Silently, Vanessa crossed to the coffee table and clicked the remote. The room fell silent. She turned. This woman might be rude, but she would not be.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began, ‘but I don’t know—’
‘I am Constantia Dimistris,’ the woman announced, in accented, haughty tones.
‘Dimistris?’ Vanessa echoed the name. Then, with a shock, she realised that she did, after all, recognise the woman. It had been a fleeting moment, but she was the older of the two women who had walked out of the lift at the hotel where that party had been held. The party where the odious Cosmos Dimistris had accosted her.
Dimistris? Was she something to do with that creep? Was this woman his wife? No, not his wife—she was a generation older—fifty rather than thirty. So—who?
‘I will not mince my words—I see no point in doing so.’
The woman was speaking in a tone that indicated that Vanessa was one of the unwashed masses. She had opened a red lacquer designer handbag and was taking out a piece of paper which she dropped on the coffee table.
‘It is post-dated,’ the woman informed her. ‘I am not unreasonable. I give you two weeks. That should be ample time.’
Vanessa swallowed again. What on earth was going on? Why was this middle-aged woman who might—or might not—be Cosmo Dimistris’s mother here? She picked up the piece of paper.
It was a cheque, made out for twenty-five thousand pounds, the payee name left blank.
‘I don’t understand,’ Vanessa said faintly.
The woman made an irritated noise in her throat.
‘Do not be obtuse. I do not wish to be here any longer than is necessary. You can see quite clearly what the amount on the cheque is, and the date. You will get not a penny more, I assure you, if that is what you are thinking of! That is simple enough to understand, no?’
Vanessa could only stare. This was quite mad. Was it something to do with Cosmo Dimistris’s horrible attentions to her?
‘Mrs Dimistris,’ she began, ‘if this is something to do with…with, um, Cosmo Dimistris—’
The woman’s eyes flashed in outrage.
‘What? Why do you mention my son?’ she demanded. ‘What have you been up to? Importuning him?’
She sounded so indignant that for a moment Vanessa wanted to slap her. So Cosmo was her son—and she had the nerve to think he had been the innocent party!
‘On the contrary,’ she said coldly. ‘Your son—as I take it he is—behaved in a manner that any woman would find despicable. I am sorry to say that, but it is true.’
The woman bridled. ‘How dare someone like you make such an accusation?’
Vanessa’s lips pressed together.
‘Because it was I who was on the receiving end! If you imagine it is pleasant to be invited to become a man’s mistress, to be sent an emerald bracelet as persuasion, then I assure you that you are mistaken!’
The woman’s bosom heaved and her eyes flashed.
‘You refused him?’ she demanded.
‘Of course I did!’ Vanessa retorted. She wanted the woman to go—and go now.
But Constantia Dimistris’s eyes only narrowed speculatively.
‘So you were already holding out for more. I should have known. Well!’ Her head reared up. ‘That cheque is the only money on the table—it will not be increased, whatever your wiles. And do not think that my son will repeat his offer. I happen to know that he has taken a very beautiful model to Mexico only last week!’ She announced this as if it were some kind of triumphant put-down for Vanessa.
A hysterical desire to laugh almost overcame Vanessa. It was like being in the middle of some bizarre farce.
But it was one entirely without humour. Whoever this woman was, whatever the reason she had barged in here, her words, attitude and behaviour were insupportable.
Vanessa held out the cheque.