Читать книгу: «Chelsea Wives», страница 3
CHAPTER 4
Yasmin Belmont-Jones stretched a long, toned leg high up into the air, sighed and signalled for a crew member to come and refill her empty champagne flute.
A young, attractive deckhand duly made his way over and tried not to stare at her bronzed, firm breasts, which were proudly on display. She adjusted the ties of her Missoni bikini and tightened her matching headscarf, aware of his chaste attempts not to stare, deliberately teasing him. Go on, I dare you, she thought as she twisted her body slightly towards him affording him a better view, get a load of these babies. She watched him intently as he poured the champagne into a fresh, ice-cold crystal flute and did his best to refrain from making eye contact. He could tell this one had trouble written all over her.
Yasmin peered over her giant dark Dior sunglasses and surveyed the surrounding view with a deep sense of satisfaction. The Magus really was the most stunning boat she could have ever imagined; four polished-wood decks of luxurious, elegant living all on one state of the art 170 foot-long motor yacht. The impressive vessel boasted its own seaplane, a crew of seventeen, a heated top deck Jacuzzi, a freshwater swimming pool, twelve beautifully appointed guest suites and an exotic master suite apartment filled with antiques, embroidered silk fabrics and plush overstuffed furniture. Though he owned a rather impressive (albeit more modest) boat himself, The Magus did not belong to Lord Jeremy Belmont, rather he had won a week’s possession from his billionaire Greek shipping magnate friend, Demiris, in an exceptionally well-executed game of poker, and Yasmin Jones was determined to enjoy everything the boat had to offer.
‘Is there anything else, my lady?’ the blonde, blue-eyed deckhand asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, taking a long sip of the cool, dry liquid. ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’
He looked at her for the first time, careful to keep his eyes firmly on her neck.
‘I need you to rub some oil into my back. My husband’s taking a nap, you see, and I don’t want to burn.’
He hesitated.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, peering at him from over the top of her shades, enjoying his sense of unease.
He swallowed dryly. There was nothing he would like more than to get his hands all over her naked flesh; after all she was a total fox and clearly gagging for it. But what about the husband? He could come lumbering up the stairs at any minute and catch them. It would almost certainly cost him his job, a job he enjoyed almost as much as he needed. He sensed, however, that the ‘Lady’ stretched out in front of him was not about to take no for an answer.
‘No problem, Lady Belmont,’ he said, thinking how they were all the same, these gold-diggers who married rich men. In time, they all grew bored of spending their husband’s money and instead searched for their thrills elsewhere.
She looked up at him, her glossy lips glimmering and he imagined them around his cock.
‘Forget it,’ she said dismissively, her tone suddenly switching from flirtatious to cold in an instant. ‘That’s all, thank you.’ He hesitated for a moment, confused by her sudden turnaround. Cock-teasing bitch, he thought as he walked away, his hard-on rapidly diminishing. If he ever did get the chance to fuck her he’d make sure the pleasure would be all his.
Yasmin took another generous sip of champagne and exhaled. She stared out towards the cobalt blue Aegean Sea stretched out in front of her, mesmerised by the sunlight dancing on the ocean’s surface.
It seemed incredible to think that less than eighteen months ago Yasmin Belmont-Jones had been plain old Stacey Jones, a nobody struggling to pay the rent on her poky one bedroom flat in Croydon, South London. What’s more, when she thought about it, getting there had been far easier than she could ever have imagined.
Though Yasmin’s rise from rags to riches appeared meteoric on the surface, every detail had to be meticulously researched to ensure success. Such patience and dedication had ultimately paid off though because so far, Stacey Jones had fooled everyone.
A small, slow smile crept across her lips as she sucked deeply on her thin Vogue cigarette. A waiter appeared.
‘Lunch will be served shortly, Lady Belmont,’ he said. ‘Lord Belmont has requested that you join him on the lower deck in half an hour.’
Yasmin smiled, acknowledging his message without making eye contact.
She knew what the crew were thinking the moment she had set a French pedicured foot on board The Magus; there could only be one reason why a young, attractive woman like her could possibly be with a man like Belmont. It suited Yasmin for them to think she was little more than a gold-digging opportunist. That she could handle.
Yasmin padded barefoot across the polished deck to the edge of the boat and looked out onto the crystal blue water. The sea was as still as a pond and its tranquillity instilled a momentary calmness within her. But it was short-lived and soon replaced by a more familiar feeling of self-doubt. Since the wedding, the press had begun to show an inordinate amount of interest in her personal life. They wouldn’t have to dig too deep to uncover her true provenance.
‘Give me strength, Chloe,’ she said in soft prayer. ‘I’m doing this for you. Stay with me … stay with me.’
‘Ah, there you are, my darling.’ Lord Belmont lumbered up the last few steps to the top deck, panting and wheezing like an old boiler on its last knockings.
Yasmin spun round, startled, her thoughts interrupted.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘I thought you were sleeping.’
‘Mmm,’ he nuzzled his face into the back of her neck. ‘I managed an hour or so. But then I missed you.’ He pressed his bulk against her, willing her to feel his semi-erection. He had woken with the most impressive hard-on he’d had in years and was desperate to make good use of it.
Jeremy let his plump fingers wander up towards his wife’s new breasts. She did not resist. From experience, she knew it was best to let him get on with it. Besides, it would all be over in a matter of minutes.
He untied the sides of her Missoni bikini and let them slip to the floor, wasting no time as he thrust himself into her, his hands gripping and squeezing at her breasts. Yasmin continued to stare out onto the horizon. Her face expressionless, her mind detached from her body as he pumped away at her from behind.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ he wheezed into Yasmin’s ear, panting heavily. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it, you little minx. Let daddy show you …’ His voice began to crack, signalling that he was on the edge of orgasm. Jesus, it could’ve only been 60 seconds or so, a record even for him.
Yasmin knew what to do to finish the job.
‘Ah yes, yes, oooh, daddy, yes … show me, daddy, show me what a filthy little bitch I am …’ She smiled wryly, her eyes glazed and focused on the horizon as he groaned and coughed into climax.
‘Jesus!’ Yasmin screamed, suddenly pulling away from her husband. She ran to the edge of the boat, still naked save for a pair of ridiculously high Louboutin sandals.
‘What is it, darling?’ Belmont said, concerned, his pathetic erection withering to nothing almost instantly.
‘I saw flashes,’ Yasmin said, pointing towards the rocks. ‘Camera flashes over there.’
‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ Belmont said, alarmed. ‘The press, they must have followed us here.’
‘Oh Jeremy.’ Yasmin bit her lip, her voice thick with panic. ‘What if they’ve seen us?’
‘Put some clothes on,’ Belmont barked. ‘I’m going to get the binoculars and a bloody great shotgun!’ As he disappeared below deck, Yasmin reached for her phone inside her Gucci raffia beach tote.
‘Did you get them?’ she hissed.
‘Yes. I got them,’ the gruff voice replied. ‘And might I say you are one fit looking lady.’
‘Save it,’ Yasmin remarked. ‘Now stay where you are. He’s gone to get a gun. But don’t worry,’ she smiled cruelly, ‘I won’t let him kill you. Just do and say what we agreed and you’ll get your reward, OK?’
‘Whatever you say, my lady,’ the man said sarcastically.
Yasmin smiled triumphantly to herself as she threw her phone back into her bag. She did so love it when a plan came together.
CHAPTER 5
Imogen swung the steering wheel of her Bentley Continental CTG sharply to the right, the tyres making a satisfactory sound as they met with gravel, and pulled into the underground garage of her impressive 7-bedroom house on Chelsea Square. Switching the engine off, she took out the folded A4 piece of fax paper from her Fendi tote and read it over again.
‘L’ORELIE PHOTOSHOOT – LA CALL SHEET’
Her eyes scanned the photographer’s details in bold type: Mylo: 001 213 5570581.
He was obviously way too cool and important to need a surname she thought, allowing herself to feel the first flutters of excitement.
Imogen had put off talking to Seb about the shoot for long enough, telling herself she needed to get her own head around the whole business before braving the inevitable showdown with her husband. She was due to fly to LA next week.
She checked her Cartier watch. It was coming up for 5:00 p.m. She would catch Seb just before the Lamberts arrived. That way the conversation would have to be kept short, tactically avoiding a full-blown argument. The thought did nothing to help disperse the knot of dread in the pit of her stomach though.
‘Let the fun commence!’ she said under her breath as she opened the car door.
*
Sebastian Forbes, Imogen’s husband of some thirteen years, was sitting at the island breakfast bar of the couple’s bespoke Clive Christian kitchen sipping espresso from a small white cup, his head buried in a copy of The Financial Times. Her car keys made a startlingly loud clatter as she dropped them into the Lalique glass bowl positioned on top of the highly polished granite work surface. He did not look up.
She noticed Seb was dressed in his Lacoste tennis whites instead of his usual suited work attire. He’d obviously been on the courts, unusual for him this time of the day, she thought.
‘Afternoon, Seb,’ she said breezily.
‘Imogen,’ he acknowledged her with disinterest, continuing to read.
She slung her Fendi tote onto the breakfast bar and kicked off her Tod’s driving shoes, padding across the marble floor towards the stainless steel American fridge.
Her heart was knocking against her ribs as she opened the double doors, wondering briefly if a gin and tonic might help steady her nerves, deciding it probably wouldn’t and opening a bottle of chilled Evian instead.
‘Good day?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered evenly, continuing to speed read. ‘I thrashed Damien on the courts. Had him darting all over the place. Thought the old bastard was going to have a heart attack at one point.’
‘The Lamberts are here already?’ She was surprised.
Sebastian finally looked up at her.
‘Oh, for Chrissakes Imogen, don’t tell me you’d forgotten they were coming for the weekend?’ he said crossly.
The weekend? She knew about dinner but the weekend?
‘Of course I hadn’t forgotten,’ she lied. Her husband was obviously in a caustic mood and she felt her earlier confidence diminish.
‘I’ve had Jalena prepare the master guest suite – everything’s in order. Look, I told you all this last week,’ he snapped irritably.
Imogen frantically tried to recall. She felt sure he hadn’t mentioned that the Lamberts were coming to stay.
‘I … well, I’ve had a lot on my mind …’
Sebastian drained his cup and snorted derisively.
‘Well, yes,’ he sneered. ‘It must be terribly taxing deciding what to wear for lunch every day.’
Imogen felt her hackles rise. He had no idea.
‘This weekend is important to me, Imogen,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want it messed up, OK?’
She hated it when he made a point of using her name, like a father chiding a child. And why was he so bothered about the Lamberts all of a sudden? He usually did his level best to put off their annual visit, let alone have them stay for the whole weekend. She was suspicious.
‘Are they here now, the Lamberts?’ she enquired. She knew she would lose her nerve if she had to wait out the entire weekend before telling him about the shoot. It was now or never.
‘They’ll be back here at 7:00 p.m. They’ve gone to see a musical in the West End,’ he said, pulling a face. Sebastian detested musicals. ‘The chef’s coming at 6:00 p.m. to prepare.’
‘Chef?’ Imogen recoiled in shock. For the Lamberts? He usually reserved such extravagant gestures for VIPs only – a category of which the Lamberts most certainly did not fall into, at least not as far as he was concerned.
‘Yes, darling, you know, they cook food and shout a lot – a chef. I told you.’ He looked at his wife crossly and wondered what the hell went on in that beautiful, empty head of hers.
Now he came to think of it though, perhaps he had forgotten to mention that part to her. The chef idea had been somewhat of an inspired afterthought, the pièce de résistance in his grand plan to seduce the Lamberts. Sebastian knew it would impress his epicurean friend – it had bloody well better, it was costing him a small fortune.
She watched as he began to fold his paper up into a neat square.
‘I’m taking a shower then I need to make a few calls.’ He made to stand, signalling the end of the conversation. ‘I’ll be in my office. I’ve told Jalena and the rest of the staff to prepare the orangery for dinner and give the chef free run of the kitchen.’ He turned to leave.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me how my week has been?’ Imogen said quickly in a clumsy attempt to stall him.
Sebastian rolled his eyes facetiously. ‘Oh darling, do forgive me. Did someone have a handbag party to end all handbag parties?’
Imogen smirked. She would enjoy this.
‘Guess who I saw for lunch the other day?’ she chirped casually.
‘Do tell?’ he sighed impatiently.
‘Cressida Lucas,’ she said slowly.‘You remember her, don’t you?’
The room fell silent and she heard the buzzing of electricity as it pulsed through the giant impressive silver William V chandelier above them. She felt a brief rush of satisfaction as she caught a flicker of panic on his face.
Sebastian swallowed dryly. He remembered Cressida Lucas alright. That odious, gauche little woman who had tried her damnedest to come between them all those years ago, filling Imogen’s head with crazy ideas of modelling and fame and all that nonsense; she had damn near succeeded too.
Sebastian looked at his wife with barely concealed bitterness. She was just so beautiful, too beautiful really. From the moment he had seen her sublime face in a glossy fashion magazine, he had decided that she had to be his. And what Sebastian Forbes wanted, he invariably got. Whatever the cost.
It had not been an easy seduction; Imogen had been grieving for a previous relationship with some no-mark and he had whisked her off to Necker Island – his friend Richard’s luxury Caribbean retreat – at the first opportunity in a bid to help her forget her heartbreak and fall in love with him. His plan had worked, partly at least. Three months later they were married and Imogen was carrying their child.
Though he steadfastly refused to admit it, deep down, Sebastian knew that Imogen did not truly love him. Not in the way he had wanted her to. Not in the same way she had loved that nobody she’d been dating before. But love or not, Sebastian Forbes had won the big prize in the end. He always did.
‘What could she possibly want after all these years?’ he asked cautiously. He had hoped never to hear that wretched woman’s name ever again.
Imogen took a deep breath and another gulp of Evian.
‘She’s got cancer,’ she said gravely. It felt unreal to say it out loud.
A small smirk crept across his face and he made no pains to hide it.
‘So there is a God after all,’ he murmured.
Imogen glowered at her husband in disbelief, her eyes filling with hatred.
‘Jesus, Seb! How can you say that? The woman’s dying, for fuck’s sake!’
He raised an eyebrow, amused. Imogen rarely swore.
‘She’s asked me to test for a new cosmetics campaign, for L’Orelie,’ she continued, her voice stoic. ‘I’m flying out to LA next week. And before you say anything, it’s not up for discussion. She’s my oldest friend and I’m granting her dying wish. You won’t stop me.’ She visibly stood back letting the words hang heavy in the air above them.
Sebastian stared at his wife’s defiant face and thought how appealing she looked when she was angry and upset, her dark hair a little dishevelled, her eyes glassy with tears.
She was so uptight; perhaps now that she’d had this little outburst, got it out of her system, she might loosen up a bit, maybe even offer him a place back in her bed again. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? After all, he had given her everything she could ever want over the years. Thanks to him she had escaped her distinctly aspiring middle-class roots and the transient, empty life of a model. Those supermodels, they might look great on the covers of all those magazines but you took away all that airbrushing and you saw what they had become after years in the business; ravaged old whores, the lot of them.
Sebastian thought for a moment. He had to play his hand carefully. The last thing he needed tonight was a frosty atmosphere, not when there was so much riding on it. He’d play ball. For now, at least.
‘Good for you, darling,’ he said, careful not to inject any sarcasm in his voice. ‘It all sounds terribly … exciting. And Imogen,’ he added, earnestly, ‘really, I am sorry to hear about Cressida. We may not always have seen eye to eye over the years but I wouldn’t wish that upon her, upon anyone.’
Imogen was floored. This was not the reaction she had anticipated and it had taken her clean off guard.‘Oh … well, then,’ she stammered, ‘so you’re OK with it?’
‘Listen, darling,’ Sebastian’s tone was uncharacteristically sweet. ‘If it makes you happy to grant the woman’s dying wish then so be it. After all, what are friends for?’
She eyed him cautiously.
‘Right. Well. Thank you,’ she said, the sharp edge of her voice softening a touch. ‘I appreciate it, Seb. It means a lot to me.’
‘I can see that,’ he said, moving closer towards her, lightly touching her arm and stooping in for a kiss. His dry lips met with hers and she did her best to respond.
‘I’ll dress for dinner,’ she said, gently pulling away from him.
‘Right you are,’ he said, feeling her discomfort and resisting the urge to pull her roughly back towards him. ‘Oh, and Imogen,’ he added as he watched her pick up her tote and walk from the room. ‘Wear something fabulous tonight, yes? Sexy but not slutty, OK?’
She forced a smile. Since when had she ever done slutty?
Once he was sure she had left the room, Sebastian picked up the call sheet his wife had left on the granite work surface, briefly scanned it, then folded it up neatly into a square and placed it inside the pocket of his tennis shorts. Catching his reflection in the shiny worktop, Sebastian gave a small sneer exposing his perfect set of Hollywood veneers. If that ungrateful bitch of a wife of his thought she was starting with all that modelling lark again then she was sorely mistaken.
CHAPTER 6
‘Good God, man, you’ve done us proud,’ Damien Lambert said, eyeing the table of gastronomical delights in front of him greedily. ‘It’s a bloody feast!’
‘This is just for starters, Lambers, my old friend, just for starters,’ Sebastian slapped Damien’s back good-naturedly and gestured for him and his wife, Celeste, to sit.
‘You really should not have gone to all this trouble,’ Celeste said, turning to Imogen who was smiling warmly at her guests. ‘A light supper would have been plenty.’ She surveyed the regency table which was brimming with a variety of steaming fruits de mer including a spectacular array of fresh lobsters, piled high into a giant crustacean pyramid, aromatic butter seductively sliding down their glossy pink shells.
Imogen stole a glance at Sebastian from across the table and inwardly sighed. Seb had always thought that giving her everything would make her happy, make her love him. He bought people; it was what he did, the only way he knew how to operate. But the adage was true: money couldn’t buy love, and everything she owned, the houses, the cars, the jewellery, she would’ve swapped it all in a heartbeat for what she really wanted. For what she’d once had with him. She thought of him then. Truth was, since Cressida’s initial phone call she had thought of little else. How his hair fell in front of his eyes when he spoke and the way he flicked it away with his hand … that day in the library, the day they had first met, the feeling of something taking place between them, some invisible connection, like a magnet drawing them together … she could almost smell the musty scent of the old books as they glanced furtively at each other, the intensity between them almost tangible.
Momentarily lost in reverie, Imogen took a large swig of vintage 1995 Dom Perignon and stared at her husband as if he were a stranger. Though she felt they would both be happier apart, she knew Seb would rather see her dead than divorce him. Perhaps she would let him into her bed tonight, show him that she was grateful to him for not making a fuss about the shoot at least. Perhaps it would not be so bad …
‘That was something else, Forbsie.’ Damien Lambert patted his large protruding stomach satisfactorily. ‘I’ll not eat again for a month.’
Sebastian smiled, eyeing his friend with expertly concealed disdain.
Damien loosened his bow tie as if it might somehow help with his gastric discomfort.
‘Take it off, man,’ Seb implored. He knew that Damien wore his Eton tie as some kind of ridiculous sentimental gesture and he detested him for it.
Lambert had always been a follower, a cling-on who had looked up to him at school with a perpetual wide expectant grin on his chubby face. But for the first time in his life, Damien Lambert had something Sebastian Forbes needed. Or at least the means to help him get it.
‘The shares are up, I see. Caught it in The FT, yes … bloody marvellous stuff, Lambers, you must be like a dog with two dicks.’ Sebastian raised his eyes and took a large sip of scotch.
‘Aye, the good ol’ North Sea; she’s given about all she can but it’s not done too bad all told. And when she stops giving, I’m moving into the energy business. I’m talking really bloody big. Got the Arabs on board and everything.’ Damien slapped himself across the chest triumphantly. ‘Not bad for a Trustafarian eh, Forbsie?’
Imogen strained to listen from across the table as she chatted superficially with Celeste Lambert. Sebastian was being suspiciously and uncharacteristically amenable and this aroused her suspicion.
‘Yes, I did hear something that you’re mixing with royalty. Arabian royalty no less.’
Sebastian smiled, the expression on his face like one of a snake about to strike. ‘That Prince Saud al-Khahoutam, isn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ Damien belched a little, tasting scotch and soubaise with a hint of vanilla. ‘A real likeable chap he is too – for an Ab-dab. Met him at an oil convention in Dubai. His father owns the Montpelier Hotel group. Got enough money to buy up heaven with change left over. He’s coming over to the UK in a couple of weeks’ time. We’ve invited him up to the castle. Celeste’s getting sheets shipped in from Egypt, fretting about it already!’ Damien roared again displaying port-stained teeth and a thick yellow coating on his tongue. ‘He’s made up to be staying in a real Scottish castle, mind, cannot wait. Good job really. You’d need a bloody castle to put up his entourage. He travels with his own private army, you know.’
Imogen watched her husband carefully as he lifted his leg over his knee in a forced nonchalant gesture.
‘Why so much security? Is he under threat of assassination or something?’
It was a question he already knew the answer to.
Damien leaned in towards his friend conspiratorially, the buttons on his shirt straining open, exposing a little white flesh and wiry hair.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ Damien hissed.
‘Another?’ Sebastian said, filling his friend’s half full tumbler with more scotch.
Lambert took a generous slug and curled his lips over his teeth.
‘He’s bringing in a diamond.’
Sebastian feigned shock.
‘A diamond?’ His eyes were glowing now, as if lit by the very jewels themselves. Imogen watched Seb carefully.
‘Yes. The Bluebird. It’s a rare brilliant blue. Completely and utterly flawless, all 798.67 carats of it. It’s insured for over £500 million,’ Damien explained, ‘though that’s supposed to be a fraction of what it’s really worth. He’s scouting for suitable places to house it while he goes off on a round the world cruise or something. It’s far too much of a security risk to take it with him.’
Sebastian settled back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.
‘£500 million? That’s some stone, old boy.’
‘Indeed it is. He’s got the hots for this British actress totty, wants to impress her with it while he’s here.’
Sebastian nodded in understanding.
‘That’ll need some looking after,’ he said, his eyes widening.
‘The rock or the woman?’ Damien let out yet another booming roar and Sebastian surreptitiously rolled his eyes. The man was insufferable.
‘You say he’ll be here in a couple of weeks? That’s around the same time as the ball, isn’t it? I trust you and the lovely Mrs Lambert will be attending as a matter of tradition?’
‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep us away.’ Damien clapped his old friend’s arm. ‘I say wild horses …’
Forbes’s Annual Summer Ball was a lavish, no-expense-spared affair that had been running for decades. A date firmly imprinted on high society’s social calendar, it boasted a roll call that read like something from The Times Rich List.
‘Now you mention it, yes, it will be around the same time. ’
A light suddenly switched on inside Damien Lambert’s alcohol-addled brain.
‘Why don’t I bring him along to the ball!’ he bellowed, a little scotch sloshing over the edge of his tumbler with the momentum. ‘We’ll show those Ab-dabs how it’s really done, eh? He’ll bloody love it, rubbing shoulders with all the aristos. Maybe you can invite that actress sort he’s gone giddy over … Charlotte somebody. You’ll be doing me a favour, Forbsie.’
Damien Lambert patted his nose with his forefinger and winked. ‘Might even help with a wee bit o’ business.’
Imogen saw the look of satisfaction on her husband’s face.
‘Super idea, Lambers,’ he said, already picturing himself inside the Arab’s private jet, sipping champagne in the Jacuzzi and chewing the fat with his new Middle Eastern friend. ‘Bring the man along. I’ll get my PA to sort out an invitation right away.’
‘Thanks Forbsie, you’re a pal.’
‘Not at all, Lambers,’ Seb said, clinking his glass. ‘After all, what are friends for?’
