ANNA-LOU WEATHERLEY
Chelsea Wives

For Alan

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Our Three Heroines

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

An interview with Anna-Lou Weatherley

Anna-Lou’s Guide to the King’s Road

Author Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Our Three Heroines

Imogen Forbes

Ah, the beautiful, effortlessly chic and smart ex-model who looks like she’s stepped straight out of the pages of Vogue and who once had the fashion world at her Louboutin-clad feet. Imogen’s bright light has been hidden under a bushel for too long thanks to her jealous, possessive, control-freak of a husband, Sebastian who’s hell bent on keeping her all to himself – and firmly out of the spotlight at any cost.

When she discovers her husband’s cruel skulduggery has scuppered her chances of a successful career comeback however, Imogen takes matters into her own hands and with the unwitting help of her friends, Calvary Rothschild and Yasmin-Belmont Jones, plots her cunning revenge against the despotic, power-crazed man she regrets ever marrying.

Only it’s not just her malicious husband she has to worry about; her past is creeping up on her too, namely in the form of a man she once loved. A man she has never stopped loving…

Calvary Rothschild

Rampant social climber and fashion maven extraordinaire, ex-fashion magazine editor Calvary is a stylish aristocrat desperate to keep up appearances - whatever the cost. Thanks to her adulterous, philandering husband Douglas, who can’t seem to keep it in his trousers however, it’s proving to be a little tricky.

Having spent years turning a blind eye his latest, most sordid affair is the final straw and this time she vows to take action. Only divorcing him would mean losing all her vast privileges as a society wife, something Calvary can’t even begin to reconcile herself with.

Desperate and unhappy, relief comes in the form of an unlikely admirer and when presented with the chance to play her part in her friend’s bid for revenge, Calvary seizes the opportunity to stich her own husband up in the process. But can she get her own back on a man who has spent years humiliating her without losing it all, or will Douglas have the last laugh?

Yasmin Belmont-Jones

The young, brash and surgically enhanced wife of the bloated, unsavoury old Lord Belmont, Yasmin Jones, a paparazzi’s dream, may be sailing dangerously close to WAG territory and ostracised by the London society set for being nouveau riche but frankly she couldn’t give a damn – she has all the designer clothes, bags, and champagne a girl could wish.

Besides, it’s not Belmont’s money she’s really interested in. A dark, sinister secret and need for revenge has brought her into the Chelsea fold and Belmont’s bed – and now it’s pay-back time. It soon becomes apparent to the gossip mongers of SW3 that there’s more to Yasmin Belmont-Jones than just a gold-digger in a designer dress – much more….

PROLOGUE

Detective Inspector Mitch McLaren glanced around the magnificent library, casually perusing the literature that was neatly stacked inside the antique wooden bookcases. The fact that he had been kept waiting seemed to irk him more than usual, so much so that he had helped himself to a cheeky nip of cognac from a decanter on the sideboard. Something told him he was going to need it.

You could tell a lot about a person by the books they owned, he thought, as he threw back the cognac in one hit. Somehow he hadn’t had Sebastian Forbes down as a Jane Austen man. Must be his wife’s, he thought, smiling as he came across Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Exhaling softly as he pulled it from the shelf, it immediately evoked a strong memory of her; her long, dark hair, shyly falling over her face like a silk curtain as she pretended not to notice him looking at her …

‘Detective Inspector McLaren?’ Sebastian Forbes’s clipped tones sliced through Mitch’s thoughts with all the subtlety of an axe as he stormed into the library, his face a crimson colour, veins protruding in his neck in what looked like protest.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch said, his hand outstretched in greeting.

Sebastian did not take it.

‘The Commissioner said you’re the best he’s got,’ Sebastian said, matter of fact, casting the Inspector a rather disdainful glance. ‘Well, I hope for your sake he’s right because I want this case solved pronto, do you understand me, Inspector? I said pronto.’ Sebastian poured himself an extra large champagne cognac and threw it back without offering Mitch one.

‘It’s a fucking disaster, that’s what this is,’ he growled, pulling his lips over his teeth as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. ‘That diamond is worth more than the national debt, and somehow those bastards knew exactly how to get inside my bank and get their thieving hands on it.’ Sebastian was incandescent, his hands shaking with rage. ‘I want them found, Inspector. I want you to find the scum that did this and I want you to throw the bloody book at them, do you hear me?’

Mitch watched Forbes carefully. It was immediately obvious that the man was a tyrant. It was written right through him like a stick of Blackpool rock. He hadn’t even asked about the unfortunate security guard, currently fighting for his life in hospital.

‘Mr Forbes, I need to ask you a few questions if that’s OK.’ Mitch cleared his throat. ‘Questions you might find impertinent, but are necessary nonetheless.’

Sebastian didn’t care much for the DI’s abruptness but given the circumstances had little choice but to comply.

‘You say you were the only one who knew the codes to the security system, that is right isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Sebastian snapped back, the irritation in his voice tangible. ‘I changed the codes myself, a few hours before leaving to catch the plane. Look,’ he said tightly, ‘that system is infallible, Inspector; it’s one of a kind, pioneering technology from America which I helped create.’ He thumped his chest, indignant. ‘Only I knew the codes to gain access to the vault and only I have access to the room where the diamond was kept. The Interlocking System has an in-built scanner that relies on facial recognition. My face, Inspector, is the key that unlocks it.’

‘Is there somewhere I can play this?’ Mitch asked, producing a CD from his inside pocket. ‘I think it might be of some interest to you,’ he said as Sebastian nodded towards the flat-screen on the wall. ‘It’s CCTV footage taken from last night. I want you to look carefully at it, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch instructed him. ‘Tell me if you recognise any of the men.’

Sebastian downed another cognac, squinting at the images as they came into view.

‘Good … good God …’ he said after a moment, taking a step back in alarm, pointing at the screen in shock and confusion. ‘That man … it’s … it’s me! But … it isn’t me … that’s impossible. I told you, I was on a plane to Rio last night. I was on a goddamn plane!’ Sebastian’s voice was high-pitched in protest. ‘Surely you’re not stupid enough to think this really is me? A hundred or more people can vouch for me!’

Mitch nodded. ‘We will have to check all your alibis, of course,’ he said with an even smile.

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Sebastian slammed his glass down onto the antique desk with such force that it was testament to the quality of the crystal that it didn’t break.

‘I’m going to need to speak to your wife, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch said after a moment’s pause. ‘Ask her a few questions, if that’s OK.’

Sebastian looked up.

‘My wife?’

‘It’s merely a formality,’ he reassured him.

Sebastian sighed heavily, his temper dissolving into self-pity.

‘As you wish. Though I can’t imagine she’ll be of much help.’ He picked up the internal line. ‘Jalena, ask Mrs Forbes to come down to the library immediately will you? What? I don’t care if she’s still sleeping, goddamn it, this is important!’ he bellowed, slamming the telephone down.

Muttering under his breath, Sebastian reached for the cognac decanter once more, this time having the decency to pour the Inspector one.

Accepting it, Mitch turned away from him and wandered towards the bay window, looking out onto the pristine terrace at the pruned topiary and expensive Lloyd Loom furniture.

He was still looking out of the window, cognac in hand, as he heard the door to the library open. It was only as he slowly turned round that he felt the glass suddenly slip from his fingers and his heart stop dead.

CHAPTER 1

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?

CHAPTER 2

‘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.

CHAPTER 3

Standing in front of the well-lit mirror in the ladies’ room at Daphne’s, Cressida Lucas saw the reflection of a woman for whom youth was now a distant memory. Though her recent appointment with the surgeon’s knife had undeniably worked miracles it was safe to say that, physically speaking, her best days were behind her.

How beauty is wasted on the young, she thought, eyeing the two attractive twenty-somethings who were fixing their lip gloss in the mirror and spritzing themselves with Coco Mademoiselle. Before they know it, they’ll wake up to fifty with their tits round their waists wondering what the hell had happened to their lives, she thought bitterly.

Cressida slunk into a cubicle, pulled out a snuff box filled with cocaine from her quilted Chanel handbag and heaped some of the fine white powder onto the tiny silver spoon that was inside. Once she was convinced she was alone, she took a deep sniff, waiting a few seconds to allow the familiar warm rush to hit her bloodstream.

Despite her full and varied life, not having had enough sex in her twenties was one of the things Cressida regretted most. Back then, when she’d been beautiful and smooth-skinned with no cellulite and thread veins to think of, she’d been too bloody preoccupied with proving herself in a man’s world to waste time on sex – far too distracting. Besides, she didn’t need to suck some executive’s dick to claw her way to the top. Now however, Cressida was beginning to wonder just how much more fun it would have been if she had.

Leaning back against the cubicle wall, she let out a small sigh and, impervious to the blatant ‘NO SMOKING’ sign, lit a pink Sobranie cocktail cigarette and inhaled deeply. Hers had been a life of such extremes; incredible highs and soul-destroying lows. She had achieved more in her fifty years on the planet than ten women her age had put together. But lately, Cressida had caught herself wondering what life might’ve been like if she’d never possessed such single-minded ambition and drive; what it would’ve been like to have a family, to be a wife and mother. And these were not the only thoughts keeping her awake at night. With her divorce settlement funds dwindling, the equity on her various properties ploughed into her ailing business, not to mention a wildly extravagant lifestyle to support, Cressida found herself in dire financial straits and once again needed a miracle (or a rich man) to get her out of it.

Spooning a little more powder up her left nostril, she knew she would have to play this one very carefully indeed if she was to get the result she needed. It would require delicacy and tact; there could be no room for error. With her momentary lapse of confidence masked by the cocaine rush, she exited the cubicle, smoothed down her Chanel pencil skirt, and took a deep breath. It was show time.

*

‘Darling …’ Cressida stood up from the table with her arms outstretched. She hugged Imogen tightly, air-kissing both cheeks. ‘Let me look at you,’ she gushed, grasping both her hands and standing back to survey her. ‘You’re just as beautiful as I remember.’

Imogen gave her old friend a warm smile. ‘You look wonderful too, Cress,’ she said, getting a waft of Cressida’s signature scent as she released herself from her grip. She had certainly not lost any of her inimitable presence, even if she had maintained a distinct 80s whiff about her.

‘So, what have you been doing in the last fifteen or so years?’ Imogen said with a friendly dose of irony as she pulled the shabby chic rattan chair from the table and slipped into it.

‘Love the Zagliani, darls,’ Cressida gasped, eyeing the oversized purple python bag Imogen was carrying with approval.

‘Thanks,’ Imogen smiled, giving it a little squeeze. ‘It’s been treated with Botox, can you believe it?’

‘Who hasn’t, darling?’ Cressida threw her head back and let out her familiar throaty laugh.

She took a sip of her San Pellegrino, watching Imogen from over the rim of her glass. She had hardly changed in fifteen years, she thought. Her complexion remained untarnished by age, her hair still thick and lustrous, though much longer than the short, androgynous elfin crop that had made all the fashion editors quiver back in the day. Her lips were still full and fleshy, her smile dazzling and infectious. Of course, she had aged a little in that indefinable way people do, but at thirty-six years old she had maintained an air of youth about her that most women would sell a kidney for.

A waiter approached the table.

‘Give us five, Marcello, there’s a poppet,’ Cressida cooed, watching his tight arse as it wiggled off to the next table. She turned her attentions back to Imogen.

‘So, darling, I want to know everything. Work, life, love … the whole shebang.’ She was disappointed to note that the plain platinum wedding band was still very much on Imogen’s finger. ‘How’s Sebastian?’ she asked tightly.

Sebastian Forbes the man who had killed her protégée’s career stone dead with his controlling demands and ultimatums, forcing Imogen to choose between motherhood and marriage and modelling, cutting short her meteoric rise to stardom and taking her biggest cash cow with him.

If only Imogen and Sebastian had never met, thought Cressida bitterly. She could have been the most successful, fabulous model that had ever lived; forget your Twiggys and your Shrimptons, your Campbells and your Mosses, Imogen Lennard (as she was then) could’ve cleaned up, and moreover, so could she.

‘Seb’s … well, Seb’s still Seb,’ Imogen shrugged almost apologetically. Cressida had never made her dislike for her husband a secret. ‘Bryony is thirteen now,’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. ‘She’s so grown up, Cress, you wouldn’t recognise her.’

Bryony Forbes attended the highly respected Mont-Fleuri Swiss boarding school in Montreux and it had been eight weeks, though it felt like eight months, since Imogen had last seen her daughter, something that caused a lump as hard as granite to form in her throat whenever she thought of it. She hated being apart from her beautiful, sweetly shy Bryony who was so much like she had been at that age; gangly and awkward, yet to grow into her own skin, but Seb had insisted she must receive the best education money could buy, even if that education happened to be hundreds of miles away from her family.

‘If she’s inherited your looks darling, I’ll get her signed on the spot,’ Cressida said in all seriousness.

‘As if Seb would ever allow it! Anyway, she’s far too busy trying to save the planet and the plight of the African elephant at the moment.’

‘Ah, beauty with a conscience, a devastating combination,’ Cressida smiled. ‘Listen, darling,’ she began, feeling the sudden need to get to the point, ‘the reason I’ve asked you here … well, it was for business reasons as well as pleasure.’

Imogen clutched her chest, mock wounded.

‘And there I was thinking you just missed me after all this time.’

Cressida smiled. She was glad to see that being married to such a controlling dullard all these years hadn’t completely robbed Imogen of her sense of humour.

‘It’s L’Orelie,’ she said, suddenly leaning in closer. ‘They’re looking for someone to become the face of their fab new make-up range for the forty-plus market. It’s top secret though, poppet – you know what a competitive business the beauty industry is. It’s an absolutely fucking huge contract. We’re talking national and international campaigns, billboards, TV ads, the whole goddamn enchilada.’

Imogen placed her starchy white napkin over her lap and tried not to look as excited as she suddenly felt.

‘I’m not entirely sure how your name was thrown into the ring,’ Cressida tore up a bread roll and continued, ‘but out of the blue I get a call from Lorraine Harlech, the CEO, asking if I still had contact with you and if you’d be interested in testing for the campaign. Apparently she was flicking through an old copy of Vogue, saw you and wondered what had happened to such a beautiful rising star after all these years. She asked me to track you down and sound you out. That’s about the size of it, really,’ Cressida concluded. ‘Oh, that and you stand to make yourself a very rich woman in your own right, if you agree that is,’ she added poignantly. ‘So, darling,’ she drew breath and looked at Imogen expectantly, ‘tell Mummy what you’re thinking.’

Stunned, Imogen took a swig of water, wishing she had ordered something stronger.

‘Well, I, me … modelling again. I don’t know, Cress. I’m thirty-six now and …’

‘Thirties are the new twenties!’ Cressida interjected, sensing her reticence. ‘Everyone wants the thirty-somethings nowadays. It’s the market with the most cash to spend.’

Imogen shook her head.

‘I’m not even sure I’ve got what it takes anymore.’ She felt her heart pounding loudly inside her chest and hoped that Cressida could not hear it.

‘Nonsense,’ Cressida snapped dismissively. ‘Darling, listen to me. You were the best back in the day, a born natural in front of the camera. You owned it. I know as well as you do that you weren’t ready to leave the modelling world when you did and this is your chance at another shot. Oh, come on, Ims, offers like this hardly come by every day as well you know. What do you say?’ She cocked her head to one side and held her breath.

Imogen looked up from the table.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Cress,’ she eventually said. ‘I’m different now. I’m not that girl you found at the train station. My life’s changed. I’ve changed.’

Cressida felt the first flutters of panic settle on her intestines. She knew that if she could just get Imogen to test she would win the job hands down, just like she always used to, and then all her problems would be solved. She had to get her to agree.

‘If this is about Seb …’

‘No, no,’ Imogen shook her head. ‘It’s not Seb.’

But it was Seb, partly at least. Imogen knew he would unequivocally hate the idea, that he would forbid her to do it and she was not sure she had the strength for another war between them.

‘Then what is it?’ Cressida asked, the softness in her voice masking desperation. ‘This is a golden opportunity, darling, the sort the likes of Cindy Crawford would cut her mole off for.’

‘I can’t even begin to tell you how flattered I am to be asked but I just don’t think I can do it. I’m not a model anymore. Those days are gone, Cress. I’m sorry.’

Cressida placed her glass down carefully. It was not something she had wanted to do but backed into a corner like this, she was left with little choice. It was time to revert to Plan B.

‘It’s OK, darling, I understand.’ Cressida slid her hand across the table and placed it on Imogen’s. ‘I’m disappointed, naturally. After all, you were my first big star. I had hoped you might be my last and that I might go out on a high note.’

‘Go out on a high note? Don’t tell me you’re planning to retire?’

Cressida lowered her eyes dramatically.

‘Something like that.’

Now it was Imogen’s turn to feel a flutter of panic.

‘Listen, darling,’ Cressida said, fixing her with an earnest stare. ‘What I’m about to say, well, I don’t want any fuss or tears, promise me now.’ Imogen’s mouth suddenly felt dry.

‘You’re scaring me,’ Imogen said, taking a sip of her San Pellegrino.

Cressida met her eyes with a doleful expression.

‘Well, it’s my doctor,’ she began, her voice a crackling whisper. ‘Gorgeous thing he is, young Asian chap with lovely teeth,’ she said, twisting her napkin nervously. ‘He says I’ve got the big C …’

Imogen felt her heart miss a beat.

‘The big C?’

‘Yes, darling, you know, cancer. Apparently, I’m riddled with the damn stuff. I’m afraid there’s nothing they can do.’

Imogen gasped. They may have been estranged for some years, but this made the news no less shocking.

‘Please don’t cry, darling, you’ll set me off,’ Cressida said, reaching her hand across the table and welling up herself. It was easy to cry. All she need do was think about the imminent repossession of her Mayfair pied-à-terre.

‘Oh God, cancer.’ Imogen fought back tears. ‘How long have you known?’

‘About two months,’ Cressida said gently. ‘Since then I’ve been trying to live life to the full, darling. You know the usual clichés, travel a bit, see a few sights, achieve some goals before it’s a wrap and I head to the giant Prada store in the sky.’ Cressida let out a bitter laugh.

‘Don’t joke,’ Imogen said, shaking her head. She couldn’t bear it.

Cressida sighed deeply.

‘The fact is, my name’s down on heaven’s guest list and I’m going in. That’s all there is to it.’

Cressida watched as a lone grey tear ran the length of her former protégée’s beautiful face and thought how she would burn on a pyre for this one.

‘How long?’ Imogen asked, her voice cracking like glass.

‘They can’t say exactly,’ Cressida replied, dabbing at Imogen’s tears with her napkin in motherly concern. ‘A few months maybe … who knows?’

Imogen almost knocked her bread plate from the table.

‘Oh no, Cressie, no!’ She began to sob into the white linen napkin. ‘But treatment … there must be something … anything they can do!’

‘Come on now, darling, it’s OK, it’s OK,’ Cressida soothed. ‘Look, I’m so sorry to have sprung it on you like this, but when the call from L’Orelie came I thought, well, this is it, one last chance for us to work our magic together.’ She paused for effect. ‘But I appreciate your life has moved on. They say it’s never a good idea to go backwards anyway, darling. Who needs a reminder of their past when they have a future? If they’re lucky enough to have a future, that is.’ Cressida added, wondering if she was beginning to lay it on a little too thick.

She glanced at Imogen who looked to be in thought from across the table.

‘I’ll do it,’ she said after a moment’s pause. ‘I’ll test for the L’Orelie campaign. You’ve been like a second mother to me in the past and, well, it’s the least I can do.’

Cressida felt her batteries recharging.

‘I prefer sister,’ Cressida bristled good-humouredly. ‘But what about Seb?’ she enquired, careful to mask her sense of relief.

Imogen shrugged. ‘Screw Seb. Seb can deal with it. I owe you, Cress.’

‘Really, darling, you’ll do it for me?’ Caught up in the drama of it all, Cressida found herself welling up for real. She squeezed Imogen’s hand tightly and let out a little squeal. ‘It’ll be just like the old days again, darling,’ she said, eyes shining victoriously. ‘You really don’t know how much this means to me. Let’s order a bottle of fizz to celebrate.’ Cressida waved her hand in the air. ‘Marcello darling, a bottle of vintage Krug please … nice and chilled. We’re celebrating.’

‘Very good, Ms Lucas,’ he nodded obligingly.

‘I’m sorry, Cress,’ Imogen explained, ‘I can’t stay for champagne. I’ve got to be somewhere this afternoon and I’m driving.’ It felt somehow wrong to celebrate after what she’d just been told.

Cressida pouted.

‘Ah well, not to worry, poppet. The test shoot takes place next week in LA. Can you get away?’

Imogen nodded. ‘Leave it with me.’

‘I’ll call you with all the itinerary, flights, hotels etcetera …’

Imogen stood to leave.

‘I hope you don’t mind if I head off. The sooner I get back, the sooner I can square it all with Seb. I promise I’ll celebrate with you properly in LA. We’ll stay at the Chateaux Marmont, get trashed on cocktails, like we used to …’ her voice trailed off, sadly.

Cressida nodded, understanding.

‘You’ve saved my life by agreeing to this shoot. That’s more than enough for me.’ She looked up at Imogen’s dark, soulful eyes and her full lips, which were fixed in a pensive half smile and felt a hideous flash of guilt at deceiving her.

‘If only it were that easy,’ Imogen said, leaning in and wrapping her arms tightly around her old friend. ‘I’m here for you,’ she choked, inhaling her familiar scent deeply. ‘Till the end.’

‘I’ll call you,’ Cressida said as she watched Imogen leave the restaurant, her silky chestnut hair glimmering in the sunlight. She still had the fabulous strut, she thought as she watched her walk towards the door.

CHAPTER 4

Yasmin Belmont-Jones stretched a long, toned leg high up into the air, sighed and signalled for a crew member to come and refill her empty champagne flute.

A young, attractive deckhand duly made his way over and tried not to stare at her bronzed, firm breasts, which were proudly on display. She adjusted the ties of her Missoni bikini and tightened her matching headscarf, aware of his chaste attempts not to stare, deliberately teasing him. Go on, I dare you, she thought as she twisted her body slightly towards him affording him a better view, get a load of these babies. She watched him intently as he poured the champagne into a fresh, ice-cold crystal flute and did his best to refrain from making eye contact. He could tell this one had trouble written all over her.

Yasmin peered over her giant dark Dior sunglasses and surveyed the surrounding view with a deep sense of satisfaction. The Magus really was the most stunning boat she could have ever imagined; four polished-wood decks of luxurious, elegant living all on one state of the art 170 foot-long motor yacht. The impressive vessel boasted its own seaplane, a crew of seventeen, a heated top deck Jacuzzi, a freshwater swimming pool, twelve beautifully appointed guest suites and an exotic master suite apartment filled with antiques, embroidered silk fabrics and plush overstuffed furniture. Though he owned a rather impressive (albeit more modest) boat himself, The Magus did not belong to Lord Jeremy Belmont, rather he had won a week’s possession from his billionaire Greek shipping magnate friend, Demiris, in an exceptionally well-executed game of poker, and Yasmin Jones was determined to enjoy everything the boat had to offer.

‘Is there anything else, my lady?’ the blonde, blue-eyed deckhand asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, taking a long sip of the cool, dry liquid. ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’

He looked at her for the first time, careful to keep his eyes firmly on her neck.

‘I need you to rub some oil into my back. My husband’s taking a nap, you see, and I don’t want to burn.’

He hesitated.

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, peering at him from over the top of her shades, enjoying his sense of unease.

He swallowed dryly. There was nothing he would like more than to get his hands all over her naked flesh; after all she was a total fox and clearly gagging for it. But what about the husband? He could come lumbering up the stairs at any minute and catch them. It would almost certainly cost him his job, a job he enjoyed almost as much as he needed. He sensed, however, that the ‘Lady’ stretched out in front of him was not about to take no for an answer.

‘No problem, Lady Belmont,’ he said, thinking how they were all the same, these gold-diggers who married rich men. In time, they all grew bored of spending their husband’s money and instead searched for their thrills elsewhere.

She looked up at him, her glossy lips glimmering and he imagined them around his cock.

‘Forget it,’ she said dismissively, her tone suddenly switching from flirtatious to cold in an instant. ‘That’s all, thank you.’ He hesitated for a moment, confused by her sudden turnaround. Cock-teasing bitch, he thought as he walked away, his hard-on rapidly diminishing. If he ever did get the chance to fuck her he’d make sure the pleasure would be all his.

Yasmin took another generous sip of champagne and exhaled. She stared out towards the cobalt blue Aegean Sea stretched out in front of her, mesmerised by the sunlight dancing on the ocean’s surface.

It seemed incredible to think that less than eighteen months ago Yasmin Belmont-Jones had been plain old Stacey Jones, a nobody struggling to pay the rent on her poky one bedroom flat in Croydon, South London. What’s more, when she thought about it, getting there had been far easier than she could ever have imagined.

Though Yasmin’s rise from rags to riches appeared meteoric on the surface, every detail had to be meticulously researched to ensure success. Such patience and dedication had ultimately paid off though because so far, Stacey Jones had fooled everyone.

A small, slow smile crept across her lips as she sucked deeply on her thin Vogue cigarette. A waiter appeared.

‘Lunch will be served shortly, Lady Belmont,’ he said. ‘Lord Belmont has requested that you join him on the lower deck in half an hour.’

Yasmin smiled, acknowledging his message without making eye contact.

She knew what the crew were thinking the moment she had set a French pedicured foot on board The Magus; there could only be one reason why a young, attractive woman like her could possibly be with a man like Belmont. It suited Yasmin for them to think she was little more than a gold-digging opportunist. That she could handle.

Yasmin padded barefoot across the polished deck to the edge of the boat and looked out onto the crystal blue water. The sea was as still as a pond and its tranquillity instilled a momentary calmness within her. But it was short-lived and soon replaced by a more familiar feeling of self-doubt. Since the wedding, the press had begun to show an inordinate amount of interest in her personal life. They wouldn’t have to dig too deep to uncover her true provenance.

‘Give me strength, Chloe,’ she said in soft prayer. ‘I’m doing this for you. Stay with me … stay with me.’

‘Ah, there you are, my darling.’ Lord Belmont lumbered up the last few steps to the top deck, panting and wheezing like an old boiler on its last knockings.

Yasmin spun round, startled, her thoughts interrupted.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘I thought you were sleeping.’

‘Mmm,’ he nuzzled his face into the back of her neck. ‘I managed an hour or so. But then I missed you.’ He pressed his bulk against her, willing her to feel his semi-erection. He had woken with the most impressive hard-on he’d had in years and was desperate to make good use of it.

Jeremy let his plump fingers wander up towards his wife’s new breasts. She did not resist. From experience, she knew it was best to let him get on with it. Besides, it would all be over in a matter of minutes.

He untied the sides of her Missoni bikini and let them slip to the floor, wasting no time as he thrust himself into her, his hands gripping and squeezing at her breasts. Yasmin continued to stare out onto the horizon. Her face expressionless, her mind detached from her body as he pumped away at her from behind.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ he wheezed into Yasmin’s ear, panting heavily. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it, you little minx. Let daddy show you …’ His voice began to crack, signalling that he was on the edge of orgasm. Jesus, it could’ve only been 60 seconds or so, a record even for him.

Yasmin knew what to do to finish the job.

‘Ah yes, yes, oooh, daddy, yes … show me, daddy, show me what a filthy little bitch I am …’ She smiled wryly, her eyes glazed and focused on the horizon as he groaned and coughed into climax.

‘Jesus!’ Yasmin screamed, suddenly pulling away from her husband. She ran to the edge of the boat, still naked save for a pair of ridiculously high Louboutin sandals.

‘What is it, darling?’ Belmont said, concerned, his pathetic erection withering to nothing almost instantly.

‘I saw flashes,’ Yasmin said, pointing towards the rocks. ‘Camera flashes over there.’

‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ Belmont said, alarmed. ‘The press, they must have followed us here.’

‘Oh Jeremy.’ Yasmin bit her lip, her voice thick with panic. ‘What if they’ve seen us?’

‘Put some clothes on,’ Belmont barked. ‘I’m going to get the binoculars and a bloody great shotgun!’ As he disappeared below deck, Yasmin reached for her phone inside her Gucci raffia beach tote.

‘Did you get them?’ she hissed.

‘Yes. I got them,’ the gruff voice replied. ‘And might I say you are one fit looking lady.’

‘Save it,’ Yasmin remarked. ‘Now stay where you are. He’s gone to get a gun. But don’t worry,’ she smiled cruelly, ‘I won’t let him kill you. Just do and say what we agreed and you’ll get your reward, OK?’

‘Whatever you say, my lady,’ the man said sarcastically.

Yasmin smiled triumphantly to herself as she threw her phone back into her bag. She did so love it when a plan came together.

CHAPTER 5

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.

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