Читать книгу Chelsea Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 11

Imogen swung the steering wheel of her Bentley Continental CTG sharply to the right, the tyres making a satisfactory sound as they met with gravel, and pulled into the underground garage of her impressive 7-bedroom house on Chelsea Square. Switching the engine off, she took out the folded A4 piece of fax paper from her Fendi tote and read it over again.

‘L’ORELIE PHOTOSHOOT – LA CALL SHEET’

Her eyes scanned the photographer’s details in bold type: Mylo: 001 213 5570581.

He was obviously way too cool and important to need a surname she thought, allowing herself to feel the first flutters of excitement.

Imogen had put off talking to Seb about the shoot for long enough, telling herself she needed to get her own head around the whole business before braving the inevitable showdown with her husband. She was due to fly to LA next week.

She checked her Cartier watch. It was coming up for 5:00 p.m. She would catch Seb just before the Lamberts arrived. That way the conversation would have to be kept short, tactically avoiding a full-blown argument. The thought did nothing to help disperse the knot of dread in the pit of her stomach though.

‘Let the fun commence!’ she said under her breath as she opened the car door.

*

Sebastian Forbes, Imogen’s husband of some thirteen years, was sitting at the island breakfast bar of the couple’s bespoke Clive Christian kitchen sipping espresso from a small white cup, his head buried in a copy of The Financial Times. Her car keys made a startlingly loud clatter as she dropped them into the Lalique glass bowl positioned on top of the highly polished granite work surface. He did not look up.

She noticed Seb was dressed in his Lacoste tennis whites instead of his usual suited work attire. He’d obviously been on the courts, unusual for him this time of the day, she thought.

‘Afternoon, Seb,’ she said breezily.

‘Imogen,’ he acknowledged her with disinterest, continuing to read.

She slung her Fendi tote onto the breakfast bar and kicked off her Tod’s driving shoes, padding across the marble floor towards the stainless steel American fridge.

Her heart was knocking against her ribs as she opened the double doors, wondering briefly if a gin and tonic might help steady her nerves, deciding it probably wouldn’t and opening a bottle of chilled Evian instead.

‘Good day?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he answered evenly, continuing to speed read. ‘I thrashed Damien on the courts. Had him darting all over the place. Thought the old bastard was going to have a heart attack at one point.’

‘The Lamberts are here already?’ She was surprised.

Sebastian finally looked up at her.

‘Oh, for Chrissakes Imogen, don’t tell me you’d forgotten they were coming for the weekend?’ he said crossly.

The weekend? She knew about dinner but the weekend?

‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten,’ she lied. Her husband was obviously in a caustic mood and she felt her earlier confidence diminish.

‘I’ve had Jalena prepare the master guest suite – everything’s in order. Look, I told you all this last week,’ he snapped irritably.

Imogen frantically tried to recall. She felt sure he hadn’t mentioned that the Lamberts were coming to stay.

‘I … well, I’ve had a lot on my mind …’

Sebastian drained his cup and snorted derisively.

‘Well, yes,’ he sneered. ‘It must be terribly taxing deciding what to wear for lunch every day.’

Imogen felt her hackles rise. He had no idea.

‘This weekend is important to me, Imogen,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want it messed up, OK?’

She hated it when he made a point of using her name, like a father chiding a child. And why was he so bothered about the Lamberts all of a sudden? He usually did his level best to put off their annual visit, let alone have them stay for the whole weekend. She was suspicious.

‘Are they here now, the Lamberts?’ she enquired. She knew she would lose her nerve if she had to wait out the entire weekend before telling him about the shoot. It was now or never.

‘They’ll be back here at 7:00 p.m. They’ve gone to see a musical in the West End,’ he said, pulling a face. Sebastian detested musicals. ‘The chef’s coming at 6:00 p.m. to prepare.’

‘Chef?’ Imogen recoiled in shock. For the Lamberts? He usually reserved such extravagant gestures for VIPs only – a category of which the Lamberts most certainly did not fall into, at least not as far as he was concerned.

‘Yes, darling, you know, they cook food and shout a lot – a chef. I told you.’ He looked at his wife crossly and wondered what the hell went on in that beautiful, empty head of hers.

Now he came to think of it though, perhaps he had forgotten to mention that part to her. The chef idea had been somewhat of an inspired afterthought, the pièce de résistance in his grand plan to seduce the Lamberts. Sebastian knew it would impress his epicurean friend – it had bloody well better, it was costing him a small fortune.

She watched as he began to fold his paper up into a neat square.

‘I’m taking a shower then I need to make a few calls.’ He made to stand, signalling the end of the conversation. ‘I’ll be in my office. I’ve told Jalena and the rest of the staff to prepare the orangery for dinner and give the chef free run of the kitchen.’ He turned to leave.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me how my week has been?’ Imogen said quickly in a clumsy attempt to stall him.

Sebastian rolled his eyes facetiously. ‘Oh darling, do forgive me. Did someone have a handbag party to end all handbag parties?’

Imogen smirked. She would enjoy this.

‘Guess who I saw for lunch the other day?’ she chirped casually.

‘Do tell?’ he sighed impatiently.

‘Cressida Lucas,’ she said slowly.‘You remember her, don’t you?’

The room fell silent and she heard the buzzing of electricity as it pulsed through the giant impressive silver William V chandelier above them. She felt a brief rush of satisfaction as she caught a flicker of panic on his face.

Sebastian swallowed dryly. He remembered Cressida Lucas alright. That odious, gauche little woman who had tried her damnedest to come between them all those years ago, filling Imogen’s head with crazy ideas of modelling and fame and all that nonsense; she had damn near succeeded too.

Sebastian looked at his wife with barely concealed bitterness. She was just so beautiful, too beautiful really. From the moment he had seen her sublime face in a glossy fashion magazine, he had decided that she had to be his. And what Sebastian Forbes wanted, he invariably got. Whatever the cost.

It had not been an easy seduction; Imogen had been grieving for a previous relationship with some no-mark and he had whisked her off to Necker Island – his friend Richard’s luxury Caribbean retreat – at the first opportunity in a bid to help her forget her heartbreak and fall in love with him. His plan had worked, partly at least. Three months later they were married and Imogen was carrying their child.

Though he steadfastly refused to admit it, deep down, Sebastian knew that Imogen did not truly love him. Not in the way he had wanted her to. Not in the same way she had loved that nobody she’d been dating before. But love or not, Sebastian Forbes had won the big prize in the end. He always did.

‘What could she possibly want after all these years?’ he asked cautiously. He had hoped never to hear that wretched woman’s name ever again.

Imogen took a deep breath and another gulp of Evian.

‘She’s got cancer,’ she said gravely. It felt unreal to say it out loud.

A small smirk crept across his face and he made no pains to hide it.

‘So there is a God after all,’ he murmured.

Imogen glowered at her husband in disbelief, her eyes filling with hatred.

‘Jesus, Seb! How can you say that? The woman’s dying, for fuck’s sake!’

He raised an eyebrow, amused. Imogen rarely swore.

‘She’s asked me to test for a new cosmetics campaign, for L’Orelie,’ she continued, her voice stoic. ‘I’m flying out to LA next week. And before you say anything, it’s not up for discussion. She’s my oldest friend and I’m granting her dying wish. You won’t stop me.’ She visibly stood back letting the words hang heavy in the air above them.

Sebastian stared at his wife’s defiant face and thought how appealing she looked when she was angry and upset, her dark hair a little dishevelled, her eyes glassy with tears.

She was so uptight; perhaps now that she’d had this little outburst, got it out of her system, she might loosen up a bit, maybe even offer him a place back in her bed again. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all, he had given her everything she could ever want over the years. Thanks to him she had escaped her distinctly aspiring middle-class roots and the transient, empty life of a model. Those supermodels, they might look great on the covers of all those magazines but you took away all that airbrushing and you saw what they had become after years in the business; ravaged old whores, the lot of them.

Sebastian thought for a moment. He had to play his hand carefully. The last thing he needed tonight was a frosty atmosphere, not when there was so much riding on it. He’d play ball. For now, at least.

‘Good for you, darling,’ he said, careful not to inject any sarcasm in his voice. ‘It all sounds terribly … exciting. And Imogen,’ he added, earnestly, ‘really, I am sorry to hear about Cressida. We may not always have seen eye to eye over the years but I wouldn’t wish that upon her, upon anyone.’

Imogen was floored. This was not the reaction she had anticipated and it had taken her clean off guard.‘Oh … well, then,’ she stammered, ‘so you’re OK with it?’

‘Listen, darling,’ Sebastian’s tone was uncharacteristically sweet. ‘If it makes you happy to grant the woman’s dying wish then so be it. After all, what are friends for?’

She eyed him cautiously.

‘Right. Well. Thank you,’ she said, the sharp edge of her voice softening a touch. ‘I appreciate it, Seb. It means a lot to me.’

‘I can see that,’ he said, moving closer towards her, lightly touching her arm and stooping in for a kiss. His dry lips met with hers and she did her best to respond.

‘I’ll dress for dinner,’ she said, gently pulling away from him.

‘Right you are,’ he said, feeling her discomfort and resisting the urge to pull her roughly back towards him. ‘Oh, and Imogen,’ he added as he watched her pick up her tote and walk from the room. ‘Wear something fabulous tonight, yes? Sexy but not slutty, OK?’

She forced a smile. Since when had she ever done slutty?

Once he was sure she had left the room, Sebastian picked up the call sheet his wife had left on the granite work surface, briefly scanned it, then folded it up neatly into a square and placed it inside the pocket of his tennis shorts. Catching his reflection in the shiny worktop, Sebastian gave a small sneer exposing his perfect set of Hollywood veneers. If that ungrateful bitch of a wife of his thought she was starting with all that modelling lark again then she was sorely mistaken.