little sheepishly, which made both of them laugh.
'It was worth the wait,' Ed added.
'I bet it was. But this does mean that you've only been having sex for ten years, which makes you a total beginner,' Annie teased.
'Better show me something new then . . .'
Chapter Five
Svetlana at The Store:
Ruched white shirt dress (Burberry Prorsum)
Black and white striped heels (Christian Louboutin)
White woven leather tote bag (Bottega Veneta)
Bright blond blow-dry (Nicky Clarke – personally)
Signature red lipstick (Chanel)
Diamonds (husbands 1 and 2)
Total est. cost: £45,000
'But isn't my one a darrrrrling?'
'Ahhhhnnah!'
Annie's favourite Russian burst thought the personal shopping suite's velvet curtains with her arms outstretched.
Svetlana Wisneski. Not that she was going to be Wisneski for much longer. The former Miss Ukraine was now in possession of a decree nisi from her third husband, the billionaire gas baron, or 'Igor Potato-face the Third', as they'd christened him in the suite.
You'd think a generous settlement, your own four-storey house in Mayfair and everything-paid-for-the-children-forever would be enough. But for Svetlana, nothing was ever, ever enough. Currently she was planning her fourth wedding to Harry Roscoff, her divorce lawyer.
'I know, I know, it even happen in Sex and the City . No? The hairy bald man, he called Harry too, no? But isn't my one a darrrrrrrling?'
Svetlana had taken out her digital camera to show Annie his picture when she'd first got involved with Harry. Annie had seen a small, pudgy guy in his late fifties. But then looks had never been a particular concern of Svetlana's; she was only interested in the size of a man's bank balance.
The next photo had been introduced with the words, 'But look at him in his gowns .'
It showed one of London's most respected divorce lawyers in a dark gown with a white barrister's wig on his head sitting on a huge, unmade bed.
'I make him wear his gowns in the bedroom,' Svetlana had confided in a low tone, 'much, much more exciting. Poor man, he has had English wife for thirty-five years. He has forgotten what penis is for! So, I remind him!' She'd let out an infectiously throaty laugh at this.
Today, Annie gave the allegedly thirty-nine-year-old specimen of Russian physical perfection a welcoming hug. Svetlana, statuesquely tall, boasted muscular, athletic curves, a hard, flat stomach and fabulous buttocks and breasts which were a little enhanced, but only with the softest, most expensive and flexible stuff.
Around her taut face, holding back the years with the help of the most expert cosmetic surgeon in London, blonde hair tumbled elegantly to her shoulders. Today's tight white dress showed off thighs strong enough to kill a man in true Russian fantasy woman style.
A blinking, winking, fat pendant of diamonds pointed directly down into her two magnificent assets. Grown men like Harry Roscoff were prepared to lose wives, homes, properties, companies, investment portfolios, even respectability in order to dive down into those assets and venture further with a woman like Svetlana.
'He is millionaire, not billionaire,' Svetlana had had to admit of Harry, 'I am now nearly as rich as him. But after Igor, I wanted a very kind man. A man who loves me, makes no trouble for me. A quiet, expensive life, that's all I want to lead now. Anyway, I am too old for a billionaire under eighty now,' she'd stated matter-of-factly, as if there were official billionaire marrying rules, 'and where is the fun in that? A defibrillator in the bedroom and then fighting and fighting with the family for money after the death. Poor, poor girls,' she'd said, with real feeling.
'No, I make good lawyer's wife, don't you think?' She'd given Annie a wink. 'And I make Harry very, very happy.'
Released from the soft and delicious-smelling warmth of Svetlana's embrace, it was the English wife of thirty-five years
'It was worth the wait,' Ed added.
'I bet it was. But this does mean that you've only been having sex for ten years, which makes you a total beginner,' Annie teased.
'Better show me something new then . . .'
Chapter Five
Svetlana at The Store:
Ruched white shirt dress (Burberry Prorsum)
Black and white striped heels (Christian Louboutin)
White woven leather tote bag (Bottega Veneta)
Bright blond blow-dry (Nicky Clarke – personally)
Signature red lipstick (Chanel)
Diamonds (husbands 1 and 2)
Total est. cost: £45,000
'But isn't my one a darrrrrling?'
'Ahhhhnnah!'
Annie's favourite Russian burst thought the personal shopping suite's velvet curtains with her arms outstretched.
Svetlana Wisneski. Not that she was going to be Wisneski for much longer. The former Miss Ukraine was now in possession of a decree nisi from her third husband, the billionaire gas baron, or 'Igor Potato-face the Third', as they'd christened him in the suite.
You'd think a generous settlement, your own four-storey house in Mayfair and everything-paid-for-the-children-forever would be enough. But for Svetlana, nothing was ever, ever enough. Currently she was planning her fourth wedding to Harry Roscoff, her divorce lawyer.
'I know, I know, it even happen in Sex and the City . No? The hairy bald man, he called Harry too, no? But isn't my one a darrrrrrrling?'
Svetlana had taken out her digital camera to show Annie his picture when she'd first got involved with Harry. Annie had seen a small, pudgy guy in his late fifties. But then looks had never been a particular concern of Svetlana's; she was only interested in the size of a man's bank balance.
The next photo had been introduced with the words, 'But look at him in his gowns .'
It showed one of London's most respected divorce lawyers in a dark gown with a white barrister's wig on his head sitting on a huge, unmade bed.
'I make him wear his gowns in the bedroom,' Svetlana had confided in a low tone, 'much, much more exciting. Poor man, he has had English wife for thirty-five years. He has forgotten what penis is for! So, I remind him!' She'd let out an infectiously throaty laugh at this.
Today, Annie gave the allegedly thirty-nine-year-old specimen of Russian physical perfection a welcoming hug. Svetlana, statuesquely tall, boasted muscular, athletic curves, a hard, flat stomach and fabulous buttocks and breasts which were a little enhanced, but only with the softest, most expensive and flexible stuff.
Around her taut face, holding back the years with the help of the most expert cosmetic surgeon in London, blonde hair tumbled elegantly to her shoulders. Today's tight white dress showed off thighs strong enough to kill a man in true Russian fantasy woman style.
A blinking, winking, fat pendant of diamonds pointed directly down into her two magnificent assets. Grown men like Harry Roscoff were prepared to lose wives, homes, properties, companies, investment portfolios, even respectability in order to dive down into those assets and venture further with a woman like Svetlana.
'He is millionaire, not billionaire,' Svetlana had had to admit of Harry, 'I am now nearly as rich as him. But after Igor, I wanted a very kind man. A man who loves me, makes no trouble for me. A quiet, expensive life, that's all I want to lead now. Anyway, I am too old for a billionaire under eighty now,' she'd stated matter-of-factly, as if there were official billionaire marrying rules, 'and where is the fun in that? A defibrillator in the bedroom and then fighting and fighting with the family for money after the death. Poor, poor girls,' she'd said, with real feeling.
'No, I make good lawyer's wife, don't you think?' She'd given Annie a wink. 'And I make Harry very, very happy.'
Released from the soft and delicious-smelling warmth of Svetlana's embrace, it was the English wife of thirty-five years
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