Читать книгу Wicked Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 8

‘Mmm, looks delicious,’ Ellie Scott murmured appreciatively as she looked down at the eggs Florentine that had just been placed in front of her by a smiling, if a little harried-looking waitress. Lindsay, her PA, sitting opposite her, nodded enthusiastically as she threw her copy of the Daily Mail down onto the table and carefully pulled out a large document from her new Chloe Marcie tote. Ellie’s dance school was due to open in less than two months and there was still so much to organise. Just looking at the to-do list brought her out in a cold sweat.

‘Any news on a venue yet?’ Lindsay tentatively asked, between mouthfuls of her eggs Benedict.

‘Linds, I’ve been on to every estate agent in London,’ Ellie gave a despairing sigh as she swished her long, honey-highlighted hair from her face, wondering if it was too early for a quinoa-vodka Bloody Mary; it was practically one of your five-a-day.

‘… And? Any luck?’

Ellie momentarily abandoned her knife and fork with a clatter. She felt like crying.

‘Something will come up,’ Lindsay reassured her boss brightly. After all, Ellie’s husband was synonymous with luxury estates all over the world. Surely if anyone could pull a few strings for his wife it was her billionaire business tycoon, a man who made Philip Green look like Del Boy Trotter from Only Fools and Horses.

Truth was though, Ellie hadn’t actually told Vinnie about the collapse of the venue, at least, not yet. This was exactly the kind of situation she had hoped to avoid; running to her husband at the first sign of trouble.

‘I’m viewing a place after lunch,’ Ellie lied in a bid to put an end to the conversation. ‘In the meantime, I think we should just carry on with the plans as discussed, get everything organised so that as soon as a new venue is found, it’s all systems go.’

It had taken the best part of eighteen months to source and secure the Soho venue that Ellie had planned to transform into her flagship dance studio, so it had been a bitter blow to have been gazumped at the last minute. Now she had less than eight weeks to find another venue and turn everything around or she stood to lose a lot of money, and more importantly, face. This dance school was her life’s dream. Her childhood ambition of becoming a professional ballerina had long since passed, fate had put paid to that some years ago, but this school was a chance to give something back; allowing other girls, talented girls like she’d once been, to achieve what she herself wished she could have, if only life had taken a different path.

‘And—’ Lindsay scanned her to-do list for the umpteenth time in case she’d missed anything important, ‘—while we’re still on the hunt for a new venue, we should think about drawing up a guest list for the opening night, and then there’s the …’ she had gone into full efficiency overdrive now, but Ellie had stopped listening. Her concentration had been broken by a commotion taking place at the front of the restaurant. A waiter was busy ushering a female wearing the darkest Dior shades and a vintage Pucci headscarf through the doors and away from a swarm of paparazzi that had gathered outside like locusts.

‘OMG! Don’t turn round, but you are never going to believe who’s just walked in …’ Lindsay’s jaw was practically swinging on its hinges, ‘only Miranda Muldavey.’

‘Nooo!’ Ellie hissed. ‘But she lives in LA.’

Lindsay tapped her copy of the Daily Mail with a chewed fingernail and gave a conspiratorial nod. ‘It says she’s back in London, come to see her family apparently, you know,’ she leaned in towards her boss, ‘before the trial starts.’

Miranda Muldavey was bona fide Hollywood royalty, a global icon who had regularly graced the covers of glossy magazines and newspapers the world over. Or at least she had been, until she had made an ill-fated decision to go under the knife and been left a butchered mess.

Miranda’s sensational story had brought Hollywood to a standstill. Overnight, one of the most celebrated actresses on the planet had been reduced to little more than a freak sideshow, a figure of ridicule and pity, her career – and face – in tatters.

Of course, the rumour-mill had practically spun into overdrive with such force that you could see smoke. This was the ‘handiwork’ of a cosmetic surgeon. But whose?

‘And she was so beautiful as well,’ Ellie sighed. ‘Just goes to show that you should never mess with what’s God given. But then again, I’m not an A-list Hollywood actress. All that pressure to look half your age and have the body of a teenager …’ Ellie glanced over at the lone, hunched figure, hiding behind her oversized shades as she perused the brunch menu. ‘To her credit, she’s remained very dignified about the whole thing – even if she’s a virtual recluse now.’

Lindsay raised a sardonic eyebrow.

‘… More’s the pity really.’

‘So, does the paper drop a hint on who the culprit is?’ Ellie asked. Miranda’s story had been the source of much dinner-party debate during the past six months. Even Vinnie had shown an interest in it.

Lindsay thumbed her copy of the Daily Mail, ‘not exactly, though interestingly, there is a story right next to it about Doctor Ramone Hassan, you know, the celebrity surgeon who’s always on those before-and-after TV shows? It says here that he’s due to fly back to LA from his holiday in Santorini in a few days’ time, just as the trial begins …’ She widened her eyes, continuing to read aloud. ‘“Dr Ramone ‘Ramsey’ Hassan, one of the most successful and celebrated – not to mention richest – plastic surgeons on the planet, a man who has helped countless Hollywood actresses turn back the clock, seen here with his new wife, Lorena, looks relaxed as he holidays on the picturesque Greek Island of Santorini.”’

Ellie looked up from her plate.

‘Let me see that,’ she said, taking the paper from her PA’s grasp. She looked down at the grainy paparazzi shot of an older-looking, dark-skinned man standing on a boat, his unsightly paunch visible over the top of his tight Speedo briefs, but it was the woman next to him that caused her to drop her fork in alarm and her heartbeat to gallop like a racehorse inside her chest. Draped over a sun lounger with a champagne flute in one hand and a thin, white cigarette in the other, was a Dolce & Gabbana bikini-clad woman with pneumatic breasts that were struggling to free themselves from the miniscule triangles of fabric that strained to conceal them. Wearing a matching turban and blowing cigarette smoke from her enormous, plumped-up lips, it was unmistakably her. Loretta Fiorentino, or Hassan as she now was. The press might’ve misspelt her name, but it was her alright. Ellie would never forget those eyes; as dark and soulless as a shark about to attack.

‘Well, well, well. Loretta,’ she murmured underneath her breath, transfixed by the surgically enhanced face of a woman she hadn’t seen in over two decades – and was all the better for it.

‘Ellie … Ell-liiee,’ Lindsay’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts with all the subtlety of a meat cleaver.

Ellie suddenly stood.

‘Actually, I’ve got to run, Linds,’ she said, snatching up her iPhone from the table. ‘I’ve got this appointment … and I promised Tess I’d see her before she flies off to Ibiza.’

‘OK, but before you go …’ Lindsay held up the mock invitations, head cocked to one side in apology. ‘What do you reckon; the red or the black?’

‘Black,’ Ellie said as she leaned in to kiss Lindsay on both cheeks, throwing her Chanel Caviar bag over her shoulder in a deft swoop. ‘Let’s play it safe.’

Ellie pasted on a smile as she left the café. The press clipping had thrown her. Loretta Fiorentino was someone she had hoped never to have to think about ever again. She was part of a past that Ellie had long ago buried and had no plans to resurrect; at least not in this lifetime. The news story had said that ‘Lorena’ and her husband were at the end of an extended honeymoon and were imminently due to head back to LA, potentially making a brief stop off in London first, ‘if the mood takes us.’ Ellie hoped it wouldn’t. In fact, she hoped they’d get on a one-way plane back to LA as soon as possible and stay there permanently, because if Eleanor Scott knew one thing, it was that wherever Loretta Fiorentino was, trouble was never far behind.