Chelsea Wives

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘How are you feeling, darling?’ Calvary asked earnestly. ‘Nervous about the eulogy?’

  ‘Nervous?’ Imogen spluttered. ‘That’s the understatement of the century. My guts are in knots, Cal. I feel sick. I’m really not sure I can do it, not in front of all these people.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ Calvary said in that dismissive way of hers that stopped short of telling you to pull yourself together. ‘Of course you can do it, can’t she, Yasmin?’ Calvary briefly turned to her for confirmation.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Yasmin nodded. ‘Of course. It’ll be fine,’ she smiled weakly at Imogen as she remembered her own sister’s eulogy all those years ago. She had cried all the way through her speech, great heart-wrenching sobs that had echoed around the rundown old church. Just thinking about it turned her mood black.

  ‘Thank you,’ Imogen smiled gratefully at Yasmin, taking the tips of her long, French manicured fingers briefly in her own. The press may have portrayed the new Lady Belmont in a less than favourable light, calling her a cold, gold-digging opportunist, but Imogen had seen flashes of a kind and generous soul on the occasions they had met, which made her think they had misjudged her. ‘I realise you’ve only come here today to support me,’ she addressed Yasmin with a grateful smile, ‘and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.’

  Yasmin swallowed back a pang of guilt.

  Taking a nervous seat, Imogen began going over the speech she had prepared for today’s service in her mind. Only she was distracted by a conversation taking place between two women in front of her.

  ‘You know, I heard that she was going under financially …’ one of the women whispered a little too loudly.

  ‘Who? Cressida Lucas? Really?’ the other replied conspiratorially, shuffling in closer towards her.

  ‘Uh-huh. Bailiffs at the door of her Mayfair apartment and everything. Died in debt by all accounts.’

  The woman tutted and shook her head.

  ‘How positively awful.’

  ‘I heard she was in the red to the tune of at least five mil.’

  The other woman whistled.

  ‘Bet she’s glad she’s dead. I mean, who’d want to live with the shame of having their assets repossessed?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘At least this way her debt is automatically written off, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t ask me how it all works, darling. I know nothing about money, other than how to spend it!’

  They both began to laugh then, and Imogen cleared her throat loudly, causing the two women to turn round and look at her sheepishly.

  Imogen was hardly surprised by what she’d overheard. Cressida had lurched from one financial crisis to another her whole life. But being the resourceful woman she was, or at least had been, she had always found a way out of it.

  Imogen smoothed out the creases in her dress and sighed. She had worn a scarlet Chanel shift today in Cressida’s honour, teamed with black studded leather gloves and sky-high Louboutin platform pumps. Cressida would have wanted a splash of colour. She’d always hated black.

  As she stepped up to the pulpit, Imogen’s legs almost buckled beneath her. Clearing her throat, she took a deep breath as she looked out at the sea of people, suddenly wishing she’d had a stiff vodka cocktail to take the edge off her nerves.

  ‘The day I met Cressie – as she was known to me – was the day my life changed forever …’

  As Imogen began her speech, Sammie Grainger slipped inside the church and scanned the vast congregation. She had never seen so many celebrities all in one room together before and felt a small frisson of excitement. Spotting Yasmin Belmont, she made her way over and sat down beside Calvary, who turned to look her up and down like she was something the cat had dragged in.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Calvary hissed. ‘I thought Hello! had the monopoly on today.’

  ‘I’m here for the canapés and champagne at Claridge’s afterwards,’ Sammie quipped.

  ‘Hmm, I’ll bet you are!’ Calvary retorted.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sammie watched Yasmin Belmont-Jones surreptitiously.

  Those icy blue eyes and that distinctive upturned nose. She looked so familiar, it was like that elusive word on the tip of your tongue.

  *

  ‘That was wonderful,’ a young, attractive Asian man congratulated Imogen as she stepped down from the pulpit to rapturous applause. ‘Really wonderful. Cressida would’ve been so touched.’

  ‘You think so? Oh, thank you,’ Imogen said, exhaling loudly. She was glad it was over. It had been such an honour to be asked to speak at the service but her nerves were shot to pieces and she needed a drink.

  ‘It’s Imogen, isn’t it? Imogen Forbes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled, shaking the man’s hand.

  ‘Well, I thought you captured Cressida’s essence perfectly,’ he reassured her. ‘And I know she thought the world of you. She talked about you a lot, especially recently. Said you were about to “go massive” again, or something, though I assume she meant your career and not you personally.’ He laughed, inwardly cursed himself. Why did he always have to make a prick of himself in front of attractive women by putting his great big size elevens in his mouth?

  Imogen smiled modestly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  The man shook his head in consternation.

  ‘Please forgive me,’ he apologised, finally releasing her hand. ‘The name’s Metesh Ali. Doctor Metesh Ali.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Imogen smiled in recognition. The handsome young doctor who had broken the bad news.

  ‘Cressida mentioned you.’

  ‘She did?’

  Dr Ali looked genuinely delighted at this revelation.

  ‘Yes. When she told me about the whole horrible cancer business.’ Imogen lowered her voice. ‘I didn’t mention it in the speech of course, I know Cressida wanted it kept a secret. She would’ve hated any kind of pity.’

  Dr Ali blinked at Imogen, a blank expression on his face.

  ‘Cancer business?’

  ‘Yes,’ she returned his quizzical look with one of her own. ‘I don’t think I could’ve faced watching her die of such a horrible disease. I mean, I know she only had months to go, so perhaps, thanks to some sort of twisted fate, it was better this way – quicker and more dignified at least.’

  Dr Ali pulled his head into his chin.

  ‘Months to go?’ he said, brow furrowed. ‘I assure you, she was in perfect health at her last full check-up just a few weeks ago. Passed her MOT – as she called it – with flying colours,’ he chuckled. ‘There was definitely no cancer.’

  Imogen felt her heartbeat accelerate. What was he talking about?

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ the doctor said, watching the colour drain from Imogen’s face, wondering if this extremely beautiful woman in front of him was all the ticket. Grief could do some truly odd things to people, he’d seen it happen.

  ‘Yes. You’re right. My mistake.’ She composed herself. ‘Please excuse me, Dr Ali. It was very nice chatting with you.’

  He watched her as she strutted off, a vision in red, her long legs striding purposefully away from him. Beautiful, he thought. Mad as a March hare, but utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.

  Claridge’s was perfect. Just what Cressida would’ve wanted, Imogen thought as she watched the congregation in all its sartorial glory sipping Veuve Clicquot and nibbling on canapés as they mingled and tried not to smile too much.

  As she gulped back her fourth glass of champagne, desperately trying to blot out the conversation she’d had with Dr Ali, Imogen scoured her racing mind for a justifiable reason as to why Cressida might possibly have told such an abhorrent lie. And then it had struck her like a wayward freight train, the full force of the realisation almost physically knocking her backwards onto the banquette.

  When Cressida had initially asked her to test for the shoot, Imogen had been adamant that she had no desire to return to mo
delling. And so Cressida, presumably in desperation, had spun her a terrible lie to get her out of her financial woes. After all, how could Imogen have refused her after that bombshell?

  Draining her champagne flute, she swiped another from a passing waiter and threw it back. It was all starting to make much more sense. She did not know why she was so shocked. After all, Cressida Lucas was one of life’s survivors. She’d resort to anything to haul her sorry ass from the doldrums. Though she had really scraped the barrel this time. Imogen felt nauseous with a mix of anger and despair. Cressida must’ve really been on the bones of her backside to have lied in such a despicable way, yet still it was pretty unforgivable.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Yasmin watched Imogen knock back the champagne and, noting her pained expression, willed the stab of pity she felt in her ribs to subside.

  Making friends had never been part of her plan. Yet seeing the look of despair on Imogen’s face had made her want to go to her and comfort her, as a friend would. Yasmin, above all people, knew all about losing someone you loved. The desperate emptiness they left behind, like a hole in your heart, and the need to blot it all out with anything that could help numb the pain.

  ‘Get me out of here, Cal,’ Imogen said as she approached them through the crowd, her eyes a bloodshot red to match her dress. ‘I can’t face it. I think I just need to be alone … all these people …’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Calvary discarded her glass instantly and gently led her friend away from the congregation. ‘I’ll arrange for my driver to take you home, darling, it’ll be OK,’ she comforted her. ‘It’s been a difficult day.’

  Yasmin followed them outside and watched as Calvary poured a tipsy and emotional Imogen into an awaiting chauffeur-driven Bentley. She imagined concern would be etched on Calvary’s brow, if only she could move it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cal.’ Imogen sniffed back the tears she could no longer contain, her mascara-smudged face finally giving way to her conflicting emotions.

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Calvary crouched down and wrapped her arms tightly around her friend. ‘You have nothing to be sorry about, nothing at all,’ she said, kissing the top of her head like a child.

  Yasmin couldn’t help but be touched by the scene in front of her. A part of her even felt a pang of jealousy. She had never experienced friendship on such a deep level herself, choosing instead to keep her distance from people, cutting them off before they got too close. To let someone in meant to trust them and Yasmin trusted no one. As far as she was concerned, it was better that way.

  As the Bentley pulled away, taking Imogen with it, Yasmin turned to a concerned looking Calvary.

  ‘Will she be OK?’ she found herself asking.

  ‘Of course,’ Calvary said, her face softening into a genuine smile. ‘She’s got her friends to help her through her grief – us,’ she added.

  Yasmin nodded, part elated and part horrified at being included in that statement.

  ‘Right then,’ Calvary snapped back to her usual brusque, no-nonsense manner. ‘Let’s go back inside and see if we can’t get up a few of these ghastly people’s noses, shall we?’

  She took Yasmin’s arm and linked it proprietarily in her own.

  ‘Lead the way,’ Yasmin said, suddenly grateful that she was there.

  ‘No please, after you,’ Calvary remarked with trademark dryness. ‘After all, ladies first.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Taking her dogs for a stroll through Chelsea, Calvary pulled her Brora cardigan around her like a shield to ward off the light evening chill and bristled. Summer was proving to be one of utter discontent – her marriage was in shreds and she’d already been to one funeral and she sensed she would have to dig deeper than ever before if she was to find the strength to get through it.

  ‘Beluga! Cashmere! Here, girls, here!’ She watched with satisfaction as her beloved Labradors bounded off into the open space of Duke of York Square.

  It was these simple things that made her truly happy; watching her dogs playing as she sat opposite the impressive Saachi Gallery; the strategically placed up-lighting illuminating the trees around her, the sound of foreign voices wafting through the air as people took an evening walk or grabbed a coffee outside Valerie’s Gelateria.

  Calvary lit a Vogue cigarette and watched as the blue smoke curled up into the air around her. Her heart was here, in Chelsea. She knew these streets like she knew her own children; the very pavement she trod felt like her own flesh and blood.

  Douglas could take everything from her; her dignity, her standing in society, her material possessions, but he could never take her beloved Chelsea – for her, Chelsea was the jewel in the city’s decadent crown. Where else could you find fresh bread next to Bottega Veneta?

  ‘Beautiful evening, huh?’

  Calvary spun round, her thoughts rudely interrupted. She had not noticed the young man sitting a few seats down from her on the bench.

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled politely. She really wasn’t in the mood to make small talk to strangers. To talk, full stop.

  ‘I love it here,’ he said. ‘It’s a great place to sit and people watch.’

  Calvary nodded silently, not wanting to encourage him further.

  ‘Or just sit quietly with your thoughts,’ he added, as much to himself as to her.

  ‘Like I was trying to do?’ she retorted, pithily.

  The young man stared ahead of him silently and Calvary berated herself. It was terribly rude of her to have snapped like that. After all, he was only trying to be polite. It wasn’t his fault she was married to such a bastard.

  Beluga began foraging around in a bin, emptying its contents with her cold, wet nose, littering the otherwise pristine square with old McDonald’s drink cartons and yesterday’s evening newspaper. Cashmere sauntered over, eager to join in with her sister’s mischief.

  ‘Beluga! No! Beluga … Cashmere! Come here!’ Calvary called out hoarsely to her dogs.

  ‘Naughty girls!’ The dogs did not even look up. Sighing, Calvary rose to stand but the man next to her began making a whistling sound and within seconds the dogs had bounded over towards him, their tongues hanging out, tails wagging in excited unison behind them.

  ‘Hey, ladies,’ the young man said, stroking their eager heads as they sniffed him affectionately.

  Calvary flashed him a wide-eyed look.

  ‘That’s remarkable,’ she said, impressed. ‘Are you an expert or something?’

  The young man shrugged.

  ‘I just like dogs … and they seem to like me,’ he laughed as Cashmere jumped up onto him and began licking his face.

  ‘So I see!’ Calvary laughed too, a little embarrassed, as she clapped at Cashmere to leave the stranger alone.

  There was a slight pause before Calvary said, ‘I do apologise for being so rude just then.’

  The man turned to face her. She guessed he wasn’t much older than Tom. He had a distinctive face that was warm and inviting, from what she could see of it anyway, most of it was covered by a floppy-fringed hairstyle. ‘That’s OK,’ he said graciously. ‘Sometimes I don’t feel like talking either.’

  Calvary smiled. Though she really did not much feel up to it, talking to someone was probably exactly what she needed right now and he did have such a terribly inviting manner about him.

  ‘Are you local?’ she asked, detecting a slight accent; Australian perhaps?

  ‘Yeah, if you call South Africa local,’ he smiled again, displaying a set of neat white teeth.

  ‘Oh!’ Calvary remarked, a little surprised. ‘Beautiful country. Been there many times.’

  ‘You have?’ He swivelled round a little to face her properly. ‘Whereabouts?’

  There was no going back now, a conversation had ignited and so she resigned herself to it.

  ‘Oh, The Karoo, Cape Town, Johannesburg – a few places.’

  ‘No way!’ The young man stared at her wide-eyed. ‘I’m from Cape Town!’ He looked impressed.


  Calvary gave a modest smile. ‘I’ve shot there, on location. Beautiful place.’

  ‘Films?’ he enquired, his head slightly cocked to one side.

  ‘Fashion shoots,’ she replied, hoping this wouldn’t disappoint him.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, casting an admiring glance in her direction. ‘Of course.’

  ‘So you’re here as a student?’ Calvary asked. She had noticed him staring at her intently and suddenly felt rather self-conscious.

  ‘I make my living as a personal trainer,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ Calvary tried to conceal her surprise. He was the least-looking personal trainer she had ever encountered, though admittedly, it was getting rather dark now and she could not fully inspect his physique hidden beneath all the layers of clothing.

  ‘But really I’m an artist,’ he said, his accent more apparent now that she could place it.

  ‘An artist,’ Calvary nodded. ‘Oh, how marvellous. Graphic or fine?’

  ‘I paint people. There’s more life, more emotion in a face than in anything else on earth.’

  Calvary smiled at this observation.

  ‘So, what can you see in mine?’ she asked, indulging herself.

  ‘Pain,’ he shot back immediately. ‘Anguish. Hurt. Shame – it’s all there,’ he said, matter-of-fact.

  Calvary recoiled in shock. She had no idea it was so plainly obvious.

  ‘Good Lord,’ she responded, unsure whether to take offence or not. ‘You can see all that just by looking at me?’

  The man gave her a wry smile. ‘Josia Jarvis,’ he said, taking her hand and shaking it. His hand felt soft and warm in hers and Calvary felt a little frisson as he released it.

  ‘Calvary Rothschild,’ she murmured in reply, still reeling from his face-reading revelation.

  ‘Wanna talk about it?’ he asked, looking at her and smiling. He could tell she had money; it was all over her; the clothes, the jewellery, even her hair looked expensive. On the surface she was a typical looking Chelsea Sloane, of the like he trained on a daily basis, only there was something indiscernible about this particular one that was not typical of her kind.