Chelsea Wives

  Calvary had heard nothing from Josia since their intimate encounter and, reluctant as she was to admit the fact, she was disappointed. Calvary was sure something special had happened between them that morning. Now however, she was beginning to wonder if it hadn’t all just been in that stupid head of hers. Perhaps he’d just wanted sex after all – sex she had given him far too readily, now she thought about it. Calvary cursed herself. Christ, she didn’t know how Douglas did it. One stolen moment between the sheets with another man and she was a paranoid emotional wreck.

  ‘I’d like to make a toast to Lady Yasmin Belmont-Jones,’ Imogen said, adopting a mock formal tone. ‘Here’s to managing to pull the wool over my husband’s dark and soulless eyes.’ She raised her glass.

  ‘Ah, yes, I heard you managed to get yourself down into the vaults!’ Calvary tapped her glass in salutation and smiled as it made a satisfactory ‘ding’.

  Over one of their weekly lunchtime get-togethers, which had now been largely overtaken with plotting their impending plans, Yasmin had suggested that she set up a meeting with Sebastian to try and convince him to give her a tour of the vaults.

  ‘I’ll tell him I want to buy a strong box, get him to take me down there for a nose around. I can make some mental notes, get a feel of the place properly, look for potential flaws in the system,’ she’d suggested. They had all agreed that it was an inspired idea.

  ‘I’m sure Lady Belmont can be very persuasive when the mood takes her,’ Calvary had remarked to Imogen during a telephone conversation after learning of Yasmin’s triumph, adding, ‘not that I’m suggesting anything improper occurred!’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Imogen had laughed. ‘Quite frankly, I wouldn’t hold it against her if it had.’

  In fact, Imogen had been rather impressed by Yasmin’s tenacity.

  ‘I have to say, he’s one chilly customer, that husband of yours,’ Yasmin remarked to Imogen.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Imogen deadpanned.

  ‘Well, come on then,’ Calvary snapped. ‘What’s the deal? Did you get the code?’

  Yasmin snorted, indignant.

  ‘Jesus, Calvary, if it was as easy as leaning over his shoulder for a quick glance then the place would’ve been done over a million times before now.’

  ‘But I thought the whole idea of you going down there was to see if you couldn’t get a glimpse of –’

  ‘Look,’ Yasmin abruptly cut her off. ‘The code is the least of our worries in my opinion. That place is alarmed to the hilt. There are heat sensors everywhere and enough sequence codes to keep Carol Vorderman busy for a decade and that’s just to get to the boxes!’

  Yasmin struggled to conceal her bitter disappointment. She had hoped her little trip down into the vaults would bring them one step closer to completing her mission. Instead, it had left her feeling utterly defeated. For the first time in her life, Yasmin had started to feel as if she was part of something; a team, a unit. Though it had all been under false pretences, she had forged unlikely friendships with the two women sitting opposite her, friendships that had gradually begun to mean something to her, to tug gently on the coattails of her conscience, and it worried her.

  In her darker moments, Yasmin imagined the look of horror and betrayal on the faces of her friends were they ever to discover the truth about who she really was and her motives for marrying Belmont. She wondered if they would immediately turn their backs on her; cut her from their lives like a malignant tumour, maybe even go to the police. Jesus, she could kick herself. Emotional attachment; it complicated everything.

  ‘I might not have got the codes,’ Yasmin bristled. ‘But I have found a way round the voice activated locking system.’

  Calvary shrugged, palms open in expectation. ‘And?’

  Yasmin thought of the little deal she had done with Sammie Grainger, though she wasn’t about to let on as much to the others. They would freak out if they thought she’d involved a journalist in their plan. Even though Grainger knew nothing, it was still risky. But then as far as Yasmin was concerned that was half the fun.

  ‘ – And,’ she smiled smugly, ‘let’s just say I’m working on it.’

  CHAPTER 34

  Upon hearing the sound of the doorbell, the infamous sculptress, Amandine Lamarque made the journey from the third floor studio in her superb Belgravia home down to the ground floor. She made a habit of always answering her own front door, deeming it terribly bourgeois to do otherwise.

  As it turned out, she was rather looking forward to meeting her new client, Sebastian Forbes of the Forbes Banking empire. Although she always did her best not to pre-judge someone due to sit for her, Amandine knew instinctively that she would dislike Forbes.

  ‘I do hope he won’t be terribly late and hold up your day. He does run to a tight schedule but things often overrun …’ Imogen Forbes had apologised for her husband in advance over the phone.

  ‘It’s really quite alright, Mrs Forbes,’ Amandine had reassured her. She did not often take on private clients, unless of course they were ridiculously famous, but Mrs Forbes had been disarmingly persuasive, making it difficult for her to refuse. Besides, the woman had offered to pay double her usual fee – and she certainly didn’t come cheap. ‘I will clear my afternoon in expectation of his arrival.’ Amandine would have to work round the clock to ensure the sculpture she had been commissioned to do be finished in time for the ‘great birthday unveiling’ that Mrs Forbes had told her she had planned.

  ‘And I feel I must warn you, Sebastian can be a little, well, difficult at times.’

  Amandine had given a sardonic laugh.

  A highly acclaimed special effects artist and unrivalled sculptor, Amandine had worked on some serious Hollywood box office smashes, including Alien Intervention 1 and 2, and the mythical epic, Journey’s End, where she had won an Oscar for her superbly lifelike latex animatronics. She was well versed in dealing with the odd hissy fit.

  ‘Mr Forbes, I presume,’ she said, her French accent suddenly apparent as she opened the door, dipping her head in greeting. ‘Accueillir chez moi!’

  *

  As Calvary ran in the direction of Hyde Park, she bit her lip and tried to convince herself that she had done the right thing.

  That morning, following a frosty atmosphere over breakfast, Calvary, armed with little more than a sixth sense, had decided to covertly follow her husband into work.Having caught a few furtive glances between her husband and Tamara, she wondered if now might be the time to collect that little insurance premium of hers.

  Concealing her brand new Range Rover Evoque behind some road works, Calvary had sat, surreptitiously staring up at Douglas’s office window, unsure of what it was she expected to find. She didn’t know why she seemed so surprised to see Tamara slip unnoticed into the building some half an hour later. It brought Calvary no joy whatsoever to discover that her suspicions had been correct. Douglas and Tamara were having an affair, plain and simple. After all, what else had the little slut popped in for? A quick game of Scrabble? As she sat there, her hands shaking behind the wheel, fury and hatred simmering away inside her like a pressure cooker, Calvary contemplated her next move. But before she had time to consider her options, she caught sight of Douglas making his way from the building, deep in conversation with a male colleague and seemingly on his way to a meeting.

  Once the coast was clear, Calvary made her way up to Douglas’s office.

  ‘Good morning, Lynn,’ she’d smiled at one of Douglas’s secretaries. The only one she could be sure he hadn’t slept with due to the fact she was practically an old aged pensioner, but then again, she wouldn’t have put it past him.

  ‘Mrs Rothschild. How lovely to see you!’ Arabella smiled disingenuously at Calvary.

  ‘Is Douglas in?’ she snapped, knowing full well that he wasn’t.

  ‘I’m afraid not. He’s gone to an early lunch meeting with the Hendersons. Should be back in an hour or so though. Can I let him know you were here?’ />
  Calvary paused for a moment.

  ‘I’ll wait in his office. It’s terribly important I see him,’ she announced, giving Arabella no option but to nod her agreement.

  ‘You might have a bit of a wait, Mrs Rothschild,’ Arabella replied nervously, wondering if she was going to get into trouble for any of this.

  ‘No problem.’ Calvary wrinkled her nose, waving the latest copy of Tatler in her hand. ‘And I’d love a coffee. Soya latte, no sugar.’

  Closing the door behind her, Calvary cast her eye around the room. It was indisputably the office of an alpha male stuck in a time warp – all leather and chrome and sharp, sleek lines. Douglas was a child of the 80s. He had positively thrived under Thatcher’s rule; accruing money and power and women at a rate of knots.

  She sat down at his desk, absentmindedly opening the top drawer. The shiny peach and black lace knickers looked incongruous next to the pile of random administration. Sighing, she held them up, suddenly realising to her horror that they were still warm. Grimacing, she slammed the drawer shut, causing the desk to shudder with the force.

  As Calvary’s mind filled with the unwelcome images of what Douglas and Tamara might have got up to together in that very room, perhaps even on the chair she now sat on, she jumped up and snatched the small clock that contained the spy camera from the desk, throwing it into her Hermès Kelly tote.

  Collecting her thoughts and composing herself, she took a deep breath.

  ‘Your latte, Mrs Rothschild.’ The perma-smiley Arabella had poked her head around the door.

  ‘You have it,’ Calvary said dismissively, snatching up her Hermès bag. ‘I’ve just realised there’s something important I need to do.’

  *

  The Counter Spy shop was busier than Calvary had expected, leaving her to wonder if in fact the whole of London was secretly up to no good.

  ‘So, can you just explain to me one more time, in laymen’s English,’ she had asked the exasperated, bespectacled young man behind the counter for the third time.

  ‘Look, it’s pretty simple, lady.’ The young man had rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide his impatience. He’d met a million Calvarys, technophobic women who’d discovered they had been under surveillance, usually by their husbands. In the eighteen months he’d worked there, he’d literally seen it all.

  ‘The camera and receiver are both powered from PP3 batteries or a mains adapter that simply connect to your TV or video, and by tuning it into the camera’s frequency, it will transmit images, you get me?’

  Calvary stared at him blankly, and he gave a weary sigh.

  ‘You plug it in to your telly, lady. A five-year-old could do it.’

  Sitting in front of the TV, her heartbeat rapid and her breathing shallow, Calvary had watched with an air of detachment as the grainy images of her husband and Tamara appeared on the screen. After a few moments of watching Tamara’s backside graphically bobbing up and down on Douglas’s erection, their loud grunts and groans audible above the low hiss of the recording, Calvary knew what she had to do.

  The knock at the door, though expected, still startled her.

  ‘Ah, Henry, my darling,’ she had smiled sadly, her heart as heavy as lead as she stood to greet her eldest son. ‘I’m so glad you could come; there’s something I think you should see.’

  CHAPTER 35

  The sound of the doorbell caused Amandine Lamarque to curse under her breath.

  ‘Merde!’

  She had just settled down with a decent glass of Beaujolais and a packet of Gitanes to watch Female on the Beach, one of her all-time favourite films. This was the first time she had had a moment to herself since taking on the Forbes commission and now her evening of respite looked set to be scuppered.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Amandine said as she answered the door to a very attractive-looking female stranger.

  ‘I’m so sorry to just turn up on your doorstep like this,’ Imogen said, clutching a bottle of Château Lafite 1996. ‘I’m Imogen Forbes. Sebastian’s wife. Would it be convenient if I came in?’ She held the bottle out and Amandine raised an eyebrow as she took it.

  Imogen smiled her gratitude and followed Amandine inside.

  ‘Would you care to join me in a glass? I was just about to imbibe …’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Imogen said, watching as Amandine poured them both a generous glass of the deep mahogany liquid and lit a Gitane with an exaggerated gesture. She was every bit the eccentric artist. ‘And again, I am so sorry to impose on you unannounced like this.’

  Amandine took a slow sip of her wine.

  ‘It is quite alright,’ she nodded, intrigued by the woman’s presence. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Imogen glanced around the studio, surveying the hundreds of sculptures, pieces of art and rows of special effects, including a rather ghoulish selection of monsters and various animatronics. The place was creepy, like an unfinished museum.

  ‘I was just passing your house when I was completely overcome by the desire to meet you. I’m a huge fan of your work,’ she gushed.

  Amandine smiled.

  ‘That is very kind of you to say so, Mrs Forbes.’ Though she didn’t believe a word of it.

  Her sharp, creative intuition told her that she was no more here to wax lyrical about her love of Amandine’s creations than she was selling Chamois leathers and clothes pegs. So what did she really want?

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ Imogen broached the subject tentatively, ‘but I was wondering how everything was coming along with Seb’s statue. I would really love to see it. If you don’t mind, of course.’

  Amandine sighed. Some clients were so impatient. Did they not realise that art could not be rushed?

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Forbes, I do mind,’ she said, her voice gentle but firm. ‘If you look at the work now, it would be like playing you a half-finished song, you understand, no?’

  Imogen smiled and nodded.

  ‘Of course. I understand. But can I ask how it is taking shape at least? Will it be finished in time for his birthday?’

  Amandine took a large swig of her wine and savoured the warm sweet cherry top notes as they slid down her throat.

  She shrugged. ‘It is finished when it is finished.’

  Imogen nodded apologetically, and began to look around the unusual apartment.

  ‘I’ve always loved sculpture, even as a child,’ she admitted. ‘My parents had a small cast of Rodin’s The Kiss. I was fascinated by it. The man and the woman, forever intertwined. It’s terribly romantic when you think about it, isn’t it?’

  Amandine, delighted by such a candid display of memory, returned the smile with one of her own.

  ‘Charming,’ she said, eyeing Imogen once more.

  A long moment passed between them.

  ‘Sebastian said you made a cast of him, just like the ones in your films, the stuff you use for special effects,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Amandine replied. ‘It helps me with my work. This way someone only has to sit for me once, twice at the most. So, officially, there is now two of him, no?’ She laughed, a Gitane balanced precariously between her lips. ‘Now that I can show you, if you like – come.’

  Imogen followed Amandine to the other side of the studio and let out an involuntary gasp as she looked up. Inside the large cupboard hung dozens and dozens of latex masks, like a rubber human abattoir.

  ‘Les marionettes!’ Amandine announced, bowing theatrically.

  ‘It’s so … creepy,’ Imogen felt herself shudder.

  Amandine laughed, pleased that her guest was showing so much interest in her craft.

  ‘I use only the most advanced substances for this. It allows me to capture every detail, every crevice of a person’s face.’

  ‘Like a fingerprint?’

  Amandine nodded. ‘Oui – the same.’

  ‘They really are quite something,’ Imogen breathed as Amandine handed her the eerily accurate cast of he
r husband’s face. She stared at it with a mix of awe and revulsion.

  ‘Would you show me how you do it?’ Imogen asked, animated. ‘How you make the casts?’

  Amandine glanced sideways at her guest to see if the question was genuine or had been born of politeness. ‘I’d be fascinated to see.’

  Amandine scrutinised Imogen for a long moment before sighing heavily.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que ça peut bien faire!’ she said, shaking her hands up above her like a manic preacher.

  Looks like she wasn’t going to get to watch that film tonight after all.

  CHAPTER 36

  Calvary rolled over onto her side and released a long sigh of pleasure.

  ‘Tell me, how can something that’s supposedly so wrong feel so unbelievably right?’ she found herself saying aloud.

  Josia shuffled in closer to her and linking her hand in his own, gently kissed it.

  ‘The answer is in the question,’ he murmured, enjoying his hazy post-orgasm warmth. ‘Forbidden fruit. It’s always the sweetest, no?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know – until now,’ she giggled, her exhilaration making her feel a little girlish and lightheaded. She let her head flop lazily back onto the pillow. ‘You know, I really thought I would never be here again, in your apartment, in your bed …’

  He propped himself up on his elbow, a wide-eyed look of surprise on his boyish face.

  ‘Really? Even after that first afternoon we spent together?’ He released a little whinny of disbelief. ‘You must be crazy, Calvary Rothschild, if you thought I would stay away after that!’

  She laughed, feeling happier than she’d done in years.

  ‘May I remind you that it was you who walked out on me. Not so much as a backwards glance, let alone a phone number,’ he chided her playfully. ‘And then when you weren’t at the gym, or down by the gallery walking the dogs, I had to as good as stalk you to find you again.’

  Calvary was chuffed. The idea that he had been looking for her was as thrilling as it was new. In Calvary’s scant romantic repertoire, it had always been she who had done all the running. And this was certainly true of her marriage.