THE WOMAN SHE THOUGHT WAS THE HOUSEKEEPER
Camille Laurent did not knock twice.
She entered the Hampstead townhouse as though the front door had been waiting for her.
Rain glazed the windows behind Eleanor Arden, turning the afternoon light silver against the warm lamps of the sitting room.
Eleanor had been home for less than twenty minutes.
Gray Oxford sweatshirt.
Blue jeans.
White trainers.
No makeup.
No jewellery except her wedding ring.
She looked nothing like the woman whose photograph appeared in business magazines beside headlines about Ardenbridge Group.
That was why Camille did not recognise her.
The blonde woman stepped inside, removed an expensive camel cashmere coat, looked Eleanor up and down, and tossed it directly at her chest.
Eleanor caught it by instinct.
“Hang that up,” Camille said.
Then, with a little smile:
“And bring me a drink.”
She walked past Eleanor.
Into Eleanor’s sitting room.
Onto Eleanor’s gray sofa.
She placed her black heels on Eleanor’s oak coffee table.
Eleanor remained standing near the doorway, holding the coat.
There were moments in life when outrage came too quickly for expression.
This was one.
Camille crossed her legs.
“Whisky. No ice.”
Eleanor looked at her.
“Do you live here?”
Camille laughed.
“No. Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“Julian says the place is suffocating. Too much old money. Too much of his wife everywhere.”
Eleanor slowly lowered the coat.
“What does Julian say about his wife?”
Camille leaned back comfortably.
“That she’s old, boring, controlling, and completely useless to him.”
Eleanor was thirty-nine.
Camille was thirty.
Nine years had apparently become an entire moral category.
Eleanor’s expression did not change.
“Did he?”
“Oh, constantly.”
Camille touched the diamond necklace at her throat.
“He says she spends all day pretending to run a company and then expects gratitude because she pays bills.”
Eleanor knew the necklace.
Not because she had seen it.
Because she had seen the charge.
Eight thousand pounds.
Harrods jewellery concession.
Corporate card ending 4402.
Julian had told the finance office it was a donor gift for the clinic.
Camille smiled.
“He bought me this last week. Eight thousand.”
“With my money,” Eleanor said.
Camille laughed.
A genuine laugh.
She thought Eleanor was joking.
Then the front door opened.
Fast footsteps.
Julian Arden entered wearing a dark suit and loosened tie.
He looked annoyed.
Then saw Camille.
His expression changed.
She jumped to her feet.
“Surprise, darling.”
He stopped.
Then he saw Eleanor behind her.
All colour left his face.
“Oh God.”
Camille turned.
Her smile faded slightly.
She pointed toward Eleanor.
“Why is your housekeeper acting like she owns the place?”
Eleanor dropped the cashmere coat onto the sofa.
“Because I do.”
Silence.
Camille looked from Eleanor to Julian.
Julian looked physically ill.
Eleanor stepped beside him.
“I’m his wife.”
Camille touched the diamond necklace.
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Eleanor turned to Julian.
“And as of tonight, I’m done paying for his clinic, his house, and his mistress.”
Julian whispered:
“Eleanor, please.”
She walked to the front door.
Opened it.
Rain sounded against the stone steps.
Camille stared at Julian.
“Your clinic?”
Eleanor looked back.
“Oh, he didn’t tell you?”
Julian closed his eyes.
Eleanor continued.
“The private medical clinic he calls his business?”
She smiled without warmth.
“I own seventy-eight percent of it.”
Camille’s hand tightened around the necklace.
Then Eleanor’s phone rang.
Her chief financial officer.
“Eleanor,” he said, “you need to see the emergency transfers Julian authorised this morning.”
“How much?”
A pause.
“Four point eight million pounds.”
Julian’s head lifted.
Eleanor looked directly at him.
“Where did you send it?”
May you like
The CFO answered before Julian could.
“To a company owned by Camille Laurent.”
