"Barbara honey, you know I must look as good as Halle Bailey tonight."

"That's a little beyond my paycheck, but I'll see what I can do." Barbara spritzes a generous amount of hair spray on my hair. "Perfect. Now, just as we discussed, here are the perfect shoes to go with the dress ..." I hold up a hand. My amazing manicured nails stare back at me from the mirror. I take a deep breath. "I'm afraid I have some bad news love."

Barbara stares at me like I had a lizard on my face. "Please don't tell me you don't have the LV purse."

"It's not the LV." "PERFECT" Barbara relaxes, "because that purse is really the only thing that can bring out the dress–"

"It's the dress." Even saying the words brings a physical pain to my chest. "The courier told me it won't arrive today." "What!" Barbara shrieks, and the brush she's holding drops to the floor. "The $200,000 dress? That gorgeous black silk satin piece with the corset? It won't be here today?" "No," I say, once again feeling the tears well up in my eyes. I broke down the moment I got the news, and hearing Barbara repeat the harsh truth made me want to cry all over again. "Apparently some ship got stuck and everything's been delayed."

"Then ask them to use a submarine! Or an helicopter to fly that dress over! How long is it going to be delayed for?" "It'll be arriving" - I choke on the next word– "tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Barbara screams. "But tonight's your fourth wedding anniversary!"

"I know!" I burst out. "That's exactly what I told them!" Quickly, I reach a hand up and start fanning myself. "Please, let's not talk about it anymore. I'm going to start crying."

"But this is - this is ridiculous" Barbara wails. "That

dress was meant to be the highlight of the entire

evening. We based your whole look around it, the

look, the purse, the shoes! Surely you must have like a back-up?"

"It was Versace, Babs. How can I have a backup for Versace ?" I sniffle. "The next best

thing I have in my wardrobe is the pink Valentino:"

"From last year? Honey, you can't wear something

from last year!"

"You think I wanted this to happen?" Despite my efforts, a tear rolls down my eye and drips onto

my lap. "See! You've made me cry." Barbara looks alarmed. "Oh no, anything but the tears. I don't have time to fix your mascara, not when we need to redesign your whole make-up. When do you have to go meet your husband? Four hours?" My personal stylist inhales through her teeth. "That's a bit tight, but I think we could do it, now don't cry, because that blush is expensive, and I don't have much of it left."

She hands me a tissue, which I dab at my eyes. When she comes back, it's with a box full of cosmetic products, and a very determined look. "Right. Forget the eyeshadow, If it's a pink dress we must go with the soft purple gradient..." Exactly four hours later, I'm running out of Bab's salon with make-up and a fresh hair do. This is why I pay her a lot . No one knows the angles of my face better than she does, not even my own husband. As I walk down the streets of New York in my stilettos, red hair flowing behind me in balayage waves, I feel like the queen of the world. I step into Starbucks and rattle off my usual order. "A venti matcha Frappuccino, half-caff, half-sugar and soy milk heated to exactly 139 degrees, please." I shoot the barista a warning look. "And don't even think about not getting the temperature right. My tongue will know the difference." Outside, New York goes by in its usual cacophony of honking vehicles, diesel-chuffing buses, and bright yellow cabs. This is the city I've lived in for all of my life, and I won't leave it for anywhere else. Never. There's no other lap of luxury and riches quite like New York. "Excuse me? Is this seat taken?"

A gorgeous gentleman in a white three-piece suit is smiling at me. He's holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a small briefcase in the other. I notice the watch on his wrist and the polished shoes on his feet.

" it isn't. Please." The man sits. "So. Which angel did they name after you?" I chuckle. "That's very new. I haven't heard that one line before." "Oh? And have you heard a lot?"

"What do you think?"

I watch the man's eyes take in my figure from top to

bottom. He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of his

coffee. "I think you have. Probably a lot more than what my self-esteem can handle," he admits.

"Now you're selling yourself short. A man with your confidence must have done this many times."

"Never to such a pretty girl like you." I gesture at his briefcase. "An attorney?"

"Close. I'm a banker."

"How is that close?" The man smiles. "We make a living off cheating people."

From the counter, the barista calls out, "Rosalie Mayers" I stand up, taking my bag. "Ever cheated a

million pounds before?"

"I'm sorry?"

"A million pounds. That's my asking price. Of course,

the annual renewal fee is much higher. But I don't

think you can afford that, not when you're wearing a

fake Rolex watch." I flash him a dazzling smile. "Good day, Mr Banker,"

Taking my coffee, I walk out.

Charles is waiting for me at the corner beside Tiffany's as instructed.

"Ma'am," he greets with a nod as I step into the

Maybach. "Will you be going anywhere else for the

day?"

"No. Straight back home, please. Errol and I have

arranged for dinner at Gran Morsi. I need to be

ready by seven thirty."

"Ah, The Italian" The chauffeur gives an approving nod. "I hear it takes weeks to get a reservation."

"Oh, you know my husband, He got it done in two days." The car purrs along the road at a steady

pace, and within eight minutes we're pulling into the

driveway of my home. Or to be more specific, Errol's

home. I don't pay for anything around here, though

I certainly make good use of them. Despite having

lived here for four years, I still find myself amazed

every time I lay eyes on the 10,000 square feet

mansion. To quote the real estate agent who sold us

the property; it's basically a smaller-scaled version of the Buckingham Palace.

The butler, having heard the car arrived, emerges

from the house to take my coat and purse. "Just

leave it in the reception area," I say, heading for the

staircase. "I won't be long. Errol and I must leave

soon if we're to keep our dinner appointment. Ah,

there you are, Stacie. Is the dress ready?"

Stacie, my personal maid, nods. "All laid out on the bed for you, ma'am. I also picked out those Silver earrings you mentioned."

"Perfect." I began walking fast up the staircase and across the landing. "What about my lingerie?"

Stacie blushes. "That's also ready, madam. I picked out the thinnest one, like you asked. The one with the red lace... and nothing else."

"Thank you, Stacie." Just before I close my bedroom door, I give her a wink. "You might want to sleep with earmuffs on tonight."

I find my pink Valentino right where Stacie said it would be. It's a sleeveless ball gown that cinches at the waist and blossoms out in volumes of chiffon. Twirling it out, I can't help feeling immensely satisfied.

Gran Morsi won't be the only thing Errol's eating tonight.

Speaking of my husband, where is he? I walk out my room and call for the butler, who materializes at the foot of the grand staircase. "Have you seen Errol?"

"I believe I saw the master entering the billiards room ten minutes ago, madam," John replies, "He said something about doing the cleaning."

"Errol doing the cleaning?" I say, incredulous. "This I must see."

The billiards room is located right beside our conservatory. I walk straight for it, heels clicking on the marble tiles.

"Errol" I began, pushing the door open, "we're late, darling, and we must go–"

The first thing see is my husband's trousers on the floor, followed by his boxers. Then he turns around, and I see his dick buried inside our new neighbor, Chelsea, who's currently bent over the snooker table.

Fucking great.