Chelsea Wives

‘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?’