LYMP DUHDASHIAN KERCHING!

Fake tears, media smears

彡★ Click here for » Episode One Episode Two★彡

Episode Three

It took me ages to get the mud out of my orifices, I can tell you! Mind you, Tarky was so helpful and considerate. He is a dab hand with a cotton bud but he didn’t hang around for the fall out over Mummy’s demise, cheerfully leaving me in the car park to fend off the paparazzi.

I finally remembered that Mummy had called and left a voice message on my phone. Curious I played it:
”Hi Olympia! Quick update! I am off to St Tropez with big Dick - it’s some sort of film festival. Did I tell you he’s a director? Back in a week! Must dash, darling, ciao!”

The paparazzi peppered me with questions which told me far more than I told them. “Was your mother a porn star?” “BDSM or Deep Throat?” the thought of Mummy doing either of those things made me shudder slightly but I don’t think they caught it on camera. By the time I arrived at that awful ugly London MI6 HQ I had listened to the news on BBC Radio 4 and Pru Dense, my PR had briefed me on what to say.

“Good morning, Ms Duhdashian, my sincerest condolences on your loss.” said the Men in Black agent, when we finally located a vacant interview room. “We have ascertained, from the murder suspect, that your mother died of strangulation during consensual adult fornication.” He said, matter of factly, behind his aviators. “Her body will be returned to the UK later today.” He paused, waiting for some sort of reaction from me. I just stared at him, unsure whether laughing or crying was an appropriate response at this juncture.
“I really have no idea why you have called me here for this interview!” I said with my customary cool sophistication. “What can I possibly do to assist you?” and I could not resist letting my gaze descend to his crotch. The poor guy squirmed ever so slightly. I smiled sweetly and adjusted my skirt. He sweated.

When I finally got home to Knightsbridge the paparazzi were crowded around the front door so I drove to the rear entrance and parked in the underground car park. That useless maid was snivelling in the kitchen when I walked in. “Coffee!” I demanded and grabbed the handful of post-it notes she handed me.

Oh gawd in heaven! Everyone already knows about Mummy! Damn it! I am NOT calling anyone back…. let them all think I am too distressed.

The following couple of weeks were sheer purgatory. I just avoided everyone, dressed in black and wore a veil to conceal my utterly contemptuous and bored expression. Thankfully few shots appeared on the front cover of the dailies. It was all over when some football star’s wife had a torrid affair and the media frenzy shifted to her luckless arse.

I called Tarky on his mobile phone and said “Fancy banging an heiress?” into his answer machine. He called back laughing. “Where do you have in mind?” and I purred “Oh, I don’t know, you choose!” We agreed that a night or two on his friend’s superyacht would probably be the most discreet venue and I dressed in black but packed for a more colourful and scanty impact once we were out of British waters.

Tedious solicitors and stockbrokers were boring me rigid with their constant attention seeking. Can’t these people think for themselves? They get paid enough! I thought, while selecting the right shoes for yacht decking.

Tarky’s friend lived at sea, permanently. We had to fly to a Caribbean island to meet up with him and his entourage but it was so worth it, just to escape the grey British weather and idiotic lockdowns.
Frankly, I am not missing Mummy at all. Turns out Drunk Dribbly Dick, the porn director, did me an enormous favour and disappeared as soon as it was announced that he is too unwell to stand trial. The whole thing just fizzled out like a damp sparkler. S’funny how that always happens to the rich and famous, isn’t it? Makes me wonder whose wad he fattened to pull that one off…. Tarky said it was a Judge, some sort of debt of gratitude for services rendered. I didn’t ask…. it all sounded far too dreary.

Caribbean nights are so glorious, don’t you find?