Читать книгу Chelsea Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 7

Imogen Forbes looked at her Cartier watch: 3:03 p.m. Shit, she was late. No doubt the photographer would be cursing her blue by now. Pressing her foot on the accelerator of her brand-new Bentley Continental, she revved the engine impatiently, absentmindedly checking her reflection in the interior mirror. Tired eyes hidden underneath lashings of Touche Éclat blinked back at her as she wearily inspected a new rash of fine lines that had seemingly appeared overnight. She turned the air con up to maximum and sighed deeply. It was a warm Friday afternoon in June and the King’s Road was thick with rush hour traffic. Summer stretched out before her, full of promise and potential, giving her a fleeting feeling of hope and excitement.

Leaning over, she began rifling through the glossy store bags that were piled high in a heap on the passenger seat, souvenirs of that morning’s trip to Harvey Nichols, via a little breeze along Sloane Street: Seb’s dry cleaning from Jeeves of Belgravia, Lime, Basil and Mandarin candles from Jo Malone, a gorgeous silk dress from Stella McCartney – perfect for between seasons – and a divine pair of knotted platform pumps from Christian Louboutin. She wondered whether the shoes might be a little overstated with the rest of her outfit for today’s photo shoot or if the stylist already had something in mind for her.

Momentarily forgetting any sense of urgency as tissue paper rustled satisfactorily between her fingers, Imogen looked past the traffic and out onto the bustling high street. People were out in their droves, dropping cash in the spring sales faster than they could earn it. Designer bags swung on the crooks of lithe, suntanned arms and the clips of Bugaboo prams. Tourists stood on street corners, maps in hand, pointing at the sugared almond-colour mews houses that were tucked away from the throbbing masses. Glamorous yummy mummies dressed in Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dresses and young, fashion-forward teenagers sat crossed-legged outside the myriad cafés, sipping their skinny soya macchiatos, people-watching from behind their oversized designer shades, hoping they might be noticed.

The King’s Road still had that buzz, that style and vibrancy that had made it famous in the 60s, Imogen thought. Regardless of how commercial it had now become, it was by far her favourite London high street.

Her phone rang, dragging her from her thoughts.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ Calvary snapped, irritation thick in her voice. ‘Sophie Montgomery-Smith has already let me down so now there’s just going to be the three of us and the photographer is having a hissy fit. You’re holding everything up.’

‘I’m sorry, Cal,’ she apologised. ‘The traffic …’

Calvary sighed impatiently. ‘You’re beginning to look like a terrible diva, Ims. Put your foot down, will you? Anyway,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, ‘I’m dying to see what you’ll make of the journalist. Can’t make my mind up about her …’

Having been the fashion editor of the once highly successful, but now defunct, pretentious fashion tome that was Dernier Cri magazine, Calvary Rothschild knew all about hidden agendas of the press and the need to make a name for oneself.

‘Seems a little big for her shooboots. Mui Mui by the way. This season,’ she added.

‘And the stylist?’ Imogen inquired hopefully. ‘I suppose everything decent has been snatched up already.’

‘Well, if you will be so bloody late …’ she shot back, defensively. ‘But I’ve saved you a purple Alberta Ferretti shift and a Lanvin necklace,’ she added begrudgingly.

‘Oh Cal, thanks.’ Imogen was touched by her friend’s rare display of fashion altruism.

‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

Imogen threw her phone into her open Zagliani python bag in the well of the passenger seat. It was bad form to be late, especially since Calvary had been good enough to ask her to take part in the shoot in the first place.

‘Chelsea Wives,’ she had squealed with excitement down the phone to Imogen just a few days earlier, eschewing her usual cool composure. ‘ESL magazine want to do an insightful lifestyle piece on women who live in Chelsea. Fabulous women, darling, like us! Say you’ll do it.’

Imogen hadn’t needed asking twice. Even after all these years she still missed the buzz of being in front of the lens. Her phone rang again and she snatched it up.

‘What now?’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Now that’s no way to talk to an old friend, is it?’ The gravelly female voice sounded familiar but she couldn’t immediately place it.

‘Who is this?’ Imogen asked tentatively.

‘Oh darling, it hasn’t been that long … surely you remember?’ the voice said, full of mock offence. There was a pause. ‘The bench at Hersham station? You were wearing the most ghastly stone wash denim jacket I’d ever seen in my life and you had a home perm, but even then I could see you had something special.’

Imogen gasped.

‘Cressida? Good God, Cressie Lucas. Is that you?’

‘The very same, darls. The very same,’ she said, snorting with laughter.

Cressida Lucas, MD and scout for Models à la Mode and one-time queen of the London party scene, was a small, fierce redhead with killer dress sense and an unrivalled sixth sense when it came to spotting the Next Big Thing in modelling.

The day Imogen had been ‘spotted’ by the infamous fashionista would be imprinted on her mind forever. It had been the final week of what had been an uneventful summer holiday and a then sixteen-year-old Imogen had been on her way to visit a friend. She had been quite oblivious to the short, voluptuous woman, glamorously dressed in a bright canary yellow power suit, blowing cigarette smoke into the air above her. Suddenly she was next to her, her neon manicured hand outstretched in greeting.

‘The name’s Lucas. Cressida Lucas, and I run a modelling agency in London called Models à la Mode. Have you heard of it?’ She did not give Imogen time to answer. ‘I see you like fashion?’ she nodded approvingly at the well-thumbed copy of Just Seventeen Imogen had been reading.

‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ Imogen had replied a little shyly, catching the intoxicating scent of the stranger’s perfume, which she would later come to recognise as Calvin Klein’s ‘Obsession’. Even to this day she could not smell it without thinking of her.

‘I would absolutely love to see what the camera would make of you,’ Cressida had said, tucking Imogen’s hair behind her ear and inspecting her as if she were a rare piece of art. ‘Tell me, what are you doing now?’

As Cressida’s unfailing eye had predicted, Imogen was sensational in front of the camera and within a year her name became the new buzzword on every UK fashion editor’s lips. Elbows sharpened as designers scrambled to book the doe-eyed, quirky-cool brunette for their latest campaigns. A breath of fresh air from the highly polished glamazonians who had dominated the early 80s, her waif-like, unconventional beauty meant she would be a perfect figurehead for the rising grunge movement. Cressida could smell change in the air. Yuppie culture and Thatcherism was dying. Ever ahead of the zeitgeist, she had sensed it was time for something new.

By the time Imogen had reached her eighteenth birthday she had become the youngest UK Vogue cover girl and had walked for most of the major designers of the day, including Lacroix, Armani, Katherine Hamnett, Pam Hogg and Vivienne Westwood. She had flown first class to shoots in Rio, Paris, New York, the Bahamas … partied on millionaire’s yachts with fellow supermodels, A-list celebrities, even royalty. Imogen ‘Immie’ Lennard was the new face of British fashion and on the verge of global success. Cressida Lucas had hit the jackpot and Imogen was happier than she’d ever been; she was young, beautiful and successful. But above all, she was in love …

‘It’s been ages, Cress,’ Imogen said, suddenly feeling a flash of guilt that she had not kept in touch with a woman to whom she had once owed so much. ‘How have you been?’

‘Gorgeous, sweets. Bloody marvellous. Had a facelift last year. Taken ten bloody years off me, I swear. Wish I’d done it five years ago. Bagged myself a little toy boy too, darling. Twenty-six. Hung like a horse. Not a bad cook either. But enough about me. How the fuck are you?’

Imogen smiled. By the sounds of things, her old friend hadn’t changed a bit.

‘Well, I … ’

‘No, don’t tell me now,’ Cressida interrupted. ‘I want to hear everything over lunch. Daphne’s. Monday. 1:00 p.m. It’s all booked,’ she said in her matter-of-fact manner which Imogen had always found equally endearing and annoying. ‘Try and make it, poppet. It’s terribly important I see you.’

Imogen felt a flutter of concern and intrigue.

‘Has something happened?’ she asked.

‘It could be about to,’ Cressida replied cryptically. ‘1:00 p.m. Don’t be late, darling. I have a meeting with Kate Moss at 2:30 sharp and don’t want to keep the old love waiting.’

Call waiting angrily flashed up on Imogen’s phone. It was Calvary. Shit.

‘Sorry, hang on, Cress. I just need to take this …’ She switched calls. ‘Cal, I am five minutes away … promise, promise … OK, bye.’ She pressed call retrieve. ‘Sorry about that, Cress. Where were we … Cressida … Cress?’ But she had gone. Shit. Imogen checked ‘calls received’ but the number came up as ‘unknown’. Shit. Shit. Shit. She threw her iPhone down into her bag in annoyance. What could possibly warrant a call from Cressida Lucas after all this time?