Читать книгу Chelsea Wives - Anna-Lou Weatherley - Страница 8

‘Ah, so you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence then I see,’ Calvary Rothschild remarked sarcastically as she ushered Imogen through the vast front door of her stucco-fronted Chelsea town house.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Imogen apologised, the tip of her nose lightly brushing her friend’s cheek as she went in for an air kiss. ‘Traffic was horrendous and then, well, you’re never going to guess …’

‘Later, darling,’ Calvary said dismissively as she made off down the hallway. Imogen trotted after her apologetically, the clack-clack sound of her new Louboutin Roger Vivier pumps amplified by the antique polished wooden floors.

Calvary had certainly accrued some rather impressive new pieces since her last visit, Imogen thought, glancing up at an imposing 12-light, rococo style chandelier that hung like a vast jewel from the ornate ceiling rose.

‘Antique French cut-glass crystal, darling,’ Calvary smiled without turning round. ‘Cost an absolute bloody fortune from Sotheby’s. And before you ask, yes, it was a present from Douglas,’ she added dryly.

‘Someone must’ve been a very bad boy this time,’ Imogen remarked.

‘Ha!’ Calvary snorted derisively. ‘You don’t want to know.’

Calvary couldn’t bear to discuss her husband’s latest infidelity; it was just too sordid even by Douglas’s standards. Returning home from a perfectly lovely lunch at Langan’s, she had heard strange noises coming from her bedroom and had gone to investigate, worried that Beluga or Cashmere had somehow managed to creep undetected into her walk-in closet and were busy chewing through her priceless Manolo Blahnik collection. Throwing open the bedroom door with purpose, the scene before her had caused her to stumble back through the doorway as if she had been winded by a heavy object.

Over the years Calvary Rothschild had become adept at coping with the humiliation of her husband’s indiscretions. She had taught herself how to forget if not to forgive. Learning how to brush it all under the expensive Persian carpet, it was all par for the course as far as her marriage was concerned. This time however, she was not to be the only casualty in Douglas’s latest mess. Others would be hurt too. Others she loved. This time, she could not forget.

‘Cal?’ Imogen lightly touched her friend’s arm in concern. This small act of kindness was enough to undo Calvary and she turned away from her, fighting back tears.

‘Don’t tell me he’s got another little floosie on the side again?’

Calvary drew audible breath.

‘Like I said, darling, you don’t want to know.’ She ran her hands lightly over her red Issa dress as if such filthy memories had left a residue, and, composing herself, opened the door to the drawing room.

‘About bloody time,’ the photographer remarked, making a point of looking at his Rolex. He was setting up his equipment in a corner of Calvary’s impressive regency themed dining room. ‘This is perfect,’ he gushed to no one in particular. ‘We’ll shoot them on the chaise longue underneath the Monet. With the reflection in the glass coffee table, it’ll be like they’re actually, you know, inside the painting.’

‘Everyone, this is my very good friend, Imogen Forbes,’ Calvary announced.

‘Great to meet you,’ Imogen said, shaking the slim, manicured hand of a stunning platinum blonde whose breasts were spilling out of her tiny dress. Calvary flashed Imogen a secret smile. Finally Imogen could put a face to the person who had been such a source of gossip over the past weeks.

‘Nice to meet you too,’ Lady Belmont-Jones said with a firm shake.

‘Help yourself to champagne and canapés, ladies, won’t you,’ Calvary smiled, topping up the half-full Tiffany flutes in front of her.

‘They look delicious,’ Imogen remarked, popping a quail’s egg crostini between her lips.

‘Don’t they? Beluga and Cashmere became positively demented by the cooking smells earlier.’

‘Beluga and Cashmere?’ Yasmin queried. ‘Your children?’

Calvary threw her head back and let out a roar of laughter.

‘Of a sort! They’re dogs, darling, my dogs. Two black Labradors. Love them to bits. One of the housekeepers has taken them out from under our feet for the afternoon. They have a tendency to get overexcited when guests are present.’

Like their owner, Yasmin thought sardonically.

‘Come on then, dig in to the canapés. I don’t want to be the only one pounding the treadmill come Monday morning and we certainly don’t want that journalist getting her grubby hands on them, do we? We all know how the press love a freebie.’ The three women simultaneously glanced over in the direction of Sammie, the young, attractive journalist who was busy in conversation with the photographer. Sensing three pairs of eyes on her, she momentarily looked up only to flash a small smile and look away again. Knowing that her usual H&M attire would probably not cut it among such well-dressed, affluent women, Sammie had borrowed an outfit from the accommodating stylist for today’s shoot, ensuring she looked the part. It was her first big piece for ESL magazine and she was keen to make a good impression. If she got this right and produced a great feature, it might just be enough to get her name noticed among the bigwigs at the magazine; something she was desperate for.

‘Bloody parasites, the lot of them,’ Calvary whispered under her breath.

‘Steady on,’ Yasmin said. ‘She’s a fashion writer for ESL magazine not a snout for the Daily Mail.’

‘Don’t be fooled, darling,’ Calvary scoffed. ‘They’re all the same; sell their firstborn for a front-page scoop.’

‘Didn’t you used to work for a fashion magazine yourself at one time?’ Yasmin enquired with a sideways glance.

Calvary was beginning to wonder if she had not made a mistake in inviting Lady Belmont on today’s photo shoot. She sensed those rumours of a less than salubrious upbringing weren’t quite as unfounded as they sounded and could tell the girl was desperate to hog the limelight today, preening and flirting as she was in front of the camera. Still, she had been more than intrigued after having met her at a prominent charity event some months ago.

Dubbed by the style press as the epitome of ‘Chav Sloane’, Yasmin Jones was a little too tanned and platinum, her jewellery too gaudy and her skirts too short for her to have originated from true aristo stock; in fact, she was sailing dangerously close to footballer’s wife territory. However, her main London residence, a vast, stucco-fronted, five-storey town house on Cheyne Walk and the title of Lady alone more than qualified her place in ESL’s feature. Besides, with a property portfolio the world over, which included impressive piles in Mustique, Monaco, The Hamptons and Portofino, Calvary figured a few choice lunches and the occasional dinner party chez Rothschild would practically guarantee her visitation rights. It was shameless social climbing and she knew it but there had been something else about the new Lady Belmont, a certain vulnerability underneath all the brassiness which had instantly elicited Calvary’s nurturing instincts.

‘Yes, the fashion editor’s an old friend of mine,’ Calvary replied, tartly. ‘Which is why I couldn’t say no when he asked. Anyway, do excuse me, ladies,’ she said. ‘We need more champagne.’ She flounced off leaving a waft of Coco Chanel and an awkward silence behind her.

Yasmin eventually broke it.

‘I’m getting used to all this magazine lark,’ she sighed, glancing at Imogen, ‘what with the Hello! shoot and everything.’ It was a crass attempt at bringing the subject round to her recent and vastly extravagant nuptials, which had commanded no less than eight pages in the weekly glossy.

‘Yes, I think I saw that,’ Imogen smiled, sipping her champagne. ‘A castle in Capri, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right,’ Yasmin said, not realising quite how smug she sounded.

The union of one Lord Jeremy Belmont and Miss Yasmin Jones had been dubbed the wedding of the season among the society press. It hadn’t been difficult to see why: thanks to his shady playboy past, royal connections (which he never failed to exploit at any given opportunity), two highly publicised failed marriages and a penchant for courting conjecture, the Eton-educated lord was a society journo’s wet dream. And Yasmin was the ultimate trophy wife.

‘Anyway, I’m thrilled Calvary invited me along today,’ Yasmin said, changing tack and smiling forcibly at Imogen. Much as she hated socialising with all these stuck-up, rich bitches, it was a necessary evil if she was to be Lady Belmont-Jones. Ha! The absurdity of it made her want to laugh out loud. Her! With a title! Yasmin straightened her thoughts. She mustn’t let her guard slip. Not now that she was so close to achieving her ultimate goal.

‘It’s such a beautiful house,’ Yasmin gushed, her eyes wandering around the room. ‘Pierre Yves Rochon, of course,’ she added, with a knowing smile. ‘I brought him in to do a complete redesign when I moved in with my husband.’ Imogen smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘Had to really, the place looked like something out of Grey Gardens,’ Yasmin cackled.

‘Will you excuse me?’ she said suddenly. She was growing a little bored of the conversation and wanted to scrape a final line from the reserve wrap of coke she had stashed in the secret compartment of her Fendi bag for a quick livener. ‘I need the little girl’s room.’ As she turned to leave she knew what Imogen was thinking: the same as everyone else in the room was thinking. That she was nothing but a gold-digger, a disingenuous nobody who had married that old soak Belmont for his money and title.

And they were half right.

Calvary returned from the kitchen and sidled up to Imogen.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘About what?’ Imogen’s mind had been elsewhere since her earlier unexpected call from Cressida. Just hearing the woman’s voice after all this time had stirred up so many memories for her. Memories of him …

‘About my new friend, Lady Belmont-Jones, silly. Rumour has it she is doing her damnedest to make a dent in Jeremy’s inheritance fund,’ Calvary remarked from the side of her mouth, placing a tray of canapés down onto the vast oak sideboard and taking one for herself.

‘Some might say it serves him right,’ Imogen retorted, her thoughts returning to the present.

‘I’d heard she’d ripped up all the original antique flooring in the house and replaced it with Versace carpet. Can you imagine! Versace!’ Calvary looked appalled.

‘I’m not sure what to make of her,’ Imogen shrugged.

‘Do you think she knows about the scandal? Moreover, do you think she cares?’ Calvary raised an eyebrow.

‘Who knows?’ Imogen sighed. ‘Though it’s hardly a secret. Anyway, perhaps it’s genuine and they really do love each other,’ she remarked, flashing her friend a playful smile.

‘Hmm,’ Calvary mused. ‘So, Miss Jones, what first attracted you to the multi-millionaire property tycoon Lord Belmont, then?’ They both giggled into their champagne flutes conspiratorially.

‘Have you seen him lately?’ Calvary shuddered. ‘Overweight with a comb-over that makes Donald Trump look positively hirsute. You’ve got to hand it to her: she must have the stomach of an ox getting into bed with that every night.’

Imogen pulled a face. ‘You’re putting me off the canapés.’

‘Well, darling, if you ask me,’ Calvary stooped to whisper, ‘there’s more to Lady Belmont than meets the eye …’

‘Ready when you are!’ The make-up artist popped her head around the door and gave Imogen a friendly smile.

‘Much more,’ Calvary surmised, watching as Yasmin’s D&G clad behind swished provocatively from the room.