Читать книгу Chelsea Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 12

‘Good God, man, you’ve done us proud,’ Damien Lambert said, eyeing the table of gastronomical delights in front of him greedily. ‘It’s a bloody feast!’

‘This is just for starters, Lambers, my old friend, just for starters,’ Sebastian slapped Damien’s back good-naturedly and gestured for him and his wife, Celeste, to sit.

‘You really should not have gone to all this trouble,’ Celeste said, turning to Imogen who was smiling warmly at her guests. ‘A light supper would have been plenty.’ She surveyed the regency table which was brimming with a variety of steaming fruits de mer including a spectacular array of fresh lobsters, piled high into a giant crustacean pyramid, aromatic butter seductively sliding down their glossy pink shells.

Imogen stole a glance at Sebastian from across the table and inwardly sighed. Seb had always thought that giving her everything would make her happy, make her love him. He bought people; it was what he did, the only way he knew how to operate. But the adage was true: money couldn’t buy love, and everything she owned, the houses, the cars, the jewellery, she would’ve swapped it all in a heartbeat for what she really wanted. For what she’d once had with him. She thought of him then. Truth was, since Cressida’s initial phone call she had thought of little else. How his hair fell in front of his eyes when he spoke and the way he flicked it away with his hand … that day in the library, the day they had first met, the feeling of something taking place between them, some invisible connection, like a magnet drawing them together … she could almost smell the musty scent of the old books as they glanced furtively at each other, the intensity between them almost tangible.

Momentarily lost in reverie, Imogen took a large swig of vintage 1995 Dom Perignon and stared at her husband as if he were a stranger. Though she felt they would both be happier apart, she knew Seb would rather see her dead than divorce him. Perhaps she would let him into her bed tonight, show him that she was grateful to him for not making a fuss about the shoot at least. Perhaps it would not be so bad …

‘That was something else, Forbsie.’ Damien Lambert patted his large protruding stomach satisfactorily. ‘I’ll not eat again for a month.’

Sebastian smiled, eyeing his friend with expertly concealed disdain.

Damien loosened his bow tie as if it might somehow help with his gastric discomfort.

‘Take it off, man,’ Seb implored. He knew that Damien wore his Eton tie as some kind of ridiculous sentimental gesture and he detested him for it.

Lambert had always been a follower, a cling-on who had looked up to him at school with a perpetual wide expectant grin on his chubby face. But for the first time in his life, Damien Lambert had something Sebastian Forbes needed. Or at least the means to help him get it.

‘The shares are up, I see. Caught it in The FT, yes … bloody marvellous stuff, Lambers, you must be like a dog with two dicks.’ Sebastian raised his eyes and took a large sip of scotch.

‘Aye, the good ol’ North Sea; she’s given about all she can but it’s not done too bad all told. And when she stops giving, I’m moving into the energy business. I’m talking really bloody big. Got the Arabs on board and everything.’ Damien slapped himself across the chest triumphantly. ‘Not bad for a Trustafarian eh, Forbsie?’

Imogen strained to listen from across the table as she chatted superficially with Celeste Lambert. Sebastian was being suspiciously and uncharacteristically amenable and this aroused her suspicion.

‘Yes, I did hear something that you’re mixing with royalty. Arabian royalty no less.’

Sebastian smiled, the expression on his face like one of a snake about to strike. ‘That Prince Saud al-Khahoutam, isn’t it?’

‘Aye,’ Damien belched a little, tasting scotch and soubaise with a hint of vanilla. ‘A real likeable chap he is too – for an Ab-dab. Met him at an oil convention in Dubai. His father owns the Montpelier Hotel group. Got enough money to buy up heaven with change left over. He’s coming over to the UK in a couple of weeks’ time. We’ve invited him up to the castle. Celeste’s getting sheets shipped in from Egypt, fretting about it already!’ Damien roared again displaying port-stained teeth and a thick yellow coating on his tongue. ‘He’s made up to be staying in a real Scottish castle, mind, cannot wait. Good job really. You’d need a bloody castle to put up his entourage. He travels with his own private army, you know.’

Imogen watched her husband carefully as he lifted his leg over his knee in a forced nonchalant gesture.

‘Why so much security? Is he under threat of assassination or something?’

It was a question he already knew the answer to.

Damien leaned in towards his friend conspiratorially, the buttons on his shirt straining open, exposing a little white flesh and wiry hair.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ Damien hissed.

‘Another?’ Sebastian said, filling his friend’s half full tumbler with more scotch.

Lambert took a generous slug and curled his lips over his teeth.

‘He’s bringing in a diamond.’

Sebastian feigned shock.

‘A diamond?’ His eyes were glowing now, as if lit by the very jewels themselves. Imogen watched Seb carefully.

‘Yes. The Bluebird. It’s a rare brilliant blue. Completely and utterly flawless, all 798.67 carats of it. It’s insured for over £500 million,’ Damien explained, ‘though that’s supposed to be a fraction of what it’s really worth. He’s scouting for suitable places to house it while he goes off on a round the world cruise or something. It’s far too much of a security risk to take it with him.’

Sebastian settled back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.

‘£500 million? That’s some stone, old boy.’

‘Indeed it is. He’s got the hots for this British actress totty, wants to impress her with it while he’s here.’

Sebastian nodded in understanding.

‘That’ll need some looking after,’ he said, his eyes widening.

‘The rock or the woman?’ Damien let out yet another booming roar and Sebastian surreptitiously rolled his eyes. The man was insufferable.

‘You say he’ll be here in a couple of weeks? That’s around the same time as the ball, isn’t it? I trust you and the lovely Mrs Lambert will be attending as a matter of tradition?’

‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep us away.’ Damien clapped his old friend’s arm. ‘I say wild horses …’

Forbes’s Annual Summer Ball was a lavish, no-expense-spared affair that had been running for decades. A date firmly imprinted on high society’s social calendar, it boasted a roll call that read like something from The Times Rich List.

‘Now you mention it, yes, it will be around the same time. ’

A light suddenly switched on inside Damien Lambert’s alcohol-addled brain.

‘Why don’t I bring him along to the ball!’ he bellowed, a little scotch sloshing over the edge of his tumbler with the momentum. ‘We’ll show those Ab-dabs how it’s really done, eh? He’ll bloody love it, rubbing shoulders with all the aristos. Maybe you can invite that actress sort he’s gone giddy over … Charlotte somebody. You’ll be doing me a favour, Forbsie.’

Damien Lambert patted his nose with his forefinger and winked. ‘Might even help with a wee bit o’ business.’

Imogen saw the look of satisfaction on her husband’s face.

‘Super idea, Lambers,’ he said, already picturing himself inside the Arab’s private jet, sipping champagne in the Jacuzzi and chewing the fat with his new Middle Eastern friend. ‘Bring the man along. I’ll get my PA to sort out an invitation right away.’

‘Thanks Forbsie, you’re a pal.’

‘Not at all, Lambers,’ Seb said, clinking his glass. ‘After all, what are friends for?’