iris 👁
"KENNETH, you know I must look like Gigi Hadid tonight."
"That's a little beyond my paycheck, love, but I'll see what I can do." Kenneth spritzes a generous amount of mousse on my hair. "There, perfect. Now, just as we discussed, here's the sunset colour palette for your eyes ..."
I hold up a hand. My perfectly manicured fingernails glitter at me from the mirror.
"About that." I take a deep breath. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Kenneth freezes. "Please don't tell me you didn't get the Ferragamo clutch."
"It's not the Ferragamo."
"Oh good," Kenneth breathes out in relief, "because the Ferragamo is really the only thing that can bring out your eyes – "
"It's the Dior Couture." Even saying the words brings a physical pain to my chest. "The courier told me it won't arrive today."
"What!" Kenneth shrieks, and the brush he's holding clatters to the floor. "The £100,000 dress? That gorgeous red silk satin piece with the corset and mirrored belt? It won't be here today?"
"No," I say, once again feeling the tears well up in my eyes. I broke down the moment I got the news, and hearing Kenneth repeat the harsh truth made me emotional again. "Apparently some ship got stuck in the Suez Canal and everything's been delayed."
"Then ask them to use a submarine! Or a plane to fly your dress over! How long is it going to be delayed for?"
"It'll only be arriving" – I choke on the next word – "tomorrow."
"Tomorrow!" Kenneth exclaims. "But what's tomorrow when tonight's your third wedding anniversary!"
"I know! " I burst out. "That's what I told them!" Quickly, I reach a hand up and start fanning myself. "Please, Kenneth, let's not talk about it anymore. I'm going to start crying any second."
"But this is – this is ridiculous!" Kenneth wails. "That dress was meant to be the highlight of your entire evening. We based your whole look around it: the eyeshadow, the clutch, the lipstick! Surely you must have a back-up?"
"It was Dior Couture, Kenneth. How can you have a back-up for Dior Couture?" I sniffle. "The next best thing I have in my wardrobe is the blue Versace."
"From last year? Honey, you can't wear something from last year!"
"Do you think I wanted this to happen?" Despite my best efforts, a tear rolls down my eye and drips onto my lap. "See! You've made me cry."
Kenneth looks alarmed. "Oh no, honey, anything but the tears. I don't have time to fix your mascara, not when we need to redesign your whole make-up. When do you have to go meet Jared? In three hours?" My personal stylist inhales through his teeth. "That's a bit tight, but I reckon we could do it, love. Now don't cry, because that bronzer is expensive, and I don't have much of it left."
Kenneth hands me a tissue, which I dab at my eyes. When he comes back, it's with a trolley full of cosmetic products, and a very determined look.
"Right. Forget the sunset palette. If it's a blue dress we must go with the Bahamas-inspired coral green gradient ..."
Exactly three hours later, I'm skipping out of Kenneth's salon with a fresh hairdo and make-up that's on fleek. This is why I pay him the big bucks. No one knows the contours of my face better than he does, not even my own husband. As I shimmy down the heart of London in my stilettos, blonde hair cascading behind me in balayage waves, I feel like the queen of the world.
I step into Starbucks and rattle off my usual order. "A venti matcha Frappuccino, half-caff, half-sugar, a dash of cinnamon, and soy milk heated to exactly 137 degrees, please." I shoot the barista a warning look. "And don't even think about not getting the temperature right. My tongue will know the difference."
Outside, London zips by in its usual cacophony of honking vehicles, diesel-chuffing buses, and bright yellow cabs. This is the city I've lived in for all of my life, and I won't leave it for anywhere else. There's no other lap of luxury and riches quite like London.
"Excuse me? Is this seat taken?"
A handsome gentleman in a silver three-piece suit is smiling at me. He's holding a cardboard cup of black coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other. I notice the watch on his wrist and the polished Oxfords on his feet.
"As a matter of fact, it isn't. Please."
The man sits. "So. Which angel did they name after you?"
I laugh. "That's new. I haven't heard that pick-up line before."
"Oh? And have you heard many?"
"What do you think?"
I watch the man's eyes take in my figure from top to bottom. He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his black coffee.
"I think you have. Probably a lot more than what my self-esteem can handle," he admits.
"Now you're selling yourself short. A man with your confidence must have done this many times."
"Never to such a pretty girl like you."
I gesture at his briefcase. "A lawyer?"
"Close. I'm a banker."
"How is that close?"
The man grins. "We make a living off cheating people."
From the counter, the barista calls out, "Iris Darling!"
I stand up, shouldering my bag. "Ever cheated a million pounds before?"
"I'm sorry?"
"A million pounds. That's my asking price. Of course, the annual renewal fee is much higher. But I don't think you can afford that, not when you're wearing a fake Rolex." I flash him a dazzling smile. "Good day, Mr Banker."
Taking my coffee, I saunter out.
Victor is waiting for me at the corner besides Tiffany's as instructed.
"Madam," he greets with a nod as I step into the limousine. "Will you be going anywhere else for the day?"
"No. Straight back home, please. Jared and I have arranged for dinner at Alain Ducasse. I need to be ready by eight."
"Ah, The Dorchester." The chauffeur gives an approving nod. "I hear it takes weeks to get a reservation."
"Oh, you know Jared. He got it done in four days."
The limousine purrs along the road at a steady pace, and within ten minutes we're pulling into the driveway of my home. Or to be more specific, Jared's home (I don't pay for anything around here, though I certainly make good use of them). Despite having lived here for three years, I still find myself amazed every time I lay eyes on the 11,000 square feet mansion. To quote the real estate agent who sold us the property: it's basically a smaller-scaled version of the Buckingham Palace.
The butler, having heard the car arrived, emerges from the house to take my coat and purse. "Just leave it in the reception area," I say, heading for the staircase. "I won't be long. Jared and I must leave soon if we're to keep our dinner appointment. Ah, there you are, Petunia. Is the dress ready?"
Petunia, my personal maid, nods. "All laid out on the bed for you, madam. I also picked out those golden earrings you mentioned."
"Perfect." I began walking fast up the staircase and across the landing. "What about my negligée?"
Petunia blushes. "That's also ready, madam. I picked out the thinnest one, like you asked. The one with the red lace ... and nothing else."
"Thank you, Petunia." Just before I close my bedroom door, I give her a wink. "You might want to sleep with earmuffs on tonight."
I find my blue Versace right where Petunia said it would be. It's a sleeveless ballgown that cinches at the waist and blossoms out in volumes of chiffon. Twirling it out, I can't help feeling immensely satisfied.
Alain Ducasse won't be the only thing Jared's eating tonight.
Speaking of my husband, where is he? I walk out my room and call for the butler, who materializes at the foot of the grand staircase. "Have you seen Jared?"
"I believe I saw the master entering the billiards room ten minutes ago, madam," Anthony replies. "He said something about doing the cleaning."
"Jared doing the cleaning?" I say, incredulous. "This I must see."
The billiards room is located right beside our conservatory. I walk straight for it, heels clicking on the marble tiles.
"Jared," I began, pushing the door open, "we're late, darling, and we must go – "
The first thing I see is my husband's trousers down around his ankles. Then he turns around, and I see his dick buried inside our new maid, Janice, who's currently bent over the snooker table.
I stand there for several seconds, hand on the doorknob. The image enters my eyes and sears itself on my brain in seconds, and with vivid detail.
"D-darling!" Jared stutters. "You're back early!"
"Yes," I hear myself say. "Have you forgotten our reservation at The Dorchester for eight o'clock?"
"Not at all! As you can see, I'm already in my best suit ..." He trails off. "You look beautiful, by the way."
"I know I do." I cross my legs, leaning against the door. "Are you quite done?"
Jared has the self-awareness to look ashamed. Ungluing themselves, the two hurriedly pull on clothes. Janice's face is flushed scarlet, and she can't meet me in the eyes, choosing instead to tremble like a leaf in a wind.
Meanwhile, Jared is eying me uncertainly.
"Are you ... are you alright, darling?" he asks tentatively.
"Not really. A bit of a headache from the Frappuccino; I think the girl didn't steam my soy milk to the right temperature. But other than that, I'm fine. I'll see you at the car, then? I've forgotten my earrings."
I sweep out of the billiards room, but I don't walk upstairs. Instead, I go down to our wine cellar and bring out a bottle of whisky. The alcohol burns my throat in a pleasant, fiery sensation.
It isn't as if I don't know Jared cheats. Oh, he cheats, and he does it extremely well. When we were celebrating his 31st birthday in Germany he had a one-night stand with an actress, and I didn't even find out about it until we were back in London. He spends way too much time with his secretary even though I know he does nothing at work, and I'm sure he keeps a mistress in a small apartment down at Oakham.
When it comes to men, they only ever have two vices in their life – money, or women. Jared is filthy rich. You fill in the rest of the picture.
The first day I met Jared Darling I already knew he was going to be a cheater. He has a fatal tendency for shiny, new objects, and it's something about him that's never going to change. As a result, I've never been surprised at the discoveries of my husband shagging another woman. After all, our marriage was never based on any idealistic concept of love; if anything, it's best described as a mutually profitable business. Jared relies on my father's vast connections to make his investments, while I spend his money whenever and wherever I feel like it. Our marriage vows, if I'm not mistaken, ran something along the lines of I take thee to be my wedded spouse, from this day forward, for rich and richer, to love and to cherish, till lack of money do us part.
I did, however, make him promise me one thing.
It came about when we were lying on the beach during our Maldives honeymoon, and I saw the way his eyes lingered on our hotel maid. It was one of those hot, sultry Sundays, and we had just spent the entire day having sex in our room. Yet it didn't seem enough for my new husband.
"Darling?" I said, sipping on my piña colada. We were lounging in hammocks waiting for the sunset. My skimpy bikini attracted more than a few ogling stares from nearby males (and some females).
"What is it, love?" he replied, in that distracted tone I knew too well.
"Promise me something, will you?"
"If this is about that llama for your birthday – "
"It's not the llama." I took down my sunglasses and waited until he turned around to look at me.
"What is it?" he repeated, finally realizing I was being serious.
I didn't mince my words. "Promise me you won't have sex with our household staff."
Jared looked shocked. "Iris!" he exclaimed. "How can you say that? I would never do that to you. What's come over you? What's going on? Have I done something wrong?"
I knew in that moment his hurt was real. And I know that he meant it when he said he was never going to do it. But I also know how the value of a promise depreciates over time.
"Just for insurance, darling," I said lightly, pinching him on the cheek. "Are you upset? Oh no, don't be! Come, let me kiss you better ..."
The thud of glass against table brings me back to the present. I look at the half-empty bottle in my hand. Had it been full when I started? I can't remember.
I stand up, head woozy. The one promise. The one promise he had to keep. You would think, with almost 4 billion women in the world, it would be easy to keep that promise.
Keeping a tight grip on the whisky, I walk out of the wine cellar.