‘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.’
Suddenly it was the summer of 1995 and Imogen was in the British Library. He had been taking a sly look at her from behind the dusty bookshelves as she casually thumbed the pages of an old copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, pretending not to have noticed him.
She had been instinctively aware of someone watching her, longing eyes leaving imprints on her skin. When she had eventually looked up and met his gaze, it had felt as if a bomb had gone off inside her. He had immediately looked down at the book he was reading as if furious with himself at having been caught staring, and the memory of it still made her smile, even now.
He had asked to buy her coffee and then screwed his eyes tightly shut as if embarrassed by the suggestion, and they had both laughed with an ease that she had never experienced with a man.
He had been a day or so off clean shaven and his soft sandy-coloured hair had hung in his eyes with a nonchalance that was almost contrived. He was tall, and well built, and his eyes were the most unusual teal green colour, protected by thick, dark lashes that were so glossy they looked almost wet, as if he had just stepped from the deepest lagoon. Uncharacteristically, she had found herself wondering what it would be like to make love with him. Later, that afternoon, she got to find out. Subconsciously, she had already made the decision to do so before her cappuccino had arrived. Afterwards, when he had confessed that he had a girlfriend called Aimee, who he no longer loved ‘in that way’, she had believed him.
Somehow she had known this man would be her destiny.
*
‘So it wasn’t instant with you and Douglas then? More of a grower, was he?’ Yasmin enquired. She had noticed that Calvary rarely spoke of her husband and that whenever she did, her expression seemed to cloud over. Jeremy had told her all about Douglas Rothschild’s infamous incapability of keeping his cock in his trousers.
‘Rothschild would shag a hole in the wall,’ Jeremy had crudely guffawed, as if it were something to be proud of.
‘Ha! Me and Douglas?’ Calvary snorted derisively. ‘Oh yes, darling, it was love at first sight alright! Only trouble is, it’s also love at first sight with every other bloody woman he meets!’ She threw her head back and laughed, though it sounded so desperate and hollow that Yasmin had to stop herself from placing her hand on her arm in empathy. It wouldn’t do to start getting emotionally attached. She had a job to do and emotions would only complicate things. They always did.
‘Well, I believe in love at first sight,’ Imogen confessed, the champagne making her feel unusually candid.
Calvary raised her eyebrows.
‘Oh darling, next you’ll be telling us that you’ve met the tooth fairy!’ she retorted with a heavy dose of good-humoured sarcasm.
‘No, really,’ Imogen insisted, suddenly gripped by an urge to talk about him. The truth was, she had never spoken about that time in her life before. Not even to Calvary, her oldest and dearest friend.
Imogen had always believed it was better that way. By staying silent, it was almost as if she could convince herself that part of her life had never existed. Only it had existed, and now it was as if those memories, confined to the deepest part of her mind all those years ago, had suddenly glimpsed daylight again and now wanted out.
‘There was this man, once …’
Yasmin’s eyes lit up in anticipation.
‘A man!’ Calvary spluttered, clearly thrilled and surprised. ‘Oh Ims, you dark horse! Do tell.’
Imogen’s eyes began to glaze over as the image of his face flashed before her with such clarity that she felt the imprint of it on her heart.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘His name was Michael. But to me he was always Mickey …’
CHAPTER 11
Mylo was having a problem. One helluva frickin’ problem. No matter what he did, what angle he shot from, the chick in front of him just wouldn’t look anything other than fierce.
‘That’s it, baby, to the left a little. Give me a grimace. Yeah, like that. Grrr. Like you’re an animal. I bet you’re an animal, right? A proper little tigress in the sack, huh?’
Imogen inwardly winced. This photographer was a total arsehole. What were L’Orelie thinking employing such a sleazebag? From the moment they had started shooting he had bombarded her with a torrent of schoolboy sexual innuendo and loaded remarks about her ‘tits and ass’. It was unprofessional, not to mention disrespectful. Moreover it was putting her off. She’d half a mind to complain but had quickly decided against it. At least until Cressida got here. She’d sort him out in a second with the sharp end of her tongue. If she ever bothered to show, that is.
Imogen glanced at the wall clock; Cress, who was due in on the next flight after hers, was a little over an hour late turning up for the shoot. Quite unlike her, she thought. Cressida was always an absolute stickler for timekeeping.
Standing with her back to the camera, Imogen flicked her head round and flashed her devastating smile. Sleazy though the photographer was, she was still loving every minute of being back in front of the lens and was upset Cress was missing it all.
‘Let’s take five, huh, pussy cat?’ Mylo winked, letting his camera drop down to his side. It was all part of his plan, the sleazy photographer bit – not that he’d had to dig too deep to appear convincing.
In truth, Mylo kind of resented having to make out to this woman that he was a total douchebag. It bothered him that she might think him cheap and tacky – a first for him. Mylo’s insouciance was his trademark; usually, he couldn’t have given a toss what any chick thought at the end of the day – just so long as she said ‘yes.’
He was nervous too; Imogen Forbes was a complete fox. Mylo could see that without some serious intervention, this chick would walk it. The gig was hers the moment she had strutted through the double doors, dressed in regular JBrand Jeans and a plain white t-shirt; her dark glossy hair scraped back from her sun-kissed face, looking a million frickin’ bucks, even before hair and make-up.
Imogen smiled at Mylo, nodded and walked off set towards the make-up artist, Rhianna, who stood, brush poised in hand, waiting for her.
Glancing around the studio at all the terribly cool people milling around, attempting to look integral to the day’s events, Imogen noticed a young girl, little more than a teenager really, with bleached yellow hair, too much make-up and not enough skirt, sitting on a bean bag. The girl was watching Mylo’s every move. Her eyes filled with longing as he stood in front of a laptop uploading images and talking animatedly to his assistant, Josh. Imogen strained a little in an attempt to hear their conversation but the sound of Beyonce’s voice on the stereo in the background drowned out their voices.
Imogen’s iPhone beeped and she picked it up, assuming it was Cressida with an explanation. She wanted this stay in LA to be memorable for Cress, as well as herself. It was her chance to say her final goodbyes to her friend and she had hoped to build lasting memories, ones she would be able to look back on with fondness.
But the message wasn’t from Cressida, it was from her daughter, Bryony.
Imogen felt her heart lift. Bryony was such a thoughtful girl; she had remembered her mother would be shooting today and had wanted to send her best. Imogen felt a small pang of guilt as she read the message. It seemed wrong somehow,