The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [6]
‘Like what?’ A single diamond tear was rolling down Sandy’s perfect cheek.
Stevie noticed that Sandy’s nose didn’t run, or go pink, or swell like hers did when she cried. Sandy cried beautifully.
‘The simplest and most effective deterrent to kidnapping is privacy,’ she began. ‘You can start with an in-depth cyber-stalking report. Then at least you know how much people can find out about you. I’m guessing your phone number is already de-listed. You should get rid of any personalised number plates, for example, and try and avoid ostentation— flashy jewellery, lavish parties, cars.’
Stevie was deliberate in her emphasis. Douglas Hammer had, at last count, a yellow Lamborghini Murcielago LP 640 with nappa leather upholstery by Versace, a red Ferrari, a Mercedes Gull Wing— the one with the doors that lift like wings—painted metallic orange, and a convertible Rolls Royce Phantom in electric blue with a polished stainless-steel hood. These were not vehicles that had been chosen for discretion.
‘Most importantly you should restrict the circumstances under which you—and especially your child—are photographed.’
Sandy’s fingers were tearing at her tissue. She threw it on the floor and grabbed another.
‘But we’re celebrities. People have to know about us. I won’t have Kennedy-Jack growing up in a climate of fear and repression, too afraid to go out.’ Sandy crumpled her robe and looked up defiantly. ‘I will not give in to the criminals!’
Sandy was magnificent in her defiance. Stevie had heard her utter that last line wonderfully as Dot Fellows in Eat the Rich: A Courtroom Drama. But she did wonder how much of what she was saying was actually sinking in.
Sandy got up and began to pace.
‘Where is Kennedy-Jack now?’ Stevie asked.
‘With his nannies.’
‘Where are his nannies?’
‘They said, um . . .’ Sandy looked flustered. ‘Wait. I know. I had a bath this morning . . . he was in the next room because I could hear him watching TV. I had a large skinny chai brought up from Starbucks and it was hot so I burned my tongue . . . CeeCee gave me a pedicure . . . Ray called from LA about the promotions tour, again. He is driving me crazy . . . and then Douglas . . . No. He was tanning . . . the nannies took Kennedy-Jack . . .’ Sandy’s face was a wonder of concentration.
The bedroom door opened and in strode Douglas Hammer, beaming. He headed straight for Stevie, his right hand extended.
‘Thank you so much for taking the time,’ he grinned. ‘Sit down, make yourself completely at home.’ He had thrown on a white shirt and looked tough and tousled, as if he had just woken from a particularly handsome sleep.
Stevie took the hand. ‘Stevie Duveen, Hazard Limited.’
‘Stevie, that’s an unusual name. Is it a family tradition?’
‘Dougie,’ Sandy’s little voice peeped from the corner.
‘Yes, honey?’ he moved to her side.
‘Dougie, Stevie was just asking where Kennedy-Jack was and—’ ‘Oh, KJ? He’s with his nannies. They’ve taken him to the park.’
‘How many nannies does KJ have, Mr Hammer?’ Stevie asked.
‘Call me Douglas, please.’ He twinkled his eyes.
‘Alright, Douglas.’
‘Ah, he has three nannies, well, two brunettes and a “manny”. I didn’t want him growing up only under female influences, you know? Not that I’m ever far from his side.’
‘Do you have any specific reason to be concerned about Kennedy-Jack’s safety, Douglas?’
He leaned in conspiratorially, brushing his forelock with perfected absentmindedness. ‘Yes. Yes I do.’
A knock on the door and a beetle appeared with a tray. ‘Mushroom tea anyone?’
Stevie had to accept a steaming cup. She would have preferred coffee but it was not offered. Stevie disliked herbal teas unless she was unwell, but she shouldn’t be rude. She sipped.
The tea tasted as if it had been made by steeping a laundry hamper full of football socks in boiling