Extract

 

‘I’m 34 years old and I’m shooting up in a ­nursery. This is ridiculous,’ Pamela told herself with almost a smile, as she prised open the ­plastic case with pretty fingernails, slid her skirt up and jabbed the pre-loaded syringe into her bare leg.

It used to be difficult, used to make her feel squeamish, faint even. But now, no problem at all, she was quite the expert, stabbing the needle in up to the hilt, feeling the cool flush under her skin.

She was so absorbed with the injection, she hadn’t noticed the trip-tripping high heels of her current client in the hall. Sadie Kingston-Jones, owner of a string of bijou boutiques and married to a nearly-millionaire, came into the half-­finished room and watched her interior designer with fascination.

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ Sadie shot out so loudly that Pamela just about fainted with surprise. Bad enough being caught injecting by the woman currently paying for your services, let alone having her think you’re some kind of junkie.
‘Sadie! You gave me a fright,’ Pamela looked up, still rubbing her leg. ‘It won’t do you any good, it’s purely medicinal.’
‘Are you sure?’ Sadie said striding towards her on spiked red heels. ‘Because if it has any sort of sedative effect at all, I want some right now.’

Then, despite the red cheongsam, pulled screamingly tight over the monstrous bump of a twin pregnancy in its seventh month, Sadie ­wriggled down to sit beside her on the floor and gave a sigh so loud, so deep, it was almost a moan.

‘This is complete fucking hell. I am never, ever getting the decorators in again . . . in my entire life. That includes you, darling. And I mean it.’

‘Oh dear,’ Pamela replied carefully.