‘It’s the age thing, isn’t it?’ she suddenly said, fighting back tears with a ferocity that frightened her. She was damned if she was going to cry in front of him.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s got nothing to do with it,’ he replied, offended at the suggestion.
‘All this business about money and changing me. You’re just worried that you’ll be stuck with an incontinent old woman while you’ll still be in your prime!’
‘Well, since you put it like that,’ he smiled at her then, realising instantly from her expression that his attempt at humour had fallen woefully flat.
She turned away from him them, embarrassed, ashamed of herself and who she was. At having been foolish enough to believe that a younger man would love her unconditionally, immaterial of age, of status and wealth. Once again, Calvary Rothschild had made a complete fool of herself.
‘Just go!’ she said shortly. ‘I mean it, Josia; please leave,’ she said stoically.
‘Calvary,’ he implored. ‘Not like this, please. I don’t want to hurt you.’
‘Hurt me? Don’t be ridiculous,’ she lied, her pride getting the better of her. ‘It was fun while it lasted but you’re right.’ She turned from him then, lest he saw the despair on her face. ‘We’re too different; worlds apart. It was quite naive of me to think that I could turn an impoverished artist into a man of society. It would never have worked.’
Josia sighed. He knew she was saying these things to hide her pain.
‘I hope we can still be friends, Calvary,’ he said. ‘Whatever you think, I still want to be here for you. I know your son’s wedding is coming up and …’
‘Sorry, darling,’ Calvary said, taking herself in hand and swinging round to face him. She smiled affably, though it did not reach her eyes. ‘But I’ve got enough friends. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a spa appointment at three and don’t want to be late.’ She began to collect her things from the untouched cream sofa, the sofa she had half hoped they might’ve made love on that afternoon.
Josia looked at the floor, at the imprint his shoes had made on the soft Axminster carpet. ‘Have it your way,’ he said with a resolute sadness that caused her to inwardly wince. ‘Goodbye, Calvary,’ he said softly.
‘Yes, goodbye,’ she said, turning her back to him once more.
It was only when she heard the door close behind him that she allowed the tears to come.
CHAPTER 58
Le Caprice was filling up with lunchtime trade and Mitch congratulated himself for having had the foresight to book in advance. He looked around the restaurant, admiring the homage to monochrome, the matt black floor tiles and black leather chairs offset against the crisp white table linen. It was all terribly chic and sophisticated, though he figured Imogen was probably used to dining in such style.
He watched her from across the table, her silky dark hair cascading down her shoulders, occasionally licking her full lips as she perused the menu enthusiastically. She looked beautiful and understated in a pretty summer dress with the tiniest flowery print all over it that lightly skimmed her slim curves, exposing a little of the creamy flesh of her shoulder, and it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out and touching her.
‘I think I’m going to go for the grilled asparagus and the lemon sole,’ she said, ‘no, the Thai sea bass … oh, I don’t know, what do you think?’
‘They both sound delicious,’ he said, wondering if it would appear a little safe of him to order Bannockburn ribeye and pommes allumettes – steak and chips.
‘Why don’t we order both?’ he suggested. ‘That way we can share.’
‘Great idea,’ she said, snapping the menu shut. She couldn’t quite get her head round the fact that Mickey was actually sitting opposite her, dressed in a smart crisp white shirt and dark blue fitted trousers, his deep teal eyes offsetting his lightly tanned skin. She had dreamt of this moment for years, and now that it was actually here, she was conscious of enjoying every moment.
‘Did you know this was one of my favourite restaurants?’ she asked, looking around her and smiling.
‘Really? I had no idea,’ he lied. Mitch had read, in the dossier that a member of his team had compiled on her, that Le Caprice was a regular haunt of hers. ‘I chose well then,’ he smiled, scanning the wine menu, worrying whether it was de rigueur to order in French or not.
‘We’ll have the Château des Gravières 2005, s’il vous plaît,’ Mitch nodded at the waiter who dipped his head in approval.
‘Très bien, monsieur.’
‘That OK with you?’ He glanced over at Imogen. ‘I’m not a big lunchtime drinker myself,’ he said, cross with himself for being so nervous. ‘Especially when I’m on duty.’
‘Aren’t policemen always on duty?’ Imogen questioned him playfully, their eyes briefly locking.
Mitch had gladly taken his superior on his word to ‘keep an eye’ on Imogen but given his suspicions, he felt compromised. He knew he had orchestrated today’s lunch partly to pump her for information. But another part of him was content just to look at her, to talk, enjoy the sound of her voice once more. Mitch felt torn. Instinctively, he had known Imogen had something to do with the break-in at the bank. He had always understood her.
The CCTV footage recovered from the night of the break-in had thrown up some interesting information. Information he’d rather have not been privy to.
It had taken Maggie Barber three days, and two sleepless nights, repeatedly watching the footage over and over again before she noticed it. Breathless with excitement, she had called her superior in the middle of the night, dragging him from his fretful slumber, requesting he meet her at the station immediately.
‘There, gov,’ she had pointed animatedly at the screen, ‘do you see?’
Mitch had shrugged, rubbing his tired, gritty eyes as he strained to see what had got her worked up into such a lather.
‘The Forbes character,’ Maggie had explained with a self-satisfied smile. ‘I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. But now I realise what it is, what’s odd about it.’
‘And?’ Mitch encouraged her. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense, Maggie.’
‘Look at the slight curve in the jacket; at the way his hips move as he walks. That could never be Sebastian Forbes, sir,’ Barber had surmised. ‘Never in a million years.’
‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Mitch had replied facetiously.
Maggie had shot her boss a mock wounded look.
‘Yes, but do you know how I know that?’ she asked, relishing the sense of drama, her moment in the spotlight.
‘Tell me, Maggie,’ Mitch had smiled, indulging her.
‘Because,’ she had exclaimed, tapping her fingernail at the freeze-frame figure of Sebastian Forbes on the screen, with a self-congratulatory smile. ‘That, gov, is a woman!’
*
‘I never thought I would see you again, let alone be taking you out to lunch,’ Mitch said, meeting her gaze.
‘We were lucky to get a table at such short notice,’ Imogen said, casting an eye around the bustling restaurant. ‘Usually they’re booked up way in advance,’ she added, being careful not to allow him to steer the conversation in an intimate direction.
‘Policeman’s perks,’ he smiled at her and she smiled back, watching as he absentmindedly brushed his fringe from his eyes.
‘Lovely as this is, you know a sandwich in the park would’ve done just as nicely,’ she said purposely, in a bid to make sure he knew she had not developed any ideas above her station.
‘Now she tells me!’ he laughed and she joined in, the slight tension between them lifting.
The waiter brought the wine to the table and they watched in silence as he poured two glasses of the deep burgundy liquid.
‘To old friends,’ he said, touching her glass lightly with his own, the mellifluous sound of glass on glass ringing out through the restaurant.
‘Old friends,’ she smiled softly, though they both knew they had been much more
than that.
‘You know I always knew you would do well for yourself,’ Mitch said, taking a large gulp of the deep rich fruity wine, resisting the urge to smack his lips. ‘Even when I moved to the other side of the world I always expected to see your face staring down at me from a billboard, or a TV screen or something. When did you stop modelling?’
‘Who says I ever stopped?’ she replied.
‘It’s just that I read something recently about you resurrecting your career. Some big make-up contract in LA …’
Imogen inwardly winced.
‘Oh, you mean the L’Orelie thing?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
He felt bad about having to bring it all up, by all accounts her losing out on the contract had caused quite a stir in the media, and no doubt some personal embarrassment, but it was integral. He needed to get her talking about her husband.
‘Yes.’ Imogen shifted in her chair, feeling the discomfort of her humiliation once more. She could see no point in lying about it, not when it had been so well documented. ‘They gave it to someone younger in the end. The press had a bloody field day about it. Ageism in the media and all that. I see you’ve been doing your homework.’ She raised an eyebrow, impressed.
‘Just my job,’ he replied gently. ‘Anyway, they’re fools – L’Orelie, I mean.’
Imogen felt herself flush pink.
‘It’s a young women’s game today,’ she sighed, glossing over the compliment. ‘You’ve got twelve-year-olds walking the shows now. I’m practically a relic by comparison!’ she laughed, but it sounded hollow. ‘It was a shame though; I wanted to do that one last campaign, in memory of my agent – and friend – Cressida Lucas. Do you remember her?’
‘Small woman, big personality – how could anyone forget her?’
She was pleased he’d remembered.
‘She died in that dreadful plane crash, you know the recent London to LA flight a few months back? I was in LA waiting for her to join me when it happened. It was so tragic, all those lives lost … poor Cress.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said genuinely. ‘She was quite a character if I remember.’
‘Yes.’ Imogen gave a sad smile. ‘She was.’
‘So you gave it up then, the modelling?’
‘My career was just about to peak when I discovered I was expecting Bryony,’ she explained. ‘I worked for a little while after she was born but then Seb …’ Imogen paused for a moment. ‘Seb and I agreed it would be better if I concentrated on motherhood.’
‘I see,’ Mitch said, adding, ‘you’re lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘To have a daughter, I mean.’
Imogen looked into his teal green eyes and sensed regret in them.
‘You and Aimee never …’
Mitch shook his head. ‘She couldn’t. The doctors said it was too dangerous for her, and for an unborn child.’
There was a moment’s silence.
Mickey had given up everything to do right by Aimee and Imogen couldn’t help but wonder if he would’ve done the same thing again today. Blessed with perfect hindsight, would he have stood by Aimee now? Something inside her told her that he probably would; he was just so good and decent and right, and it was for all these reasons and more that she had loved him.
Instinctively, Imogen slid her hand across the table, gently covering his with it. As her skin made contact with his own, Mitch took a silent intake of breath. He dared not look at her for fear that she could read his every thought, would see the raw desire for her etched upon his face like a tattoo. He had to get a hold on himself, remain professional.
‘Anyway, enough about me,’ he said, abruptly changing the subject. He watched her hand as it silently returned to her lap and he stared at his own for a moment, enjoying the tingling sensation the tips of her fingers had left upon his.
‘You’ve certainly come a long way from coffee bars in Camden Town, it has to be said.’
She lightly shrugged.
‘It depends on how you measure a long way,’ Imogen said.
‘Well, I mean, you’re Mrs Imogen Forbes of Forbes Bank now. The house, the cars, the clothes …’ He cast an eye over her outfit – an Isabel Marant tea dress, a butterscotch shrunken leather Balmain jacket casually draped over her chair, a large YSL tote at her feet – it all screamed of wealth and success, though the truth was, she was so naturally beautiful and stylish she could’ve worn a paper bag with panache.
‘I didn’t marry for money if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she replied, a little defensively, a little wounded that he would even think such a thing.
Mitch lowered his eyes and smiled. Had he been that obvious?
‘So it was true love then, you and Sebastian?’
‘Yes,’ she said, a little too quickly.
Mitch nodded, unconvinced. He did not want to believe her.
‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘So tell me, how did you and the infamous Mr Forbes meet then? It must’ve been pretty soon after we– ’ he stopped short of finishing the sentence.
‘We fell in love on Necker Island, since you ask,’ Imogen replied, playing with an olive by means of a distraction. ‘Seb pursued me relentlessly for months … and well, you know … in the end I gave in.’ She swallowed a sip of water in a bid to wash away the bitter taste of her lies.
Imogen’s whole body was screaming out to tell Mickey the truth; make him understand that it had been in a fug of heartbreak and had been the single biggest mistake of her entire life. But she bit her tongue. She had to remember that Mickey was no longer Mickey and she couldn’t afford to give anything away.
‘It was a very romantic proposal,’ Imogen added for good measure. ‘Underneath the palm trees with the sound of the sea in the background.’
He nodded.
‘It sounds it.’
Imogen thought she saw a flicker of hurt flash across his eyes. ‘I’m pleased for you,’ he added, ‘genuinely.’ Now it was Mitch’s turn to lie. There was a long pause between them before he said, ‘Listen, Imogen, I want to talk about what happened all those years ago …’
‘Please!’ she cut him off, abruptly. ‘Let’s not. I mean, it’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? So many years ago. And we were so young …’
He watched her carefully.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, lowering his eyes, ‘I suppose we were.’
‘It’s never a good idea to rake over the past,’ she said with an air of forced nonchalance. ‘What’s done is done, right? What is it they say; why waste time worrying about the things you cannot change?’
‘Something like that.’ Their eyes lingered upon each other for a moment longer than either felt comfortable with.
Adrenalin pulsed furiously through Imogen’s body, destroying any appetite she had. More than anything she wanted to have that conversation with him. To tell him how much she had missed him, had yearned and ached for him all these years, but it was far too dangerous. She couldn’t be sure he wasn’t simply trying to trick her into trusting him, into telling the truth.
‘So,’ he said, pointedly changing the subject, ‘tell me about this husband of yours.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Imogen asked, a little disappointed that he had not pressed the issue of them further.
‘Well, what kind of a man is he, for one thing?’
‘Sebastian? Well, you’ve met him; what kind of a man do you think he is?’ Imogen replied cryptically, sipping her wine. She didn’t really want to talk about her husband, least of all to him, but she could tell he had switched into full-on policeman mode now.
‘Well, since you ask, I would say he is a powerful man, a dictator, the kind of man who always gets what – and who – he wants, at any cost.’
Imogen gave a wan smile.
‘It sounds like you already know him well.’
‘Well, I’d wager that whoever did this to your husband certainly wasn’t his biggest fan,’ Mitch said. ‘In fact, I’d g
o as far as to say they wanted to hurt him pretty bad.’
He glimpsed at her neck to see if she was wearing the necklace, the thin silver chain with the tiny shell pendant he had given her all those years ago on that beautiful beach in Ibiza, but the light summer scarf she was wearing obscured his view and he couldn’t quite tell.
‘Well, you don’t get to the kind of lofty heights my husband has reached without ruffling a few feathers,’ Imogen remarked. ‘He told me he’d compiled a list of names for the police to have a look at; names of people who might’ve had reason to want to see him on his uppers.’ She imagined it was probably heavier than the phone book. ‘Maybe you should start with that.’
Mitch nodded, sagely, pausing for a moment.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled through her nerves.
‘Are you on that list?’
‘Me!’ Imogen feigned surprise. ‘Why on earth would I be on such a list?’ she replied, a little too quickly, a little too indignant. He noticed her hands were lightly shaking as she brought her wine glass up to her glossy lips.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mitch shrugged, ‘it’s not as if you’d be the first wife ever to want to do her husband a disservice.’
‘A disservice?’ Imogen gave a little whinny. ‘Breaking into his workplace would be a little extreme, wouldn’t it? Why would I?’
Mitch shrugged. She was lying. He could see it in her eyes, those dark, almond-shaped eyes. Like windows to her soul, they betrayed her.
‘Imogen, listen to me,’ Mitch said, his voice was low and grave now, almost a whisper as he leaned in closer to her from across the table. Suddenly she saw Mickey again. ‘I need to know the truth. I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth.’
Imogen shrugged and gave him her best puzzled look. Her chest was so tight, she could hardly breathe.
‘The truth about what? About my marriage? About Seb? I’ve already told you. I don’t know what else to say.’ She blinked at him.
Mitch sighed and sat back in his chair.
‘The security guard, Dickie. He’s still in intensive care, you know,’ he said, watching carefully for her reaction.
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