Despite her full and varied life, not having had enough sex in her twenties was one of the things Cressida regretted most. Back then, when she’d been beautiful and smooth-skinned with no cellulite and thread veins to think of, she’d been too bloody preoccupied with proving herself in a man’s world to waste time on sex – far too distracting. Besides, she didn’t need to suck some executive’s dick to claw her way to the top. Now however, Cressida was beginning to wonder just how much more fun it would have been if she had.
Leaning back against the cubicle wall, she let out a small sigh and, impervious to the blatant ‘NO SMOKING’ sign, lit a pink Sobranie cocktail cigarette and inhaled deeply. Hers had been a life of such extremes; incredible highs and soul-destroying lows. She had achieved more in her fifty years on the planet than ten women her age had put together. But lately, Cressida had caught herself wondering what life might’ve been like if she’d never possessed such single-minded ambition and drive; what it would’ve been like to have a family, to be a wife and mother. And these were not the only thoughts keeping her awake at night. With her divorce settlement funds dwindling, the equity on her various properties ploughed into her ailing business, not to mention a wildly extravagant lifestyle to support, Cressida found herself in dire financial straits and once again needed a miracle (or a rich man) to get her out of it.
Spooning a little more powder up her left nostril, she knew she would have to play this one very carefully indeed if she was to get the result she needed. It would require delicacy and tact; there could be no room for error. With her momentary lapse of confidence masked by the cocaine rush, she exited the cubicle, smoothed down her Chanel pencil skirt, and took a deep breath. It was show time.
*
‘Darling …’ Cressida stood up from the table with her arms outstretched. She hugged Imogen tightly, air-kissing both cheeks. ‘Let me look at you,’ she gushed, grasping both her hands and standing back to survey her. ‘You’re just as beautiful as I remember.’
Imogen gave her old friend a warm smile. ‘You look wonderful too, Cress,’ she said, getting a waft of Cressida’s signature scent as she released herself from her grip. She had certainly not lost any of her inimitable presence, even if she had maintained a distinct 80s whiff about her.
‘So, what have you been doing in the last fifteen or so years?’ Imogen said with a friendly dose of irony as she pulled the shabby chic rattan chair from the table and slipped into it.
‘Love the Zagliani, darls,’ Cressida gasped, eyeing the oversized purple python bag Imogen was carrying with approval.
‘Thanks,’ Imogen smiled, giving it a little squeeze. ‘It’s been treated with Botox, can you believe it?’
‘Who hasn’t, darling?’ Cressida threw her head back and let out her familiar throaty laugh.
She took a sip of her San Pellegrino, watching Imogen from over the rim of her glass. She had hardly changed in fifteen years, she thought. Her complexion remained untarnished by age, her hair still thick and lustrous, though much longer than the short, androgynous elfin crop that had made all the fashion editors quiver back in the day. Her lips were still full and fleshy, her smile dazzling and infectious. Of course, she had aged a little in that indefinable way people do, but at thirty-six years old she had maintained an air of youth about her that most women would sell a kidney for.
A waiter approached the table.
‘Give us five, Marcello, there’s a poppet,’ Cressida cooed, watching his tight arse as it wiggled off to the next table. She turned her attentions back to Imogen.
‘So, darling, I want to know everything. Work, life, love … the whole shebang.’ She was disappointed to note that the plain platinum wedding band was still very much on Imogen’s finger. ‘How’s Sebastian?’ she asked tightly.
Sebastian Forbes the man who had killed her protégée’s career stone dead with his controlling demands and ultimatums, forcing Imogen to choose between motherhood and marriage and modelling, cutting short her meteoric rise to stardom and taking her biggest cash cow with him.
If only Imogen and Sebastian had never met, thought Cressida bitterly. She could have been the most successful, fabulous model that had ever lived; forget your Twiggys and your Shrimptons, your Campbells and your Mosses, Imogen Lennard (as she was then) could’ve cleaned up, and moreover, so could she.
‘Seb’s … well, Seb’s still Seb,’ Imogen shrugged almost apologetically. Cressida had never made her dislike for her husband a secret. ‘Bryony is thirteen now,’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. ‘She’s so grown up, Cress, you wouldn’t recognise her.’
Bryony Forbes attended the highly respected Mont-Fleuri Swiss boarding school in Montreux and it had been eight weeks, though it felt like eight months, since Imogen had last seen her daughter, something that caused a lump as hard as granite to form in her throat whenever she thought of it. She hated being apart from her beautiful, sweetly shy Bryony who was so much like she had been at that age; gangly and awkward, yet to grow into her own skin, but Seb had insisted she must receive the best education money could buy, even if that education happened to be hundreds of miles away from her family.
‘If she’s inherited your looks darling, I’ll get her signed on the spot,’ Cressida said in all seriousness.
‘As if Seb would ever allow it! Anyway, she’s far too busy trying to save the planet and the plight of the African elephant at the moment.’
‘Ah, beauty with a conscience, a devastating combination,’ Cressida smiled. ‘Listen, darling,’ she began, feeling the sudden need to get to the point, ‘the reason I’ve asked you here … well, it was for business reasons as well as pleasure.’
Imogen clutched her chest, mock wounded.
‘And there I was thinking you just missed me after all this time.’
Cressida smiled. She was glad to see that being married to such a controlling dullard all these years hadn’t completely robbed Imogen of her sense of humour.
‘It’s L’Orelie,’ she said, suddenly leaning in closer. ‘They’re looking for someone to become the face of their fab new make-up range for the forty-plus market. It’s top secret though, poppet – you know what a competitive business the beauty industry is. It’s an absolutely fucking huge contract. We’re talking national and international campaigns, billboards, TV ads, the whole goddamn enchilada.’
Imogen placed her starchy white napkin over her lap and tried not to look as excited as she suddenly felt.
‘I’m not entirely sure how your name was thrown into the ring,’ Cressida tore up a bread roll and continued, ‘but out of the blue I get a call from Lorraine Harlech, the CEO, asking if I still had contact with you and if you’d be interested in testing for the campaign. Apparently she was flicking through an old copy of Vogue, saw you and wondered what had happened to such a beautiful rising star after all these years. She asked me to track you down and sound you out. That’s about the size of it, really,’ Cressida concluded. ‘Oh, that and you stand to make yourself a very rich woman in your own right, if you agree that is,’ she added poignantly. ‘So, darling,’ she drew breath and looked at Imogen expectantly, ‘tell Mummy what you’re thinking.’
Stunned, Imogen took a swig of water, wishing she had ordered something stronger.
‘Well, I, me … modelling again. I don’t know, Cress. I’m thirty-six now and …’
‘Thirties are the new twenties!’ Cressida interjected, sensing her reticence. ‘Everyone wants the thirty-somethings nowadays. It’s the market with the most cash to spend.’
Imogen shook her head.
‘I’m not even sure I’ve got