Turning a streetwise slut into a national celebrity amused Edward, but his smiles stopped when the murders started.
Edward Stafforrd is an entrepreneur; usually he takes chances with money, lots of it. But this chance is different; it is on a girl, a nobody he is going to turn into a celebrity.
And there's risks, her insanely jealous husband, ruthless drug dealers, a hit man who is a foodie, his very suspicious wife, and his impersonator, always a dangerous step ahead of Edward.
Sellebrity is a wicked blend of humour, suspense and often a wry social comment. The cost of celebrity can be one very wild ride indeed.
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
Sarah Stafford wanted revenge.
Running her fingers over the long dining room table, she set down the box, undid the pink ribbon, and lifted out the envelopes.
Her father, high in his gilt frame above the fireplace, watched as his daughter arranged the evidence of her husband’s deceit. Placing some of the love letters in a horizontal row, she arranged the rest in a long vertical column to form a cross on the table top. A cross of remembrance - for the grave of her marriage.
It was vital it hit him. Right between the eyes, the instant he entered.
A flick of her forefinger and the overhead lights blazed. Placing two spotlights in the centre of the table edged the letters into focus, killing her usual subtle glows and quiet ambience. Her lighting must be hard, as hard as her thoughts, her words, and her actions.
With venom, she grasped the third finger of her left hand, and pulled away her wedding ring.
With the lighting set, she leaned over the table, dropping the ring into the centre of the letters, ensuring the glitter in the spotlight would catch his eye from the doorway.
Edward was away when the love letters arrived. Opening the box, the accompanying note had hit like a missile.
‘ Mrs Stafford,
I return your husband’s correspondence, written to my wife during their affair.’
Her tears stained the pages in her trembling hands until fury took over, then, quickly pressing them dry with her handkerchief, she disappeared into her bedroom, pulling the curtains and throwing herself onto their bed, sobbing away days of black despair.
. Edward’s business trip had been fortuitous. He had of course called, fortunately, not until her emotional storm had exploded, the funerals of her love and trust taken place, and revenge welcomed her under it’s cloak.
Her performance, of a dutiful and devoted wife, when talking to him on the telephone, she considered to be worthy of not one, but two Oscars.
She emerged from her black bedroom exhausted into a now grey world.
Her husband’s life was about to change, but hers had to be protected.
She loved her huge Mayfair penthouse.
She also enjoyed the Bahamas, Italy, and Corsica at least once a year.
She adored the theatre, Ascot, The Chelsea Flower Show, and other social occasions. Losing her expensive and pleasing lifestyle was as unacceptable as her husband, in his mid life crises, dipping his wick.
The next hour would be crucial, it was to be the overture to her vengeance. She was acutely aware that he provided her with everything, any miscalculation could blow a nasty hole in her future.
She must be prepared for an onslaught when her plan kicked in as Edward, being extremely clever, was also a forceful man.
Her wedding ring, a daily glint on her finger for the past thirty one years had represented love, security and continuity. Marriages sank in other peoples puddles, not in their lagoon of love.
His smile of pleasure, from his photograph on the mantelpiece, appeared now as a triumphant smirk. Quivering with injustice, she hurled it to the floor, screwing her heel through the broken glass into his now hated face.
An unforseen future as an old maid, like many of her lonely and isolated neighbours in penthouses they had won in settlements, added steel to her resolve.
She swore she would not follow her friend Elizabeth.
It had been a year before Elizabeth’s fingers touched the contraceptives in her husband’s pocket.
Foolishly, she hired a private detective to uncover the pornographic details of the affair, revelations that led her to press out four anti depressant capsules each day and three powerful sleeping pills at night.
Josephine, Sarah’s downstairs neighbour, threw her adulterous husband out, waiting, with evil glee, for his pleadings to return. But her plan misfired.
He moved in with his mistresses, leaving Josephine fighting the local Romeo’s out of her bedroom.
Pills were for pillocks; it would be Edward who would need pills and protection.
She stood in the doorway surveying the room.
Her table of evidence needed more drama, more punch, he must remember this scene for the rest of his life.
Killing the overhead lamps, she swung a spotlight onto the portrait of her father, jumping him forward into the room, to brow down upon her husband. The
corners of the room she kept in the shadow, pinpointing her ring and the letters in the tight beam of another spotlight.
Returning from her bedroom, she unwrapped her latest purchase from her favourite antique dealer. Placing it on the table, she smiled with satisfaction at the glitter from the cut throat razor.
She added two more cushions, gaining height advantage over where he would sit, before focusing two further spots to illuminate her own face. He would not miss one dart of her anger.
She placed the large gilt framed photograph of herself and her husband, taken on their wedding day at the edge of the circle of light, then loaded the stereo with a disc that she would start with her remote control. It was not a title she would choose, but one that would drain the blood from her husband’s face - rapidly.
At the other end of the table she placed the shortest chair in the penthouse, open and slightly away from the edge. A thoughtful touch, she considered. One that he did not deserve. Mental damage was her goal, not physical. She saw no point in him splintering his knees leaping with surprise at her revelations.
Incapacity would stop him earning the large sums of money he would need when she had finished with him.
To the right of her chair she placed a tumbler of whisky, to the right of Edward’s chair she placed a glass of vinegar.
The grandfather clock chimed in the hall, she was thirty minutes away from turning into a bitch.
His home life meant something, otherwise, she calculated, he would have left long ago with his beloved marriage shattering bitch Petula.
The name lifted her nose into a squirm of disgust. She detested women’s names that ended with an A, especially this one that still had the power to hurt.
Why had he gone to bed with the bitch? Did he make love as he did with her? How often did they telephone each other? DID THEY TALK ABOUT HER??
She bit into her fist, fighting for control.
Emotion invited mistakes, there was no room for error. She paused, waiting for her fury drain. Never in her life had clear though been so important. Destruction demanded devotion to detail.
She had loved him for over thirty five years, he had been her rock. Faithful, reliable, and honest.
The bastard!
And his precious, beloved, darling, sweetie pie, Petula. He had used the same words with nauseating repitition in his letters.
Angel, sweetheart and honey bunch! The drooling adulterer! She clenched her teeth as the hurt welled up.
She could confront her - You have been sleeping with my husband! - She was very good confronting people - don’t deny it you stupid whore, you have ruined my life! - But speaking to the hot knickered bitch would be lowering. She would be destroyed from afar. Anyway the damage had been done, scratching out her eyes would waste strength that she would need against Edward.
She had dumped his pillows into the guest room, dropped his toilet bag onto the spare bathroom floor, there must be no risk of their toothbrushes touching.
She stalked the room once more, moving in and out of the shadows, Edward would be stunned instantly with his head on her block, then she would drop her guillotine.
From their, now her, bedroom she returned with a small flat paper wrapped package that she placed next to her seat.
She selected two dresses that he adored her wearing. Both were black and slinky, but she chose the shiny satin over the lacy see through, the transparent dress would give him ideas that were now history.
She spent a long time on her make up, covering the tenseness of the last few days and, with calculating brushstrokes, making herself particularly stunning,
Everything was set.
She stared grimly into the mirror, the low hum of the lift filtered along the hall as it climbed towards the penthouse.
Standing, she smoothed her dress down over her body into an attack silhouette, then turned and made for the dinning room.
She was ready for the enemy.
Edward Stafford watched the indicator flip as the lift climbed upwards. It had been a blisteringly successful week. He was walking on air, he had closed the biggest deal of his career, fought off some pretty serious competition, and was looking forward to a quiet weekend at home.
He hugged two dozen roses closer as the lift stopped. Tonight he would take Sarah to her favourite restaurant. Life was good, life was great and giving his wife surprises was one of the cherries on the cake.
The lift stopped and the door slid open. He couldn’t wait to see her face.
At the far end of the hall, Sarah entered her killingfield, sitting high in the spotlights she rolled her fists tight and placed them before her on the table.
Her fuse was lit. War was about to break out, Sarah Ann Stafford was primed. No one messed with S.A.S.
She took a deep breath, fixed her gaze on the doorway, then waited motionless for
the entrance of the man who still thought he was her husband.
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