Chelsea Wives

‘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.