Chelsea Wives

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  Sebastian looked out onto the 200ft white carpet that he’d had flown in from Persia that morning for his guests to walk along and waited for the onslaught of the paparazzi lenses. Secretly, he had become quite enamoured with the whole idea of becoming something of a celebrity; he could just see himself with a guest slot on one of those TV shows, something along the lines of The Apprentice.

  The moment Sebastian had shaken hands with the prince and sealed the deal over the diamond, he had gone about making plans for his transition from prominent banker into ‘celebrity businessman’ and had hired the best PR firm in London to help make sure this happened as smoothly as possible.

  Securing the Bluebird Diamond was a big deal for him, professionally. Having that diamond in his pocket, figuratively speaking, sent a clear message out to all his business rivals that his institution was a leader in terms of security, and that thanks to the pioneering patented Inter-Face Locking system he had help create and implement, it was unrivalled anywhere in the world.

  Sebastian sensed this was only the beginning; in ten years’ time he envisaged his system to be the number one security choice the world over. Not simply for banks, but for anywhere that needed to implement a measure of safety: schools and hospitals, shops and offices and casinos to name but a few. Thanks to his ingenious idea, methods like chip and pin would soon be a thing of the past. And he would be one of the richest men on the planet.

  Not that Sebastian wanted Imogen to know any of this, of course – at least not yet. There could only be one celebrity in the Forbes’ household as far as he was concerned. His wife’s career, her own selfish quest for attention and adoration could never usurp that of his own.

  Imogen raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. So Sebastian was bankrolling the prince’s stay in London. Well, well, well. Suddenly it all made perfect sense to her now. He was soft soaping him for that diamond. She had known all along that there had to be a motive for Seb’s unexpected interest in the Lamberts. He had needed Damien’s contact to get to the prince.

  Imogen decided she would play dumb like she usually did, pretend she didn’t have the first clue about what her husband was up to, but she was worried. If Sebastian had managed to accrue a rock as infamous as the Bluebird Diamond then it would open doors for him – a lot of doors. It would afford him even more publicity and power than he had already. And for a ruthless megalomaniac like Seb, this was a truly terrifying prospect.

  Now, more than ever, Imogen hoped that the L’Orelie contract would come off. Resurrecting her career would be the confidence boost she so desperately needed. Maybe in time, it would help her gain enough strength to do what she should have done years ago and leave him. But years of his emotional bullying, subtle put-downs and dictatorial ways had seriously corroded her once healthy self-esteem and it seemed that the stronger her husband got, the weaker she felt. Just being around him seemed to zap her of all energy and strength.

  Imogen decided to keep her suspicions about Sebastian and the prince quiet. It would not do well for her to let on to him that she knew what he was up to.

  ‘The flowers for the prince were a gesture,’ Sebastian said casually. ‘To welcome him and his people to London, to the UK.’

  ‘A very grand gesture,’ Imogen said carefully.

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sure you won’t be complaining when he invites us to his Saudi Palace or on board one of his magnificent yachts. Anyway,’ he said, tactically changing the subject, ‘you look magnificent tonight, darling, I must say.’

  Imogen had chosen to wear a floor-length dark aubergine silk Marchesa gown with a plunging neckline that was so deep it stopped just above her belly button, displaying the swell of her small round breasts. She had teamed the gown with a vintage lace shrug and subtle, yet stunning jewellery; a single large Graff solitaire diamond – bought for her by her husband, of course – that sat perfectly in her décolletage, complete with matching diamond waterfall earrings and a dazzling bracelet. Her hair was fashioned into a smooth, silky chignon secured with an ornate diamond hair pin, loose tendrils shaping her beautiful, olive-skinned face, accentuating her high cheekbones and naturally full lips that were slicked with the palest gloss.

  Imogen smiled gently as she glanced at her husband. It was typical Seb; swinging pendulously from acerbic to charming in a heartbeat.

  Sebastain gave his driver the nod and Raoul opened the car door.

  ‘Sir …’

  ‘Thank you, Raoul. Imogen?’ Seb said, helping her out of the car.

  Imogen forced herself to smile at the awaiting photographers, the flashbulbs popping like fireworks as they went off in the night air around them.

  Sebastian had no idea how much his wife had come to dread the annual ball. This year Imogen had begged him to allow Bryony to attend, to make it more bearable for her, but he had balked at the mere mention of it.

  ‘Maybe next year,’ he had said dismissively. ‘Plenty of time for all that later.’

  Later. It was always ‘later’ as far as anything to do with Bryony was concerned, Imogen thought. It was almost as though he were ashamed of her; schooling her hundreds of miles away; keeping her away from social events, a stranger from her family. It wasn’t right. She was a young woman now; charming and eloquent, not to mention devastatingly beautiful. Imogen knew that their guests would find her daughter utterly enchanting and she suspected this might partly be the reason for Seb’s reluctance to allow her to attend; Bryony would inevitably steal her father’s limelight.

  In her heart, Imogen knew that Seb was jealous of their close and loving relationship. He had never forged much of a bond with his only child, something deep down she felt responsible for.

  ‘She’s her mother’s daughter,’ he would often say, somewhat disparagingly.

  He had never wanted to share Imogen’s love and attention with anyone. Not even with his own daughter.

  Sebastian watched his wife as she smiled up at the paparazzi. It was a shame really, he thought, as the camera bulbs went off, lighting up her perfectly sublime face. She looked so utterly beguiling standing there, absorbing all the attention. He knew she had some ridiculous notion, thanks in part to that dreadful, and thankfully now deceased, woman, Cressida Lucas, of resurrecting her modelling career. Well, tonight he would put paid to that idea once and for all. Imogen needed reminding who was in charge in this marriage, and smiling wryly to himself, Sebastian would make sure she would be left in no doubt after tonight.

  CHAPTER 18

  The spectacular Louis Roederer champagne fountain drew gasps from the steady flow of guests as they made their way through the sumptuous hallway of Lancaster House.

  Accompanied by the music of famous Italian pianist, Carlos Berlotti, waiters dressed in full pinstriped city splendour, complete with bowler hats and umbrellas swinging from the crooks of their arms, greeted guests with a glass from the fountain and a selection of the most sumptuous looking canapés.

  Sebastian had pulled out all the stops for this year’s extravaganza. He’d even reviewed the guest list, introducing a fresh young set of movers and shakers into the Forbes’ fold. It was all part of his grand plan. Sebastian knew that if he was going to get a leg up on the fame ladder then what he needed was contacts, contacts, contacts.

  ‘Ach, here he is! The man of the moment! Sebastian Forbes!’ Damien Lambert, great lumbering oaf that he was, was making his way towards them. Imogen heard her husband audibly groan.

  ‘Looking good, old boy, looking good!’ Damien held his arms out towards Sebastian in embrace. ‘How’s that for an old champers fountain,’ he said, admiring the impressive pyramid of glasses, a river of bubbling amber fizz constantly flowing from them.

  Sebastian humoured him by clapping him hard on the back.

  ‘Lambers. How great to see you again,’ he remarked disingenuously, shaking his old friend’s hand as he looked past him into the sea of guests.

  After tonight, Damien Lambert would be persona non grata as far as Sebastian Forbes was c
oncerned. Now that this in-road with Prince Saud was firmly cemented, he could drop off the face of the earth for all he cared. The sooner, the bloody better.

  Imogen, listening to her husband and Damien drone on, suppressed the urge to run from the room and keep running. She had a sense of foreboding about this evening. Something was about to happen; she could feel it.

  They were turning up in their droves now, the Viscounts and the Earls, Ladies and Duchesses, Right Honourables and the Marquises, all gloriously milling around dripping in jewels and self-importance. Then you had the big players; the casino owners and property developers, the fashion heavyweights and the shipping magnates, not to mention the oligarchs and their extravagant wives sporting rocks the size of small mountains on their fingers.

  It was certainly a less than subtle departure from the usual stiff upper class aristo-traditionalism crowd of previous years. Why the sudden turnaround? Her suspicions were heightened.

  Imogen drained her Grey Goose cocktail. She never really felt as if she belonged in this ostentatious world; she was not a socialite at heart. Not like Calvary. Calvary played the hostess role with such ease and charm as if she were born to it; which she had been, really. Imogen, on the other hand, found the whole Good Little Society Wife role ultimately more challenging. After all, it was really just tragic circumstance that had brought her this life, a life she had never really chosen for herself.

  For a moment Imogen wondered how different it all might’ve been had fate not dealt her the hand it had. And once more her thoughts were invaded by images of him. Of the two of them together; so young and happy and in love, their lives stretched out before them, full of hope and promise.

  She saw him then, in her mind’s eye, standing on a beach in Ibiza all those years ago. His hair a little sandy and mussed up; his skin, nut-brown and sun-kissed and those teal green eyes, shining like emeralds. She remembered how she had felt when she had looked into them; like everything was right with the world. Like somehow they knew all her secrets; her hopes and dreams.

  They had made love that morning, in the sea, the sun rising behind them, casting a low orange glow on their salty skin. He had carried her out towards the waves, her legs wrapped around his waist, and they had kissed, deeply, soft tongues exploring each other with a gentle urgency that had gradually built into something more frenzied and passionate.

  She had never wanted a man like she had wanted him. Feeling his hardness pressed against her body had caused an ache in her so deep that she had cried out, wrapping her legs tighter around him, grinding herself into him, needing him as she pulled at his swim shorts with the backs of her heels.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he had smiled, gently teasing.

  ‘I need to get you out of those wet clothes,’ she had giggled softly in his ear.

  ‘Naughty imp,’ he had replied, wrinkling his nose at her. And he had kissed her again.

  Mickey. Imogen said his name over in her mind as she smiled wanly at the memories. It had never really suited him.

  He was a law student with a bright future ahead of him. He was brilliant and articulate but above all, kind and funny with a subtle but intense sexiness that was highlighted all the more by the fact that he was blissfully unaware of it.

  When she had asked him why he had chosen to study law, he had replied resolutely, ‘because I hate any kind of injustice,’ and somehow this answer had told her everything she needed to know about him.

  The connection between them had been instant and powerful. The moment she had read about in books and magazines. That bolt from the blue; the kind of thing that made people want to write poetry; a feeling that took the breath from your body and consumed every fibre of your being.

  Making love in his scruffy Camden apartment the same afternoon had simply confirmed it to her. Something happened when their skin touched. She had felt the pull of him so strongly that it had taken the breath from her. Somehow, as he had gently pushed himself into her body over and over again, she had instinctively known this man would be part of her destiny. Making love to him had felt like coming home. Only there was one snag; one blot on the horizon that had marred their star-crossed union. Her name was Aimee.

  Aimee was a highly strung and fragile individual and Mickey was a gentle soul who had felt a responsibility towards her, something that Aimee relentlessly played on to her advantage. Consequently, he had found it difficult to turn his back on her entirely when he had fallen out of love with her. Some might’ve deemed his behaviour weak; to him it was simply being kind.

  But then he had met Imogen Lennard and it was as if he was seeing the world in colour for the first time. Suddenly he could imagine a real future for himself. And so he had no choice but to tell Aimee it was over between them. For good this time. Only Aimee simply couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that it was the end …

  Imogen looked out across the magnificent hall of Lancaster House at all the opulence and wealth around her and wondered if she would have been happier with a semi in suburbia with him by her side. Would it ever have been enough for her?

  She already knew the answer to her own question. And tonight, she felt it so acutely that it burned like fire inside her.

  *

  ‘Impressive,’ Yasmin Belmont-Jones remarked as she surveyed the imposing champagne fountain and pair of white panthers, linking her arm firmly inside her husband’s.

  ‘No expense spared tonight according to Forbes. Reckons it’s going to be his most spectacular shindig to date,’ Jeremy Belmont said, swiping glasses of Louis Roederer for himself and his wife from a passing waiter in a bowler hat. He had been looking forward to this evening for weeks. It would be the first major event he had attended as a married man with his devastatingly gorgeous and sexy new wife in tow.

  Forbes’s Annual Ball was the perfect showcase for them to make their society debut. As it was, the paps had gone wild with excitement the moment he and Yasmin had stepped from the car. Cameras firing off all over the place like machine guns. It was hardly a surprise. Yasmin’s show-stopping, split to the crotch Alexander McQueen gown with matching embellished underwear had sent the awaiting photographers into an absolute feeding frenzy.

  ‘Over ’ere, Lady Belmont-Jones … this way, this way!’

  Jeremy smiled to himself. He was loving every moment of the renewed press attention in him and his young bride. Everyone was talking about them, the new couple du jour – and at his age as well! The thought tickled him pink.

  *

  Calvary Rothschild sipped her ‘Forbes’ Financial Ruin’ cocktail and eyed her surroundings with satisfaction. She glanced over at Douglas who was deep in conversation with Lord Belmont; they were throwing their heads back intermittently with mirth and she watched them both as their eyes followed every pretty young thing who sashayed past.

  Douglas, she noted, was knocking back the Roederer like there was about to be a drought. She turned away from them in mild disgust. Douglas could be unpredictable after a few too many. As it was, they were still barely on speaking terms and she was worried that this would not go unnoticed by the watchful eyes of others. The last thing she needed was the rumour mill going into overdrive about the state of her marriage. Tonight she must exude confidence, come across as though everything in her life was perfectly fabulous. Thank God she had chosen to wear Westwood tonight; it always gave her a welcome confidence boost.

  *

  ‘Mr Forbes, my friend.’ Prince Saud al-Khahoutam stood in all his Arabian regal glory, flanked by his loyal security guards, and threw his thick arms around a visibly relieved Sebastian. ‘There is bad traffic in your city, no? I almost ask for a … how do you say, a chopper to get us here!’ He boomed with laughter.

  Sebastian joined in, though his laugh had a ring of hysteria to it. For a moment there he had thought that the prince might be a no-show. ‘Please, your highness,’ he fawned, ‘shall we be seated? You’ve obviously had a trying journey.’

  Imogen watched the two men closely as Sebastian led
the way towards their prominent table. The prince was much older than she had imagined. He was in his fifties at least. Dressed in a striking white linen collarless suit and a pristine white kaffiyeh – a classic Arab headdress – with a shiny gold band, a mark of his status, holding it in place, his eyelashes were as thick as a brush and his skin smooth and waxy-looking.

  ‘And this must be the lovely Mrs Forbes, no?’ Prince Saud bowed towards Imogen as she took her seat next to Sebastian and she graciously dipped her head in return. ‘I bring you a gift,’ the prince announced as one of his omnipresent menacing looking security guards stepped forward to hand him a large, black velvet box. ‘A token of my gratitude to you and your generous husband. It is an honour to meet you, and to be here tonight.’

  Imogen accepted the box graciously, aware of the twelve sets of eyes around the table simultaneously upon her. Gasping as she opened it, she stared down at the enormous fringe diamond necklace, its fancy yellow and white cushion and radiant cut diamonds almost blinding her as they lit up her face.

  ‘It’s stunning,’ Imogen breathed, unable to take her eyes from its garish opulence.

  ‘It is nothing.’ He waved his hand modestly. ‘Just 400 carats. What you find in one of your Christmas crackers, no?’ He laughed heartily.

  Yasmin Belmont-Jones half stood to take a look but Calvary gently pulled her back into her seat and shook her head brusquely.

  ‘Bloody show off,’ Jeremy Belmont quietly muttered. ‘I’ll get you something much bigger and better for Christmas, darling,’ he turned to Yasmin, who was still craning her neck to get a better look at the stunning piece.

  ‘I’ll have to wait that long?’ she simpered, casting him a coquettish look and rubbing her hand the length of his meaty thigh underneath the table. Jeremy smiled lasciviously.

  ‘Depends how much of a bad girl you are,’ he whispered flirtatiously in her ear, returning the gesture, his stubby digits jabbing at her jewelled underwear and the soft flesh it barely covered.