Struggling to fight back the torrid waves of emotions as the glint of a nervous breakdown loomed largely on the horizon, the devoted husband, family man and TV mogul of Majestic Television, David Normanski, paced around the vast master bedroom of his five million pound Surrey mansion in anticipation of the expected bad news.
Beside himself with a silver lined sack of showbiz worries, David, along with his two daughters Catherine and Emma and his newly acquired son in law, the West End impresario Perry Homer, all frantically awaited for the return of Crimson Normanski, wife number two of the self-made multi-millionaire.
Taking over the title role of Mrs. Normanski from David’s first wife, the man eating bitch and health guru Royanna Parks, Crimson Normanski, though mainly known as Crimson Lake, the thirty nine year old ex model now turned part-time TV presenter on Majestic Television’s top rated celebrity gossip show, VIP Live! was late. Eight hours late!
Known for her ditzy behaviour, as well as her impeccable time keeping, being late was somewhat out of character for Crimson. Being late was unheard of in David’s world. Unthinkable. No one ever dared to be late around him. No one. It was just plain rudeness in his eyes. It was a symbol of disrespect and a distinct lack of manners. A trait that was all too familiar in today’s society where a shortage of basic etiquette ethics and common courtesy beliefs ruled the roost.
And anyway, in some strange way under all of that candy floss of effervescence in which she surrounded herself with, deep down she was a highly organized woman. Never an hour passed without some kind of electronic bleep, ping and twang would fill the air as it squealed out from her iPhone, reminding her when her next appointment was or what she had to do next.
And now, wishing he could hear those awful sounds again, the distraught sixty five year old Russian continued to crush the precious fibres of the Persian rug with the soles of his Gucci shoes as he reaffirmed the details for the third time with Perry Homer regarding the security guard at the gate house, who was the last person to see Crimson that morning as he waved goodbye to her over a well fingered copy of Playboy magazine.
What if she’s dead? His mind battled against a chorus of nagging voices who repeatedly pierced their twisted tongues through his brain cells like a knife slicing through a cauliflower. No. That was too unthinkable. She was alive. She had to be. She needed to be.
But what if she had run off with another man?
Impossible. Crimson would never do such a thing. She loved David too much. And no one else. That thought was simply out of the question. A forbidden remark which shouldn’t have slivered out from the sludge of despair. But it did. And why? Did she play around behind his back? Wasn’t his eight inch cock enough for her? Was she happy? Sure. She must be happy? Or was she?
He gave her everything that any princess would dream of: clothes, jewels, money, cars, holidays, homes, companionship, love and great sex, really great sex. What more could she want? What else could he offer her?
Is that what she wanted after their eighteen years of marriage?
No. He knew she never wanted any children. That wasn’t her style. They had discussed that topic at considerable length and she refused point blank to go down that motherly road. No little ankle biter was going to spoil her size ten figure. And anyway, motherly feelings wasn’t her thing. Sure she cared greatly about David’s three siblings to his previously marriage. And she would do anything for them. It was easy. She could love them and leave them. They were adults and they weren’t hers.
So why was she missing? Why?
After months of endless preparations and meetings with party planners, caterers, florists and other so called PR people that leeched themselves to the celebration industry, why would she want to miss their glamorous wedding anniversary party?
Has she done this to him on purpose? No, of course not. It was only that morning Crimson declared her undying love for him.
‘Here’s to another year of wedded bliss, Mrs. Normanski,’ David winked as he chinked glasses with Crimson over their champagne breakfast. Well if you can call it breakfast at 11 a.m.
‘Chin chin, my darling,’ she smiled, flicking her shoulder length, freshly curled red hair, created and painted her pretty boy hair stylist Blaze. ‘To us.’
Crimson lifted the full Baccarat flute of Bollinger to her Elizabeth Arden’s coated lips and carefully sipped the champagne.
Having downed his drink, David then spread his six foot two solid body across his sumptuous satin encased Jacobean style four poster bed and gazed up in merriment at the red, gold and green striped canapé that swaged across the carved wooden beams.
Cupping his hands behind the nape of his pillow of golden curls, David crossed his legs, wiggled his size ten feet and smiled.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Crimson asked as she leant next to him, lovingly studying his deep brown eyes.
‘I was just wondering.’
‘About how lucky I am.’
Crimson leant over and gently pecked him on the cheek, leaving behind a faint trace of lipstick, as if to say she gave him her seal of approval for being silly.
‘What was that for?’ Not worried about the answer as he perfectly knew what it was going to be.
‘That’s just for being you. Don’t ever change, my darling,’ she whispered in his ear as she carefully wiped away the lipstick mark from his cheek with the pads of her supple fingers, frightened in case a shaving of his bronzed skin would accidentally buried itself within the crevice of her shiny new nylon nails and ruin her £200 manicure.
‘What do you mean don’t ever change?’ he asked.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
‘Yes you do, my special clown.’
And he did.
‘Don’t ever change’ meant that living with David Normanski was never dull. ‘Expect the unexpected’ was one of his mottoes. And he certainly lived by that rule. On many occasions.
Like for instance, during one of her kill-to-be-invited charity lunches held on their extensive Venetian styled patio in the middle of a sizzling summer heat wave, David had not only surprised her, but also her clucking cronies when a naked troupe of Russian gymnasts spectacularly tumbled across their manicured lawn.
Or another ‘Surprise Surprise’ golden moment was on her 30th birthday when he organized a string quartet to serenade her in her private hair salon in the mansion whilst she sat, ‘oh so glamorously’ wrapped in an unflattering black cotton gown, curled up to the nines under the dryer and with her hands firmly plonked into two large bowls of hot moisturizing honey and beeswax preparations.
Along with a forest of red roses that was brought in by an army of hired help, David, beaming with love behind the blooming petals of passion, knelt beside her and presented her with a platinum and diamond necklace worth around £150,000. Crimson, unable to be furious with his generous tokens of love, relented her somewhat frosty gaze from under the hood of the dryer and melted under his charms. Once again. Well, who wouldn’t with a string of expensive bling dripping around one’s neck?
And now, with the day almost at an end and with two exotically decorated marquees full of expectant guests, all lathered up on alcohol and dancing merrily to the sight and sound of pop sensation Melody Starr, David slumped onto the bed and buried his head in his mighty hands.
‘I’m sure she’s alright,’ comforted Perry Homer.
‘Yeah dad. You know Crimson can be a bit forgetful at times,’ Catherine added.
‘I know that.’ Sodden with tears, David looked towards his youngest. ‘I know she can be somewhat vague at times, but she’s never been this bad, Cat. What if something bad has happened to her? She’s not answering her mobile.’
‘Perhaps the battery’s dead?’ The eldest and logical sister, Emma said.
‘No. She’d never forget anything like that. I know she can be a bit scatty at times, but her mobile’s her life line.’
‘Could she be with her hairdresser having a touch up?’ Emma continued.
‘No. I’ve looked in there and there’s no one about.’
‘Blaze is downstairs with his boyfriend,’ Catherine remarked as Perry nudged her in the ribs for seeing the funny side to Emma’s innocent question.
‘What about one of her girlfriends. Have you spoken to them yet?’ Emma said.
‘That’s useless. They’re all here.’
Emma glanced at Catherine, desperate for more excuses to fill the awkward atmosphere when suddenly, the telephone rang.
Everyone stood still to see who was going to answer the telephone. But David didn’t. He immediately jumped up from the bed and sprang over to the telephone.
‘Hello Crimson? Is that you?’ his shaking voice cried down the receiver.
She didn’t answer.
Someone else did. And the caller didn’t sound friendly.
David’s face turned white.
It was a sign.
A bad sign.
David continued to scream down the telephone, oblivious of the evil which lurked within the shadows of his scenery and were secretly directing his glittering life in order for him to take his final curtain.
Along with their spineless method acting skills and with their plot of destruction, only one thing remained on the caller’s agenda. There was only one thing that was so important in David’s life and by removing it, would bring the powerful oligarch crushing down with one simple swipe.
All they had to do was to kick him where it hurt and push him over the edge.
And now, as the crescendo of their despicable and destroying year-long plots and schemes were coming into fruition, this last action was going to be the deathly diamond dagger that would pierce his broken heart. This was the moment when the golden bullet was going to be shot in order to destroy David Normanski, his family and his business interests for once and for all.
The husky breath of the caller continued down the telephone, relishing in the fact that the perfect present had been given to them on a silver platter, gift wrapped from head to toe with a red bow nicely decorated on the top of the priceless package.
This was what they have been waiting for.
This was the time to finally reveal their ultimatum.
This was the time to reveal the kidnapping of Crimson Lake.
A crushed black rose was carefully placed inside a brown padded envelope with a note made from letters cut out from magazines stating, ‘Die bitch!’
It was addressed to Melody Starr.