‘But their loss is ultimately my gain,’ Sebastian continued, sincerity thick in his voice. Imogen lightly tugged at his tuxedo in a bid to prevent him from continuing but he ignored her protests.
‘They might think she is “past her best” as they so insultingly put it, a “has-been”, but I for one think my amazing, stunning wife simply continues to grow more and more beautiful by the day. As I’m sure you’ll all agree.’
Guests began turning to one another, their eyebrows raised, not sure how they should react. Some started clapping and Imogen thought she heard the odd, ‘here, here.’ But the mood in the room had distinctly shifted.
‘The bastard,’ Calvary whispered under her breath, incredulous, her eyes fixated on the stage.
‘Bloody hell,’ Yasmin said, her eyes wide with the excitement of all the drama. ‘Did she tell you she hadn’t got the contract?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think she knew about it?’
Calvary shrugged, dumbfounded. Her heart went out to her friend as she saw the pained expression behind her eyes.
‘Bloody hell,’ Yasmin repeated herself. ‘In front of all these people as well.’
Imogen felt the icy grip of panic wrap itself around her throat, threatening to choke her. The room had begun to spin a little, the faces of the crowd blending into one great colourful mass of taffeta and tuxedos. She could feel Seb’s arm gripping her waist tightly as the paparazzi went into action again. Jesus Christ, they were taking pictures of her! Mortified, her face burning with shame and confusion, she attempted to break free of her husband’s embrace. Her instincts told her to run, to hitch her dress up and flee from the stage there and then, but her legs felt boneless as they struggled to support her and she was blinded by the flashlights of the unforgiving cameras.
Had Seb deliberately planned this? A sick and twisted attempt to humiliate her in front of hundreds of important guests and the awaiting press? If he had, then it had worked. She had never felt more mortified in her entire life. Imogen squirmed. She would make the news tomorrow for all the wrong reasons; no one would want to hire her now.
Imogen’s mind started to go into overdrive as she struggled to make sense of what was happening. How did Seb know that she’d been ruled out of the L’Orelie running anyway? She hadn’t heard a word from them since she’d left the States the day after the accident. Had someone called? Had he spoken to them directly?
She told herself that none of it mattered now. The details could wait. All she could focus on was getting herself off the stage and away from the harsh glare of the paparazzi lens.
‘Mrs Forbes! Imogen! This way! G’is a smile!’ chirped a photographer.
Imogen turned to face the camera, briefly meeting her husband’s gaze. And he was smiling, a grim, malevolent smile that spoke volumes.
CHAPTER 20
Calvary Rothschild stepped into her private marble en-suite wet room and allowed the hot water from the enormous chrome showerhead to cascade down her face and body. She looked down at herself as water fizzed onto her small neat breasts, beads forming on her stomach and thighs. Soaping herself with Le Couvent des Minimes Lavender and Acacia Soothing Shower Gel she surveyed the thin folds of sagging flesh on her stomach, pinching the excess skin between her thumb and forefinger with mild self-loathing.
Though she hated herself for thinking it, there was a small part of her that wondered if she had only rid herself of any physical imperfections much earlier, Douglas might never have done what he did with the young and nubile Tamara, and, she suspected, was continuing to do with her.
She dismissed the thought almost instantly. Who was she kidding? Douglas had been searching for his jollies elsewhere for bloody years, long before the boys came along, long before motherhood and the years had inevitably taken their toll on her once perfect size 8 figure.
She took the pouf from the shower rack and rubbed it angrily between her legs.
She had to stop dwelling in the past and think of a way to prevent her son from marrying Tamara Du Bois. Du Bois. Calvary grimaced. Even the name sounded common and cheap. She was new money. First generation. Little more than a chav, really. Her father had bought his way into society and consequentially built an in-road for his tramp of a daughter. A road that had had regrettably led directly to her darling son.
The worse part of all of it was that Calvary knew Henry loved Tamara, really loved her, dirty little trollop that she was. He wanted to marry her. To have and to hold her, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others. All others seemingly not including her own father-in-law to be.
Tamara had become a far bigger problem than Calvary had anticipated, however.
Their recent meeting with the wedding planner, one which Douglas had emotionally blackmailed her about, had displayed this to her in all its vulgar clarity.
‘I’m thinking plain white Egyptian linen with edible crystal favours scattered across all the tables,’ Tamara had announced to the overly-attentive wedding planner. ‘And for the centrepieces, I’ve decided upon giant topiary infused with dozens of white roses or perhaps gardenias, I can’t make up my mind.’ The wedding planner had nodded enthusiastically as she busily scribbled in her Smythson notebook. She relished this type of bride-to-be, the ones with grand ideas and even grander budgets. They were almost impossible to please however, being the spoilt divas they invariably were, but who cared when they were spending this much money?
‘My Temperley gown is going to have a detachable lace fitted overlay with thousands of tiny Swarovski crystals hand-sewn onto it, so I want to check that the edible crystals match, OK?’
‘Uh-huh,’ the wedding planner continued to nod vehemently, hanging on her every word.
‘And of course, you’ll need to get a lighting team in there too. Blenheim Palace has some awesome chandeliers but there just aren’t enough. I want one hung over every table and I want dimmer switches, so that they can be turned up or down. What do you think, Cal?’
Calvary, who had tuned out of the conversation some moments ago, visibly blanched. How dare she address her so informally, like a friend! After everything she had done to her and her family!
‘Sorry?’
‘Lighting!’ she said. ‘Dimmer switches on the chandeliers. I want to be able to change the mood in the room if I want to.’
‘Tacky,’ Calvary had replied tartly.
Tamara glared at her and the wedding planner, sensing discord between the two women, tactfully withdrew from the room.
‘We could at least try to be friends,’ she had smiled through gritted teeth once the wedding planner was out of earshot. ‘For Henry’s sake, if nobody else’s.’
‘Henry’s sake?’ Calvary had shot back facetiously. ‘For Henry’s sake it might’ve been a good idea not to have slept with his father, you know, my husband.’
Tamara rolled her eyes.
‘Listen, Calvary,’ she said, her smile fading fast, ‘that was a mistake. A mistake I would like to put behind me. If I’m ever allowed to.’
Calvary had stared at the young woman in front of her with a curious mix of disbelief and admiration. How alike she and Douglas were. Cut from the same piece of cloth. As far as Tamara and Douglas were concerned their little indiscretion was something to be brushed aside, forgotten about, put out with yesterday’s rubbish. Why all the fuss? It didn’t seem to matter to her one jot that she had betrayed her fiancé in the worst way imaginable.
‘You had sex with your own father-in-law,’ Calvary reminded her.
‘Prospective father-in-law. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Tamara shot back. ‘Look,’ she said after a momentary pause, her tone softening slightly, ‘can’t we start over again? Put it all behind us. I’ve always liked you, Calvary. Admired you. I feel I could learn a lot from you.’
Calvary snorted in derision.
‘There’s nothing I could teach you, Tamara Du Bois. Save for how to keep your knickers on.’
Tamara smirked. She had not want
ed to go down this route but this belligerent old woman was refusing to play ball. The reticent, ‘let’s be friends’ approach was getting her nowhere. It was time to change tack.
‘You can’t stop this wedding from taking place,’ Tamara hissed defiantly. ‘You know Douglas will disown you if you tell Hen about us. And let’s face it; money and status are what’s always mattered most to you, aren’t they, Calvary?’
Shaking with anger, Calvary had raised her hand and brought it down across Tamara’s smug, pretty face.
‘How dare you, you poisonous little slut!’ she screamed, incensed. Calvary was shocked at herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she had struck another person. What’s more, she knew Tamara had a point and it had hurt.
Tamara rubbed her stinging cheek. Secretly she was pleased. She would tell Douglas about this. Cry on his shoulder, sob up a kidney if she had to. Douglas would be sympathetic; he would comfort her, hold her quivering body in his arms. And then he would look at her and she would fix him with her stare, the one she had given him before they had ended up in bed together …
Incidentally, Tamara did love Henry in her own way. He was a thoroughly decent guy, very attractive with a hefty trust fund and inheritance in due course, but Tamara wasn’t prepared to wait that long for a life of unadulterated luxury. She wanted it all now. She wanted Douglas Rothschild – at least, she wanted his money. After all, why settle for gold when you could have platinum? Henry was way too loyal. Douglas, however, was an altogether different animal; exciting, forbidden and more than a match for her both in and outside the bedroom.
She knew Calvary could never let slip what she had seen between them lest Douglas threw her out on the street and strip her of everything. Tamara smiled slyly to herself. She had the Rothschilds all sewn up.
‘Feel better?’ Tamara asked, her face still smarting from the sharp slap.
‘Not really,’ Calvary retorted.
‘Shame,’ she had smirked. ‘Because that’s the last time I’ll ever allow you to do that to me and get away with it.’
‘Look at you,’ Calvary snarled, feeling a sudden wave of sadness that she could feel so much hatred towards someone so young. By rights she should be bonding with this girl, losing a son yet gaining a daughter, isn’t that what they said?
‘If you think I’m going to stand back and let you destroy my son’s life then you can think again, Tamara Du Bois. I’ve seen off your type time and time again,’ she had said, swatting her away like a fly. ‘If you’ve a shred of decency in that swinging brick you call a heart you’ll call this whole goddamn wedding charade off while you still can. It’ll destroy Hen but I’d rather see it happen now than in five years’ time.’
‘Oh, I’m not going anywhere,’ Tamara spat back, her nerves rattling behind her bravado. ‘I will marry your son. Try and come between us and I will see that he cuts you from his life, indefinitely.’ She smirked. ‘Think about it, Calvary. Estranged from your husband and son; cut off from your family both financially and emotionally while I become lady of the house.’ Tamara smiled broadly then, a self-satisfied, wicked smile. As her words resonated in the air between them, she watched with a deep sense of satisfaction as Calvary desperately tried to hide the look of defeat on her face. She was right: Henry adored her.
‘So then,’ Tamara said after a few moments of silence had passed between them, an arched eyebrow raised in triumph. ‘Which is it to be, the gardenias or the roses?’
*
Calvary rubbed her head with a handful of Kérastase shampoo, hoping that she might wash away all this mess in the process. For the first time in her life she really did not know what to do and what was worse, she had no one to turn to. At least, no one she was willing to turn to. She could not bring herself even to tell Imogen the truth about her husband’s latest infidelity she was so ashamed.
Calvary had always seen herself as the strong one. She was the backbone of the Chelsea set. She had cast herself in this matriarchal advisory role many years ago and was reluctant to start deviating from it now. Besides, Imogen had her own set of problems, what with that husband of hers making a laughing stock of her at the ball like that. Sebastian Forbes had certainly given Douglas a run for his money in the ‘whose husband is the biggest bastard?’ stakes.
Calvary turned the heat up in the shower to the point of unbearable in a bid to wash away her thoughts. She simply had to find a way to prove to Henry that Tamara was up to no good with his own father.
Sighing heavily, she glanced up at the bathroom clock on the wall, its black face staring back at her, almost watching her. And then she was struck by an idea.
Calvary began to smile and as she did, the stranger she had met outside the Saachi Gallery popped into her mind. He had made the solution to her predicament sound so easy, so straightforward.
‘You could always leave. What have you got to be afraid of? The biggest fear we face is fear itself.’
She wondered if she might bump into him again and the thought gave her a guilty rush of excitement. She pictured him in her mind. His floppy dark hair and disarming demeanour; his slightly dishevelled but oddly appealing appearance. Now she thought of it, hadn’t he mentioned something about being a personal trainer?
Calvary looked back down at herself in the shower and pinched the loose skin on her stomach again, tightly this time, until it hurt. Yes, she thought to herself, her mood lifting ever so slightly, perhaps it was time to get fit again.
CHAPTER 21
Imogen couldn’t decide between the Heidi Klein red Corsica Bandeau or the navy Monaco bikini. Damn it, she’d take both with her, she thought throwing them haphazardly into the open Louis Vuitton trunk on her bed. She was packing early for the forthcoming trip to Lake Como that Calvary had organised. As far as she was concerned, the sooner she was out of here and on that plane, the better.
Though Calvary had advised against it, the morning after the ball, Imogen had forced herself to look through the press coverage over breakfast at The Wolseley. She had needed to know how bad it really was. Now she wished she hadn’t.
‘Forget the papers, darling,’ Calvary had said, snatching a copy of The Times from her hands as she cut into her Eggs Benedict, turning the plate a sunshine yellow.
‘Everyone knows they all print a pack of lies anyway,’ Yasmin said, flicking her platinum hair back from her tanned face. ‘I mean, half the time they can’t even spell your name right.’
Try as she had to remain emotionally detached, Yasmin could not help but feel desperately sorry for Imogen. That husband of hers had well and truly stitched her up on the night of the ball. She wondered why Sebastian Forbes would want to do such a thing to his wife? A woman, who, by all accounts, was as decent and kind as she was beautiful, at least from what Yasmin could tell.
‘He’d lock her up in a cage if he could,’ Calvary had confessed to her in private. ‘The man’s a complete control freak; he’s obsessed with her. He’s even jealous of the daughter.’
Men: they were all the same – bastards – Yasmin thought bitterly. They were only happy when they were domineering or destroying. Well, she would have her day of reckoning make no mistake.
‘Yasmin’s right,’ Calvary had continued. ‘I mean, look at what they’ve been writing about her over these past few months. There’s been mud of all sorts slung in your direction, hasn’t there, darling? “Disingenuous Gold-Digger” being a personal favourite,’ Calvary teased.
‘And those were just the nice headlines,’ Yasmin laughed, allowing Calvary’s dig to pass over her just this once.
‘You just have to ride it out,’ Calvary instructed. ‘You know these things blow over quicker than one of Madonna’s relationships.’
Imogen had managed a small smile but she was not convinced. She had seen the look people had given her as she had made her way through the restaurant that morning. The pitiful stares and the low whispers.
The Daily Mail had devoted the whole of their society column to the ball
’s events, waxing lyrical about the Bluebird Diamond and Seb’s profitable acquisition, but even that had been overshadowed by her husband’s ‘romantic ode to his wife, former model, Imogen Forbes, who, at thirty-six, has recently lost out on a lucrative new cosmetic contract on account of her being too old – ouch,’ the journalist had written.
It was a similar story in the Evening Standard (though they had gone one step further and suggested that she had lost out to a much younger model du jour called Agnes). The whole thing had sparked a huge media debate on ageism in the beauty industry with various prominent female journalists collectively voicing their objections on why it was that once a woman reached ‘the ripe old age of thirty-five’ she was ruthlessly dumped onto the reject pile. Imogen’s phone had rung off the hook with hacks desperate for a quote.
God, how Imogen wished Cressida were here now. She would know what to do. Clear up the whole horrible mess in a heartbeat and make sure that she came out smelling of Chanel No. 5 while she was at it.
Imogen shuddered as she gathered her collection of sun protection lotions and sprays and absentmindedly threw them all into a Chanel cosmetics case, her mind wandering back to the immediate aftermath of the ball, of the excruciating car journey home with Seb.
*
‘Why did you do it, Seb?’ she had asked, her lips quivering with anger and hurt, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. She was determined he would not see her cry.
‘What are you talking about, darling?’ he’d replied, feigning ignorance.
‘Why did you have to announce to everyone that I didn’t get the contract? And more to the point, how did you know?’
Sebastian had turned to her, a Machiavellian grin on his face.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Imogen,’ he’d snapped. ‘You’ve clearly had too much champagne.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’ Imogen had shot back, overcome with humiliation and fury.
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