“I am well-connected, Miss Lincoln, and I have a standing Saturday appointment for all of my A-list clients.” Jaci puckers her lips with a chuffed with herself expression.
“A-list clients? This sounds like I’m getting Punk’d,” Leslie scoffs. “How do we know you’re not some loony toon off the street?”
Jaci sighs in frustration. “Open any British bridal magazine and you’ll see my name next to the celebrity spreads.” She turns to me and snaps her fingers. I straighten my posture for fear of being sent to the naughty corner as well. “You…You’re the brother?”
I cup Marisa’s head protectively and warily reply, “I am.”
“I shall tell you who the friend is so you can confirm the identity and that will be that. Then we can all get on with our work. But you will maintain your discretion.” Her eyes blaze with an unspoken threat. I nod nervously.
Marisa and I follow Jaci into the kitchen. She opens up her binder, shuffling through her notes. “Here it is.” She opens it to me and my eyes land on the name assigned to the bill: Vilma Harris. Jaci’s hand conceals the pound amount that’s marked with a large stamp: PAID IN FULL.
“Vi?” I whisper in astonishment. Fuck. Just when I was doing a proper job of not thinking about her, she goes and does something like this.
“Discretion,” Jaci seethes through clenched teeth. “Now, can you please go and inform Miss Lincoln that I am who I say I am so we can get on with our day? We haven’t a moment to waste.”
I nod, my eyes still wide with shock, and follow Jaci back out to inform Leslie that everything is legitimate. I can’t imagine what Vi must have paid for this woman to assist for a month, but Leslie’s green eyes alight with a level of excitement that just goes to show how truly in over her head she’s been all week. She kisses Theo and Marisa goodbye. Then she smiles at me as I sway Marisa soothingly from side to side.
“I’ll see you guys later!” she beams before scurrying out the door with hardly a second look.
“Blimey, she was a scary bird,” Theo huffs and I nod in agreement.
GIRL FRIENDS
I arrive at Frank’s Brixton Victorian mansion just after eight o’clock. It’s a large imposing house right on the corner of a busy street with a skate park sitting kitty-corner from the lot. Brixton is a diverse neighbourhood that was labeled “up and coming” quite some years ago. It definitely has a similar eclectic, artistic vibe as Shoreditch. A crew of young skater-types begin catcalling as I hop out of the cab.
“Oi, you tossers. Go shag yourselves and get a bloody life!” Frank bellows, stepping out of the purple front door that’s framed in crawling ivy. He’s dressed in red trousers with a black strip up each leg and a red dress shirt with a denim bow tie firmly in place.
“Vi, my dear girl. Fuck me sideways, you look like a proper lady of the night.” He bounds down the steps to greet me, his eyes scrolling down my body appreciatively. “Designer too, I can tell. Cheeky girl.”
I’m wearing a two-piece, red, Valentino dress that reveals a couple inches of bare midriff. It has a scoop neckline and three-quarter sleeves. The skirt sits just below my knees, but the entire ensemble fits like a second skin. It’s very Victoria Beckham posh, and paired with my black Monolo Blahniks, I feel like a proper footballer’s wife to be sure. I’m not ashamed to say I put forth a bit more effort tonight. After hearing nothing from Hayden for the past two days, I knew I was in need of a proper night on the town to help move on.
“Thanks, Frank. A lady of the night is just the look I was going for,” I reply sardonically.
“Get in here before those manboys descend. You’re the last one we were waiting on.” He puts his slender arm around my shoulders and guides me up the front steps. A lascivious grin spreads across his face. “I hope you’re ready to get your knickers wet.”
“Am I what?” I ask. But before he can explain, I’m quickly thrust into a full swing party.
Music booms loudly as Frank guides me through the large foyer and into the enormous formal dining room on the right. The large table is covered in a red sheet. Before I have the chance to inquire about it, Finley and Leslie both cheer loudly as they come waltzing out of the attached kitchen.
Leslie leaps toward me first. “Vilma, you’re here! All my favourite London Lovers!” she sings merrily, throwing her arms around me and Finley, hugging us to her sides.
I turn my head to fully appreciate Leslie’s dress. It’s a red tutu skirt with sheer polka dots layered on top. The bodice is black and strapless with a high fashion, asymmetrical, red, feather sprout on one side. Her long auburn hair is pulled back into a high, bouncy ponytail, and her makeup looks stunning if not a bit pissed.
“You’re just in time,” Finley giggles, tugging up her strapless, mini, red dress and sipping her drink.