Power Games. Victoria Fox
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stormed the financier’s hidden-away mansion at the weekend and described what they found as ‘a grave and bold deception’. Rossetti and his wife were arrested on suspicion of three counts of fraud, including extortion of money from a group of as yet unnamed conspiracy theorists. Claiming their estate to be a UFO crash site, the Rossettis’ replica was ‘impressive’ and ‘high-concept’, prompting Rossetti to be tagged ‘the Martian magician’ …
Celeste was startled. No doubt about it, the Veroli house had been peculiar, even by the standards she was used to—these old money clans were invariably eccentric, their half-forgotten-about painting, battered coffer of Grandmother’s gems or relic hidden in a drawer fetching enough to sustain any ordinary person for a lifetime.
But this?
She remembered something else, too—the truly unusual part. Among the clandestine meetings she had witnessed, one visit in particular stood out. Celeste had been locked in the Veroli library, stifled behind shrouded windows and permitted to leave the room only under escort. But she was trained to decipher nuance, it was her trade, and no detail escaped detection: a smack of footsteps drifting in from the gallery, a series of closed doors and an American accent, gruff and male, speaking with authority but at the same time deep unease. Celeste had placed it right away.
Republican senator Mitch Corrigan—movie star turned government royalty. Family man. All-American hero. Toast of Washington. What was he doing here?
Rain spitting against glass, Celeste had dragged up a stool and peeled open the drapes. The Veroli courtyard spilled into view. Out on the cobbles stood a billowing structure, a shed draped in tarpaulin, flanked by two sentries in protective helmets and boiler suits. The visitors were given the same, and after a short dialogue were admitted. Twenty minutes later they emerged, faces ashen, eyes thick with horror.
Shocked, she’d stumbled down. What was in there? What had they seen?
Celeste thought no more of it. She wasn’t paid to ask questions. Even so, she’d been intrigued when, a week later, reporter Eve Harley left a private appeal on her voicemail. As a rule, Celeste didn’t liaise with the press and, despite further attempts, hadn’t been in touch. Here, then, was why. A group of as yet unnamed conspiracy theorists …
Senator Corrigan would be wild with fear at the exposé.
‘Hey, lady, you want a ride or not?’ The cab driver leaned out of his window, chewing gum.
Hastily, Celeste bought the paper. People never failed to amaze her. Humans were more complex and subtle fakes than any gem she could uncover. She made her living from citing forgeries, from scratching the surface and finding what lay beneath. Knowing when something wasn’t all it appeared. She herself was no exception.
Climbing into the taxi, she slammed the door hard.
Back at the Plaza, she undressed, folded her clothes into a neat, even-sided block and brushed her teeth, once, twice, a third time. Celeste spent minutes brushing, always did, before and after every meal and sometimes in between. It made her feel clean, and the fiercer she brushed the more she stripped away. She didn’t need her shrink to tell her it was all connected: the theft, the OCD, the insecurities, the throttling habits, the damaging relationship she’d been in for five years now, so that every trip away she was counting the days till she could leave, just to get away from him …
Slipping beneath crisp white sheets, she flicked on the TV and landed on a biopic of Tawny Lascelles—Rise of a Fashion Icon. Tawny was gabbling into camera at a fashion shoot, chatting to reporters at a red carpet line-up then posing on the arm of her latest boyfriend, her dress split to the thigh and her scarlet lips pouting.
Celeste was ready to switch over, but something about the model held her in thrall. She had met Tawny once, a while back. Though she mixed regularly with the rich and famous, she still found their company challenging—all that show and glitz, it wasn’t her thing. Discretion and caution were the hallmarks of her career and over the years she had honed them to perfection. In a crowd she could blend in, become hidden, and that was exactly the way she liked it. Anonymous.
The supermodel had been even more striking in real life than she was in pictures: goddess-like, with long, caramel legs and tousled blonde hair. Celeste had felt outshone by her in every conceivable way. On introduction she had extended the arm of friendship, warmly saying hello, but all Tawny offered in return was a sniff of disdain, as if an unpleasant smell had passed under her nose. She had scanned Celeste up and down, deemed her unworthy of comment—worse, offensive to her in some way—and proceeded to whip round and stalk off without a single reply.
‘Models!’ their host had feebly joked, thrusting another drink in her hand.
Celeste had been able to think of a few other words.
She killed the channel and lay back.
What must it be like to be Tawny Lascelles? Brazen, unapologetic, so absolutely sure in her own skin as to cease to care an iota for what other people thought? Her rudeness was so blatant it almost demanded respect. Celeste had been left open-mouthed, wondering what on earth she had done wrong.
She closed her eyes. Sometimes, when she was alone, she imagined she was a different woman—a woman like Tawny, contained and confident, wholesome and undamaged, resting in splendour like a china doll in a velvet-lined box. A woman like Tawny didn’t harbour darkness. She was a golden girl, a perfect swan. Clean.
In comparison, Celeste was rotten. Soiled. Ruined. Broken.
Evil.
And so she should be. She didn’t deserve to be happy, to have those accolades. Not after what she had done. Why should God look out for a thief and a killer?
Outside, street shouts drifted up to her window. Celeste glimpsed the moon through the panes, huge and bright.
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