‘I thought I was paying you the ultimate compliment, announcing how much I love you to our guests. I thought you would be pleased. Really, you’re blowing this up out of all proportion.’ He’d turned away from her then, not wanting her to see the small smirk that was threatening to expand across his face. ‘Anyway, I genuinely thought you knew you hadn’t won the contract. After all, they called and left a message some days ago now. I just assumed … well, I didn’t mention it to you because I wanted my speech to be a surprise. In fact, I hadn’t planned to bring the damned thing up at all. It was a spur of the moment thing.’
She didn’t know what to make of it all. She’d not wanted to believe that her husband was capable of such cruelty towards her but she did not trust him either, not one bit. Seb was a born liar; a master manipulator, and she couldn’t help but feel that it had all been some kind of sick plan to make her a figure of pity and ridicule.
‘Don’t be such a drama queen, Imogen,’ he had chided her. ‘They all loved it. I’m sure none of them even focussed on you anyway. You’re flattering yourself. The Bluebird was the story. Is the story. It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow, mark my words. You probably won’t even get a look in.’
But Sebastian had been wrong. It might’ve been all over the papers the next morning, but much to his chagrin, the big furore was all about his wife and that blasted contract, the Bluebird getting little more than a cursory mention. As far as Sebastian was concerned, his plan had backfired. Yes, he had succeeded in humiliating his wife, but in doing so had inadvertently put her firmly in the spotlight in the process. Something he had definitely not intended. And he was livid.
Imogen threw the last of her holiday items into the trunk and locked it. Soon she would be on a plane, sipping a vodka tonic, doing her best to numb herself. Just the thought of it helped her to relax.
Imogen thought nothing of hearing the phone ring as she passed Seb’s private office, it was only when it clicked onto answerphone that her attention was caught.
‘Hello, yes, is this the voicemail of Duncan Phillips? This is Lorraine Harlech here, CEO of L’Orelie. I wonder, could you give me a call back as a matter of extreme urgency? My number is 00 …’ Imogen flew into Seb’s office and snatched up the phone.
‘Lorraine … Lorraine Harlech?’
‘Yes … oh, you’ve picked up.’
‘This is Imogen. Imogen Forbes.’
Lorraine was a little taken aback. She had not expected to speak with Imogen directly.
‘Imogen,’ Lorraine’s voice was measured. ‘I’m sorry to have to make this call but I need to know what the hell’s going on down there … all this business in the papers.’
Imogen winced.
‘Believe me, Lorraine, if you think you’re embarrassed about it, imagine where I’m coming from,’ she laughed, attempting to hide her discomfort.
Lorraine bristled.
‘I’m more than a little embarrassed, Imogen. I’m fucking mortified! We are on the brink of launching a new product here, one that we’ve ploughed a huge amount of time, not to mention cost into, and it looks as though one glib remark is about to blow the whole thing apart.’
Imogen bit her lip.
‘What can I say, Lorraine?’ she said apologetically. ‘I had no idea that Seb was going to announce the fact that I hadn’t got the job to all and sundry. It was as big a shock to me as it is to you, believe me.’
Lorraine was incredulous. She should’ve spoken to her directly in the first place, told her in no uncertain terms that her photos just weren’t right for what she’d been looking for and wished her all the best, then none of this mess would’ve happened.
‘If it makes you feel any better, I’m prepared to go on record and exonerate you, tell them all it was a big misunderstanding,’ Imogen offered.
Lorraine sighed heavily. It was good of her to suggest it and she knew it.
‘Listen, Imogen,’ she said, her tone audibly softening. ‘I’m sorry. This really isn’t your fault. Your pictures, they just weren’t right for this. You know, it had nothing to do with your age and everything to do with the shots. Honestly. I had you pegged down for this campaign from the beginning. Handpicked you myself. No one was more disappointed with those shots than me.’
Imogen felt crestfallen. They might not have been the best pictures she had ever taken in her life but they were still pretty damned good as far as test shots went. The whole crew had testified as much.
‘I understand,’ Imogen said quietly. ‘Though I kind of thought they fitted the brief.’
Lorraine felt uncomfortable. ‘Look,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll e-mail them over to you right now if you like, see them for yourself. You’re a beautiful woman, Imogen, but those pictures … well …’
‘Yes, please, do that,’ Imogen interjected. ‘I’d like to see them again.’
‘I’ll get Leona onto it right away. Oh and Imogen, really. It’s all my own fault for not calling you direct. I should never have given the news to Duncan Phillips when he called.’
‘Duncan Phillips?’
‘Your PA,’ Lorraine explained. ‘He called up on your behalf to find out about the test. I assume he told you? Jesus, he did tell you, didn’t he?’ Lorraine felt her heart miss a beat.
‘Er, yes … yes, of course he did,’ Imogen quickly lied, her mind galloping as adrenalin began to pour through her body like hot lava. ‘Anyway, I meant what I said about being prepared to go on record.’
‘That’s real good of you, Imogen,’ Lorraine said, the genuine appreciation audible in her LA drawl. ‘And you know … well, perhaps we might work together sometime in the future.’
Hanging up, Imogen switched on Sebastian’s computer in front of her and stared blankly at the screen, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest. So Sebastian had called L’Orelie claiming to be her PA? But why?
After a few moments, she logged onto her e-mail and true to her word, Lorraine Harlech had sent her shots through right away.
She read the accompanying email message: ‘The pictures as promised. No hard feelings? Lorraine.’
With shaking hands, Imogen downloaded the PDF images onto the desktop and, opening them up, stared at the screen, eyes wide.
After a long moment, she calmly saved them onto a USB stick and shut the computer down. So now she knew.
Blinking back tears of rage, Imogen felt a torrent of hatred for her husband crash through her system like a tsunami of poison. With her heart hardening with each passing second, she thought of all the years she had spent kowtowing to Seb’s impossible demands. Of all the years she had been worn down by his dominance, too weak to challenge the mighty Sebastian Forbes, even allowing him to deny her the chance to be a proper mother. Well, those days were over. From this moment on, she vowed that she would reclaim the life he had stolen from her, and she would have her revenge while she was at it.
Feeling instantly better at the thought, Imogen held her head high and took a long defiant look at her reflection in the computer screen. She thought of the diamond then, of that magnificent Bluebird that Sebastian had been at such pains to secure, and smiled secretly. ‘Duncan Phillips’ had better prepare himself. Because Imogen Forbes was going to teach him a lesson he would never forget.
CHAPTER 22
Tamara Du Bois wondered if she had not missed her vocation in life. As performances went, this one was worthy of a standing ovation.
‘And then, right in front of the wedding planner, she hit me. Struck me in my face! Oh Douglas, I almost fell to the floor in pain and shock. I mean, the humiliation! She was screaming obscenities at me, calling me every name under the sun; filthy, horrible names, and I was begging her to stop all this, to forgive me and that I was sorry, so, so sorry …’ Tamara sobbed, her head in her hands as she sat opposite Douglas Rothschild in the large, expensive leather chair inside his office. She liked Douglas’s office. Everything about it screamed money and chic from the Philippe Starck lamps and chairs to the Conran desk a
nd sofa.
Douglas took a tissue from a box on his desk and handed it to her, trying not to notice her bare, tanned legs stretched endlessly out in front of her, and the roundness of her ample cleavage visible in her flimsy pale blue wrap dress. Noticing his eyes upon her, Tamara felt a flush of satisfaction and continued.
‘The thing is, I’m just so terrified that she’ll tell Hen about … well, you know – us.’ She glanced up at him and immediately lowered her eyes coquettishly. ‘I don’t think I could bear it, Douglas, really I don’t.’ She caught her breath then, her sobs causing her large chest to heave up and down. She really did have the most fantastic rack on her. The best he’d ever seen on a woman bar none. And they were real to boot.
In all fairness, Douglas had tried to keep his distance from Tamara since their mad moment of unadulterated lust. A philanderer he may be but he wasn’t totally without conscience. After all, she was his son’s intended.
‘Calm yourself now, Tamara,’ Douglas said soothingly. ‘I told you I can handle Calvary.’
Although he could see the girl was laying it on thicker than her make-up, he knew she was in part telling the truth. Calvary was capable of becoming quite vicious when provoked, and she was certainly out to cause trouble.
Calvary had overlooked his many affairs time and time again over the course of their marriage. He knew it was a big ask but why couldn’t she just maintain the status quo? He was worried. Especially after the tip-off from Mystern’s office. If Calvary was planning to divorce him then the truth would be out. And there was no way Douglas was ever going to allow that to happen. A womaniser he might be, but a womaniser who has betrayed his son? Now that would be bad for business.
Tamara continued to cry.
‘She’s out to destroy me, Douglas. To blacken my name. She says I’m a slut, a whore who’s not good enough to bear her a grandchild. Oh Douglas, what should I do? I just don’t know what to do …’
The girl was almost hysterical now and reluctantly Douglas came round from behind his desk and went to her.
‘Why don’t you sit down on the sofa. Relax. I’ll have Arabella bring us some coffee.’ He buzzed his PA.
Tamara raised a smile as he handed her another tissue which she gratefully took, making sure her hand made contact with his as she did. Her little girl lost routine was not working out quite as she had hoped. Douglas was making all the right sympathetic noises but he wasn’t being quite as tactile as she had bargained for. She had half expected her dress to be on the floor by now.
He duly sat down next to her, fixing her with a stare that belied his lustful intentions. ‘Tell me it’s going to be OK,’ she begged softly, her rasping sobs now a low, dulcet purr. ‘I want to marry Hen so much … Mummy and Daddy will die if Calvary, well … if things are said. They’ll disown me … Oh please, Douglas, tell me that you can make it right …’ She leaned into him then, resting her head onto his shoulder.
Douglas could smell Tamara’s freshly washed, floral-scented hair as it brushed against his cheek, feel the outline of her breast as it pressed against his side. She had brought one leg up onto the sofa now, her knee a little bent, exposing almost all of her soft, smooth thigh. God, she was gorgeous. Gorgeous and young. He had loved screwing her, the feel of her soft, supple skin, a stranger’s body underneath his own. That was half the thrill of it for Douglas. A stranger’s body, a young stranger’s body was like a new and complex toy that you couldn’t wait to play with, to explore and understand.
‘Don’t cry, Tamara.’ Douglas tried hard not to look down at her cleavage as it strained to free itself from her dress. She was really crying now, tears falling from her face and onto her chest and lap, staining her light blue dress a deep navy. He imagined her nipple in his mouth, tough as a clothes peg, standing to attention as he nibbled away at it.
‘Oh, Douglas,’ she said, pushing her chest further into him, pulling her legs up underneath her now, the front of her dress opening slightly, exposing her Agent Provocateur finest. It was enough to send him over the edge and she knew it.
In one deft move he released her breasts from the straining fabric and marvelled at them for a moment before unzipping his trousers.
‘Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,’ he smirked, as he tore her underwear to the side. She gasped, arching her back as she let out a long, satisfactory groan.
‘Oh, Douglas,’ she whispered again, throwing her head back and opening her legs wider to receive him, noting the time on the desk clock opposite them as she did. She had an appointment with her wedding florist in half an hour’s time and she couldn’t afford to be late.
‘Tamara Du Bois,’ he whispered hotly in her ear as he plunged himself deep inside her. ‘You really are a very naughty girl. A very naughty girl indeed.’
CHAPTER 23
Throwing her shopping bags onto a table in the Chelsea Brasserie, Yasmin took a seat opposite Sammie Grainger and announced, ‘I’ve got ten minutes. I’m having a Hollywood wax at Lockonego in ten minutes and then I have a plane to catch, so let’s make this quick, shall we?’
‘Well, it’s really good of you to show up at all, Lady Belmont,’ Sammie said, without a hint of irony. Ten minutes was plenty enough time, at least it was for what she had to say. ‘I took the liberty of ordering you a fresh pineapple juice. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Perfect,’ Yasmin nodded, wishing she’d had the foresight to throw a vodka in there too.
The wax appointment was a bare-faced lie and the plane she was due to catch to take her to Como was not for hours yet, but Grainger wasn’t to know that. Yasmin just wanted to get this thing over and done with as soon as possible. Sammie had been persistent, having left at least six messages on her voicemail asking her to make good on that lunch she’d agreed to when they had ran into each other at Forbes’s ball.
‘My editor – you remember, the letch – well, he is very keen for me to do a follow-up piece on you and Lord Belmont. He was hoping we might be able to do something with you in situ, at home, together. Sort of Hello!-style but with a high-end fashion twist. Initial thoughts?’ Sammie stirred her juice with a straw, and looked up at Yasmin tentatively.
Yasmin’s initial thought was to get up and leave, but she figured this girl wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
‘I don’t hate the idea – and I’d have to talk to Jeremy first, of course.’
‘Of course!’ Sammie nodded. ‘We can do the in-depth interview then when we’ve got more time. You know, it seems the fashionable London set has developed a bit of a crush on you, Lady B. Everyone wants to know all about you; your life story, how you came to be where you are today.’
Yasmin felt sick. In-depth interview. Jesus, this bitch was going to be harder to get rid of than a case of herpes in a knocking shop.
‘Why all the sudden interest anyway?’ Yasmin shrugged with as much modesty as her ego would allow. ‘Like I said, there really isn’t much to tell. I’m from a middle class farming family near Wales. My parents died in a car crash a few years ago, after which I moved to London – Chelsea to be exact – to see if I couldn’t find myself a little job somewhere, you know, something to keep me occupied and out of Raffles until the early hours. And then I met Jeremy and the rest is history.’
Sammie noticed that Yasmin’s hand was shaking as she held her juice glass and suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of empathy for her.
‘You and I both know there’s a lot more to know about your life than that.’ She allowed the comment to hang heavy in the air above them before continuing. ‘We thought we’d provide the readers with some background on you; you know, a little about your childhood, what you were like when you were a teenager … I assume you have photos? Would you be happy for us to print them, fashion faux pas and all?’
Suddenly Yasmin saw all the months of preparation she’d done in order to have got this far going to waste; all the sacrifices she’d made, the nights she’d had to stomach having that disgusting lump clamouring on
top of her, puffing and panting, slipping away before her eyes and felt her panic reach flood alert. She needed to find out the truth about her sister’s death as soon as possible.
She would have to get rid of this leech and somehow locate this elusive videotape or whatever it was that useless skank June Larkin had alluded to.
‘Actually, you know what, Sammie? It is Sammie, isn’t it?’ Yasmin said knowing full well that it was. ‘I think I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think this is a good idea after all.’
‘Oh, really?’ Sammie stared at her, crestfallen. ‘But why? I mean, it’ll all be tastefully done, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’ll have the full works; stylists, make-up and hair, even airbrushing if you want it – not that you need it,’ she added diplomatically. ‘We’ll get some big names on board for you too; Cavalli, Balenciaga, Chanel – whoever you choose.’
Yasmin shook her head.
‘Now I’ve had a little time to think about it, I can’t think of anything I’d like less than to have my life splashed all over the pages of a free supplement.’ She stood to leave, throwing her oversized Chloe python bag over her shoulder in one deft move.
Sammie was crestfallen. She had not wanted to play her ace card so soon. She had wanted to choose a much quieter, more private moment in which to unveil her findings, but Yasmin had left her little choice.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I mean, I don’t suppose I would want someone to start digging around into my childhood either if I was hiding a secret like yours, eh, Stacey?’
Yasmin’s heart leapt into her throat. She froze to the spot.
‘I have to say, it was quite clever of you,’ Sammie continued, ‘keeping your own surname like that, integrating it into your new one. After all, how many Joneses are there in the UK? Hundreds of thousands? Millions perhaps. Not an easy name to trace.’
Yasmin swallowed dryly. Grainger knew her name. Her real name. But how?
‘You don’t remember me?’ Sammie continued, clutching her chest, a mock wounded expression on her face. ‘OK then, I’ll remind you. The youth club in Coulsdon? You were slightly older than me, and very pretty. Your hair was brown then, and you had a pair of glittery heart deely boppers that you were rarely seen without. You were fostered by Kerry and Daniel Merton in Croydon, not far from where you grew up on the Perry Estate.’
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