Anna-Lou Weatherley - Wicked Wives

Tom forced himself to smile at his reflection. How he would do it all so differently given the chance again. Introspection; waste of fucking time that was. He knew he was a prime candidate for therapy, a psychiatrist’s dream; but who needed a shrink to tell them what a fuck-up they were and pay for the privilege? Screw that. He adjusted the lapels on his five-hundred dollar shirt in the mirror; his thoughts had begun to coast towards the moribund and he distracted himself by examining his features. He might be what society deemed ‘middle aged’ – a term he despised – but he sure as shit didn’t want to look it. All that ageing gracefully bullshit was for people who couldn’t afford to look good, or worse, for those who’d already given up on life. He was neither. In a bid to bolster his withering ego, he told himself that after tonight, after he’d done what he knew he had to do, he would find another playground; start again while he still had the looks to get by. He’d go younger this time; the younger ones were so much easier. They were less demanding, more malleable, easier to please and deceive. They didn’t yet possess that haunted expression, one that spoke of broken hearts and shattered dreams, of wasted years and bitter disappointments. These days, when he looked into the eyes of women of a certain age he found himself having to look away. Sometimes it was too much like looking into a mirror.

Tom pulled a white-tipped Marlboro Light from a soft pack on the table and lit it with a vintage 1973 Cartier lighter, a little agitated. Inhaling deeply, he felt the knot of tension in his gut ease a little as the nicotine hit his system, caressing his blood vessels into submission. He’d kicked the weed years ago but tonight he needed something to take the edge off. She would be here soon.

Extinguishing his cigarette in a Lalique glass ashtray, he made his way to the lower deck to sluice with mouthwash and top up with Grey Vetiver. Pride; it always came before a fall. No wonder it was one of the seven deadly sins. It had prevented him from following the path of true happiness his entire life. Tonight though, he knew he would need to remove the mask once and for all, lay his soul bare, finally tell her what he should have told her all those years ago. Then it would be over.

The unmistakable sound of footsteps along the jetty caused Tom to look up, and with a rapid heartbeat, make his way back up to the top deck, conscious of each step his hand-stitched Italian loafers made.

As the figure came into view, Tom’s eye was immediately drawn to the outstretched hand and the .9 mm Glock it shakily held, the metal glinting malevolently in the last of the sun’s fading rays as it pointed directly at him. Registering surprise and confusion, his heart beating aggressively beneath his pristine suit, he felt a violent surge of adrenalin flush through his system, loosening his joints to the point of collapse.

‘Well, well,’ he heard himself say as the sharp cracking sound of the gun discharging split the balmy, almond-scented air; only it did not sound like his voice at all, it was the voice of a stranger, low and detached. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you …’

‘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.’