Chelsea Wives

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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 hereverything 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.