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