Chelsea Wives. Anna-Lou Weatherley

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      CHAPTER 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Sebastian smiled, eyeing his friend with expertly concealed disdain.

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

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

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

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

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

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