Calvary was animated now, almost up out of her chair, years of hurt and anger emanating from her like radiation. ‘I want to nail that bastard so hard to the wall he really will think he’s bloody Jesus Christ!’ she spat. ‘I deserve to be handsomely rewarded for the years I’ve put up with him sniffing after anything in a skirt, Nikolas. Humiliating me, robbing me of my self-esteem and dignity. But above all, above everything, I want him to pay for betraying our son; his own son, for God’s sake!’ Tears were stinging her eyes now and she sniffed them back.

Nikolas Mystern drained his glass. He was up on his feet now too, pacing behind his desk, his brow furrowed in thought.