Читать книгу Chelsea Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 15

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, Lady Belmont, 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.

When their mother’s miserable life was eventually claimed by a heroin overdose, Chloe, at just seventeen years old, had given up her ambition to go to beauty college and became a mother to her seven-year-old sister. Social services had wanted to take them both into care but somehow Chloe had managed to convince them that she was responsible enough for the both of them, and, when she had turned eighteen just three months later, with their errant father nowhere to be found, Chloe had been awarded custody of her baby sister, Stacey. They had even got to keep their poky little council flat. A right result.

Though money was tight, they scraped by – and they were never short of what counted most: love. If only Chloe had never met that wretched old slag, June Larkin. That woman had been trouble from the very moment she had set a cheap stiletto-clad foot through their front door. Even at her tender age, Stacey Jones had sensed a bad vibe about June. The very air around her seemed somehow thick with discord.

June Larkin was a local brass who had lived on their estate; she was a looker right enough, but a brass nonetheless. At thirty-one, she was a good few years older than Chloe, wore nice clothes and drove a flash motor and therefore had a bit of sway on the estate. For all her loose morals however, June Larkin had been an astute woman with a nose for business. She had a little number going whereby she supplied ‘hostesses’ to rich men who liked to party with good-looking girls to make themselves feel more attractive than they really were. At least that’s how she had sold it to Chloe anyway.

‘It’s not prostitution, love,’ she had said to her sister, her cheap jewellery rattling in earnest. ‘They just want to hire you for the night to sit there and look pretty. I promise ya, there ain’t no funny business. You get paid a few quid just to wear a pretty dress.’

It had sounded like easy money. Money they had desperately needed.

Chloe had been a striking girl; prettier than most with long naturally blonde bouncy hair and huge, kind brown eyes that were unusual for her colouring. She looked older than her years and her long legs and full bosom were already beginning to draw admiring glances from men and envious ones from women wherever she went.

Yasmin thought of June Larkin then, all teeth and tits and yellow blonde hair and felt a sudden rush of hatred for her. Her sister had trusted her, thought of her as a friend. As it was, not even June Larkin herself could’ve known just what part she would eventually play in the Jones sisters’ destiny.

As far as Yasmin was concerned, there were three people responsible, in their own way, for what had happened to her beloved sister. Fate had taken care of the first two; with her mother already dead, some years later June Larkin would eventually take her own miserable life, citing her guilt of what had happened to Chloe as one in a long list of reasons. Now it was up to her to deal with the third.

Up until the day June Larkin had done the decent thing and topped herself, Stacey had always believed that her beloved sister had died in a tragic car accident.

‘You were too young to know the truth,’ June had written in a final swan-song letter to a fifteen-year-old Stacey. ‘But you’re old enough now to know what really happened.’

She had enclosed a large file of newspaper cuttings in with the note that had taken Stacey a whole evening to read, the print blurred from the tears she cried, her heart burning with hatred as she digested every word.

The contents of that letter were to change the course of Stacey Jones’s life forever. That day she had made a promise to herself and to Chloe; she would avenge her sister’s death if it was the very last thing she did on earth.

Yasmin stared at her reflection in the mirror and saw her sister’s beautiful, kind face staring back at her. Chloe had sacrificed everything to ensure that she be spared a life in care and she felt a sharp stab of sadness in her guts that for all her sister’s valiant efforts, that’s exactly where she had ended up.

Following Chloe’s death, the next eight years of Stacey’s life had been a living nightmare of relentless abuse and neglect – no one wanted to foster the older ones, not cute enough, not malleable enough, so she had been shunted from one ‘care’ home to another, though why they ever called them that was anyone’s guess. No one ‘cared’ about you in a home. You were just another little bastard to feed; a drain on society; and, in the case of the nonces, another orifice to fill. She had finally broken free at just sixteen years old, entering the world with knowledge a girl her age should never have had; street-wise and tough. And alone.

Yasmin took a large swig of her champagne in a bid to try and wash away her toxic thoughts. Deep down, however, she was almost grateful for such hatred; it was her fuel, the power behind all the deception and tissue of lies she had created around herself and her past. A past that would surely give that contemptuous piece of shit she was married to a fucking great coronary if he were to discover the truth.

Jeremy Belmont hadn’t the first clue of his wife’s true provenance. To his knowledge, Yasmin Jones was the well-bred daughter of a wealthy Welsh farmer and had been schooled at various acclaimed establishments across Europe. At least, that’s what she’d had him believe.

They had met a little over a year ago at the Cartier International Polo at the Guards Polo Club in Windsor. According to Yasmin, both her parents were dead (as a result of a tragic farming accident), and that the poor lamb had promptly blown her inheritance and was coming to live in London (‘Chelsea, of all places!’), aged just twenty-six, to ‘grieve and find my path in life’ as she had breathlessly put it, her chest rising and falling between heavy sighs. Belmont had no reason to doubt her; she spoke with a clipped home counties accent, carried herself well and was a social delight, charming everyone she came into contact with. Above all, she was utterly stunning; long platinum blonde hair, enormous sapphire blue eyes and fleshy pink lips and that body – Good Lord, it was something else. Clapping eyes on it for the first time Belmont had felt almost weak with desire. The fact that she seemed to reciprocate his feelings did not strike the bloated, ageing lord as in the least bit odd, such was his inflated ego. As it was, it had taken Stacey Jones years of meticulous preparation and careful plotting to ensure their paths would cross, and that when they eventually did, she would be ready to strike with a charm offensive of epic proportions.

Yasmin surveyed herself in the mirror once more. The Oscar de la Renta did nothing for her and she dumped it onto the ever-increasing pile of discarded gowns.

She checked her Chopard diamond-encrusted watch, an eternity gift from Jeremy on their six month anniversary. It was 5:45 p.m. Ricardo would be on a plane back to Athens by now. She thought of him sipping a Peroni, all pleased with himself, marvelling at how clever he was and a sly smile crept across her perfectly made-up face. She wished she could be there to see the look on that smug mug of his when he discovered the little surprise she had sprung on him.

Their joint enterprise, stinging Jeremy out of half a million pounds, had gone without a glitch. At her instruction, Ricardo had taken the shots of Yasmin and her husband having sex on the yacht and had sent the photos, plus a ransom note, to their Chelsea home.

Jeremy had paid up of course, especially once she had turned the water works on. Half a million was a drop in the ocean to him, and if it meant keeping pictures of his naked wife out of the press then it was a no brainer.

Earlier that day, Yasmin had held her hand out as she sat in the greasy spoon café on the Old Kent Road – a venue where no one would ever think of finding her.

‘I believe you owe me £250,000,’ she had smiled at Ricardo who grinned back lasciviously, displaying his small white teeth that showed too much gum.

‘You drive a hard bargain, Lady Belmont,’ Ricardo had smirked, flicking back his black greasy hair from his pock-marked face. ‘But then again, with a body like that …’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Hand it over, Ricardo,’ she said, lowering her playful tone. ‘Fifty-fifty, that’s what we agreed.’

Truth was, Yasmin couldn’t have cared less about the money. For the first time in her life she was rich beyond her comprehension and wanted for nothing. It was doing her husband out of half a million that was the ultimate buzz.

Ricardo surreptitiously slid one of the two black holdalls that he had brought with him across the floor. Yasmin stopped it with her Louboutin-clad foot, unzipped it a little, peered at the contents and nodded in satisfaction.

‘And the negs,’ she said.

Ricardo sighed and pushed a small brown envelope across the Formica table.

‘I could’ve made double that selling those shots,’ he sniffed, taking a noisy slurp of his tea.

‘Greed is one of the seven deadly sins you know,’ she replied dryly.

Ricardo let out a hollow laugh.

‘And I suppose blackmailing your own husband isn’t?’

Yasmin sighed, a little exasperated.

‘No one would believe a snivelling little weasel like you anyway, Ricardo, but how about another ten thousand to keep you quiet,’ she suggested, sweetly.

The corners of Ricardo’s mouth turned outwards and he shrugged.

‘It’s a more than generous offer,’ she said, her voice hardening.

Ricardo placed the mug down on to the table precariously. He leaned forward affording her a waft of his fetid breath.

‘I tell you what. How about I take that extra ten grand and you throw in a couple of hours of your time, if you catch my drift.’ He raised his eyebrows in a gesture so loaded with sexual connotation that it could’ve been classed as an indecent act in itself. ‘Then we’ll call it quits. What do you say?’

Yasmin laughed coldly at the paparazzo in front of her, her stomach lurching. Her plan was taking better shape than she could’ve imagined. What fools these men were, she thought to herself. Led by their dicks, all of them.

‘Well then,’ she stood to leave, ‘lead the way.’

Ricardo smiled, displaying those small white teeth and too much gum.

‘Ladies first,’ he said, his lazy hard-on already twitching in anticipation.

*

Yasmin could still detect the remnants of Ricardo’s alcoholic breath and cheap aftershave on her skin as she stepped out of yet another gown and reached into her handbag, spritzing herself generously with a large bottle of Chanel Beige perfume in a bid to mask the offensive stench.

Ricardo had thought he’d got one up on her with his thinly veiled attempt at blackmailing her into sleeping with him, but, brainless scumbag that he was, had instead wandered blindly into the trap she had laid for him without a second thought. She’d always had every intention of sleeping with him.

It had been an unpleasant experience, a drunk Ricardo throwing her down onto the filthy mattress and plunging himself deep into her. As usual, Yasmin closed her mind to what was happening, a trick she had mastered from far too young an age.

Afterwards, just as she had anticipated, Ricardo had promptly dozed off in a post-coital slumber, his heavy alcoholic snores resounding against the thin, sodden walls. Yasmin had quickly dressed herself in the tiny bathroom and, searching through his scruffy possessions, found the original negatives from the film inside the pocket of his dirty jeans.

‘Bingo!’ she had whispered to herself triumphantly as she replaced Ricardo’s black holdall with one of her own, filling it with a pile of old newspapers and magazines she had found in a cupboard under the stairs. Leaving it next to the bed, she had picked up the original holdall alongside her own, collected the small envelope of negatives and dragged them both out onto the street where she had hailed a cab to Mayfair.

‘Ciao for now, Ricardo, you sick piece of shit,’ she had said as she blew him an air kiss from the back of the taxi. She imagined the look of horror on his swarthy face when he finally discovered that in fact, it was she who had fucked him in the end. Fucked him good and proper. The thought had cheered her up no end.

*

‘I’ve found this,’ the sales assistant called out to Yasmin from behind the curtain. ‘It’s Alexander McQueen couture. J-Lo once wore something similar to the VMAs, but I thought of you the moment I saw it on the rail.’

Yasmin tore back the curtain and poked her head out. It was the dress. She knew it instantly as she observed it in all its inky black floor length, sequinned embellished, one-shoulder glory.

‘I’ll take it,’ Yasmin said nonchalantly.

The assistant stared at her, incredulous. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see if it fits first, Lady Belmont? I would advise it.’

‘No. That’s the dress. Just have them all wrapped for me, yes,’ Yasmin spoke hurriedly.

‘All?’ The assistant was perplexed.

Yasmin shot her an impatient look.

‘Yes. All of them,’ she snapped, pointing to the enormous pile of couture on the floor. ‘I want them all wrapped and charged to my husband’s account, please.’

The sales assistant closed her mouth. She was accustomed to observing obscene amounts of cash change hands but she had never seen anything like this.

‘Ye … yes, Lady Belmont,’ she stammered. ‘I’ll get it done right away. Would you like them sent on to your Chelsea residence? And can I get you a car? I see you already have some luggage.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Yasmin said, pulling on her spray-on DVB black jeans and Rick Owens tank and hurriedly throwing her Balmain leather biker jacket over the top.

‘Not at all,’ the sales assistant said, instantly buoyed by the realisation that she would meet her sales target this week and then some.

‘Oh, and I’ve left a tip for you in the dressing room, for all your help,’ Yasmin smiled kindly at the assistant as she breathlessly made her way past her. ‘Don’t spend it all at once, will you? Got to dash,’ she said, checking the time on her watch. ‘Mustn’t keep hubby waiting – bye for now!’

‘Yes, er, goodbye, Lady Belmont. See you again soon?’

She watched incredulously as Yasmin Belmont strutted from the room carrying a black holdall, her long platinum hair swishing behind her. Oh, to be that young and have so much money, she thought enviously as she stepped into the curtained changing room to clear up the mass of padded hangers and empty champagne bottle. It was then she noticed a large black holdall on the chair and called out, ‘Lady Belmont, your bag! You’ve forgotten your bag!’ But Yasmin was long gone.

Sighing as she picked it up it was awfully heavy she noticed an envelope on the top: ‘To the helpful assistant. It’s all yours – Treat yourself and your family! Love, Lady B XX.’

Opening it, the assistant put her hand to her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. The holdall was full to bursting with fifty pound notes. She stared, dumbstruck, at the cash, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The Queen’s face smiled wryly back up at her as she stood rooted to the spot. Looking around her, convinced it had to be some kind of prank, she picked up the note and re-read it.

‘ – it’s all yours …’

Gripped by a potent combination of shock and elation, with her heart thumping so hard in her chest that it almost hurt, the assistant began to empty out the contents of the bag, turning it upside down, watching as a seemingly never-ending flurry of notes fluttered to the floor in a makeshift money-snowstorm. And then she started to laugh, great belly laughs until tears fell from her eyes.