So far though, and much to her chagrin, the job wasn’t quite living up to expectation. To date, her repertoire had amounted to writing a ‘comedy’ piece on becoming an extra in a play at The Garrick and more recently, this sycophantic homage to brainless rich cows with more plastic in their Mulberry purses than brain cells in their heads. She doubted Jeremy Paxman was quaking in his boots.
Sammie looked at the glossy spread in front of her, the poised faces of the three well-heeled women staring back up at her, and ran her fingers through her black, choppy Victoria Beckham-esque crop. Her eye was continually drawn to one of the women in particular; Yasmin Belmont-Jones. Lady Belmont. She was very attractive in a WAG-ish kind of way. Not really her type though, if indeed she had one, but there was definitely something about her. Something vaguely familiar, she had felt it when they had met too, this odd feeling of déjà vu.
Sammie Grainger never forgot a face, her memory was almost photographic – and as such, this lack of placement was beginning to bother her. Googling Lady Belmont had turned up nothing of note either. Prior to her engagement and subsequent marriage to Lord Jeremy Belmont it was as if she had never existed.
Sammie looked out of her office window at the grey Kensington skyline and pondered, lost in her thoughts for a moment. Her sharp, journalistic nose instinctively told her there was a story behind Yasmin Belmont-Jones, a secret lurking behind that smiling, overly-made-up, oddly familiar face. Sammie was onto something and she knew it. The thought excited her, giving her a rush of adrenalin through her system as potent as a shot of amphetamine.
Her phone buzzed. It was her boss’s PA, Helena.
‘The big guy wants to see you, Sam,’ she said. ‘He’s in his office and he’s getting impatient.’
‘I’m walking through the door right now,’ Sammie said, standing, straightening out her smart black Reiss trousers and applying a slick of clear gloss.
Taking a marker pen from her desk organiser she drew a large black circle around Lady Yasmin Belmont-Jones’s face. The more she looked at her, the more she was convinced she had seen her somewhere before. But where?
CHAPTER 13
‘It’s just shopping, Calvary. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about it, you usually love nothing more.’ Douglas Rothschild turned to face his wife who was sitting at her dressing table, nervously applying and re-applying her make-up, her actions deliberate as she struggled to contain her simmering rage.
‘Just shopping! Just shopping! Well, that’s something, even coming from you, Douglas,’ she spat.
‘You’re being melodramatic,’ he replied, dismissively. ‘The girl only wants you to go with her, give her a bit of advice. Can’t you at least put your own feelings aside for a few hours? It’s not so much to ask really, is it?’
Incredulous, Calvary frantically began pulling a brush through her hair, the sharp bristles scratching at her scalp like a thousand fingernails.
‘So you actually acknowledge I have feelings to put aside at least,’ she snorted. ‘That’s a first for you, Douglas.’
‘How long is this going to go on for?’ He rolled his eyes, exasperated. ‘The wedding is weeks away yet. Are you planning to keep this up until then?’
Calvary fought down the urge to throw her hairbrush at him.
‘If I have my way there won’t be a wedding,’ she replied casually, her tone belying the anger inside that was threatening to choke her.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Calvary,’ Douglas whined. ‘There’s going to be a wedding whether you like it or not. Henry will start asking questions soon if you don’t put a stop to this petulant behaviour.’
Calvary could contain herself no longer. ‘And what could possibly have happened for me to make such an about-turn, hmm? Nothing to do with finding you and Tamara going at it like a shed door in a gale in this very bed!’ She turned round and threw her hairbrush down onto the offending duvet, narrowly missing him. It made a soft whooshing sound as it sank into the goose Yves Dolorme eiderdown.
‘Why can’t you just move on?’ he sighed. ‘I’ve apologised for what happened, after all. I mean, I realise it can’t have been nice for you but …’
‘Nice?’ Calvary growled. ‘Nice?’ She shook her head in despair. ‘I don’t believe I am hearing this, Douglas.’
‘Look,’ his face softened now, giving her a glimpse of the handsome man he had once been, the one she had fallen so hopelessly, so tragically in love with all those years ago. ‘Can’t we just put the whole horrid business behind us and move on?’ he implored. ‘Our eldest son’s getting married in a few months’ time. The least we can do is give him the support he – and Tamara, for that matter – need right now.’
Calvary threw her head back and let out a hollow, shrill laugh, causing him to wince.
‘You are something else, Douglas Rothschild, do you know that? Giving me, me, all the spiel about our eldest son getting married, how we must support him, be there for him like good parents.’ She threw her hands up to the ceiling. ‘It would be bloody laughable were it not so utterly disgusting!’ She faced him now, anger emanating from her like sound waves as she stood.
‘I’ll give that little madam some advice alright,’ Calvary continued, the veins in her neck protruding like rivers of poison. ‘How about not fucking one’s prospective father-in-law behind one’s fiancé’s back? That’s a start, isn’t it?’
Douglas glared back at his wife. He’d eaten more than his fair share of humble pie as far as he was concerned and now he was growing impatient with her histrionics.
‘Calvary, this has to stop,’ he commanded. ‘I told you it was nothing. That I was sorry. It was a silly mistake. We’d had too much to drink one afternoon and got a bit carried away, that was all. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.’
Calvary laughed in derision.
‘You know, Douglas, even if that were true, you should have known better. But you just can’t help yourself. You never could keep it zipped in your pants, could you? Even your own son’s wife-to-be isn’t off limits. You disgust me, Douglas Rothschild. Disgust me!’ Calvary glowered at her husband with a fierceness he had never seen in her before and his heart sank. He had a horrible feeling that this time it was going to take more than an antique sideboard from Sotheby’s to sort this blasted mess out.
The last thing Douglas wanted was a scandal that would invariably lead to divorce. Thank goodness that little receptionist strumpet he’d been seeing to every now and again had given him the nod, allowing him to get a head start on squirrelling away some of his assets. This thought cheered him instantly. Once that wife of his realised she’d be left without a bean she’d soon put an end to any ideas of divorce. Douglas knew her too well; she may be able to give him up, but give up the money? Never.
Why couldn’t she just bloody well do the same with this one? He knew it was a bit of an ask, what with it being Henry’s fiancée and all but still, it was only the one time and hardly his fault; the girl had given him the come on, all big eyed and heavy breasted, parading herself around in front of him in barely-there outfits, sighing breathlessly as she spoke in husky, dulcet tones, licking her glossy lips at him. What was a man supposed to do? She’d been as game as he was. More so, in fact. And on top of things he was now having to contend with her as well, coming to him all teary-eyed and remorseful, terrified that Calvary would put the mockers on her much anticipated nuptials to his son. Even the greatest sex in the world wasn’t worth this much aggravation.
Calvary stared at her husband contemptuously, wondering how she had ever come to marry such a complete and utter shit.
‘I’m