Killer Queens (20 page)

‘Okay,’ she said, yielding to their insistence. ‘As long as it’s not against protocol or anything.’

‘Philippe tells us to call you Your Royal Highness,’ Attila said, which instantly dispersed all Lori’s concerns: Philippe was the absolute arbiter of Royal protocol for her.

‘Highness it is!’ she said, smiling back at both of them, but guiltily aware that her eyes were warmer for the ridiculously handsome Mihaly. ‘Okay, well, I guess I’ll go for a run. It would be cool to do it outside, actually. You guys up for that? You could show me a good route – I’ve been using the gym, but we could get in some nice hill work out here. And then I’d like to go down to Valtzers. I need to get some batteries for my, um—’

What do people even use batteries for nowadays?

‘Portable radio,’ she said at random. ‘Okay?’

‘Whatever you say, Your Highness!’ Mihaly said again, smiling at her, and Lori made a resolution, then and there, to avoid looking at her gorgeous blond bodyguard too much. Because those dimples were pretty much the cutest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

‘Now, I want you just to keep breathing and relax as much as you can,’ the therapist said in a lovely soft reassuring voice which was completely at odds with the fact that she had just inserted a tube into Chloe’s rectum. ‘I know that’s easier said than done! But just try to hold on as long as you can.’

‘Um, when you say “hold on”—’ Chloe mumbled, beyond grateful that she was lying on her side on the treatment table, facing away. ‘It sort of feels like—’

‘Keep letting the water come up inside you until you feel that you need to fart so badly you can’t hold on any longer,’ Sarika, the colonic hydrotherapist, said with reassuring matter-of-factness. ‘Let me know when you’re at that point, and I’ll let some of the gas out. It’ll happen a few times. Nothing to worry about!’

There was nothing to say in return to this but ‘Okay’. Lying there, trying to keep breathing, relax, and not think about what was happening in her bottom area, Chloe stared at the white-painted wall and prayed to goodness that Lauren was right and that this colonic detox course would, as promised, help to flatten her tummy bulge for next month, when she would be on show at the wedding of Joachim of Herzoslovakia to Lori Whatsherface. Thank goodness, at least, the wedding was in February, which meant she wouldn’t be wearing a light, clinging dress; she and Lauren had selected a Mark Fast knit with a Preen coat over it, a Philip Treacy hat and LK Bennett heels, in keeping with their policy of only choosing British designers. Lauren and the stylist had taken plenty of photos of Chloe in the outfit from all angles, and it looked lovely: bright colours, but not too clashing, nothing that looked as if she were trying to compete with the bride.

As if I could! I’m going to have to stand next to her at some stage
, she thought ruefully.
Nothing like knowing the entire world media is going to compare you to a tall, stunning, Olympic-athlete, naturally slim blonde to make you feel paranoid about your weight! Oh, why did she have to get married in the same year as me?

Herzoslovakia might be a minnow in Europe, its ruling family barely on the radar compared to the endlessly scrutinized British royals, but as soon as Prince Joachim had proposed to Lori, who was already a minor celebrity due to her bronze Olympic medal and the watch ads with her teammate, the upcoming marriage had been catapulted into the headlines. Pictures of Lori and Joachim were everywhere; the Herzoslovakian royal family certainly seemed to be enjoying its sudden fame. Chloe had seen Lori on the cover of
Hello!
three weeks running, posed against the stunning Herzoslovakian backgrounds of castles and mountain ranges, dressed in the couture that her enviable figure could wear so effortlessly.

She must work out every day
, Chloe thought gloomily.
I just can’t do that. I really hate exercise. But the thing is now, being slim isn’t enough any more; you’re supposed to look all muscly and super-toned as well.

Ironically, it was Hugo’s mother, Belinda, who had incarnated that ideal: Belinda, not only beautiful, but athletic too, with her lean body honed from skiing in the winter and swimming in the summer. Belinda, who had even died practising the sport she loved, in a freak accident which had left her son and daughter motherless. Belinda, whose shoes, in a way, Chloe was expected to fill, to whom, in the press, Chloe was endlessly compared . . .

And as if it wasn’t bad enough knowing that, for the rest of my life, they’re going to run pictures of me next to Hugo’s drop-dead gorgeous mum, now they’ll be doing the same with me and Lori of Herzoslovakia, who’s five inches taller than me, twenty pounds lighter and could make a bin liner look like an evening dress.

No wonder a colonic detox seemed like a really good idea.

Lauren had done her research before suggesting the idea to Chloe; she’d asked around for experts, talked to several, and chosen Clarity Colonics partly because Sarika had been so enthusiastic and evangelical about the treatment. She’d raved to Lauren that colonics had helped take her down from a size 16 to the enviably slim, flat-stomached 8-10 she was now, even after having had two children.

But it’s not bloody Lauren taking her clothes off and lying on a table in a paper robe and a paper thong with someone pumping litres of water up her bum, is it?
Chloe thought savagely. She wasn’t a particularly adventurous girl; she had been terrified about this appointment for days. It was only Sarika’s smiling, cheerful demeanour that had enabled Chloe to go through with it, frankly, and as her bowels filled up with liquid, she was feeling weirder and weirder about the whole thing . . .

‘I really think I need to—’ she said feebly, but the able Sarika was already adjusting some kind of valve on the device up her bum, releasing the intense pressure that Chloe had started to feel. The terror, of course, was that she was going to lose control of herself and poo all over Sarika, and though Chloe knew that that was incredibly unlikely, that Sarika obviously knew exactly what she was doing, Chloe couldn’t get that image out of her head . . .

‘Right!’ Sarika said brightly. ‘I’m going to stop the flow and ask you to turn on your back now, so I can massage your tummy. Don’t worry,’ she added as Chloe’s heart leapt in fear, ‘the tube won’t come out. I’m going to hold it as you turn over, okay?’

Feeling horribly clumsy, Chloe managed to manoeuvre herself onto her back, the tube still firmly in place, the soles of her feet on the paper covering the table.

‘All those hard stools up there in your colon should be softening now, with all this water inside you,’ Sarika said comfortably as she leaned over Chloe and started to push down firmly on her stomach through the thin robe.

God, the embarrassment of having anyone else touch her tummy! She didn’t even like Hugo near it!
Though at least the fact that it’s all swollen up with water is a good excuse for it sticking out
, Chloe thought ruefully. Sarika’s pretty face wasn’t showing any shock or revulsion at the size of Chloe’s abdomen as she massaged away, though she commented:

‘Yes, you definitely have some bloating issues! This is really going to help with that.’

‘I eat a probiotic yoghurt every morning,’ Chloe said quickly. ‘And I really watch my diet. But my stomach’s always stuck out a bit . . .’

‘Yes, it’s just a tendency to bloating,’ Sarika said reassuringly. ‘The probiotics are great, and I recommend one after the treatment. Lots of liquids—’

Chloe couldn’t help shuddering at the mention of liquids, considering the litres her colon was currently struggling to hold in.

‘– home-made soups, and no raw vegetables for three days. Fruit is fine, just chew it well. But honestly, after you’ve finished your detox package, you’re really going to see a difference in your wellbeing.’

‘I think I need—’ This was all very exciting, but right now Chloe had two pressing things on her mind: first, she really, really needed to go to the toilet, and second, she had to make sure her wig didn’t get dislodged as she did so.

‘Yes, of course!’ Sarika was already easing the tube out of Chloe’s rectum; she seemed to know the current state of Chloe’s bowels even better than Chloe herself. ‘Just slip yourself down from the table and go into the loo. Take your time in there. I’ll be waiting outside in the reception area, so no need to worry about me.’

One hand in Sarika’s, the other carefully cradling her scalp to make sure her wig was in place, Chloe clambered down from the table and barely made it to the en-suite toilet before the world fell out of her bottom. Thank God there were two closed doors between her and Sarika; the noises she was making were definitely not for anyone else’s ears.

Honestly,
she thought ironically,
I could just have eaten a rotten mussel and had the same experience . . .

But she had to admit that, despite the similarities to a bad case of food poisoning, her current experience was, actually, strangely satisfying. By the time she was sure that she had managed to evacuate everything that wanted to come out, flushed the loo a couple of times, washed very thoroughly with mercifully scented soap, and emerged, she was feeling surprisingly good about what she had just undergone.

Not only that, the bobbed wig, pinned very carefully over her own hair, which was secured in a wig cap, hadn’t moved a fraction. Lauren, capable as always, had picked it out and affixed it to Chloe’s scalp: it was a medium-brown, darker than Chloe’s natural colour, and a style so different from Chloe’s that it transformed her face. Lauren had done her makeup differently, heavier than usual, lots of eyeliner: ‘Very North London,’ she had said, wielding her Barry M pencil with a vengeance. ‘They’re all fucking Goths up there. You’ll fit right in.’

Kensal Rise, it turned out, was more yummy mummy, Notting Hill spillover territory than Goth Central, but no one had given Chloe more than a glance as she got out of the cab and walked into the café below which Clarity Colonics had its treatment room. After the near-debacle of Chloe’s microdermabrasion treatments, Lauren really had thought of everything. Even if someone recognized Chloe as she went into the café, it would just look as if she were going for an organic chai soy latte, or whatever the latest yummy mummy drink of choice was nowadays.

‘All done! Brilliant!’ Sarika said, summoned back in. ‘So if you lie down again, Cathy, we can get started on your enema.’

‘My
what
?’ Chloe babbled frantically.

Sarika’s pretty face scrunched up in confusion.

‘Your friend booked you the full detox,’ she said. ‘That’s a colonic plus enema for your first session to really get everything cleaned out. Do you think you’re not going to be able to manage it? I’ve mixed you up a very effective one! You breezed through the colonic . . .’

‘Did I? Really?’ Chloe had always been susceptible to compliments.

‘You absolutely did!’ Sarika assured her.

Chloe looked over at the bottle Sarika was affixing to the wall, filled with an ominously coloured pale reddish liquid.

‘It’s a great mix of herbs,’ Sarika said enthusiastically.

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound,
Chloe thought.
But I’m bloody well making Lauren come in for this too, I swear to God.

She climbed back on the table, trying not to look too grim; she didn’t want to make lovely Sarika feel bad.

‘It’s two litres,’ Sarika said, ‘but we’ll stop at one and a half if you feel you can’t take any more. Right, I’m going to pop this back in . . .’

How did I get here
? Chloe thought, as her first ever enema started flooding slowly into her bottom.
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be getting my face sanded down with salt and my bum cleansed out with herbs, I’d have burst out laughing. I really thought I was doing all right with all the pressure and the paps and everything.

But then I started having fittings for my wedding dress and no matter how lovely Stella McCartney is, white puts pounds on you, and so do TV and photographs, and I’m not going to do any crazy diets, so when Lauren suggested this and said that everyone in Hollywood has colonics to get their tummies flatter, it seemed like a really good idea . . .

She wasn’t going to breathe a word of this to Hugo. She hadn’t told him about the salt microdermabrasion, or the laser treatments to remove her leg hair, or the incredibly expensive LA eyelash-growing serum developed by a leading plastic surgeon she had had shipped over. He’d be totally against all of it, thinking it weird and unnecessary. Hugo was blessedly supportive of her in every way; he thought she was beautiful just the way she was, was hugely proud of her charity job and her plans, after the wedding, to establish her own charity foundation with Lauren. It was one of the reasons she loved him so much: his mother had been famously beautiful, his sister was gorgeous outside, if not inside, while Chloe was merely a nicely pretty girl, nothing more.

But Hugo looks at me as if I’m a film star and a supermodel rolled into one. He always has, right from the first time we met.

And he treats me like a princess. Even though I’m not one yet.

It was a tribute to how much Chloe loved Hugo that the thought of him made her smile sweetly even while a herbal enema was being pumped into her bottom.

Twenty-five years ago

Belinda was restless. The baby was moving almost constantly now, or that was how it felt; maybe he wasn’t, maybe it was just that she was so excited to feel him, so hyper-alert to every little kick and push and turn as he rolled slowly over in her womb. She pictured him turning in the amniotic fluid like a little dolphin, doing lazy, slow somersaults, the placenta tumbling equally slowly in his wake, tethered by the umbilical cord. Warm soft red walls surrounding him, wrapping him in love, this baby that she wanted so badly to hold and cuddle and feed from the body that was carrying him with such care. She couldn’t wait, was counting down the days to her due date: only two weeks, but everyone was telling her that the first baby took longer.