Chelsea Wives

‘Did you tell Douglas you were coming to see me today?’ he enquired earnestly.

‘Of course not!’ Calvary laughed incredulously. ‘I’ll be the first to admit that I have been foolish over the years, allowing that bastard of a husband of mine to continue to make a mockery of our marriage, but even I’m not that stupid!’ The look on Nikolas Mystern’s face was beginning to trouble her. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It’s odd,’ Nikolas said, continuing to pace the room, ‘but it seems as though Douglas may have pre-empted your moves.’

‘What do you mean, pre-empted my moves?’ Calvary felt the first flutters of fear inside her stomach.

‘Well,’ Mystern began, ‘I figured when you called a few days ago and said you wanted to see me that it might be prudent, if a little premature of me, to start looking into Douglas’s affairs – financial affairs you understand,’ he felt the need to clarify.

‘Go on,’ Calvary encouraged him, her heart beating a song in her chest.

‘Taking into account the businesses and his portfolio of properties, Douglas must be worth in excess of £200 million, would you agree?’

Calvary nodded.

‘Tell me, why do you ask?’ she repeated shakily.

Nikolas took an audible breath, sat back down into his chair and fixed Calvary with a watery-eyed stare. In the most part he enjoyed his job, always had done, but there were times, like this, when he wished he was retired and enjoying his twilight years out on his yacht somewhere on the French Riviera.

‘Well, according to my well-placed sources, Douglas Rothschild is worth a big fat sum of nothing.’

Calvary met his gaze. The room suddenly felt hot and airless.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ she snorted dismissively after a long moment. ‘Douglas is the walking epitome of “filthy rich”.’ She laughed then, a hollow, bitter sound.

‘That may be,’ Mystern said solemnly. ‘But according to my sources whatever fortune he may have amassed over the years, it’s gone.’

‘Gone? Gone?’ Calvary repeated the word as though it were foreign. Her first flutters of fear had now rapidly escalated into full blown panic. ‘But I … I don’t understand,’ she said. The room had begun to spin and she placed a hand on the walnut desk in a bid to steady herself.

‘It’s very odd,’ Mystern continued, picking up his Mont Blanc ink pen and stabbing a fresh clean sheet of notebook paper. ‘But the day after you called to make an appointment here, large sums of money were withdrawn from various bank accounts belonging to your husband and an application was made to liquidate his business. It’s as if he somehow knew, or suspected that you were coming to see me.’

Calvary’s jaw loosened and she began to feel a little faint.

‘But … but that’s impossible …’ she stammered.

‘Calvary, are you alright? Here, have some water,’ Mystern said, pouring her a glass.

Douglas Rothschild was a hugely successful property tycoon and was what was known as a ‘fixer’ to the wealthy. If someone needed a house, Douglas would get them a house. If they needed a nice car, he’d get them a car. His main business was peddling expensive properties though, which he largely sold to Russian oligarchs and European billionaires.

‘My guess is that somehow he’s got wind of our meeting,’ Mystern said. ‘He suspects you’re looking into divorcing him and he’s squirrelled all his cash away somewhere. Somewhere you can’t get your hands on it.’

Calvary’s mind was racing in time with her heart. Douglas would never suspect her of seeking a divorce from him, such was the extent of his inflated ego. He’d betrayed her a million times before now and she had never so much as threatened him with the ‘D’ word, not once. So how had he got wind of her intentions?

‘You’ll have to find the money!’ Calvary shrieked, standing now, the full force of what she had learned piercing her mind with vicious clarity. ‘It has to be somewhere! He can’t … oh God, that bastard! He can’t do this to me!’

She finally started to cry then. Big fat sorrowful tears streaking her carefully made-up face.After everything he had done to her, Douglas would have the last laugh; he would cut her off financially, see her penniless on the street!

‘I assure you, Calvary,’ Nikolas Mystern said, his tone low and reassuring, ‘that I will find what has happened to your husband’s money and, assuming you wish to appoint me and follow the divorce route, ensure you receive what you’re entitled to.’ In fact, Nikolas Mystern would rather look forward to it. ‘In the meantime,’ he said authoritatively, ‘I urge you not to panic. I will get my people onto this straight away.’

Calvary nodded, glad of his reassurances. It was what she needed; someone to take control, tell her it would all be alright. The fact was, she would rather be dead than have to scrimp and scrape by after everything she had put up with over the years.

‘I’ll have more to tell you soon, I promise,’ Nikolas said, his voice settling into the kindly fatherly tones of earlier. ‘In the meantime I suggest you mull everything over. Maybe even talk to Douglas. You don’t have to tell him any of what we’ve discussed here today. In my experience a holiday together sometimes helps put things on the right track. You’re welcome to take a trip out to my place in Mustique. It might do you both the power of good.’

Calvary smiled at Nikolas but it was an empty gesture and he knew it.

‘You really don’t have to follow the divorce route, Calvary,’ he added in a last ditch attempt to dissuade her. ‘It can get awfully messy – and very expensive.’

‘Thank you, Nikolas,’ she replied, her tears dried and her demeanour back to businesslike. ‘I really do appreciate it.’ Calvary stood to leave. It had been a draining conversation and she needed time to get her head around it. In short, she realised that dissolving her marriage meant risking her status as a prominent Chelsea wife and everything she owned.

After saying her goodbyes, Calvary walked soberly through the plush reception area of Mystern’s office. The smiling, raven-haired receptionist was sitting behind a large ornate desk, admiring a huge, impressive bouquet of the most beautiful blood red roses, Calvary’s favourites and she couldn’t help but give a small smile as she passed.

‘They’re beautiful,’ she commented, suddenly wishing she too was young again and in the first flushes of love. Oh, how she would do it all so differently, given the chance.

‘Aren’t they just?’ the girl said, looking terribly pleased with herself.

‘Whoever he is, he obviously thinks the world of you,’ Calvary remarked.

The receptionist smiled.

‘You really think so?’

‘Oh yes,’ Calvary replied before stepping into the lift. ‘A man who sends you flowers as beautiful as that shouldn’t be kept waiting too long. Mark my words!’

As the lift doors closed behind Calvary the receptionist inhaled the scent of one of the roses and sighed as she read the accompanying card; ‘To Luci, thanks for everything. Dinner tonight? Douglas. X’

She smiled smugly as she picked up the phone and began to dial.

CHAPTER 9

Yasmin observed herself with pleasure in the ornate full-length mirror and poured herself a glass of pink champagne from the well-chilled complimentary bottle. The skin-tight grey boned cashmere Bottega Veneta dress she was wearing caressed her neat curves perfectly, displaying her breasts to their pneumatic best. She ran her hands along her minuscule waist and down to her thighs satisfactorily. Hmm, not bad, she thought approvingly. But not quite right for the ball. Not fancy enough, she mused, unzipping herself and allowing the dress to slide provocatively to the floor.

‘I want people to gasp out loud when I enter the room,’ she called out to the assistant loudly without taking her eyes from the mirror. ‘It has to be a complete show stopper.’ The harried-looking sales assistant nodded emphatically from behind her.

‘Ah, now that’s more like it,’ Yasmin said, spying an Oscar de la Renta strapless feather embellished number and snatching it up from the assistant’s arm.

‘Help me into it, will you?’

‘Certainly, madam,’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. She had been helping Lady Belmont-Jones try on dresses solidly for the past two hours, watching as she stalked up and down the plush carpeted dressing room, casting admiring glances at herself in the mirror only to discard each and every one, tossing thousands of pounds’ worth of designer gowns onto the floor in a heap like they were cheap tat from Primark. ‘This special something you’re looking for, Lady Belmont, is it for Forbes’ annual ball?’ she asked, feigning interest.

‘It is for the ball, as a matter of fact,’ Yasmin said, her ears pricking up. ‘I have to look better than divine because we’re on the table with Mr & Mrs Forbes this year. You know, all eyes on us.’

‘It’s always the same this time of year,’ the assistant said, barely able to hide her weariness as she fastened the zip of Yasmin’s dress. ‘Everyone coming in for a last minute fitting. I must say though, LadyBelmont, none of them have your amazing figure.’

Yasmin smirked. She knew she had a figure to die for and was not afraid to use it to her advantage.

All the women in the Jones family had been blessed with killer bodies. Her mother, who had ended up using her own to feed her crippling addiction, had said it was more of a curse than a blessing. Yasmin, however, was determined that in her case it would be the latter.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror once more, she wondered what her mother might think if she could see her now; standing in Harvey Nichols, a glass of Perrier-Jouet vintage rose champagne in her hand and a pile of designer dresses being handed to her by an obliging assistant who would break into song if she was asked to. Would she be proud? Envious perhaps? The truth was she probably wouldn’t have given a toss. Junkies cared about nothing save for their next fix. A fact Yasmin knew only too well.