Chelsea Wives Page 5

  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?’

  CHAPTER 7

  Marshall Jackson, or Mylo to his friends, let his head flop back onto his shoulders and wondered if he was just not the luckiest dude alive right now. With his arms outstretched either side of him, resting against the pool edge, he closed his eyes and allowed the unforgiving Nevada sun to warm his face while the rest of him kept cool in the Olympic-sized rooftop swimming pool.

  ‘You having fun, ladies?’ he asked from underneath his mirrored Ray-Bans. ‘’Cause I’m having the time of my frickin’ life.’

  ‘Sure, Mylo,’ Lindsay giggled, whipping off her small triangle bikini top and letting it float away. ‘But I need more champagne.’

  ‘Yeah, and Cheetos,’ piped up Britney. ‘We want champagne and Cheetos.’

  Britney was already topless and Mylo surveyed her tits as they gently bobbed up and down in the water. Not bad for a chick with a couple of Rugrats, he reasoned.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ Mylo called out to a blonde pool hop who on closer inspection turned out to be Paris. She was wearing nothing but a small French Maid’s apron and a pair of killer thigh-high black patent leather boots; the rounded curves of her breasts peeping out from the barely-there straps of her pinafore.

  ‘A magnum of Krug, please.’

  ‘And Cheetos,’ Britney added. ‘Don’t forget the Cheetos.’

  ‘Anything you say, Mylo, baby.’ Paris flashed a megawatt smile, removing her tiny outfit to reveal her nakedness, save for the kinky boots. With a hard-on the size of Queens, Mylo found himself faced with a real dilemma: which of these chicks was he gonna give it to first?

  ‘Hey, Lindsay,’ he said, ‘you wanna be first to have some fun?’

  ‘You bet, baby,’ she grinned, thrilled. He pulled her closer to him, ripples of water sliding around their naked bodies like streams of silk ribbon. But just as he was about to give her the full Mylo experience, he was distracted by the distant trill of an alarm sounding …

  ‘Beep beep beep beep – beep beep beep beep.’

  A car alarm? But there were no cars, man, not for miles. Mylo made to continue but it was getting louder now, the trills more shrill and urgent.

  ‘Beep beep beep beep – da-da – da da da-da da da daaaa.’

  Shit. As the distracting noise grew closer, Mylo realised it wasn’t the sound of a car alarm at all; it was a ringtone. Somebody’s phone was ringing.

  Fuck, man; it was his phone.

  *

  Mylo opened his eyes with a start and let out an involuntary groan. The stream of light that tore through the room from a crack in the curtain told him it was morning. Early morning. He sat up, disorientated, his brain slowly registering his surroundings. He was at home, in his studio apartment, a poky affair on 86th Street in Jackson Heights, NYC. He rubbed the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger; his mouth was as dry as the bottom of a budgie’s cage. Feeling through the dimness, his hands clumsy, he scrabbled for his cell on the small bedside table. It wasn’t there. Where the hell had he put the damn thing?

  Tearing back the covers, Mylo swung his legs over the edge of the bed and only then noticed the naked girl next to him. She was lying face down, her straggly peroxide blonde hair fanning the pillow like straw. He had no idea who she was but he had a sneaky suspicion she wasn’t Britney.

  It must’ve been some little party they’d had the night before though, he surmised, surveying the damage to his bijou digs; the floor was covered with empty bottles of Jim Beam and discarded items of clothing; a black lacy bra, his Calvin Klein shorts, an empty pack of Trojans …

  He caught sight of the time on his snide Rolex (he hoped to upgrade to the real deal one of these days); it was 5:55 a.m. Jesus man. Whoever it was, they had better be dying.

  ‘Beep beep beep beep – beep beep beep beep.’

  The blonde in the bed moaned lightly and rolled over to her left exposing Mylo’s BlackBerry. Silly bitch had been lying on it.

  He snatched it up.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mylo rubbed his gritty eyes with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Who is this, dude? It’s six o’clock in the frickin’ morning.’

  The voice on the other end sounded distant and unfamiliar.

  ‘Can I speak with Mylo? I’m afraid I don’t have a surname.’

  The accent was clipped. British, he thought.

  ‘Yeah, it’s Mylo. It’s just Mylo. No surname. You know, like Madonna and Prince and stuff. Anyway, who did you say this is?’

  ‘I apologise for calling you so early. I do hope I didn’t disturb you.’

  ‘Nah man, it’s no biggie. I was only just about to hav
e a three-way with a trio of the hottest, most famous chicks in Hollywood.’

  He could almost hear the caller smiling.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Mylo – may I call you Mylo?’

  ‘Whatever, man, it’s my name, right?’

  ‘Well, Mylo, correct me if I’m wrong but I’ve got you down as a Ferrari man, no?’

  Mylo rubbed his throbbing temples. He needed hydration. Grabbing a used mug from the sink he ran it under the cold tap and gulped back the contents.

  ‘Ferrari? What the … listen, is this some kind of sales pitch? ’Cause if it is, I’m hanging up right about now.’

  The caller interrupted.

  ‘Now don’t tell me, you’re an F430 man? A thrill-seeker, yes? You like a responsive machine with superior speed and lots of pizzazz. Or are you more of a connoisseur? In which case you’ll prefer the 612 Scaglietti; elegant and sophisticated, a thoroughbred race horse of a drive. But you know what I’m thinking, Mylo?’

  ‘Dude, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about … who is this?’

  The voice ignored him.

  ‘I’m going out on a limb here, Mylo, but I’m thinking the Ferrari 599 is the car for you. A GTB Fiorano. Red. A classic 12 cyclinder configuration, iconic in its style. The ultimate performance car. Superlative, purposeful yet refined luxury. Just on the right side of flashy. Perfect for pulling the ladies and making that all important first impression. Am I right, Mylo, or am I right?’

  Mylo scratched his head, bewildered. The Ferrari 599 was indeed his dream vehicle. Just thinking about what a pussy magnet a piece of machinery like that would be gave him a semi hard-on. Still, how did the dude know about his love for the big F? Mylo came back down to earth with a start.

  ‘Listen, er, whoever you are. I know you’re probably on commission or some shit, but the birds are frickin’ tweeting right about now and I got just about fifty bucks to my goddamn name …’

  ‘Look outside your window, Mylo,’ the caller said. His clipped British voice had taken on a slightly malevolent tone to it now which prevented Mylo from immediately hanging up.

  ‘Listen, dude, how’d you get my digits anyway?’ He could not recall handing his number out to anyone who didn’t own a pair of silicone breasts in months.

  The caller’s voice softened.

  ‘Let’s just say I’m your Fairy Godfather, Mylo. So be a good boy and look outside your window. Tell me what you see.’

  Intrigued by the strange, authoritative voice, Mylo walked towards the window, tentatively pulling back a little of the curtain fabric from the window so as not to expose too much of himself; what if there was some sick fuck waiting to blow a frickin’ great hole in his cranium? Perhaps it was the husband or boyfriend of some chick he’d screwed – after all, he never thought to ask any of them if they were single. Mylo was nervous. And then he looked down onto the pavement.

  In place of his old 1991 Chevrolet Caprice, which he’d inherited from his mother upon leaving home some two years ago, parked on the kerb was a gleaming, glossy red Ferrari 599, sparkling like a ruby in the dust against the rest of the standard family saloons that belonged to the neighbourhood.

  ‘What the …?’ Mylo shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m still frickin’ dreaming, right?’

  ‘You see it, Mylo? You see the car?’

  The emotionless voice on the other end of the phone brought him spinning back to reality.

  ‘Yeah, dude. I see it. It’s the 599. It’s a fucking awesome ride, man, but what’s it doing parked outside my apartment?’

  There was a slight pause before the caller casually announced, ‘It’s yours, Mylo.’

  Mylo absentmindedly took another swig of water from the mug and glanced at the catatonic blonde, her peachy butt proudly on display. He still had to be dreaming, right?

  ‘I ain’t ordered no goddamn car, man. You got the wrong address or something.’

  ‘86th Street, Jackson Heights, New York, USA – that’s right isn’t it? That is your address, if I am correct.’

  ‘Yeah, dude. That’s right. But like I said, I didn’t order no Ferrari. Man, I can’t even afford to order pizza right about now.’

  The caller laughed but it had a hollow, almost sinister ring to it that caused the hairs on Mylo’s arms to stand on end.

  ‘Now listen to me, Mylo,’ the voice said softly but sternly. ‘Listen very carefully. That car you see parked on the kerb right outside your apartment block indeed belongs to you. At least, it could if you do exactly as I tell you and don’t ask questions, do I make myself clear?’

  Mylo nodded.

  ‘Yeah. I hear you.’

  There was a pause on the line and for a second he thought the caller might’ve hung up.

  ‘I believe you’ve been hired to shoot the new L’Orelie commercial. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, dude, that’s right,’ Mylo replied, wondering what the hell it had to do with anything.

  The L’Orelie shoot was the gig that was about to pull his sorry ass right from the doldrums and propel him into the big time. It was just pure luck that a couple of months ago he’d been at a W magazine party and ended up boning some older chick who turned out to be the CEO of L’Orelie no less. She’d taken quite a fancy to him; promised him she’d help him out with his career, get him on track with some of the big players. She’d been a bit of a goer in the sack too, even teaching him a few new moves, which was no mean feat.

  ‘You’re test shooting someone by the name of Imogen Forbes, yes?’

  Mylo couldn’t think straight. He rubbed his forehead with his free hand.

  ‘The British chick? She was big, like, years ago, right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  ‘Dark hair. Dark eyes. Pretty damn foxy. Lips like pillows. I’ve seen some old shots of her.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The voice was growing tetchy.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I want you to make sure that she is not successful on the shoot, Mylo. By that I mean she must not get the L’Orelie contract – not even a look in. Do you understand?’

  There was a silence while Mylo digested this information. The line crackled.

  ‘I’m not interested in how you might go about achieving this,’ the voice continued, ‘but achieve it you must. If, of course, you want the keys to that perfect piece of machinery you’re no doubt still looking at right now.’

  Paranoid, Mylo dropped the curtain in alarm. Was he being watched?

  ‘The keys will be delivered to you personally by courier the very moment I get the news that she hasn’t got the job. Have I made this all very clear, Mylo?’

  Mylo closed his eyes and opened them again as if this somehow might give him more clarity on the situation.

  ‘OK, dude. So you’re telling me you’re going to give me 300,000 bucks’ worth of car if I take dud shots of some British broad so that she don’t get this L’Orelie gig, right?’

  ‘In a nutshell, Mylo, yes.’

  ‘And if I don’t …?’

  ‘Then the deal’s off and you go back to driving your mother’s old Chevvie, I suppose.’

  Mylo frowned.

  ‘Hey! How’d you know it was my mother’s …?’

  ‘Do we have a deal, Mylo?’ the caller repeated, impatient.

  The blonde in the bed stirred suddenly, lifting her head from the pillow.

  ‘Morning, baby,’ she husked, her southern drawl breaking the intensity of the moment.

  Mylo put his finger to his lips angrily and waved her away.

  He lifted the curtain back from the window again and glimpsed the glossy red masterpiece on the pavement. He could almost hear it purring softly as he imagined himself turning the key in the ignition and hitting the big red START button. He thought of all that willing pussy making itself available on the buttery soft leather interior, of all the heads that would turn when he roared up in that little baby. Mylo: photographer du jour. He didn’t stop to think why the caller might w
ant to scupper the British chick’s chances of getting the gig. Like the caller said: no questions asked.

  Mylo dropped the curtain and allowed a small chuckle to escape from his lips.

  ‘You have a deal, my friend,’ he said finally. Frankly, it was a no frickin’ brainer.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Mr Mystern will see you now, Mrs Rothschild,’ the young, raven-haired receptionist said as she ushered Calvary through to the modestly grand offices in Temple where Nikolas Mystern was sitting in his perfectly worn leather chair, hand outstretched in warm acceptance.

  ‘Calvary,’ he stood, smiling. ‘It’s been too long. You look wonderful. Please, sit down, sit down. Luci, fetch us some coffee, will you.’

  Calvary waited until the door had firmly shut behind her before grasping Nikolas’s hand in both of her own.

  ‘Nikolas, it’s so good of you to see me,’ she said, gratitude audible in her voice. ‘I know it’s terribly short notice.’

  ‘Never too busy to see an old friend,’ he replied with genuine warmth.

  Nikolas Mystern QC was one of the top divorce lawyers in Britain and an old family friend. Having secured some of the heftiest alimony payouts on UK record, including £5 million for a spouse married to her cheating footballer husband for all of eighteen months, he had deservedly earned the moniker, ‘Nik the Great’ and certain others he would rather not have mentioned.

  Somewhat of a dandy in his de rigueur braces, perfectly styled hair and Gucci brogues, he looked younger than his sixty-eight years, his soft, rather jovial features belying his fearsome reputation; he was not nearly as frightening in the flesh as he could be in the courts.

  ‘Tell me. How are you keeping?’ Nikolas asked brightly, detecting her lachrymose mood. He imagined she wasn’t here to catch up on old times. ‘And the boys? Though I say boys … I heard on the grapevine that your eldest is getting hitched no less. Good Lord, I remember that boy in his Moses basket!’ He shook his head. ‘Where do the years go?’