‘I don’t care if anyone did see us,’ Imogen forced herself to reply. She had to regain her composure. To see this through.
He sat down next to her, his body still glowing and twitching from his powerful orgasm.
‘I feel like I did all those years ago when I was twenty-one,’ she said carefully, looking up towards the sky and sighing. ‘Look Seb,’ she said, pointing to the blackness above them after a long pause. ‘I count thirteen stars! Thirteen stars for Friday the 13th! Surely that has to mean something, doesn’t it? A good omen for us …’
‘I suppose so,’ he said disinterestedly, already thinking about getting back to the boat. What he really fancied now was a brandy and a cigar – and if they got a wiggle on, they might just make it back in time to catch the end of Céline’s set.
‘Lucky for some,’ she said.
He smiled at her then, enjoying the rare moment of closeness between them.
Caught up in Imogen’s new appreciation of him, Sebastian didn’t stop to wonder what might have caused such a change of heart in his wife. He liked to think that maybe she had just woken up one morning and realised that she was a lucky woman, a very lucky woman indeed, married to someone as important and powerful as he was.
‘Lucky for us,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it. Imogen smiled an empty smile, one that a real lover would have seen straight through. She squeezed his hand in return.
‘Seriously, Imogen,’ he said, his eyes full of earnest as they met with her own. ‘I know these past few months things have been, well, a little difficult between us …’
Months, she thought bitterly, try years.
‘But I want you to know that I forgive you. It’s just so wonderful to see that you’ve come to your senses.’
Imogen looked at her husband, stared into the black holes of his eyes for the longest moment, and swallowed her tongue. She thought of Bryony then, of the daughter who would soon be back in her arms, and wondered if the secret she had held in her heart for all these years would ever see the light of day.
‘Thank you, Seb,’ she replied, blinking at him. Once, she had felt a modicum of pity for him; a man who could never love anyone more than he loved himself. But now she felt nothing.
As far as she was concerned, Sebastian Forbes had exactly what was coming to him.
CHAPTER 43
Sebastian had to say this for his wife: she had come up trumps tonight – for once. The canapés and three course meal consisting of pressed foie gras with Madeira jelly, oven-roasted pigeon with fondant potato and date sauce followed by a walnut and pear soufflé with bitter chocolate ice cream, had been an absolute culinary triumph. The guests had loved it – especially that vociferous show-off, celebrity chef, Richard Ramsden and his long-suffering wife, Tomasina – who had had little choice but to positively rave about every mouthful.Imogen had been on top form all evening, playing the perfect hostess, ensuring everyone was having a marvellous time and enjoying themselves at his birthday soirée. She had even laughed at a few of his ‘jokes’ and shown him rare displays of affection in public, kissing him on the cheek and stroking his arm occasionally, making his chest swell with pride. Even the attendance of her insufferable friends and their equally tedious husbands hadn’t given him cause for complaint. In fact, he was quite relishing the opportunity to rub Jeremy Belmont and Douglas Rothschild’s noses in his recent good fortune and success.
Even Bryony was behaving herself, not stealing too much of the limelight as he had predicted she might, staying in the background, speaking only when spoken to. Perfect, it was all perfect.
The hum of conversation, chinking of glasses and cigarette smoke wafted up into the warm evening air above them as the group stood outside looking into the orangery, cleared by the staff to make way for the grand unveiling of Amandine’s masterpiece.
Sebastian felt the first flutters of apprehension as he looked at the sculpture, covered with tarpaulin, as it stood in the middle of the vast, high-ceilinged room. A small part of him was worried in case that mad French artist might have stitched him up. He hoped the time he had spent sitting for her, allowing her to cover him in all sorts of viscous substances, would have been worth it. Regardless, Amandine Lamarque was a seriously cool name to drop in social circles. No one would want to criticise for fear of looking like a philistine. It was a win-win situation as far as Sebastian was concerned.
Anticipation hung heavy in the air as the conversation lowered to a hushed silence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, our dear friends and family.’ Imogen lightly tapped the edge of her crystal champagne flute with a silver knife and glanced at Calvary and Yasmin who were standing together with their respective husbands. ‘On behalf of the birthday boy and I …’ There were claps and cheers of approval from the crowd, ‘I would like to thank you all for joining us this evening and for helping my darling husband,’ she gestured over at Sebastian who, conscious of all eyes upon him, bowed theatrically, ‘to celebrate becoming another year older though debatably wiser.’ The crowd tittered good-humouredly and Sebastian forced a loud chuckle.
‘This year I wanted to do something special for my husband, something different, to show him my appreciation and above all, my love,’ Imogen spoke earnestly and a cacophony of ‘ahhhs’ emanated up into the balmy evening air.
Sebastian watched his wife with a mix of awe and caution. She was playing the devoted wife part extremely well, almost too well in fact. He still couldn’t quite get his head around just how much she had changed over these past few weeks.
‘And so it is with my greatest pleasure that I unveil this token of my affection, a tribute to my brilliant husband, everyone, I give you … Sebastian Forbes!’
A stunned gasp echoed around the room as Imogen theatrically pulled the tarpaulin from the life-size sculpture, followed by a swift and appreciative round of applause.
Sebastian stared at the statue and resisted the urge to punch the air in triumph. There he stood, all six foot of him in all his brilliant, bronze beauty. He looked handsome, regal even, his posture poised and commanding, his jawline strong and his cheekbones prominent.
In truth, Amandine had been more than sympathetic in her interpretation of her subject. From the true-to-life casts she had taken and used as a guide, she had recreated an image of Sebastian Forbes in his own mind’s eye. It was a narcissistic interpretation, though this subtle observation was lost on him completely.
‘Well, what can I say?’ Sebastian breathed, feeling genuinely emotional as his guests looked to him for a reaction. ‘It really is marvellous, truly, truly marvellous.’
He put a stiff arm around Imogen, as he stood up to make an ‘impromptu’ speech, rather than one he had spent days preparing for, one he hoped would yet again showcase what a fine raconteur he was in front his influential guests.
‘… and so I said to myself that if I loved it enough, I would place it in the grand entrance of Forbes Foyer … so first thing Monday I think I’ll arrange for two cars to pick me up! One for me and one for my friend here.’
Laughter rang out through the evening air as guests clasped their hands in sycophantic appreciation.
As the guests settled back into chatting amongst themselves, Imogen sidled up to Calvary and Yasmin.
‘We were just admiring such a fine piece.’ Calvary gave a knowing smirk, champagne flute in hand as she and Yasmin glanced up at the bronzed statue. ‘Such an inspired idea.’
‘And such a pity that something so beautifully created will play such a pivotal role in your husband’s downfall,’ Yasmin felt compelled to chip in, jovially.
Imogen grinned.
‘Tonight might be Seb’s night, but tomorrow will be mine.’ She turned to her friends. ‘Ours.’
‘So, we’re all systems go for tomorrow then?’ Yasmin asked as Calvary continued to stare up at the statue.
‘Ready as we’ll ever be, right, Ims?’
Imogen, transfixed in morbid curiosity at the bronze, took a deep sl
ug of her vintage Dom Perignon.
‘Absolutely,’ she said with conviction. ‘There’s just one thing left to do. Excuse me, ladies.’
Slipping away from her guests, Imogen made her way up the winding staircase towards her husband’s office, catching a glimpse of her daughter on the way.
Bryony was chatting proficiently to various guests, an amenable smile on her young face, her expression wide-eyed and earnest. She looked so young and beautiful standing there in her mother’s dress, in the first flushes of womanhood, dazzling like a ruby in the dust among all the jaded figures around her.
Imogen recalled the conversation she had had with her daughter while dressing for the party earlier, of the sadness she had seen in her own child’s eyes as she had begged her mother not to send her back to Switzerland, and she felt a blackness descend upon her heart once more.
Locking the office door behind her, she sat in Sebastian’s leather swivel chair and, booting up his computer, began to compile an e-mail to one Derrell ‘Dickie’ Richards. Her hands hovered nervously above the keyboard as she wrote the words in the subject matter: ‘Tomorrow night.’
CHAPTER 44
As he made his way into his office on the morning of Friday July 31st, Sebastian Forbes had never felt better. For the first time in as long as he could remember, life was treating him just how he felt he deserved to be treated. Everything had fallen into place and he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. His business was going from strength to strength, thanks in part to his recent association with a certain Prince Saud, and his plan to break into the media was beginning to take shape too, what with all the distinguished contacts he’d made in St Barts, not to mention his new hotshot agent who was promising him the earth. But above all else, the thing that had brought about this true feeling of satisfaction was Imogen. The new amenable, obliging Imogen. For the first time in his married life, his wife wanted him, really wanted him. And it felt good.
Sebastian was suddenly struck by an idea: he wondered if now might be the perfect time to ask Imogen to renew their marriage vows! He knew full well that when she had stood next to him on that beautiful sunny afternoon in August almost fourteen years ago, she had not meant a single word of them. But as he’d said his own vows that day, Sebastian had silently added another to himself; he had vowed that one day she would mean those words she had spoken on her wedding day, that he would make sure of it. It had been a long time coming, but now it seemed as if finally that day had arrived. And Sebastian wanted to celebrate it. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed. A wedding! On Necker Island. He’d get on to his pal Richard Branson about it right away. He’d arrange it for the 13th, whisk her off to the beautiful Caribbean island and surprise her with a wedding ceremony on the beach. Then he’d fly out 500 special guests, hire in world-class caterers and entertainment for a truly lavish party that society would still be talking about in a decade’s time.
‘Morning, Janet,’ Sebastian said convivially, as he breezed past his PA into his office.
‘Good morning, Mr Forbes,’ she said as she looked up, a little surprised. Usually he skulked by of a morning without so much as a grunt of acknowledgement her way.
‘If you could come into my office in five minutes, I’ve a few instructions for you,’ he said.
‘Of course, Mr Forbes,’ Janet smiled obligingly as always, picking up a pen and pad to the ready. ‘Can I bring you your usual morning espresso and pistachio biscotti?’
‘Why not, Janet?’ he smiled rhetorically. ‘Why not? And might I say how lovely your hair looks this morning. Are you wearing a new style?’
Janet could barely disguise her pleasure.
‘Well, yes, Mr Forbes’ she said, preening her hair self-consciously, blushing slightly as she lowered her eyes coquettishly. ‘How good of you to notice.’
Switching on his computer and absent-mindedly opening his mail, Sebastian went about his morning rituals with more purpose than usual. He had a list of calls as long as his arm to make before he jetted off to Rio this evening and was knee deep in paperwork that needed reading and signing but even that wasn’t going to cloud his mood today.
He was still thinking about Imogen and Necker Island as he reset the vault’s security code for the forthcoming week. ‘Lucky for some,’ he said aloud to himself, smiling broadly.
CHAPTER 45
Up on the nineteenth floor of the imposing Forbes building in his vast, penthouse suite office, Sebastian Forbes gathered together the paperwork he needed for the conference that weekend and threw it all into his Gucci leather briefcase.
His driver, Raoul, had just called to say that he was already waiting outside ready to take him to the airport. It was 6 p.m. and he was a good hour earlier than expected, but according to Raoul, the traffic was particularly thick in London that evening and therefore had advised they set off as early as possible to avoid getting stuck, or worse, miss the flight altogether. This suited Sebastian fine. The idea of grabbing a glass or two of champagne and a dozen oysters in the first class lounge before take-off appealed to him enormously, especially since that old bastard Walmsley would be footing the bill.
Suddenly feeling the urge for a scotch to kick-start the weekend, Sebastian walked the length of his office to his well-stocked drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of single malt in a crystal tumbler, making an appreciative sound as he took a small sip of the smooth liquid. He picked up the phone and buzzed down to reception.
‘Come up to my office and collect my luggage, will you?’ he barked. ‘I’ve decided to head off early this evening.’ He put the phone down without waiting for a response.
Admiring his reflection in the large office window, Sebastian smirked and gave himself a little congratulatory pat on the stomach. In less than twenty-four hours he would be taking to the stage in front of hundreds of extremely important businessmen, fellow bankers and contemporaries who had flown in from all over the world, all listening intently to what he had to say. He imagined them hanging off his every word, their eyes shining brightly with admiration as his well-rehearsed speech brought the house down.
Pouring himself another scotch and downing it instantly, he grinned. Oh yes, he told himself unequivocally, the world had better be on its guard: Sebastian Forbes’s moment had finally arrived.
*
Paulo Martinez, one half of the front desk night security team, took his boss’s small overnight bag and followed him out towards the chauffeur-driven Aston Martin.
‘Good idea to set off early, sir,’ he said, tremulously. He always felt nervous in his boss’s presence, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. ‘I heard on the radio that the traffic report is bad tonight. Something about an accident on the A2 …’
‘Yes, thank you, er … Martinez,’ Sebastian said vaguely, glancing at the boy’s name on his security badge.
‘Have a safe flight, sir,’ Paulo gushed with sincerity, watching his boss’s formidable figure as it settled back into the soft leather seat. Sebastian acknowledged his well wishes with a small nod before slamming the door shut.
As the car disappeared into the London traffic, Paulo felt pleased with himself. It was the closest he’d come to having a conversation with his employer in the whole year that he’d been working at Forbes Bank. As far as he was concerned this was definitely progress.
Making his way back to the imposing reception desk, Paulo settled down to covertly read his copy of the Daily Star – newspapers were forbidden from front reception at all times – that he had hidden under the desk and attempted to distract himself from thoughts of his girlfriend, who was almost two weeks overdue to give birth to their first baby.
‘Hey, Dickie.’ Paulo stood and greeted his senior colleague, watching him as he finally walked through the revolving doors. ‘For a moment there, my friend, I thought you were going to be late,’ he teased.
‘As if,’ the fastidiously punctual Dickie shot back good-naturedly, but he checked his
watch all the same. ‘Traffic was particularly congested this evening,’ he grimaced. ‘No news on the baby yet I take it?’ he asked, changing the subject, his young colleague’s presence providing him with the answer.
‘I’m telling you, man, the missus is going spare.’ Paulo slumped back down into his swivel chair, shaking his hands towards the sky like a possessed preacher. ‘She can’t walk, can’t sleep, snaps at everything I say … this little guy …’
‘Or girl,’ Dickie interjected.
‘Or girl,’ Paulo added, ‘man, they had better hurry up and make an entrance or I reckon I’m in for it over the next few days, big time.’
Dickie smiled knowingly. He liked his young Spanish colleague. Many men of his tender years would’ve considered the prospect of parenthood terrifying, trading in all that partying and freedom for sleepless nights, dirty nappies and the constant worry that a small baby brings – yet from the moment Paulo had discovered that his girlfriend, Elisia, was in the family way, he had taken his forthcoming parental duties seriously and with a maturity far greater than his twenty-two years.
Glancing at Paulo, a mix of fear and excitement etched on his boyish face, Dickie saw something of himself forty-one years ago just before Patrice, his eldest had been born: a knot of nervous anticipation, overwhelmed by the thought of becoming someone who meant something: a father.
‘How many days is she overdue now?’
‘Coming up for ten,’ Paulo replied miserably. ‘We’ve tried everything, man. Hot curries, long walks, pineapple for breakfast …’
‘Pineapple?’
Paulo shrugged. ‘Something about enzymes, apparently.’
Dickie raised his eyes incredulously as he sat down next to his colleague behind the large reception desk. ‘Just let nature do its thing. The little one will come when they’re ready.’ He paused thoughtfully, rubbing his eyebrow with his finger. ‘Now I think of it, our Patrice was a little overdue. You know, I’m sure things got going after a little bit of what got Dolly in that condition in the first place, if you catch my drift …’ He flashed Paulo a wink and watched as the weary look on the boy’s olive-skinned face was replaced with a cheeky grin.
Chelsea Wives Page 26
