Dirty Minds (11 page)

There was a pause during which he turned over in his head whether this was the moment to ask something along the lines of ‘Am I the sort of man for you?’ He still had not reached a decision when she decided it was time to carry on her tale.

‘Fonsie is a sweetie. I’m sure you will love him. He’s unbelievably rich. So rich he doesn’t even know himself how much he’s got. I think he originally came from Tuscany or somewhere around there. His family monopolised the Pope market throughout much of the Middle Ages. He’s got castles and villas all over Italy, not to mention the rest of the world. Now he tells me he’s just bought a little place in Dorset. Knowing Fonsie, that will be around the size of Buckingham Palace.’

‘So how do you know him?’ He handed her a mug of tea and sat down at the table again.

‘He also owns one of the most important fashion houses in the world. You ever heard of Camaleonte?’ She saw from his face that, even down here in Devon, the name was familiar. ‘That’s his. I’ve done quite a bit for them over the years. That’s how I know him.’

He sipped his tea. It was too hot, so he set it down. He did his best to adopt a businesslike air.

‘So, the stories. Which ones haven’t you read? And which ones haven’t I read?’

She shuffled the pile. ‘I make it that you still have to read the wartime one, while I have the pleasure of the cavemen to come.’

‘You’ll love that. Quite different from the Indian one. What did you think?’

‘Definitely very disturbing. That business with the chains and the harness hanging from the ceiling – that was seriously creepy. I would guess that the woman who wrote that is very familiar with that sort of thing. That is, if it is a woman writing.’

‘I thought the same. Her description of the joy of inflicting pain was disconcerting. Of all the stories I’ve read so far, she comes across as the real sadistic McCoy. Mind you, I couldn’t fault the writing. Good grammar, broad vocabulary and precious few adverbs.’

‘You don’t like adverbs, do you?’

‘How did you guess? I suppose it’s a fixation I have. That and apostrophes.’

‘You’d love my plumber. He sends invoices to Ms Rosalind Water-apostrophe-s.’

‘I blame it on the comprehensive system, or the television, or the Americans. Or a combination of all three.’ Catching her eye, he subsided. ‘Sorry, grumpy old man mode. I seem to be finding it easier and easier to slip into it.’

‘I’ll have to keep an eye on that.’

‘One thing, Ros. You just said you wondered if the writer of the Indian thing was a woman. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose there might well be a man behind one or more of these pieces. We have no way of telling.’

‘Up to a point. Sometimes it’s quite clear. At the risk of offending my possible future co-author, I don’t think yours could have been written by a woman.’

‘Really, what makes you say that?’

‘Just that it is all from the man’s point of view. There’s no explanation as to why she is seducing him. There’s no mention of her feelings before or during the act. Men tend to be very self-centred about these things. He sees her as an object, or at least that’s the way it reads.’

Tom’s stomach churned. What on earth had he done? The more he thought about it, he knew she was right. And now she would be convinced that he saw her in the same light.

‘Oh dear. That certainly wasn’t my intention. I suppose the reason it is just through his eyes, is that he is so totally in awe of this wonderful woman. He doesn’t say what she’s thinking because he doesn’t know and he doesn’t dare to ask.’

‘So you are saying that he is afraid of her?’ They were sailing into dangerous waters now.

‘Erm, yes, I suppose I am. He isn’t familiar with such beauty or such blatant sexuality.’

‘So, you see, for him, it’s just purely physical attraction: she is beautiful; she wants sex, so he leaps at the opportunity. He’s purely after her body, not what’s inside.’

Tom was rooted to the spot. He searched for a response but was sensible enough to realise that when you are in a hole it is best to stop digging.

‘But, it’s just a story, after all.’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to lighten the tone.

‘Shall we read the last two?’ He picked up the tale of wartime lust and read it through, without registering the words. She sat down to
Ten Million Years Ago
.

Once again, the only sound in the kitchen was the clock. Surreptitiously, he tried to work on his breathing to slow his heart rate. Her voice made him jump.

‘I would be prepared to put money on the cavemen story being the work of a man.’

Delighted to be able to talk about something that wasn’t going to result in further embarrassment he raised his eyes.

‘You got that feeling, too, did you? So Ariadne may not be all that she seems. And the same applies to the Indian Torturer.’

‘I think the others are the work of women. The butler’s tale, definitely, and the war story too. Oh yes, and the Marquise; I’m sure that was written by a woman.’

She stood up. Sophie the spaniel was at her side in a flash. Tom, wisely, stayed seated, concerned he’d be assaulted again.

‘Anyway, you’ve got a lot of thinking to do now. I’ll leave you to it. If I don’t bump into you in the field before, I’ll expect you at sevenish tomorrow. Bye, Noah.’

Tom grunted a few incoherent words as she closed the door behind her.

Tom didn’t know much about cars but he could recognise a Ferrari when he saw one. And there was a squat, yellow Ferrari parked outside Ros’s house as he walked up, a bottle of good Burgundy in his hand. He stopped to admire it. It was a beautiful object but, alas, there was a nasty scratch down the left-hand side.

‘That’s going to cost him,’ he murmured through his teeth, as he rang the doorbell.

The door was answered by a tall, handsome man, wearing a white pullover and immaculate beige trousers. Discounting his initial reaction at seeing a cricket jumper, Tom held out his hand.

‘
Buona sera. Mi posso presentare? Mi chiamo Tommaso. Sono un amico di Rosalind
.’

‘
Magnifico. Che piacere
.’ They shook hands. At the same time the Italian shouted over his shoulder to Ros, in fine American English. ‘Rosalind, mia cara, you didn’t tell me your nice neighbour spoke Italian like an Italian.’ He stepped to one side and waved Tom in. ‘
Prego, prego. Si accommodi
.’

Tom stepped into the kitchen, the bottle of wine strategically held in front of him. The spaniel made a lunge at him, tail wagging furiously, but his makeshift shield worked well. He calmed her down and patted her head.

‘Tom, come over here so I can say hello.’ He looked up from the dog. Steam was rising from a series of pans on the stove. In the midst of the cloud, he saw Ros. She looked wonderful. He went over to her, as commanded.

Her shirt was white linen, open at the neck. Her jeans were an immaculate fit and she was wearing heels. She had swept her hair up, revealing tiny gold earrings. He breathed deep.

‘Hello, you.’ She was wearing oven gloves. ‘Careful, I’m sticky.’ She reached across and gave him a decorous kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the wine. There’s some open on the table. Help yourself to a glass.’

‘Can I help?’

‘No thanks. I’ve got myself into this mess, I’ll get myself out of it.’

‘Here,’ he saw her glass on the worktop and picked it up. ‘You will find that this helps.’ He held it to her lips as she took a mouthful, his eyes glued on hers. They seemed even greener than usual in the steam.

‘Feeling better already. Now go and talk to Fonsie.’

Tom went over to the table. The Italian had already poured him a glass of golden wine. He saw the Grand Cru label and knew it would be special.

‘
Grazie. Salute
.’

‘
Cin cin, Tommaso
.’

The two men stood and chatted in Italian. Tom loved the language and the country. Having spent a good few years of his life there, he enjoyed any opportunity to speak it. He told Fonsie about his time in the north and in Tuscany. Mention of Florence set the Italian off on a eulogy that was only interrupted by the arrival of Ros.

‘I’m a terrible hostess. Fonsie, this is my neighbour, Tom Marshall. Sorry, I should say Professor Tom Marshall. Tom, may I present Count Alfonso dei Conti di Segni.’ She held up her glass and proposed a toast. ‘Welcome to my home, both of you. It is wonderful to be with such good friends.’

Count Alfonso clinked his glass with both of theirs and then hastened to top them all up.

‘This is the most amazing wine. Where did you get it?’ Tom was very impressed.

Ros pointed to the Italian. ‘He makes it.’

‘He makes it?’

‘Don’t exaggerate, Rosalind. I just own the vineyard.’ He lifted the bottle and pointed out the label. ‘It’s in a little place called Buxy, just to the southwest of Chalon-sur-Saône. I would have brought more, but the Ferrari has so little storage space.’

‘So he only brought me a dozen bottles.’ Ros gripped his arm and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. ‘So, tell me, Fonsie, how good is Tom’s Italian, really?’

‘He speaks it better than I do.’ Tom protested, but was silenced by the Italian’s wagging finger. ‘I spend so much of my life away from Italy, I am forgetting the language of my mother.’

Tom studied the older man. His face was impeccable, without a wrinkle or blemish. His teeth were pure Hollywood and his figure not that of your average sexagenarian. The clothes he was wearing were immaculate. His calfskin shoes looked brand new, and probably were. He looked younger, fitter and considerably more handsome than Tom. Just then, a bulb, that had been flickering, suddenly lit up in Tom’s head.

‘Could I ask you something, Alfonso? Could it be that you are related to somebody I feel I know very, very well?’ The Italian raised an eyebrow. ‘Does Lotario di Segni ring any bells with you?’

Alfonso smiled broadly. ‘So not only is he a gifted linguist, he also knows his history. Yes, Tommaso, my family includes not only him, but two other Popes in its archives.’

Tom turned to Ros. ‘Lotario di Segni became Pope Innocent III in 1198. He was at the helm when the Crusade against the Cathars took place.’

The Italian nodded. ‘Ah yes, the Albigensian Crusade. Not the Catholic Church’s finest hour.’

They sat and chatted. Alfonso was excellent company: cultured, mundane and funny. From time to time, Tom found himself glancing at the two beautiful people across the table from him, wondering just what he was doing here. On one occasion Ros caught his eye. He saw straightaway that she knew what he was thinking. She smiled, then returned to the food.

‘Right, Here’s your starter. I hope you like it.’

She brought over a plate of little vol au vents, some filled with goat cheese, some with crab meat. They were delightful.

‘For somebody who claims to have only eaten carrots for years, you cook really well, Ros.’

‘Rosalind is a girl of many, many talents.’ Alfonso reached across and caught her cheek between his fingers. ‘She is superwoman. There is nothing she can’t do.’

‘Stop it, you two. You haven’t had the main course yet.’

The main course proved to be excellent. It was a leg of lamb roasted with rosemary and garlic. She had made roast potatoes to go with it. The two men applauded her efforts and Alfonso opened a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Barolo.

‘I’m sorry, I should have opened this when I got here. But, as usual, as soon as I gazed into Rosalind’s eyes, I forgot everything.’

‘That’s something else we have in common, Alfonso.’ Tom raised his glass and proposed a toast. ‘To beauty.’

Ros met his eyes. There was a gentle smile on her face. He thought back to his blunder in the kitchen the previous night. Maybe there was hope that she would forgive him. He would never forget the accusation of being just a self-centred man who saw her only as a sex object. Her expression gave nothing away.

After the baked pears in Madeira, they settled back. It was then that Alfonso brought up the question Tom had been dreading.

‘So, Tom, you and Rosalind are writing a book, a rather special book, I believe.’ His roguish expression made clear that he had already been made aware of the nature of the book.

‘Erm, yes. It’s a collaborative effort. I am trying to choose some female writers to join me in the project.’ Noticing Ros’s enquiring look at his use of the plural, he explained. ‘I’ve received applications and specimen pieces of writing from six ladies. Well, six people who describe themselves as ladies, anyway. The original plan was to select just one co-writer, but I have been so impressed with the quality of the stuff they have sent me, I’m coming round to thinking it might be better to choose, not just one, but several co-authors.’

‘That’s a really good idea, Tom. But how do we, you, suss out who’s who?’ She turned to Alfonso. ‘We have serious doubts as to the gender of a couple of the writers. It would be embarrassing to discover we had been tricked.’

‘Can’t you ask them for a photograph?’ As he said it, he was already shaking his head. ‘No, no, no. The number of times in my life I have found that the reality of the person did not match the photograph. You have no choice, surely: you must meet them.’

Tom had been thinking along the same lines. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Alfonso. If we are going to make it a group effort, we really need to set up a meeting. The main aim of the meeting will be to discuss specifics of the plot, setting and characters. But at the same time we will be able to see for ourselves what sex we are dealing with.’

‘Ah, if it were only that simple.’ The Italian was smiling broadly. ‘Tommaso, I could tell you of several times in my life when only the grace of God and my innate sexual radar has prevented me from making a big mistake.’ Ros decided this would be a good time to get up and make coffee. The Italian finished in a whisper, ‘A face like an angel,
poppe da sogno, ed un cazzo piu grosso del mio!
’ He erupted into ribald laughter.

Tom excused himself and headed upstairs to the toilet.

Ros left the coffee and ran after him, calling, ‘Wait Tom, I’m not sure if there’s a towel.’

He stopped at the top, as he heard her feet behind him on the stairs. The bathroom door was open and a pristine towel hung beside the basin. He turned back to her.

‘It’s all right, I can see the – ’

She reached the top of the stairs, flung her arms around his neck and pulled his face up close to hers. He staggered backwards under the onslaught.

‘I’m sorry I was mean to you, Tom. I’ve been feeling awful ever since. You’re not the man in your story. I know that. And I’m not the girl.’ There was a pause. ‘Unless you want me to be.’ Before he could answer, she touched his lips with hers, turned, and ran back down the stairs.

Before leaving the bathroom, he washed his hands, splashed some water onto his face, and did his best to stop grinning like an idiot.

‘Ah Tom, I have an idea.’ Alfonso had been deep in conversation with Ros. ‘Listen, Rosalind tells me you are thinking of setting your book in the 1920s. Is that right?’

‘Yes, I think so, if you agree, Ros.’

‘Of course. Anyway, it’s your project Tom.’

‘And what sort of setting did you have in mind? I mean in terms of where the action takes place?’

‘I hadn’t really got round to thinking about that.’ He cast around for ideas. ‘I suppose I was thinking about hanky-panky among the upper classes, rather than sex in Skid Row.’

‘
Esatto!
Precisely. How does the idea of an upper-class house party sound? A very dirty weekend in a country mansion somewhere in England? Does that appeal?’

It did. The more Tom thought about it, the better he liked the idea. ‘I just finished re-reading my Evelyn Waughs. Yes, somewhere like
Brideshead
would be perfect.’ He thought back to his initial research. ‘Lots of boathouses, orangeries and dungeons. Great idea, Alfonso.’

Ros was smiling. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if the meeting could be somewhere like that? Everybody could get the feel of the place, work out the geography and so on.’ Something in her voice struck him.

‘It would indeed. But I’m not sure my budget would run to putting six people up in a country mansion.’ The other two were both grinning by this time.

Ros hastened to explain. ‘But you didn’t take into account the most generous Italian I have ever met. Alfonso has just told me about his new project. Go on, tell Tom.’ She was hopping up and down with excitement.

‘I have just bought a country house. I came from there this afternoon. It is only two hours away.’ Tom wondered how two Ferrari hours translated into his car hours. ‘It isn’t really a house, it is a hotel. I am planning a big refurbishment but it’s fully functioning at the moment, although we have stopped taking bookings. If you would like to have your weekend meeting there it would give me the chance to test out the staff. Naturally it would be at my expense. You would be doing me a favour.’

Ros wasn’t joking when she described him as generous. This was way beyond generous. ‘I couldn’t possibly, Alfonso. That is altogether too kind.’

‘Not at all. You will be very welcome. I would do anything for my beloved Rosalind. And, my friend, I get the impression she would do anything for you.’ This was accompanied by a very Latin wink. Ros blushed red and punched him.

‘You horrid man. You mustn’t say things like that. Behave yourself.’

Totally unrepentant, Alfonso continued. ‘Besides, Tommaso, you are
simpatico
. I would be delighted to have your company for a weekend. Please accept this invitation.’

Tom did not know what to say. Taking this as agreement, Alfonso showed that his business brain was still functioning. ‘So, if I understand correctly, you will have five guests, presumably plus husbands, lovers or friends. Plus yourselves. I will instruct the staff to prepare five double rooms, plus whatever accommodation you two require.’ Before either of them could speak, he continued. ‘Make the invitation from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon. We will provide all the food and drink. Like I said, it will give me a chance to see the staff in operation. Now, there is just one small problem.’

They both looked at him, breathless at the speed with which he had worked out the arrangements to be made.

‘The refurbishment begins the week after next. Today is Wednesday, so this weekend is too short notice. It will have to be the weekend after. It doesn’t give you or your other writers much time. Is that all right?’

‘Alfonso, you are wonderful.’ Ros threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Tom almost followed suit.

‘Alfonso, I don’t know what to say. First you come up with the best idea for the setting of the book, and then you offer us your house. That is fantastic.’

‘Houses? I have got lots of them. It’s the people you fill them with that count.’