Pleasure Island (10 page)

M
artin McKenzie poured
a generous measure of Glenfiddich 1937 into a heavy-bottomed crystal tumbler, a special treat from an exceptionally rare bottle of single malt Scotch, which he'd recently, procured at auction. At 64 years, the same age as himself incidentally, it was the oldest bottle of Scotch in the world and with a price tag at a little over £50k possibly one of the most expensive. Whiskey was his thing and he'd built up quite an impressive collection over the years becoming something of a connoisseur in the process. If it was a toss up between a rare bottle of Scotch and a shiny new Bentley, McKenzie knew where his heart lay.

Tonight, as he booted up his state of the art iMac and put his feet up onto the solid oak antique hand-carved Italian desk, he'd decided a nip of the best stuff was very much in order. It had been a bitch of a day: endless meetings with Japanese TV executives followed by the usual publicity and press junkets, a long and tedious lunch at Scott's in Mayfair with one of his PA's wittering on, endless telephone calls followed by a late dinner at Nobu, again with the Japs, and onto a very exclusive gentleman's club where he'd shelled out a little over £60,000 on distinctively average tits and arse and vintage Krug. Such vast wealth made anything and everything available to McKenzie but there was a downside to such infinite freedom and choice. Like a drug addict his epicurean practises needed to be bested each time to give him a buzz to match, or ideally exceed, the former and when nothing was forbidden to you, you were forced to get creative.

The computer screen flickered slightly as he went through all the necessary security checks to gain access to the Super Eight site and smiled as the action came into focus. He could see that Super8#6, 2 and 5 were also online.

‘So, how is everyone faring today?'

He squinted at the images, all sixteen split screens playing simultaneously, and his eye was immediately drawn to screen three. Billie-Jo was taking a shower, soaping her nubile, naked body with alacrity, no crevice overlooked. Her nakedness wasn't especially arousing; he'd seen a million Billie-Jo's in his lifetime, it was her obliviousness to him that turned him on. She had absolutely no idea that she was being watched, playing a starring role in a highly exclusive soap opera for a selected few – there to be studied, observed and, above all, controlled.

‘So, what's the schedule?' Super8#6 was keen to know if McKenzie would give his suggestion the go ahead.

Martin McKenzie smiled.

‘All is in place number six. The game is being made and will be delivered shortly, in time for a little surprise party anyway.'

‘Good show.'

He was chuffed. His idea had made the cut.

‘Let's hope it is Super8#6.' McKenzie switched screens. Angelika Deyton and that dreadful husband of hers came into view. They were in the bathroom together, having a heated discussion from what he could make out. McKenzie turned the volume up. She was asking questions. Bloody Frenchman had been right; they would have to watch out for Angelika Deyton. Perhaps that bitch really was smarter than he'd given her initial credit for. Not that he was unduly concerned just yet, especially with the bombshell he planned to drop on her in good time. She'd be asking a hell of a lot more questions soon enough. He took a slug of the expensive Scotch and pulling his lips over his teeth watched the couple intently.

‘… it's like I feel a little … “tipsy” is the only way I can describe it …' Angelika said, ‘even when I haven't been drinking …'

McKenzie gave a wry smile. She was the first of the ‘players' to make such an observation, and he wondered how long it would take her to work out that the champagne was being spiked. Xanax, otherwise known as Benzodiazepine, was quite a multi-functioning little drug primarily prescribed for anxiety, panic attacks, social disorders, stress and insomnia. Low doses such as the ones he, or rather Elaine, was administering weren't quite enough to give an individual any noticeable high, but it was enough to take the edge off any anxiety and instil a little apathy. It was also known to lower inhibitions, something he was actively seeking to achieve. He made a mental note to ask Elaine to up the journalist's dose next time. She was a troublemaker – he could sense it – but then he already knew that thanks to the vitriolic biography the bitch had written on him. It had been this breech of his good nature that had secured her place on this little social experiment. No one got the better of Martin McKenzie, least of all some jumped-up, wannabe-controversial journalist with delusions of grandeur. Tonight, however, he needed them clear-headed and didn't want to arouse any more suspicion.

Enjoying himself, he flicked back to Billie-Jo who was busy attending to her bikini line with a razor, humming along to the surround-sound stereo, seemingly without a care in the world. Elaine, it seemed, had done a stellar job; her speech had been pitch-perfect, and just as he'd anticipated, aside from their initial griping, which was to be expected, once they had realised little could be done they had accepted her word with minimal fuss. McKenzie took another sip of his Scotch and contemplated a cigar to go with it. Human beings were so incredibly predictable; it was utterly fascinating just how quickly they had adapted to the situation and he hoped the other members of the Super Eight Club watching were just as pleased as he was by such insight. Safe and surrounded by luxury and comfort, it was as if the players had more or less erased the memory of the potential near-death experience he had created for them. Sunshine, safety and sustenance – that was pretty much all they'd needed to remain compliant, at least for now. The game hadn't even started properly yet.

Deciding upon a cigar after all – he'd been trying to cut back – McKenzie reached for his Cartier lighter. A strange sensation washed over him as Mia's unmistakable form came into view. Above all of the cast, her humiliation was the one he would personally savour and enjoy the most.

She was making her way down towards the beach, her glossy, black hair reflecting in the sunlight, the expensive kaftan he'd handpicked for her billowing behind her, exposing her slim legs as she strutted. She'd always been quite a beauty, he reluctantly conceded.

‘Well, hello, Mia,' he said, sucking on the Cohiba and blowing rings of blue smoke into the air above him. ‘Having fun yet?'

Mia Manhattan's name had been the first he'd thought of upon coming up with the whole concept of Pleasure Island. In a strange way she had, once again, become something of a muse to him. The bitter hatred he had harboured for her all these years had not waned with time. In fact, it was still so corrosive that it brought on an attack of acid reflux whenever she entered his thoughts, forcing him to reach for his omnipresent bottle of Gaviscon. Mia had done what no other women, nee, person, had ever dared attempt, not least achieve; she had turned her back on him. From the second he had discovered her, Mia had become McKenzie's prize possession, not to mention his golden goose, and her cutting all ties had cost him millions in potential revenue. For a man so fiscally driven, this was punishment enough but the real cost had been to his ego; deep down he had loved Mia. From the second he'd heard her sing, the moment he'd seen her face she had achieved something no other woman had to date, not even his wife – in fact especially not his wife. She had enchanted him completely. And although he had never confessed his feelings to her nor another living soul, what he viewed as her betrayal cut him far deeper than he was ever prepared to admit.
She hadn't needed him
. He'd lost control of her, something his narcissistic personality found truly unforgivable, even decades later. Even her well-publicised fall from grace in the courtroom – he had been heartily complicit in spreading derogatory rumours about her throughout the trial – and recent divorce had done little to ameliorate any feelings of retribution that he'd harboured all these years since. From the moment Mia had terminated their contract he had waged a private war against her, and like all wars there had to be some collateral damage: in this case Nate and Billie-Jo. They would be the fall guys for Mia's mistreatment of him. It couldn't be helped.

McKenzie drained the dregs of his glass. The plane, containing Mia's rock-star toy boy, was due to land on the other side of the island imminently and the thought made him smile.

He began to type an instant message.

Super8#1: ‘Is everybody happy?' he asked.

Super8#4: ‘So-so,' came the response.

‘Good,' he wrote back, ‘because it's just about to get interesting.'

‘
S
elective mutism
? What the fuck is that when it's at home then?' Billie-Jo looked at her husband, nonplussed.

‘I told you, it's when people choose not to speak, Bee,' he answered, silently wishing she could be struck down by such an affliction.

She pulled a face at Angelika as if to suggest that her husband was completely off his rocker. ‘So you mean they
can
speak, they just don't
want
to?'

‘That's right,' Angelika smiled at her, the three of them exchanging eye contact. ‘It's a social disease that usually starts in childhood; most people grow out of it.'

‘Seems odd that the entire staff force is affected though, don't you think?' Nate looked directly at Angelika and she raised an eyebrow. Now she thought of it, however, this hadn't been strictly true. Aki had spoken throughout the duration of their ill-fated flight, as had the pilot of the rescue plane, albeit in bad broken English. Rubbing her temples, Angelika still wasn't feeling right. Her head felt muddled, she'd only had a few sips of champagne and yet it felt like she'd imbibed the entire bottle, consciously struggling to find the right words when she spoke. It had to be the stress taking effect, she told herself; adrenalin and alcohol were a potent mix.

‘There's plenty odd about this whole situation,' she suggested, ‘though I'm starting to think that's McKenzie's whole MO.'

‘MO?' Billie-Jo wished people would just talk normal, for fuck's sakes.

Nate felt embarrassed by his wife's ignorance. For some reason he was more conscious of it in front of Angelika. Her obvious intelligence merely highlighted his wife's lack of it.

‘
Modus operandi
; it's Latin. It means method of operation.'

Billie-Jo shrugged still none the wiser.

‘Well, whatever it means, it's well creepy.'

Angelika looked over at Rupert who was standing a few feet away. He appeared to be in deep, animated conversation with Mia Manhattan, though he was just out of earshot for her to ascertain what it was they were discussing. It was then through the fog in her mind that she remembered something Mia had said to her the night of the crash, while she and Rupert had been exchanging words. ‘
Did he tell you what really happened during the trial, hmm, did he?'
She made a mental note to herself to ask him when they were alone.

‘Mutism, eh?' Rupert said as he approached the three of them, Mia close behind him, her expression sombre. ‘You could take a leaf out of their book, darling.' He laughed.

Angelika grimaced. Rupert always took such joy in mocking her in front of an audience and she loathed him for it.

‘I suppose there's really very little we can do until the telephone lines are up and working again,' Mia acquiesced. ‘Until then we're stuck here so I don't know about you lot but I might just sample a little of what this place has to offer in the meantime.'

‘You've changed your bloody tune,' Rupert snorted.

‘Well, what other options do you suggest, Deyton?' she snapped back. ‘We've no chance of getting off this island so I say we make the bloody best of it, and drink McKenzie dry and eat his expensive food...'

She placed the black box she was carrying down onto the table in front of them. She snapped her fingers in the direction of her assigned butler who nodded his compliance. ‘Take this back to my apartment, will you, er – Remi, is it?'

‘Mutes,' Rupert snorted. ‘So typical of a man like McKenzie, pretentious arsehole.'

‘Well, I'm not complaining,' Mia adjusted her Grecian gown, ‘I like the strong, silent type.'

‘Don't forget young,' Rupert smirked.

Mia smiled wryly. ‘And tell me Rupert, what is
your
type?'

Angelika watched the cold exchange of eye contact between them carefully. She was well informed about the bad blood between them but instinct told her there was something else. Something she didn't know about.

‘My wife's my type, Mia,' he shot back, placing an arm around Angelika as if to illustrate the point, surprising no one more than Angelika herself. Her husband rarely, if ever, indulged in any public display of affection anymore.

‘Mia's right,' she said, feeling a little uncomfortable, ‘there's nothing we can do other than stay here and wait. Hopefully there will be some news on Joshua soon … good news with a bit of luck.'

B
ack inside their cabana
, Angelika was attempting to choose a bikini to wear: a daunting task given the vast selection. She had a good figure; better than she was aware of. She worked out three times a week and had not put her body through the strains of childhood. Her figure was petite, neat, and she'd always been naturally slim, and, thanks to a strict gym regime, gently toned. Though not blessed with an ample cleavage – something her husband occasionally unkindly reminded her of; she had come to believe over the years that this was a trade-off for being on the smaller side.

She had considered surgery, not that she was prepared to admit as much to anyone. It seemed far too vain and unbefitting for a woman of her age and status to even consider, yet she had, and at some length. The biggest stumbling block was her conscience and the fact that as she would probably have to write about it, thus throwing herself at the mercy of the general public's judgement, not to mention her husband's.

A woman like her – a well-respected high-profile journalist, a woman with substance and intellect – having a boob job; she couldn't even imagine the slew of criticism, the backlash from the feminist brigade, the drop in estimation. And yet she was still a woman; she still wanted to look and feel confident and happy.

Happiness, what was that anyway? Her mother once said to her that it was a habit: ‘Just pretend to be good at it, and like any habit eventually you'll get good at it.' She realised now it wasn't such bad advice. She squashed her breasts together in the mirror forming a small, round cleavage. God, it had been so long she'd almost forgotten what it was like to feel sexy.

Angelika sighed. She suddenly remembered what she'd been meaning to ask Rupert. ‘What did Mia Manhattan mean that time when she asked me if I knew what had really happened during the trial?'

‘What are you talking about?' Rupert called out from the bathroom where he had gone to shave and prepare himself for a recce around the island.

‘The night of the crash … you and Mia were arguing and she said something like, “did he even tell you what really happened during the trial?”'

Rupert winced in the mirror as he covered his face in shaving foam. Jesus, he looked as tired as he bloody felt. The fact that he should've been at home playing polo right now had not escaped him and he felt a wave of resentment towards his wife for ever having coerced him here in the first place. Frankly he could've kicked himself. He hadn't thought any of this through properly, he'd been distracted by the case he'd been on and Angelika had been so persistent. Now he was stuck on a bloody desert island with her for the foreseeable future with no means of any real escape, and if that wasn't enough to piss on his fireworks, then why not throw Mia Manhattan into the God damn mix as well.

Rupert looked into his own eyes and saw the worry in them. The trouble with Angelika was that she had a fucking photographic memory; he supposed it was partly what made her so successful in her chosen career. A talent it may be but sometimes, as in this instance, it was a real ball ache. Mia had made a stupid glib remark in anger and now Angelika was on his case.

Manhattan was a loose cannon; she had trouble written through her like a stick of rock. Her life had been one big, long drama and if it wasn't her drama then she'd be in the thick of someone else's, thriving on it like oxygen. Mia was the type of woman for whom the phrase ‘all publicity is good publicity' was coined. She had no qualms about throwing anyone under the bus if it meant keeping her presence in the media buoyant. And the bloody big, old bitch had something on him, something potentially catastrophic.

Rupert was genuinely concerned she might open Pandora's Box, as well as the one she'd been given by Remi. He shuddered just thinking about it. Was Mia capable of being that vindictive? After all, she had kept his secret, somewhat surprisingly he had to admit, all of these years and had been granted plenty of opportunity to stitch him up in the past, yet she had never told a soul what she knew, or not that he was aware of. Was she saving it for an occasion such as this, one where it would create maximum drama and devastation, a situation where he would be backed into a corner, like shooting fish in a barrel? Well, two could play at that game; he had dirt on her too, weapons in his arsenal he could use if needs be, though admittedly would rather not. Perhaps that's why Mia had kept that great mouth of hers shut all this time, an unspoken vow of mutual silence between them. I won't tell if you won't, kind of thing.

He sucked his stomach in, his abdominals making a fleeting appearance before disappearing as he exhaled. The past twenty-four hours seemed to have aged him ten years. Rupert wearily dragged the razor down his face. He observed himself objectively in the mirror. Was he still attractive? He supposed he was. He still had his own hair at least and while he was no muscle man he could still remove his shirt in public without fear of scaring the birds. Still, he'd turned heads walking down the street once upon a time and couldn't help wondering had it anatomically shifted to stomachs instead?

‘So?' Angelika appeared behind him in the bathroom wearing a bikini that was surprisingly skimpy for her usual taste, although admittedly he wasn't entirely sure what that was anymore, ‘are you going to tell me what she meant?'

‘Who knows what that woman means; she probably doesn't even know herself. No doubt referring to some imagined slight I am supposed to have made against her. You remember what she was like after the trial. She savaged me in the press.'

Angelika watched her husband's eyes in the mirror; she could tell he was lying. Fifteen years married had afforded her such a skill.

‘How could I forget,' she replied, watching him closely while adjusting her shiny wet-look Gucci bikini.

‘Bit racy for you, that, isn't it?' he commented, immediately wishing he hadn't.

She flashed him a look.

‘You don't approve?' She didn't know whether it was the bikini, the light-headedness she had continually experienced since arriving on the island, or the fact they had survived a near-death experience but she suddenly found herself feeling amorous towards her husband for what felt like the first time in years. Angelika cast him a mischievous look in the mirror as she pressed her body into his from behind, sliding her arms around his expanding waist. It had been so long since she'd touched his naked skin in a sexual context that she felt a jolt of electricity between her legs.

‘Racy, huh?' she said, gently biting his shoulder, ‘now that's a word you haven't used since the 80s.'

She pressed her pelvis into the small of his back and made to slide her hand into the top of his Bermuda swim shorts but he squirmed away from her forcing her to take a step back.

‘I'm shaving Angelika,' he said quickly, ‘do you want me to cut my throat?'

Angelika's heartbeat quickened, her face burning; he'd murdered the moment brutally. ‘I won't answer that,' she sneered, red with indignation. Why didn't her husband find her attractive anymore? She wanted to ask him but was too fearful of the answer. ‘You don't like it then, the bikini?'

Rupert felt a little stab of guilt in his solar plexus.

‘The bikini is lovely, Angelika,' he said. It sounded disingenuous, though it wasn't meant to. As it was she did look rather fabulous in it; she was after all still a very attractive woman.

‘I knew McKenzie would be a no-show,' she said, changing the subject, not wanting to dwell on the emotions her husband's outright rejection had mustered. Was it her who turned him off or was it women in general? Had she imagined the way her husband had looked at Nate, his appreciate eyes scanning his toned body. Was it jealousy or something else? Angelika shoved the thought from her mind. She was being ridiculous.

‘Well, yes, you know everything, don't you darling?' Rupert could hear the facetiousness in his own voice but was powerless to prevent it. It had become such a dreadful habit that he just couldn't seem to break.

‘Yes, except for what Mia meant … I don't know that!'

Rupert felt a little hot behind the ears. His wife was the proverbial dog with a bone. She would never leave it alone now because that was Angelika.

‘Don't you think it's all a little odd?'

‘What is?'

‘I've been thinking …'

‘Ah, now you know that is dangerous, especially with your imagination.'