Chelsea Wives. Anna-Lou Weatherley

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ