Naked in Knightsbridge (30 page)

There was silence. Jools struggled to cross her fingers. Was it possible to put weight on your hands? They did look a bit chubbier than usual.

‘I need to think about this,’ Rodney said. ‘I’ll call you later, once I decide.’

He turned and left, and Jools promptly headed for the fridge.

*

Rodney headed to Barts, the private gentlemen’s club, badly in need of a drink. He knew Jools would never be able to pay the marriage money back. He’d seen the receipts – the Harrods’ purchases piling up in her closet and, of course, the car. She was spending like crazy and there was only one place that cash could have come from from. Him. She wasn’t working and she certainly hadn’t any money when he’d saved her from that roach-infested squat by the bus garage.

He didn’t feel bad for Jools. No sympathy whatsoever. She was exactly the kind of person he’d grown to loathe over the years. Fat, lazy and dumb – with no discipline or will-power. He couldn’t marry her because he had absolutely no respect for her.

Of course, if he didn’t marry her, there was the very real possibility she’d tell the world he was gay. He’d just invested a lot of time and money in his newest male conquest – and he needed Jools for that to work.

As Rodney slugged back the rest of his drink, fellow party member and MP Martin Willoughby walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. Martin sat down next to Rodney and ordered a scotch and soda. He was a bit sweaty from his tennis lesson and Rodney had to stop himself from leaning over and taking a deeper sniff. He did love the way men smelled after a bout of intense exercise.

‘Shame about the wedding party last night, yes?’ Martin said.

‘Yes, Julia isn’t extremely well-organised. Not sure she is exactly what I need, to be honest.’

‘Look, old chap,’ Martin said, ‘You need a wife. In politics, it’s as simple as that. Nobody trusts a middle-aged bachelor, if you get my meaning.’

He most certainly did. Rodney’s preselection would only translate to a seat if he got married, especially after all his promises to that effect.

So this was what it came down to. Jools, or his career. He snapped his fingers and downed the promptly-delivered drink before the bartender had even left the table.

Waving off Martin, Rodney cowered in the dark corner of the club to ring his special friend. Last week they’d agreed it would be best if they were both married. Hiding behind sham marriages would minimise the chances of detection. Without the façade, their relationship would be highly suspect. Two grown, nearly middle-aged, single men spending that much time together? They’d be discovered eventually.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Rodney whined into his mobile. ‘I hate her.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ his friend said. ‘But at least give it a few months. She’ll probably get so disgusted with herself she’ll head for the nearest roof. If not, maybe you can get her a personal trainer.’

Rodney couldn’t leave fast enough. He hopped into his Benz and sped off, roaring by a popular bakery along the way. And failing to notice Jools’ car parked out front.

*

Jools however, definitely saw Rodney zoom past, mainly because he was driving much faster than his normal ‘vote-for-me-I’m-responsible’ speed. What the hell was he up to now? Where was he going?

Whatever it was, she should find out. Maybe it was something dodgy and she could use it as further ammunition. It never hurt to have a back-up plan.

Running to her BMW, Jools gunned it and managed to catch Rodney’s car at one of the many traffic lights along the park. Tracking the Benz past Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, she followed as he made a left into a very familiar street. Mel’s street. And pulled into a spot right out front of her mansion block.

Surely he couldn’t know someone else in Mel’s building? He would have mentioned it?

But the alternatives were just as baffling. Was Rodney really straight? Could he possibly be sleeping with Mel? It didn’t make sense.

Rodney got out of the car, mounted the stone stairs, looking carefully around him before buzzing.

Shit. Jools ducked down. The deal would definitely be off if she was discovered stalking him – particularly if she couldn’t uncover anything worthwhile to support her position.

Pushing herself further towards the pedals she wedged her large frame under the dash, planning to hide long enough for Rodney to get inside. She munched a couple of cupcakes while she waited.

Finally, she poked her head above the rim of the driver’s door window. All clear.

Struggling to free her bum from the small space under the wheel, she managed to get out of the car. Creeping cautiously to the side of the building, she snuck around to Mel’s bedroom window.

Thank God Mel was on the ground floor. Jools was in no condition to climb walls. The blinds were drawn, but she peered through a narrow gap and tried to focus on the room’s dim interior. At first nothing was visible. Then, Rodney entered the room, half-dressed and red-faced. Bloody hell, that was fast.

He was sporting a strange expression Jools had never seen before. She squinted, realising it was a smile. He was grinning and playfully beckoning to someone, exuding happiness.

Jools held her breath. Who was there with him? It must be Mel. How could she? Sure, he was only a fake, gay husband-to-be – but he was still hers.

Michel. The
boyfiend
.

Michel was supposed to be getting it on with rich old women! Not her pretend fiancé.

Michel ran a slimy hand down Rodney’s chest and Jools felt bile building at the back of her throat. Backing away from the window, she tried not to look but it was strangely fascinating, like watching a car accident in motion. Rodney was supposed to be sleeping with a bevy of anonymous blokes, which hadn’t bothered her — much. But this was too close to home.

And too bloody confusing!

Mel really needed to know this particular home-truth about her fiancé. But after everything that had happened, Mel was unlikely to believe this. Even Jools didn’t quite believe it after seeing it with her own eyes. It was almost too ridiculous to be true.

Rattled by the turn of events, Jools decided to head back to the house, get her head on straight and figure out a plan of attack. But a lorry carrying scaffolding decided to make a three point turn into a bus, and The Gore was blocked for what felt like hours. Traffic fumes combined with the horrific vision of Rodney and Michel grinding away turned her stomach. She got out of the car and threw up in the gutter.

Unloading the three boxes of cupcakes and carrying them into the kitchen, she stared at them solemnly. A few hours ago they’d been the highlight of the day. Taking one from its bright box, she realised she had no appetite. For the first time in ages she did not want to eat.

Tossing the cakes into the rubbish, she made a massive pot of soothing camomile tea instead.

How had things gone from worse to even worse so quickly? The maid had been and for some reason had gathered the tabloids from Jools’ room and re-stacked them on the kitchen table, showing her humiliation off to full effect. How very thoughtful of her.

Jools looked at the picture of her bulging belly and felt the nausea creeping up on her again. Even if Rodney agreed to continue their deal, would she even fit into that horrendous wedding dress? There was no more time for any more adjustments. She might have to settle for a bed-sheet.

Jools let her head hit the table. She had nothing left, not even tears. Just exhaustion. And possible sugar poisoning.

God, she was sick of pretending, sick of stuffing her face and sick of watching Mel fall for Michel’s bullshit time and time again.

Wanting desperately to call Mel and tell her what she’d seen, that stern little voice inside her head curbed the idea. Even if she did manage to convince her friend that Michel was untrustworthy and apparently bisexual, Mel would be unlikely to let sleeping dogs lie (literally) and Rodney might decide Jools was too much hassle and demand his money back. Again.

She was definitely caught between a rock and a concrete-reinforced place.

The doorbell rang. Jools was tempted to ignore it. Probably just photographers and she’d had enough of them. But it rang again, more insistently. Jools finally dragged herself up and went to answer it.

‘Darling, you look dreadful.’ Lady Margaret was smoking, with the aid of a ridiculously long cigarette holder, her yappy little dog cradled in her arms. Mercifully the dog was asleep and snoring softly. Jools gave her future mother-in-law a quick peck on the cheek and invited her in.

‘After those hideous photographs in the papers this morning, I thought I’d come by for moral support. Looks like you need it. My dear, you’re positively green.’

Understatement of the millennium. Jools stifled the impulse to tell the truth. Instead, she told Lady Margaret it was just cold feet.

‘I’m not sure he wants me anymore,’ she added, snuffling into her sleeve.

Lady Margaret patted Jools’ hand and passed her a tissue. ‘There, there. Of course he does. Getting married is very stressful. Lots of pressure, especially when you’re in the public eye. You really need to give cocaine a chance, my dear.’

‘The press are so cruel,’ sniffed Jools. ‘I think even Rodney is beginning to believe them.’

Lighting another cigarette off the existing one, Lady Margaret inhaled toxic chemicals and exhaled into Jools’ face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, dear. He loves you, he told me so.’

Jools could see where Rodney got his excellent skills of deception.

‘You know, women are far superior to men when it comes to emotional strength. In a few years, you’ll be used to your life, dear, and you will have found your own ways to cope. Especially once you’ve had a few children.’

Lady Margaret balanced her cigarette on a nearby ornamental relic and removed an antique snuffbox from her purse. She flipped it open and dipped her long pinky finger into the fine white power piled up within. She took a sniff, waited a moment, smiled and breathed a giant sigh.

‘It’s high time you got yourself a new vice, Julia dear.’ She looked over and spied the cupcake box in the bin. ‘After all, the current one won’t get you anywhere.’

‘I don’t want anything right now, except to be left alone.’

Lady Margaret’s well-Botoxed face strained to form a grin (she and Mrs Pho must go to the same shonky practitioner). ‘Come, come, my dear. We all want something, no?’

Jools had the uncomfortable feeling Lady Margaret was subtly bribing her. And it was working. Who didn’t want a nice place to live; money to buy life’s little luxuries? And if Rodney would just agree to go through with this wedding, the deep pockets of the Wetherspones would be at her disposal.

*

Rodney finally rang a few hours later. ‘Alright, I’ll go through with it – on one condition. Any more nasty surprises or misbehaving on your part and that’s it. I mean it this time.’

‘Fine.’

‘Do we understand each other?’

What did he think she was, stupid? ‘Of course.’ Jools could finally breathe properly again. She hung up the phone and felt her muscles relax.

There was only one more day until the wedding, anyway.

What could go wrong now?

Chapter 24

For the attention of Miss Julia Grand,

Please find enclosed the requested photographs pursuant to your threat of legal action over the article ‘Doughnut MP Wife Wedding Party Faux Pas.’ As you can see, the originals
,
with written authentication from the Kodak professional laboratory, perfectly match those printed on our tabloid pages. If you require any additional information about our publications, we ask you to contact our solicitors Bradford, Berry and Co.

Yours faithfully,

Samuel P. Wringer

Editor-in-Chief

The Daily London News Review

BEFORE SHE KNEW it, the big day had finally arrived. As nervous as she was, it was best to get it over with so that the next phase could begin – her new life with Rodney (the man who loathed her and could barely look her in the eye without calling for a sick bag).

The good news was she hadn’t eaten in sixteen hours, so at least the wedding dress might actually zip up. The thought of not fitting into it filled her with dread. She should have tried it on yesterday to be sure, but short of resorting to Lady Margaret’s coke-filled snuff box in the hope of an overdose, there was nothing more she could do, then or now.

Rodney had enlisted Percys’ Terrible Trio to work their torturous magic. They were practically pulling her hair out by the roots when her mobile rang. A glance at the local number on the screen caused mild panic. Her father! Bloody hell, obviously he’d managed to make it into the country.