Chelsea Wives Page 7

  The contents of that letter were to change the course of Stacey Jones’s life forever. That day she had made a promise to herself and to Chloe; she would avenge her sister’s death if it was the very last thing she did on earth.

  Yasmin stared at her reflection in the mirror and saw her sister’s beautiful, kind face staring back at her. Chloe had sacrificed everything to ensure that she be spared a life in care and she felt a sharp stab of sadness in her guts that for all her sister’s valiant efforts, that’s exactly where she had ended up.

  Following Chloe’s death, the next eight years of Stacey’s life had been a living nightmare of relentless abuse and neglect – no one wanted to foster the older ones, not cute enough, not malleable enough, so she had been shunted from one ‘care’ home to another, though why they ever called them that was anyone’s guess. No one ‘cared’ about you in a home. You were just another little bastard to feed; a drain on society; and, in the case of the nonces, another orifice to fill. She had finally broken free at just sixteen years old, entering the world with knowledge a girl her age should never have had; street-wise and tough. And alone.

  Yasmin took a large swig of her champagne in a bid to try and wash away her toxic thoughts. Deep down, however, she was almost grateful for such hatred; it was her fuel, the power behind all the deception and tissue of lies she had created around herself and her past. A past that would surely give that contemptuous piece of shit she was married to a fucking great coronary if he were to discover the truth.

  Jeremy Belmont hadn’t the first clue of his wife’s true provenance. To his knowledge, Yasmin Jones was the well-bred daughter of a wealthy Welsh farmer and had been schooled at various acclaimed establishments across Europe. At least, that’s what she’d had him believe.

  They had met a little over a year ago at the Cartier International Polo at the Guards Polo Club in Windsor. According to Yasmin, both her parents were dead (as a result of a tragic farming accident), and that the poor lamb had promptly blown her inheritance and was coming to live in London (‘Chelsea, of all places!’), aged just twenty-six, to ‘grieve and find my path in life’ as she had breathlessly put it, her chest rising and falling between heavy sighs. Belmont had no reason to doubt her; she spoke with a clipped home counties accent, carried herself well and was a social delight, charming everyone she came into contact with. Above all, she was utterly stunning; long platinum blonde hair, enormous sapphire blue eyes and fleshy pink lips and that body – Good Lord, it was something else. Clapping eyes on it for the first time Belmont had felt almost weak with desire. The fact that she seemed to reciprocate his feelings did not strike the bloated, ageing lord as in the least bit odd, such was his inflated ego. As it was, it had taken Stacey Jones years of meticulous preparation and careful plotting to ensure their paths would cross, and that when they eventually did, she would be ready to strike with a charm offensive of epic proportions.

  Yasmin surveyed herself in the mirror once more. The Oscar de la Renta did nothing for her and she dumped it onto the ever-increasing pile of discarded gowns.

  She checked her Chopard diamond-encrusted watch, an eternity gift from Jeremy on their six month anniversary. It was 5:45 p.m. Ricardo would be on a plane back to Athens by now. She thought of him sipping a Peroni, all pleased with himself, marvelling at how clever he was and a sly smile crept across her perfectly made-up face. She wished she could be there to see the look on that smug mug of his when he discovered the little surprise she had sprung on him.

  Their joint enterprise, stinging Jeremy out of half a million pounds, had gone without a glitch. At her instruction, Ricardo had taken the shots of Yasmin and her husband having sex on the yacht and had sent the photos, plus a ransom note, to their Chelsea home.

  Jeremy had paid up of course, especially once she had turned the water works on. Half a million was a drop in the ocean to him, and if it meant keeping pictures of his naked wife out of the press then it was a no brainer.

  Earlier that day, Yasmin had held her hand out as she sat in the greasy spoon café on the Old Kent Road – a venue where no one would ever think of finding her.

  ‘I believe you owe me £250,000,’ she had smiled at Ricardo who grinned back lasciviously, displaying his small white teeth that showed too much gum.

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, Lady Belmont,’ Ricardo had smirked, flicking back his black greasy hair from his pock-marked face. ‘But then again, with a body like that …’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Hand it over, Ricardo,’ she said, lowering her playful tone. ‘Fifty-fifty, that’s what we agreed.’

  Truth was, Yasmin couldn’t have cared less about the money. For the first time in her life she was rich beyond her comprehension and wanted for nothing. It was doing her husband out of half a million that was the ultimate buzz.

  Ricardo surreptitiously slid one of the two black holdalls that he had brought with him across the floor. Yasmin stopped it with her Louboutin-clad foot, unzipped it a little, peered at the contents and nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘And the negs,’ she said.

  Ricardo sighed and pushed a small brown envelope across the Formica table.

  ‘I could’ve made double that selling those shots,’ he sniffed, taking a noisy slurp of his tea.

  ‘Greed is one of the seven deadly sins you know,’ she replied dryly.

  Ricardo let out a hollow laugh.

  ‘And I suppose blackmailing your own husband isn’t?’

  Yasmin sighed, a little exasperated.

  ‘No one would believe a snivelling little weasel like you anyway, Ricardo, but how about another ten thousand to keep you quiet,’ she suggested, sweetly.

  The corners of Ricardo’s mouth turned outwards and he shrugged.

  ‘It’s a more than generous offer,’ she said, her voice hardening.

  Ricardo placed the mug down on to the table precariously. He leaned forward affording her a waft of his fetid breath.

  ‘I tell you what. How about I take that extra ten grand and you throw in a couple of hours of your time, if you catch my drift.’ He raised his eyebrows in a gesture so loaded with sexual connotation that it could’ve been classed as an indecent act in itself. ‘Then we’ll call it quits. What do you say?’

  Yasmin laughed coldly at the paparazzo in front of her, her stomach lurching. Her plan was taking better shape than she could’ve imagined. What fools these men were, she thought to herself. Led by their dicks, all of them.

  ‘Well then,’ she stood to leave, ‘lead the way.’

  Ricardo smiled, displaying those small white teeth and too much gum.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said, his lazy hard-on already twitching in anticipation.

  *

  Yasmin could still detect the remnants of Ricardo’s alcoholic breath and cheap aftershave on her skin as she stepped out of yet another gown and reached into her handbag, spritzing herself generously with a large bottle of Chanel Beige perfume in a bid to mask the offensive stench.

  Ricardo had thought he’d got one up on her with his thinly veiled attempt at blackmailing her into sleeping with him, but, brainless scumbag that he was, had instead wandered blindly into the trap she had laid for him without a second thought. She’d always had every intention of sleeping with him.

  It had been an unpleasant experience, a drunk Ricardo throwing her down onto the filthy mattress and plunging himself deep into her. As usual, Yasmin closed her mind to what was happening, a trick she had mastered from far too young an age.

  Afterwards, just as she had anticipated, Ricardo had promptly dozed off in a post-coital slumber, his heavy alcoholic snores resounding against the thin, sodden walls. Yasmin had quickly dressed herself in the tiny bathroom and, searching through his scruffy possessions, found the original negatives from the film inside the pocket of his dirty jeans.

  ‘Bingo!’ she had whispered to herself triumphantly as she replaced Ricardo’s black holdall with one of her own, filling it with a pile of old newspapers and magazi
nes she had found in a cupboard under the stairs. Leaving it next to the bed, she had picked up the original holdall alongside her own, collected the small envelope of negatives and dragged them both out onto the street where she had hailed a cab to Mayfair.

  ‘Ciao for now, Ricardo, you sick piece of shit,’ she had said as she blew him an air kiss from the back of the taxi. She imagined the look of horror on his swarthy face when he finally discovered that in fact, it was she who had fucked him in the end. Fucked him good and proper. The thought had cheered her up no end.

  *

  ‘I’ve found this,’ the sales assistant called out to Yasmin from behind the curtain. ‘It’s Alexander McQueen couture. J-Lo once wore something similar to the VMAs, but I thought of you the moment I saw it on the rail.’

  Yasmin tore back the curtain and poked her head out. It was the dress. She knew it instantly as she observed it in all its inky black floor length, sequinned embellished, one-shoulder glory.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Yasmin said nonchalantly.

  The assistant stared at her, incredulous. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see if it fits first, Lady Belmont? I would advise it.’

  ‘No. That’s the dress. Just have them all wrapped for me, yes,’ Yasmin spoke hurriedly.

  ‘All?’ The assistant was perplexed.

  Yasmin shot her an impatient look.

  ‘Yes. All of them,’ she snapped, pointing to the enormous pile of couture on the floor. ‘I want them all wrapped and charged to my husband’s account, please.’

  The sales assistant closed her mouth. She was accustomed to observing obscene amounts of cash change hands but she had never seen anything like this.

  ‘Ye … yes, Lady Belmont,’ she stammered. ‘I’ll get it done right away. Would you like them sent on to your Chelsea residence? And can I get you a car? I see you already have some luggage.’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Yasmin said, pulling on her spray-on DVB black jeans and Rick Owens tank and hurriedly throwing her Balmain leather biker jacket over the top.

  ‘Not at all,’ the sales assistant said, instantly buoyed by the realisation that she would meet her sales target this week and then some.

  ‘Oh, and I’ve left a tip for you in the dressing room, for all your help,’ Yasmin smiled kindly at the assistant as she breathlessly made her way past her. ‘Don’t spend it all at once, will you? Got to dash,’ she said, checking the time on her watch. ‘Mustn’t keep hubby waiting – bye for now!’

  ‘Yes, er, goodbye, Lady Belmont. See you again soon?’

  She watched incredulously as Yasmin Belmont strutted from the room carrying a black holdall, her long platinum hair swishing behind her. Oh, to be that young and have so much money, she thought enviously as she stepped into the curtained changing room to clear up the mass of padded hangers and empty champagne bottle. It was then she noticed a large black holdall on the chair and called out, ‘Lady Belmont, your bag! You’ve forgotten your bag!’ But Yasmin was long gone.

  Sighing as she picked it up it was awfully heavy she noticed an envelope on the top: ‘To the helpful assistant. It’s all yours – Treat yourself and your family! Love, Lady B XX.’

  Opening it, the assistant put her hand to her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. The holdall was full to bursting with fifty pound notes. She stared, dumbstruck, at the cash, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The Queen’s face smiled wryly back up at her as she stood rooted to the spot. Looking around her, convinced it had to be some kind of prank, she picked up the note and re-read it.

  ‘ – it’s all yours …’

  Gripped by a potent combination of shock and elation, with her heart thumping so hard in her chest that it almost hurt, the assistant began to empty out the contents of the bag, turning it upside down, watching as a seemingly never-ending flurry of notes fluttered to the floor in a makeshift money-snowstorm. And then she started to laugh, great belly laughs until tears fell from her eyes.

  CHAPTER 10

  Bibendum was exceptionally busy, even for a Friday lunchtime.

  ‘I thought perhaps we might go for a little meander around Knightsbridge after lunch,’ Calvary announced as she cast a critical eye over Yasmin’s choice of lunch outfit – a colourful Julien Macdonald dress that displayed far too much leg and cleavage – a major fashion faux pas. ‘Browse for something to wear for the ball perhaps.’ She was determined to push her protégée in a more demure sartorial direction if it killed her.

  Yasmin bristled, affronted. What exactly was she trying to say? Anyway, she already had her outfit sorted, and just wait until Calvary got a load of it! If she thought her usual attire was a little on the risqué side then the woman’s eyes would fall out of her head once she saw the sheer, split-to-the-crotch McQueen she was planning to unveil!

  Yasmin was wise enough to hold her tongue, however. She had learned quickly that it was best to indulge Calvary Rothschild. Interfering and bossy though the woman was, Yasmin was not naive enough to think that she couldn’t learn anything from her. She hoped Calvary’s knowledge of society might prove useful when it came to gleaning information she needed. Information about the night her sister died.

  Reluctantly, Yasmin knew she should be grateful to Calvary for taking her under her wing, especially since she had been largely ostracised by the other women on the society circuit. In an odd way, they both needed each other; Yasmin wanted information and to fit in, and Calvary needed a distraction from her ever increasing marital problems. Their fledgling friendship suited them both.

  ‘Fine with me,’ Yasmin shrugged. If it meant blowing yet more of her husband’s cash then she was more than game.

  ‘And I suppose you’ll want to pick up a few last minute bits for LA, won’t you, darling?’ Calvary turned to Imogen. ‘You’re flying out the day after tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  ‘What? Hmm …’ Imogen replied, her mind clearly elsewhere. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, jerking her thoughts back to reality. ‘LA.’

  ‘You must be excited,’ Yasmin remarked, shovelling a forkful of walnut salad in between her shimmery lips. She was off the coke today and as usual her appetite had returned with an insatiable vengeance. ‘Getting back in front of the camera again. Calvary told me you were, like, as big as Kate Moss back in the day.’

  Calvary shot Imogen an apologetic look.

  ‘Back in the day,’ Imogen repeated, her mind drifting towards him once more.

  Ever since meeting with Cressida again, it was as if the door to her past had been flung wide open and, struggle as she might, she could not seem to close it again.

  Her head throbbed with thoughts of him so much that it hurt. Images of the two of them together constantly flicked like still frames through her mind; she saw his sparsely furnished apartment in Camden where they had first made love … the rickety old boat they had taken out on the canals during a weekend trip to Amsterdam, laughing until their sides hurt. Try as she did to stop herself from going there, she saw the stunning white beach house in Ibiza, the sound of the waves in the distance as they made love on the sand one last time. And Aimee … she could not forget Aimee …

  ‘So, what made you give it all up in the first place, the modelling, I mean?’ Yasmin asked, genuinely intrigued.

  ‘More like who made her give it up,’ Calvary explained, throwing one leg dramatically over the other as she smoothed down the front of her Alberta Ferretti shift dress.

  Imogen sighed. She hated answering this question. It always made her feel so weak and pathetic.

  ‘Seb wanted me to concentrate on motherhood rather than my career,’ she explained quietly, fiddling nervously with her small silver necklace, the necklace he had placed around her neck all those years ago and that had remained there ever since. ‘He didn’t think I could do both.’

  Yasmin pulled her chin into her neck, outrage written all over her young, heavily made-up face.

  ‘Jesus, what a dinosaur,’ she shook her head ruefully. ‘Well, no man could ever make me do an
ything I didn’t want to do, uh-uh,’ she announced defiantly, though secretly she knew this had not always been the case. On the contrary, Yasmin had spent most of her young life doing exactly what men wanted her to do. It was partly why she felt such a fierce loathing for them all.

  ‘You haven’t met Sebastian Forbes,’ Calvary deadpanned. ‘Actually, I’m surprised he’s been OK about this LA trip. I must say, Ims, I thought he would’ve thrown his toys out of the pram at the very mention of it.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Imogen replied, still unable to quite believe her husband’s easy-going attitude. ‘Though I made it clear that I’m doing this for Cressida and he couldn’t stop me even if he tried. This time I stood up to him,’ she said, enjoying a small rush of pleasure as she remembered the scene in the kitchen.

  ‘Sounds to me like you were fifteen years too late,’ Yasmin retorted, unable to help herself from wondering how someone as beautiful and seemingly smart as Imogen had ended up with a man like Sebastian Forbes who, by all accounts, sounded like a misogynistic bully.

  ‘Better late than never, I suppose,’ Imogen smiled unconvincingly, dipping her spoon into her celeriac soup.

  ‘Relationships, darling,’ Calvary interjected, sighing and trying hard not to think too much about the mess her own was in. ‘I’ve always thought that love makes people do the silliest things.’ She shot Yasmin a humorous look. ‘Like marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather.’

  Imogen bit her lip and cast her friend a look that told her she was a wicked woman.

  ‘Oh yes, bravo, very funny,’ Yasmin retorted, slowly clapping her hands. ‘You may mock, Calvary Rothschild, but I’ll have you know that Jeremy is the love of my life.’ This statement sounded almost as ridiculous as it was unconvincing. ‘I knew as soon as I saw him,’ she added, the natural drama queen within her unable to stop herself from overegging the pudding.

  ‘Love at first sight, was it?’ Calvary raised a sceptical eyebrow, adding dryly, ‘if such a thing even exists.’