Chelsea Wives. Anna-Lou Weatherley

back in alarm, pointing at the screen in shock and confusion. ‘That man … it’s … it’s me! But … it isn’t me … that’s impossible. I told you, I was on a plane to Rio last night. I was on a goddamn plane!’ Sebastian’s voice was high-pitched in protest. ‘Surely you’re not stupid enough to think this really is me? A hundred or more people can vouch for me!’

      Mitch nodded. ‘We will have to check all your alibis, of course,’ he said with an even smile.

      ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Sebastian slammed his glass down onto the antique desk with such force that it was testament to the quality of the crystal that it didn’t break.

      ‘I’m going to need to speak to your wife, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch said after a moment’s pause. ‘Ask her a few questions, if that’s OK.’

      Sebastian looked up.

      ‘My wife?’

      ‘It’s merely a formality,’ he reassured him.

      Sebastian sighed heavily, his temper dissolving into self-pity.

      ‘As you wish. Though I can’t imagine she’ll be of much help.’ He picked up the internal line. ‘Jalena, ask Mrs Forbes to come down to the library immediately will you? What? I don’t care if she’s still sleeping, goddamn it, this is important!’ he bellowed, slamming the telephone down.

      Muttering under his breath, Sebastian reached for the cognac decanter once more, this time having the decency to pour the Inspector one.

      Accepting it, Mitch turned away from him and wandered towards the bay window, looking out onto the pristine terrace at the pruned topiary and expensive Lloyd Loom furniture.

      He was still looking out of the window, cognac in hand, as he heard the door to the library open. It was only as he slowly turned round that he felt the glass suddenly slip from his fingers and his heart stop dead.

      CHAPTER 1

      Imogen Forbes looked at her Cartier watch: 3:03 p.m. Shit, she was late. No doubt the photographer would be cursing her blue by now. Pressing her foot on the accelerator of her brand-new Bentley Continental, she revved the engine impatiently, absentmindedly checking her reflection in the interior mirror. Tired eyes hidden underneath lashings of Touche Éclat blinked back at her as she wearily inspected a new rash of fine lines that had seemingly appeared overnight. She turned the air con up to maximum and sighed deeply. It was a warm Friday afternoon in June and the King’s Road was thick with rush hour traffic. Summer stretched out before her, full of promise and potential, giving her a fleeting feeling of hope and excitement.

      Leaning over, she began rifling through the glossy store bags that were piled high in a heap on the passenger seat, souvenirs of that morning’s trip to Harvey Nichols, via a little breeze along Sloane Street: Seb’s dry cleaning from Jeeves of Belgravia, Lime, Basil and Mandarin candles from Jo Malone, a gorgeous silk dress from Stella McCartney – perfect for between seasons – and a divine pair of knotted platform pumps from Christian Louboutin. She wondered whether the shoes might be a little overstated with the rest of her outfit for today’s photo shoot or if the stylist already had something in mind for her.

      Momentarily forgetting any sense of urgency as tissue paper rustled satisfactorily between her fingers, Imogen looked past the traffic and out onto the bustling high street. People were out in their droves, dropping cash in the spring sales faster than they could earn it. Designer bags swung on the crooks of lithe, suntanned arms and the clips of Bugaboo prams. Tourists stood on street corners, maps in hand, pointing at the sugared almond-colour mews houses that were tucked away from the throbbing masses. Glamorous yummy mummies dressed in Diane von Fürstenberg wrap dresses and young, fashion-forward teenagers sat crossed-legged outside the myriad cafés, sipping their skinny soya macchiatos, people-watching from behind their oversized designer shades, hoping they might be noticed.

      The King’s Road still had that buzz, that style and vibrancy that had made it famous in the 60s, Imogen thought. Regardless of how commercial it had now become, it was by far her favourite London high street.

      Her phone rang, dragging her from her thoughts.

      ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ Calvary snapped, irritation thick in her voice. ‘Sophie Montgomery-Smith has already let me down so now there’s just going to be the three of us and the photographer is having a hissy fit. You’re holding everything up.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Cal,’ she apologised. ‘The traffic …’

      Calvary sighed impatiently. ‘You’re beginning to look like a terrible diva, Ims. Put your foot down, will you? Anyway,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, ‘I’m dying to see what you’ll make of the journalist. Can’t make my mind up about her …’

      Having been the fashion editor of the once highly successful, but now defunct, pretentious fashion tome that was Dernier Cri magazine, Calvary Rothschild knew all about hidden agendas of the press and the need to make a name for oneself.

      ‘Seems a little big for her shooboots. Mui Mui by the way. This season,’ she added.

      ‘And the stylist?’ Imogen inquired hopefully. ‘I suppose everything decent has been snatched up already.’

      ‘Well, if you will be so bloody late …’ she shot back, defensively. ‘But I’ve saved you a purple Alberta Ferretti shift and a Lanvin necklace,’ she added begrudgingly.

      ‘Oh Cal, thanks.’ Imogen was touched by her friend’s rare display of fashion altruism.

      ‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

      Imogen threw her phone into her open Zagliani python bag in the well of the passenger seat. It was bad form to be late, especially since Calvary had been good enough to ask her to take part in the shoot in the first place.

      ‘Chelsea Wives,’ she had squealed with excitement down the phone to Imogen just a few days earlier, eschewing her usual cool composure. ‘ESL magazine want to do an insightful lifestyle piece on women who live in Chelsea. Fabulous women, darling, like us! Say you’ll do it.’

      Imogen hadn’t needed asking twice. Even after all these years she still missed the buzz of being in front of the lens. Her phone rang again and she snatched it up.

      ‘What now?’ She rolled her eyes.

      ‘Now that’s no way to talk to an old friend, is it?’ The gravelly female voice sounded familiar but she couldn’t immediately place it.

      ‘Who is this?’ Imogen asked tentatively.

      ‘Oh darling, it hasn’t been that long … surely you remember?’ the voice said, full of mock offence. There was a pause. ‘The bench at Hersham station? You were wearing the most ghastly stone wash denim jacket I’d ever seen in my life and you had a home perm, but even then I could see you had something special.’

      Imogen gasped.

      ‘Cressida? Good God, Cressie Lucas. Is that you?’

      ‘The very same, darls. The very same,’ she said, snorting with laughter.

      Cressida Lucas, MD and scout for Models à la Mode and one-time queen of the London party scene, was a small, fierce redhead with killer dress sense and an unrivalled sixth sense when it came to spotting the Next Big Thing in modelling.

      The day Imogen had been ‘spotted’ by the infamous fashionista would be imprinted on her mind forever. It had been the final week of what had been an uneventful summer holiday and a then sixteen-year-old Imogen had been on her way to visit a friend. She had been quite oblivious to the short, voluptuous woman, glamorously dressed in a bright canary yellow power suit, blowing cigarette smoke into the air above her. Suddenly she was next to her, her neon manicured hand outstretched in greeting.

      ‘The name’s Lucas. Cressida Lucas, and I run a modelling agency in London called Models à