12
Role Play
Chelsea
Back at her flat later that afternoon, after returning from her interview with Dunne and McDonald, Chelsea paced the living room floor. Every now and then, she stopped to dial Lance’s number. It went to voicemail straight away each time.
“What the hell is he playing at?”
She threw her phone on the sofa and yelled. She moved over to window and cast her eyes over the view of the River Thames, facing the building. Following Tony’s death, she decided to stay put in the home that she mainly shared with him during the two-month affair. And it was where she had cared for him at the end stage of his cancer.
The day had turned overcast and grey. Rain pattered at the windows as she looked out.
“Typical London, I should have left weeks ago.”
She traced the heavy raindrops beating down on the glass. Something didn’t seem right to her—the police taking a sudden interest in her again.
How the hell did they get hold of that video? She wondered. It panicked her.
For three months, ever since Tony’s murder and his family unsuccessfully contested his will, she had played the innocent role of a heart-broken woman. One who was deeply sorry for having an affair with a married but separated man—a man she had fallen in love, and him with her.
She had maintained the lie that she had no idea that he was still legally married.
Bullshit, she thought back to her confession of being none the wiser about his marital status. Of course, I knew.
Chelsea gazed out across London’s drab skyline, and chuckled. She could see the tops of the skyscraper buildings in the centre of town. It had never mattered to her then, and didn’t matter to her on his death either. She pondered on her thoughts and drew in a deep breath.
The last two months she had spent with Tony, he was just a fun man with money—money she had no problems spending.
She glanced over a shoulder at the expensive bags and shoes scattered across the floor, all courtesy of Tony’s wealth. The fact that he had signed over his entire estate to her was a shock, but a welcome one.
Tony had made it clear how he wanted to live out the last days of his life, and she was part of it. Of course, she had played along and comforted him. She let him know that she would care for him on his death bed. That, she did do during the two months he was away from his wife, getting sicker and sicker.
On reflection, when he told her she was the main beneficiary, she imagined it had been the care she gave him that pushed him to do such a thing. She didn’t argue against it or discourage him. He was a wealthy man.
And do I love wealthy men, she reasoned with herself to justify her actions. And I did work hard for the money unlike everyone else.
“Lance, what a dick,” she spat out, annoyed.
The sex was good, and she liked him, but she wondered if her brief fling with him was really worth it, especially now that the police had got wind of their association.
She left the window and wandered into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. Glancing at the clock, she took in the time. It was only five in the afternoon.
Fuck it, she thought, I’ve got enough on my plate, I deserve it.
Her whole day off from work had been ruined when Dunne and McDonald turned up. She had planned to sleep in, have a late lunch, and do some shopping. She hadn’t stopped working because she didn’t want anyone to look at her suspiciously, as if she were waiting for Tony’s wealth to come her way. So, she had carried on. Plus, she liked the idea of more money in her account, ready for when she did finally quit, to head off into the sunset for a new life.
Opening the fridge, she fixed herself a glass of white wine.
On top of the microwave, an envelope caught her eye. Chelsea moved over, picked it up, then opened it.
Out fell Tony’s will.
She read through again for the hundredth time. Being the only heir to properties in Spain, London, and the owner of two Indian restaurants in plush Kensington—that were turning over a healthy profit each day—thrilled her. Plus, there was all the cash Tony hadn’t tied up in his businesses or properties still in the bank.
Chelsea drained her wine, sat the glass on the counter, then moved over to the mirror in the bathroom.
She tied her chestnut-coloured hair into a top knot and gazed at her reflection—green eyes peered at her.
He loved my eyes, my features, she thought, admiring the youthful beauty of her face. So different from his own culture and his wife’s, who were both of Asian-Indian descent.
Chelsea had changed her name years ago from Lada Ivanov. She hated her Russian roots with a passion. The surname reminded her of the poverty she had endured back in Moscow as a child. Growing up, the only thing she really had was her looks, a love of art, and her natural talent for painting.
Her family had found it hard to encourage her or support her financially with afterschool clubs, or art supplies.
They were so damn poor. She pictured her mother in her cheap clothing and hand-me-down clothes.
As she grew into her teens, she swapped her paintbrush for paper and a pencil, it was cheap. And she could tear pages out of her schoolbooks and not have to bother her mother or father for any money for brushes or paints.
It broke her heart that she couldn’t go on to art school
