Authors: Alison Kervin
I wake the next morning to the feel and smell of Rufus right beside me. We've been cuddled up together all night . . . me and my husband-to-be. Aaaaahhhh . . . my husband-to-be . . . how mad does that sound? Shit, this is weird. How could I ever have doubted Rufus? After he dropped off to sleep last night I found myself thinking through everything and wondering why on earth I'd spent the time away from him so convinced he was up to no good and out to hurt me. It was Elody of course. Every word spoken, every dark thought in my head – they were all planted there by her. I blame myself for trusting her but I'd felt so awful and isolated and bloody lost. She exploited me.
Rufus stirs next to me but doesn't wake; he just snuggles up a bit closer and pulls me to him until I can feel his chest hair tickling my nose and find myself twitching like a bunny rabbit. God, this is fabulous.
One thing I love about my new home here with Rufus is just how dark and cosy it is in the morning. The soft cream curtains are so thick and luscious that they keep all light out. But the windows are so large, and they face the sun, so when we want to get up, and we swing open the curtains, the sunlight comes flooding in all over us and across the pristine white sheets. What I like most of all, and truly the only thing I'm really enjoying about not working, is that we get up when we are ready to get up, without that horrible alarm clock thing. I also love the fact that it's so warm in the house, not like in my old flat where I'd leap out of bed and run to the bathroom, hoping not to catch pneumonia on the way, then hurl myself into the shower which was always too cold, trying to wash quickly and without breathing in. Somehow the cold lost its awful impact if you held your breath. I sometimes think that the ultimate measure of how much my life has changed, and how far up the social scale I've clambered since meeting Rufus, is illustrated no more dazzlingly than in a comparison of the bathrooms.
'Mmmm,' Rufus sighs as he runs his hands down my back and kisses me on my forehead. 'Come here, Mrs George.'
'Ooooo . . . OK,' I say, kissing him back. 'Mrs George huh? And what if I decide to keep my own name? Will the wedding be off?'
'Keep your own name?' he says in mock horror. 'Well, if you're going to do that, then I guess I'd better change mine. I'll have to be called Rufus Monsoon; how do you think that would go down with the world's greatest film directors?'
He tickles me while he's joking about our names until I can't stand it any more and I'm choking and crying with laughter. 'Stop,' I cry. 'OK, OK, I'll change my name to bloody Kelly George, just please stop the tickling.'
We laugh and joke about the name possibilities. 'Kelly Monsoon George? Kelly George Monsoon? Kelly Rufus George Monsoon?'
'Have you told your mum?' asks Rufus, and I realise I haven't. I didn't want to call at 3 am when I texted the girls, and I didn't text Mum because she's just not into that sort of thing. She's a mum so she has a mobile phone that is never switched on, always needs charging, and certainly won't reduce itself to doing anything as technical as texting. I don't know why she has it.
I reach over and switch on my newly fixed phone to find about twenty missed calls. 'Bloody hell,' I say, turning to Rufus. 'I've got missed calls from just about everyone I've ever met!' There are messages waiting on the phone too, but I decide to leave them until I've spoken to Mum. She answers immediately.
'I knew it would be you,' she says. 'I've heard, I can't believe it. Are you OK?'
'Yes, never better,' I say. 'How on earth did you hear?'
'It's been on the news all morning.'
Oh God. How on earth have the news channels found out already? Is this room being bugged or something? No wonder everyone's been trying to get hold of me. I turn to Rufus and shrug my shoulders, raising my eyebrows somewhere up into my hairline.
'How was my engagement on the news?' I ask Mum.
Rufus looks at me equally quizzically.
'Your engagement?' says Mum. 'What engagement? I didn't know you were engaged. Why does no one tell me anything?'
'That's what I'm ringing to tell you; Rufus proposed last night. So it wasn't on the news?'
'No. Why would it be on the news?'
'Oh, it doesn't matter, Mum. Look, I just wanted to let you know that I'm getting married . . . to Rufus . . . how cool is that? You're the first person I've phoned.'
'That's brilliant, love,' she says. 'I think we all need a bit of good news at the moment, don't we?'
'Yes,' I say rather vaguely. I'm not sure why particularly at the moment. Good news is worth having any time, isn't it?
'Now then,' Mum says, and I can hear her scrabbling around. 'OK. Things to do . . . shall I book the church or will you? That community centre gets booked up. Marian's daughter was trying to hold her reception there but had no luck at all. I'll get on to them straight away. What date did you want to do, love? Try and avoid the end of April and the beginning of May because your father likes to help out with the gardening down on the seafront then and he'd hate to miss it.'
'Mum, Mum,' I try to interrupt. The idea of the world's press descending on the Hastings Community Centre, and the most famous people on the planet flying in from New York for it, leaves me trembling. Shit. I need to think this through. Kofi Annan and Great-Aunt Maude . . . how's that going to work? And if we leave the cars down by the pier, they'll all get broken into.
'We haven't set a date yet, and I don't know where it's going to be. As soon as I know, I'll let you know.'
'Winter or summer?'
'Sorry?'
'The wedding: winter or summer? I need to get my hats out and work out which one's going to work. I can't wear brown in summer or pale pink in winter can I, silly?'
'Um. Summer,' I say.
'Oh,' says Mum, disappointment pouring down the phone. 'I look much better in autumnal shades. I'm a bit old for pastels.'
'OK, winter,' I say.
'Great. Right. Well I'll go down to the community centre just in case and see what the bookings are like for winter.'
'OK, Mum.'
As I put the phone down to my mother, and begin to regale Rufus with the mad conversation I've just endured, there's a gentle tap on the door.
'What is it?' asks Rufus. 'Mrs George and I are busy.' The staff never, ever knock on the door to Rufus's private rooms.
'Terribly sorry to interrupt, sir.' David's distinctive old voice comes floating under the bedroom door. It has an almost ghostly feel to it. 'There are some people at the door. They've come to see Ms Monsoon.'
'There's no Ms Monsoon here,' says Rufus, laughing as he half smothers me with the pillow. 'She's changed her name. Tell them to go away.'
'I really am sorry to interrupt, sir,' says David, coughing gently as if to illustrate how terribly inconvenient he is finding all of this. 'Only it's the police.'
'Oh God!' I cry. I'm terrified of the police. If there's a police car driving behind me, I go into a blind panic and can hardly drive properly. I don't know why; I guess it relates back to that time I was caught drink-driving. It was awful. Every time I see a policeman now, I'm in pieces. Now there's one in the house! Shit.
'Don't worry,' says Rufus, smiling and giving me a hug. 'You haven't got drugs in your handbag, have you?'
'Of course not.'
'Good. Neither have I, so we have nothing to worry about.'
'Elody gave me those drugs before though, to help me lose weight. It couldn't be those, could it?'
'No. Don't be daft,' he says. 'It'll be something to do with security. We have to deal with the local police a fair bit.'
'Oh,' I say. 'But why would they want to see me?'
'Let's go find out,' says Rufus, kissing me on the forehead and leaping out of bed.
It turns out it isn't someone checking on our security downstairs, but two stern-looking police officers, pacing up and down the sitting room floor as if they were keeping guard outside a prison cell; neither is wearing a uniform. They both look solemn. Thank God Rufus came down with me. He picks up on how serious this appears to be.
'Is there something wrong?' he asks.
'Perhaps you should take a seat, sir,' says the officer.
'I'm fine,' Rufus replies, but I find myself sinking into the sofa all the same. This is about the diet pills, I just know it. What if Mandy and Sophie get in trouble because they were the ones who flushed them down the loo? Harbouring illegal drugs? Shit. I look up and see that one of the men is watching me constantly. He's very tall; a big chap with flinty blue eyes that seem to rip right through me as he stares. He doesn't stop looking at me. There's a smirk playing on his lips. He knows all about the drugs. Perhaps they had sniffer dogs at the drains outside the girls' flat? I knew I shouldn't have taken the slimming drugs out there. Shit.
'We're wondering whether you know anything about Elody Elloissie,' says the smaller man, while the big guy keeps staring straight at me. I don't think he's blinked since I walked into the room.
'I know her,' I say.
'I know you do,' he replies. 'But did you know that she was found dead this morning? We believe she was murdered.'
EXCLUSIVE
By Katie Joseph
Daily Post
Showbiz Correspondent
ONE of the world's leading fashion stylists was found
dead in the early hours of this morning.
Elody Elloissie, 37, a Parisienne who has lived in London for most of her life is believed to have been stabbed. Her body was found by a cleaner arriving for work at the Royal Institute of Fashion in Richmond, south-west London.
Elloissie's name became synonymous with red-carpet dressing for the rich and famous when she linked up with the late fashion designer, Jon Boycott, ten years ago. They became lovers and together they designed for and styled photo shoots and magazine covers as well as working with a range of wealthy individuals and most of Hollywood's elite over a decade in the public eye.
Yesterday her styling came to an end, though, when her body was found slumped in the vestibule at the bottom of the white marble steps of the Royal Institute of Fashion. She had been stabbed through the heart. A police spokesman at Scotland Yard said that there would be a further statement today. It is expected that they will announce the launch of a murder inquiry.
The news has left residents of luxurious Richmond Hill reeling. Elody Elloissie was a popular and sociable member of the wealthy clique and worked with some of the world's leading celebrities. Her closest friend, Kelly Monsoon, was unavailable for comment.
God it's hard to remember everything. The news that Elody has been murdered is still washing over me; nothing's sinking in. It just can't be true. And she was thirty-seven! I can't believe that; I mean, I knew she was older than she claimed to be, but I assumed she was around thirty-two or something like that. She looked bloody good for thirty-seven. Shit, what a nightmare; I know she was a complete bloody pain at times, but she was also someone I got to know; someone I ended up spending a lot of time with. I keep thinking of that sad face looking back at me as Henry drove her away, the previously unseen vulnerability. Little did I know that I'd never see her again; that someone was waiting to stab her and end her life.
It's all so unreal. I'm waiting for one of the officers to say, 'Oh, hang on a minute. Is she called Elody? Sorry, we're supposed to be at the house of Elaine.' The woman was so tough, so confident and competent. It's unbelievable that she's been snatched away. Murdered? Are they sure? I wish they'd go and double-check for me, because I'm not convinced they've got this right at all.
I have so many questions I want to ask them, but the police, in turn, have about 150 million questions that they want to ask me. I know they're only doing their job but they need to know what time it was when she left here and what mood she was in, and why she left. I'm mortified that I threw Elody out, then she came back the next morning and I threw her out again. I can't bear to tell them about the argument and the fight on the gravel driveway. What a horrible thought; I might have been one of the last people to see her and we had a horrible row. Shit. I'm never fighting with anyone ever again. They don't need to know about Elody's behaviour that provoked the argument. It seems disrespectful to Elody's memory to bring it up at all, especially since I know that every word I utter will end up in the newspapers at some stage. I owe it to Elody's memory not to do that.
What time was it when Elody left that morning? 'Midday?' I say, but Christ, it's hard to remember.
'Who do you think did it?' I ask.
'We don't know yet. We're hoping that by talking to her friends and family we'll be able to build up a better picture of her life and particularly her movements yesterday. Hopefully, before too long, we'll be able to work out who had a grudge against her. Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against her?'
Shit. Most of the people on the street had a grudge against the woman, but I can't tell them that. I look up, see the big cop staring and look back down again. 'No,' I mutter.
'Sorry?' says the big guy. 'Didn't quite catch that.'
'No, I don't.'
'Did you have a grudge against her?' he asks.
'No,' I say, looking down at my hands. 'Of course not.'
He scribbles away in his notebook. His name is Detective Inspector Barnes; the other guy is Detective Constable Swann.
'Just a few more questions,' says the constable. It's mainly the Swann guy who questions me. The big guy just seems to stare at me and butt in every so often, wanting more information, more detail and more explanation. I know they're talking to everyone and just trying to find out what Elody's movements were yesterday, but every time I can't answer a question properly or I stutter or stammer, I see the Barnes guy staring right through me and I feel instantly guilty.
'What time did you say she left here?' asks the big guy. I honestly can't remember. 'Around 11 am, at a guess.'
'Around 11 o'clock, or exactly 11 o'clock?' he says.
Didn't I just say I didn't know exactly? 'Around 11 am,' I repeat.
'How sure are you? How do you know it was 11 o'clock? You said 12 o'clock a minute ago. Was it dark or light? Did anyone else see her go? Where was she going? How did she travel there? What was the weather like?'
Once they've started, the questions come raining down on me. They get me to run through everything I did that day – from the moment I got up until I went to bed. As soon as I say something like 'then I had breakfast' they want to know what I had for breakfast and whether I washed up, and was I listening to the radio at the time? Aaaaahhhh . . .
The whole thing is rather complicated by the fact that I can't mention that I found out Elody had been hiding my letters and that's why I called her back from her shopping trip because it seems so incredibly disrespectful to Elody's memory.
Rufus is sitting right next to me so I can't mention the arrival of the carpenter and the fact that he saw her sitting outside in the car, and how we ended up having an argument. Rufus would go mad if he knew about that. I don't suppose it matters if I don't mention the broken drawer; it's an irrelevance. These guys aren't interested in whether I broke the drawer or not, they just want to know who killed Elody . . . Still, I do feel really bad about lying to them.
'You look worried, sweetheart. Is everything OK?' asks Rufus, sitting down next to me.
'Fine,' I say, rather too quickly. 'Everything's just fine. Honestly. I'm just trying hard to remember everything.'
'I can't remember where she said she was going, but it was Henry who took her so he'll know. You could ask him.'
'We will. You didn't mention the weather.'
'It was cold but it wasn't raining, I don't think.'
'You don't think?' says the big guy – Detective Chief up-your-arse Barnes.
'I don't think it was raining. I don't really remember.'
'Are these questions annoying you?' asks Barnes.
'A little,' I admit. 'I just don't remember exactly what I was doing at specific times. No one looks at the clock all the time, do they?'
'But you understand that we're trying to establish specific time points in order to find Elody's killer? You understand that, don't you? We're here to find out who killed your friend. She was your friend, wasn't she?'
'Yes.'
'Where were you between 4.30 pm and 5.30 pm yesterday?'
'I was at my friends' flat; the place where I used to live. In Twickenham.'
'Where in Twickenham?'
I give them the address, then they want a description of it, and a description of the route we took to get there. Before long they'll want compass bearings and the precise location marked out on an Ordinance Survey map.
'What time did you arrive there?'
'At 4 pm.'
'And you went in then?'
'Yes.'
Well, I didn't go in then but it's too complicated to say otherwise because then they'll ask me fifty million questions about what I was up to, and what I was up to is, frankly, none of their business and doesn't relate in any way to the crime they're supposed to be trying to solve so will only waste their time.
'And what did you do after that?'
'I went to the airport to meet Rufus.'
'What time?'
'At about 7 pm.'
'In a black cab?'
'No, Henry drove me.'
'And Henry drove you to your friends' flat in Twickenham.'
'Yes.'
'Now, is there anything else that you haven't told us, or anything that you think you should add before we take a statement?'
'A statement?' says Rufus. 'Why does she have to make a statement? Is she a suspect?'
'In a case like this, everyone's a suspect,' says the smaller guy. 'We need to take a statement from all witnesses at this stage in the investigation.'
'This is a murder inquiry sir,' says the big guy. 'Do you have a problem with Kelly giving a statement?'
'No,' says Rufus, standing up. 'The problem I have is with your attitude.' Then he turns to me. 'Wait here. Don't say or do anything. I'm calling my lawyers.'
Rufus comes back about five minutes later and says I'm to do nothing until a lawyer arrives. By now I'm feeling quite scared. If Rufus is insisting on his lawyer being involved, then he must think this is serious. Surely they can't think that I did it, can they? I wish the whole bloody carpenter thing hadn't happened on the same day. I just don't want to talk about that in front of Rufus.
We're all sitting there in frosty silence when the doorbell rings and a team of four lawyers walks in. Rufus greets them and takes them off to the snug from where I can hear muffled voices. They walk back in looking quite at ease.
'It's just routine,' says Detective Swann, looking at Rufus and the two lawyers standing next to him. 'But we really do need to take a statement.'
The lawyers both nod, and my boyfriend nods. He then looks at me and I nod. It's like we've all caught this mad nodding disease. I then repeat everything I said previously and sign a form. Shit. I'm sure I should be telling them about the carpenter, but how can I? I'll lose Rufus for ever if I do, and I'll end up having to tell them the carpenter's name and he'll be called in for questioning, and he'll mention the row, and that won't reflect well on Elody and it'll all become an impossibly complicated mess and I'll have let everyone down and yet it won't contribute in any way, shape or form to the investigation into Elody's murder.