Chelsea Wives. Anna-Lou Weatherley

come Monday morning and we certainly don’t want that journalist getting her grubby hands on them, do we? We all know how the press love a freebie.’ The three women simultaneously glanced over in the direction of Sammie, the young, attractive journalist who was busy in conversation with the photographer. Sensing three pairs of eyes on her, she momentarily looked up only to flash a small smile and look away again. Knowing that her usual H&M attire would probably not cut it among such well-dressed, affluent women, Sammie had borrowed an outfit from the accommodating stylist for today’s shoot, ensuring she looked the part. It was her first big piece for ESL magazine and she was keen to make a good impression. If she got this right and produced a great feature, it might just be enough to get her name noticed among the bigwigs at the magazine; something she was desperate for.

      ‘Bloody parasites, the lot of them,’ Calvary whispered under her breath.

      ‘Steady on,’ Yasmin said. ‘She’s a fashion writer for ESL magazine not a snout for the Daily Mail.’

      ‘Don’t be fooled, darling,’ Calvary scoffed. ‘They’re all the same; sell their firstborn for a front-page scoop.’

      ‘Didn’t you used to work for a fashion magazine yourself at one time?’ Yasmin enquired with a sideways glance.

      Calvary was beginning to wonder if she had not made a mistake in inviting Lady Belmont on today’s photo shoot. She sensed those rumours of a less than salubrious upbringing weren’t quite as unfounded as they sounded and could tell the girl was desperate to hog the limelight today, preening and flirting as she was in front of the camera. Still, she had been more than intrigued after having met her at a prominent charity event some months ago.

      Dubbed by the style press as the epitome of ‘Chav Sloane’, Yasmin Jones was a little too tanned and platinum, her jewellery too gaudy and her skirts too short for her to have originated from true aristo stock; in fact, she was sailing dangerously close to footballer’s wife territory. However, her main London residence, a vast, stucco-fronted, five-storey town house on Cheyne Walk and the title of Lady alone more than qualified her place in ESL’s feature. Besides, with a property portfolio the world over, which included impressive piles in Mustique, Monaco, The Hamptons and Portofino, Calvary figured a few choice lunches and the occasional dinner party chez Rothschild would practically guarantee her visitation rights. It was shameless social climbing and she knew it but there had been something else about the new Lady Belmont, a certain vulnerability underneath all the brassiness which had instantly elicited Calvary’s nurturing instincts.

      ‘Yes, the fashion editor’s an old friend of mine,’ Calvary replied, tartly. ‘Which is why I couldn’t say no when he asked. Anyway, do excuse me, ladies,’ she said. ‘We need more champagne.’ She flounced off leaving a waft of Coco Chanel and an awkward silence behind her.

      Yasmin eventually broke it.

      ‘I’m getting used to all this magazine lark,’ she sighed, glancing at Imogen, ‘what with the Hello! shoot and everything.’ It was a crass attempt at bringing the subject round to her recent and vastly extravagant nuptials, which had commanded no less than eight pages in the weekly glossy.

      ‘Yes, I think I saw that,’ Imogen smiled, sipping her champagne. ‘A castle in Capri, wasn’t it?’

      ‘That’s right,’ Yasmin said, not realising quite how smug she sounded.

      The union of one Lord Jeremy Belmont and Miss Yasmin Jones had been dubbed the wedding of the season among the society press. It hadn’t been difficult to see why: thanks to his shady playboy past, royal connections (which he never failed to exploit at any given opportunity), two highly publicised failed marriages and a penchant for courting conjecture, the Eton-educated lord was a society journo’s wet dream. And Yasmin was the ultimate trophy wife.

      ‘Anyway, I’m thrilled Calvary invited me along today,’ Yasmin said, changing tack and smiling forcibly at Imogen. Much as she hated socialising with all these stuck-up, rich bitches, it was a necessary evil if she was to be Lady Belmont-Jones. Ha! The absurdity of it made her want to laugh out loud. Her! With a title! Yasmin straightened her thoughts. She mustn’t let her guard slip. Not now that she was so close to achieving her ultimate goal.

      ‘It’s such a beautiful house,’ Yasmin gushed, her eyes wandering around the room. ‘Pierre Yves Rochon, of course,’ she added, with a knowing smile. ‘I brought him in to do a complete redesign when I moved in with my husband.’ Imogen smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘Had to really, the place looked like something out of Grey Gardens,’ Yasmin cackled.

      ‘Will you excuse me?’ she said suddenly. She was growing a little bored of the conversation and wanted to scrape a final line from the reserve wrap of coke she had stashed in the secret compartment of her Fendi bag for a quick livener. ‘I need the little girl’s room.’ As she turned to leave she knew what Imogen was thinking: the same as everyone else in the room was thinking. That she was nothing but a gold-digger, a disingenuous nobody who had married that old soak Belmont for his money and title.

      And they were half right.

      Calvary returned from the kitchen and sidled up to Imogen.

      ‘So, what do you think?’

      ‘About what?’ Imogen’s mind had been elsewhere since her earlier unexpected call from Cressida. Just hearing the woman’s voice after all this time had stirred up so many memories for her. Memories of him …

      ‘About my new friend, Lady Belmont-Jones, silly. Rumour has it she is doing her damnedest to make a dent in Jeremy’s inheritance fund,’ Calvary remarked from the side of her mouth, placing a tray of canapés down onto the vast oak sideboard and taking one for herself.

      ‘Some might say it serves him right,’ Imogen retorted, her thoughts returning to the present.

      ‘I’d heard she’d ripped up all the original antique flooring in the house and replaced it with Versace carpet. Can you imagine! Versace!’ Calvary looked appalled.

      ‘I’m not sure what to make of her,’ Imogen shrugged.

      ‘Do you think she knows about the scandal? Moreover, do you think she cares?’ Calvary raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Who knows?’ Imogen sighed. ‘Though it’s hardly a secret. Anyway, perhaps it’s genuine and they really do love each other,’ she remarked, flashing her friend a playful smile.

      ‘Hmm,’ Calvary mused. ‘So, Miss Jones, what first attracted you to the multi-millionaire property tycoon Lord Belmont, then?’ They both giggled into their champagne flutes conspiratorially.

      ‘Have you seen him lately?’ Calvary shuddered. ‘Overweight with a comb-over that makes Donald Trump look positively hirsute. You’ve got to hand it to her: she must have the stomach of an ox getting into bed with that every night.’

      Imogen pulled a face. ‘You’re putting me off the canapés.’

      ‘Well, darling, if you ask me,’ Calvary stooped to whisper, ‘there’s more to Lady Belmont than meets the eye …’

      ‘Ready when you are!’ The make-up artist popped her head around the door and gave Imogen a friendly smile.

      ‘Much more,’ Calvary surmised, watching as Yasmin’s D&G clad behind swished provocatively from the room.

      CHAPTER 3

      Standing in front of the well-lit mirror in the ladies’ room at Daphne’s, Cressida Lucas saw the reflection of a woman for whom youth was now a distant memory. Though her recent appointment with the surgeon’s knife had undeniably worked miracles it was safe to say that, physically speaking, her best days were behind her.

      How beauty is wasted on the young, she thought, eyeing the two attractive twenty-somethings who were fixing their lip gloss in the mirror and spritzing themselves with Coco Mademoiselle. Before they know it, they’ll