Читать книгу Chelsea Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 20

Yasmin Belmont-Jones hated funerals. Even more so than most people. They reminded her of her sister. And anything that reminded her of her sister hurt. It hurt like hell.

Still, she had to hand it to her, Yasmin thought as she looked around the magnificent church filled with celebrities and VIPs, whoever this Cressida Lucas woman was, she sure was one hell of a well-connected lady.

It had been at Calvary Rothschild’s blithe insistence that she attend today’s ceremony.

‘But I’d never even met the woman when she was alive,’ Yasmin had protested. ‘It doesn’t feel right me being there.’

‘Minor details,’ Calvary had replied dismissively. ‘It’s the perfect setting to introduce your new look to society, show the press – and your detractors – that you won’t be downbeaten by their pernicious comments. Besides, it’s not as if the deceased will mind, is it?’ she added facetiously, casting an approving eye over the demure Victoria Beckham black shift dress that she had cajoled Yasmin into wearing for the occasion. She was determined to rid the girl of her Chav-Sloane persuasions if it killed her.

Yasmin was silently horrified. Calvary viewed today as little more than a photo opportunity! Reluctantly though, she also knew that she had a point; she had to brazen it out in front of the press, who had so far been most unforgiving about her. Hiding herself away would only serve as fuel to their ever increasing interest. The last thing she needed was them digging for dirt.

Despite her earlier misgivings, as Yasmin looked around at the church humming full of A-listers, she was almost glad she had made the decision to come after all.

‘All these celebrities …’ Yasmin whispered into Calvary’s ear, trying not to sound as star struck as she actually was. ‘It’s like ‘An Audience with …’

A regal looking lady in a huge avant-garde hat with a giant lobster on top of it passed them and took a seat in an adjacent pew.

Calvary raised a critical eyebrow.

‘If it blows off, dear, I wouldn’t chase it,’ she remarked sardonically. Yasmin stifled a snigger. Calvary could be quite amusing when she hit her stride. If she wasn’t careful she might actually start liking the woman.

‘Cal,’ Imogen came towards them, greeting her warmly with a big hug, ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said, enjoying the reassuring warmth of her friend’s embrace. Calvary brushed an imaginary tear from Imogen’s face and smiled affectionately at her. She was dying to ask her friend if she’d heard any news about the campaign from L’Orelie yet but thought it an inappropriate moment, given the situation.

‘How are you feeling, darling?’ Calvary asked earnestly. ‘Nervous about the eulogy?’

‘Nervous?’ Imogen spluttered. ‘That’s the understatement of the century. My guts are in knots, Cal. I feel sick. I’m really not sure I can do it, not in front of all these people.’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ Calvary said in that dismissive way of hers that stopped short of telling you to pull yourself together. ‘Of course you can do it, can’t she, Yasmin?’ Calvary briefly turned to her for confirmation.

‘Er, yes,’ Yasmin nodded. ‘Of course. It’ll be fine,’ she smiled weakly at Imogen as she remembered her own sister’s eulogy all those years ago. She had cried all the way through her speech, great heart-wrenching sobs that had echoed around the rundown old church. Just thinking about it turned her mood black.

‘Thank you,’ Imogen smiled gratefully at Yasmin, taking the tips of her long, French manicured fingers briefly in her own. The press may have portrayed the new Lady Belmont in a less than favourable light, calling her a cold, gold-digging opportunist, but Imogen had seen flashes of a kind and generous soul on the occasions they had met, which made her think they had misjudged her. ‘I realise you’ve only come here today to support me,’ she addressed Yasmin with a grateful smile, ‘and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.’

Yasmin swallowed back a pang of guilt.

Taking a nervous seat, Imogen began going over the speech she had prepared for today’s service in her mind. Only she was distracted by a conversation taking place between two women in front of her.

‘You know, I heard that she was going under financially …’ one of the women whispered a little too loudly.

‘Who? Cressida Lucas? Really?’ the other replied conspiratorially, shuffling in closer towards her.

‘Uh-huh. Bailiffs at the door of her Mayfair apartment and everything. Died in debt by all accounts.’

The woman tutted and shook her head.

‘How positively awful.’

‘I heard she was in the red to the tune of at least five mil.’

The other woman whistled.

‘Bet she’s glad she’s dead. I mean, who’d want to live with the shame of having their assets repossessed?’

‘Quite.’

‘At least this way her debt is automatically written off, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t ask me how it all works, darling. I know nothing about money, other than how to spend it!’

They both began to laugh then, and Imogen cleared her throat loudly, causing the two women to turn round and look at her sheepishly.

Imogen was hardly surprised by what she’d overheard. Cressida had lurched from one financial crisis to another her whole life. But being the resourceful woman she was, or at least had been, she had always found a way out of it.

Imogen smoothed out the creases in her dress and sighed. She had worn a scarlet Chanel shift today in Cressida’s honour, teamed with black studded leather gloves and sky-high Louboutin platform pumps. Cressida would have wanted a splash of colour. She’d always hated black.

As she stepped up to the pulpit, Imogen’s legs almost buckled beneath her. Clearing her throat, she took a deep breath as she looked out at the sea of people, suddenly wishing she’d had a stiff vodka cocktail to take the edge off her nerves.

‘The day I met Cressie – as she was known to me – was the day my life changed forever …’

As Imogen began her speech, Sammie Grainger slipped inside the church and scanned the vast congregation. She had never seen so many celebrities all in one room together before and felt a small frisson of excitement. Spotting Yasmin Belmont, she made her way over and sat down beside Calvary, who turned to look her up and down like she was something the cat had dragged in.

‘What are you doing here?’ Calvary hissed. ‘I thought Hello! had the monopoly on today.’

‘I’m here for the canapés and champagne at Claridge’s afterwards,’ Sammie quipped.

‘Hmm, I’ll bet you are!’ Calvary retorted.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sammie watched Yasmin Belmont-Jones surreptitiously.

Those icy blue eyes and that distinctive upturned nose. She looked so familiar, it was like that elusive word on the tip of your tongue.

*

‘That was wonderful,’ a young, attractive Asian man congratulated Imogen as she stepped down from the pulpit to rapturous applause. ‘Really wonderful. Cressida would’ve been so touched.’

‘You think so? Oh, thank you,’ Imogen said, exhaling loudly. She was glad it was over. It had been such an honour to be asked to speak at the service but her nerves were shot to pieces and she needed a drink.

‘It’s Imogen, isn’t it? Imogen Forbes?’

‘Yes,’ she smiled, shaking the man’s hand.

‘Well, I thought you captured Cressida’s essence perfectly,’ he reassured her. ‘And I know she thought the world of you. She talked about you a lot, especially recently. Said you were about to “go massive” again, or something, though I assume she meant your career and not you personally.’ He laughed, inwardly cursed himself. Why did he always have to make a prick of himself in front of attractive women by putting his great big size elevens in his mouth?