Pleasure Island (15 page)

‘Fuck it,' she said as she took a deep breath and jumped in.

‘
W
here the fucking
hell have you been, Angelika?' Rupert snapped as she padded back through the cabana and out onto the private veranda where her husband was pacing up and down, a full glass of Scotch in hand.

‘Well, seeing as though you abandoned me halfway through our little exploration, I decided to continue alone,' she snapped back. ‘I didn't realise I was unable to make an autonomous decision without you, Rupert.'

‘Don't be bloody facetious, Angelika. I'm not in the mood.'

‘You never are,' she deadpanned. She made to fix herself a drink, too; she needed one after what had just happened,
a large one
.

‘Bit early for you, isn't it?' he commented with mild disapproval as she decanted some champagne into a chilled flute.

‘Ha! Hypocrite.'

Rupert rolled his eyes. There was no talking to her while she was like this.

‘Cheers!' She practically threw the glass in the air before throwing half of it down her neck.

Rupert watched her carefully; she looked damp, like she'd been swimming and her bikini bottoms were inside out, the Gucci label poking out of the back of them, mocking him like a tongue.

‘So, are you going to tell me where you've been, and what you've been doing and with whom or not?'

‘No,' she said, before draining the glass and instantly refreshing it.

‘Suit yourself.'

‘I will.'

‘Why break the habit of a lifetime, Angelika?'

‘If you must know, I've been swimming down at the beach. The water is exquisite.'

‘Alone?'

‘Yes, alone – unless you include the fish, in which case –'

‘Well,' he cut her off, ‘I've been waiting for bloody hours for you to get back.'

‘Really, darling,' she mused, sauntering past him towards the en suite in search of a robe, ‘and why was that? Missed me, did you? Suddenly taken by the urge to –'

‘Joshua is having a party,' he cut her off once more. He didn't want to have
that
kind of conversation with her again; it left him feeling way too uncomfortable.

‘Really? When?' Angelika feigned surprise and hoped she sounded convincing. Nate had finally imparted the news about that evening's plans on their walk back from the lagoon.

‘I meant to tell you sooner,' he'd apologised, ‘but I was … I was side-tracked.'

‘Don't be cute,' she'd said. Cute. She never used that word. ‘Anyway, how is he today? His arm … is he OK?'

Nate had shrugged, ‘No idea. He's holed up with Mia at the moment. I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or sorry for him.'

Angelika had laughed.

‘I don't know what the beef is between her and your husband, but I can't help liking her.' It was true; he'd developed a bit of a soft spot for her and felt as though the feeling might be mutual.

‘Their bad blood goes way back. Personally I think it's time they put the past behind them, but Rupert, well, he does like to bear a grudge. And yeah, she's something else is Mia, I'll give her that.'

‘So are you, Ange,' he'd said, ‘I can call you Ange, can I? Not too overfamiliar, is it?'

She'd smiled at him awkwardly. ‘Ange is fine … makes a change from Ang-el-lika!' she said, mimicking her husband's voice and instantly feeling guilty. Could what had just happened between them constitute betrayal? She wasn't quite sure if it did. They'd swum together, both partially naked, she'd laughed as he'd ducked her under the water and she'd lunged at him playfully in response. Their bodies had connected; a brush of skin here and there, his fingers imprinted on her arms as he'd pushed her under the water. Thankfully, however, he'd been enough of a gentleman to turn his back as she'd dressed on the rocks.

‘Is it safe yet?' he'd asked as he turned to face her once more.

‘What?' He had been staring at her, and she'd tossed him his wet T-shirt.

‘Nothing,' he'd said, though once again they both knew he was lying. ‘I was just thinking how flattered I was when you pointed to me last night.'

She'd cringed; she had been hoping he wouldn't bring it up.

‘Don't be.' She'd shot him a sideways glance. ‘It was either you or Joshua and seeing as though he's an invalid right now, not to mention young enough to be my little brother.'

They'd both laughed.

‘Sorry, I'm only teasing,' he'd said, wishing he hadn't said anything. He'd embarrassed her.

They'd walked along the sandy path in comfortable silence but for the sound of the ocean and distant birdsong.

‘I wonder how Joshua made his way back to the island,' she'd said, finally breaking it. ‘Must've been by plane, surely.'

‘You'd think,' he'd agreed. ‘Guess he'll tell us all about it tonight over dinner. We've all been invited to help celebrate his return, properly this time; they've organised a big party for him tonight'

‘Hmm,' she'd said, as more questions presented themselves to her unstill mind. ‘Planes need communication, right? Radios, transmitter waves …'

‘Yes, they do.'

‘Maybe he had access to a telephone while he was on another island,' she'd wondered aloud, ‘in which case he may well have already alerted the authorities about the crash.'

‘Who knows,' Nate had said, ‘it's possible, although he says he can't remember anything of being in the hospital;'

‘Yes, he did, didn't he? Another oddity.' She was starting to think that McKenzie wanted to deny them access to the outside world, keep them here as prisoners in paradise, but
why
?

They had parted company as the cabanas came into view.

‘See you tonight, Ang,' he'd said turning to look at her, smiling over his shoulder.

‘Yes, see you later,' she'd said casually, feeling anything but. ‘Oh, and Nate.'

He'd stopped for a moment

‘Thank you for coming to find me … to tell me about tonight. I appreciate it.'

‘You're welcome,' he'd said before disappearing up the path.

‘A party? What time?' Angelika feigned surprise as Rupert informed her of it.

‘Aperitifs at sunset, it said, 8.30pm, and hopefully no damned games this time.'

Angelika looked at the clock, it was 6.10 pm already. She would need to start thinking about getting ready: showering, styling her hair and make-up, choosing an outfit. Suddenly it really mattered to her that she looked and felt good, and with a sense of impending guilt she knew exactly why.

C
ody Parker had been
up for twenty-four hours solid and his eyes felt dry and gritty. He rubbed them furiously, red rims itching for a little respite from the relentless glare of his computer screen. The site he had discovered, which appeared to be a series of private webcams, had just eight IP addresses assigned to their network interface, addresses that had been configured manually by an administrator. He had run a few programmes, used some of his tried-and-tested trickery to track the host's identity but as yet had not succeeded.

Reluctantly he'd been forced to contact a fellow hacker in Ohio, someone he knew only as #cookthebook for his, or indeed her, assistance. As ever though, Cody knew it was simply a matter of time before that eureka moment happened, and meanwhile he must sit back and allow the programmes to do their thing. Patience had never been a personal strength, however, and he was pissed he'd needed to call on Cookbook's expertise in a bid to aid him. This was Cody Parker's discovery and he wanted full credit for it.

Cody had been watching the six people on camera intently on and off for a few days. He'd viewed the drama as it had unfolded through largely indifferent eyes, listened into their conversations, read their body language in his own unique way and had drawn the conclusion that these people definitely had no idea they were being watched. Whoever was behind this weird kinda soap opera was a voyeur, plain and simple. He had seen the pretty one with the big tits getting fucked real good during a massage; a cute brunette woman taking her clothes off by a lagoon later to be joined by a fit-looking dude who he had worked out was married to the big-titted blonde. The older woman was someone called Mia Manhattan, a seriously famous singer according to Google, although he'd never heard of her, but then music wasn't really his thing. Well, not unless it was death metal. Was this a swinger's site? He wasn't sure, but he
was
sure he would find out.

‘Parker, you my friend r a fukin g-neus!' #Cookthebook's message flashed up on Cody's screen and he sprang forward.

‘Tell me sumthing I dnt know.'

‘I'm gonna … and it'll make you shit your pants man.'

Cody felt a slither of irritation travel down his spine. Cookbook had got a result before him.

‘You found sumthing?'

‘I sure as shit did my friend. And it's gonna blow that crazy mind of yours.'

‘I'm waiting.'

Cookbook went offline for a few moments just to fuck with him. They liked to fuck with each other; it was a game they enjoyed playing, a battle to see who was the cleverest, the more technologically superior, although both of them knew that sometimes they needed to rely on the other's individual strengths to get the results they needed. Although they had never met or even conversed and knew each other only as their on-line handles, Cody considered cookbook to be his best friend. They communicated through cyber space on a regular basis on everything from social alienation and the theory of relativity to soccer scores and Dunkin' Donuts versus Krispy Kremes, while simultaneously hacking into high security systems.

Cookbook was as anti-establishment as Cody, perhaps even more so, and harboured a deep pathological hatred for those he considered ‘successful through being fake', or ‘pretentious phonies', as he sometimes preferred. Whoever Cookbook was (Cody had never considered discussing age or gender), they had often quoted Holden Caulfield together, the disenfranchised central character in J D Salinger's novel,
The Catcher in the Rye
. Two like-minded souls on a joint crusade to expose the phonies.

Cookbook was back online, his moment of fuckery complete.

‘You been watching this shit?'

‘Uh-huh. All week.'

‘I'm hooked already … the blonde chick is seriously hawt, man.'

Cody felt irritated again. He knew cookbook was stalling just to string him out.

‘They don't know they're being filmed.'

‘No shit Sherlock...you know who any of them are?'

Cody smiled. He had made it his business to know.

‘… yeah … I Googled them … minor celebrities from the UK: a soccer player, journo, lawyer, some dude in a band, a famous old singer and a titty model. Fuckin no marks, man … you gonna tell me what you know or you gonna be a prick all your life and hold out on me?'

‘Be a prick all my life. Lol.'

Cody was ready to explode.

‘Don't fuck wid me cookbook, what you got?'

There was a few seconds pause and Cody began tapping his fingers nervously on his desk.

Cookbook paused again for effect.

‘D'ya know the show
Sing When You're Winning
?'

‘Doesn't everyone?'

SWYW was a massive reality TV show hit in the US, prime-time Saturday night viewing that attracted millions. It was hosted by some real Jerk called Lester Reynolds, one of the biggest TV stars in the United States today with a spray-on smile and slicked-back black hair that reminded Cody of Adolph Hitler. The show was created and produced by the most powerful media mogul on the planet, Martin McKenzie, the biggest asshole that ever lived in his opinion. He resented men like McKenzie for his arrogance and power. Men with God complexes who thought they were doing the working classes a huge favour by exploiting their talents to their own end, and then discarding them like human garbage once they'd served their purpose (i.e. making the exploiters rich).

‘That crock of shit does my head in … all those sad wannabes, man … and the dork that hosts it … what a douchebag …'

‘Lol …'

‘What's that shitty show got to do with anything?'

Cody's heart rate was accelerating.

‘Martin McKenzie, that's what!'

‘Holy shit!' It was beating so fast now that he thought he might have one of his fits.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard as his thought process shifted up a gear.

‘
McKenzie
is the host? He's the one broadcasting this shit? You're sure?'

‘Sure as eggs, buddy. I traced the IP eventually, though it took some doing. Dude's security was tighter than a virgin's snatch. Came up registered to a Mr Martin McKenzie, no less, Hamptons address. I checked it out and it's legit. Besides, everyone knows that fucker has one of the biggest pads out there.'

‘Holy crap,' Cody said aloud. This was insane. And exciting beyond belief. He thought for a moment, his mind revving like a Ducati. McKenzie clearly had some fucked up secret soap opera going on, a Big Brother private game show; one it seemed the contestants had no idea they were even playing.

‘This is top security shit ...the real fucking deal. Tread careful bud, McKenzie is one helluva powerful man …'

‘One hulluva sicko u mean.'

‘So what you gonna do now?'

Cody Parker sat back in his chair and took a swig of flat, diet Dr Pepper. His mom always bought the diet shit; it really made him pissed.

‘Haven't decided yet,' he replied. But he had a good idea.

T
he pool party
was a few glasses of champagne away from being in full swing. The air-conditioned, blue up-lit canopied marquee was decorated with hundreds of scented tea lights alongside lush exotic floral displays. A ten-tier champagne fountain took centre stage of the long table, its bubbles fizzing and cascading in a constant amber flow. Electric-pink bougainvillea swathed from hanging beams was offset by dishes of rainbow-coloured warm macaroons positioned next to silver platters of fresh Lobster, marinated in Cognac, and pink smoked salmon with edible gold champagne-soaked caviar and venison medallions. A six-tier Belgian chocolate ganache-filled cake sat proudly on the table, the base surrounded by white lilies and sprinkled with edible diamonds and emerald stones. No expense, it seemed, had been spared for Joshua's return.

‘Wow!' he said, copping an eyeful of the feast of delights on offer, ‘check this shit out … man I was only gone for a couple a days!'

Mia squeezed his hand.

‘It's all for you, darling.' She smiled at him warmly. ‘For your safe return.' She had been so genuinely happy to see him return alive and well, and had tried not to bombard the poor boy with questions, but to let him explain in his own time about what had happened. However, it hadn't been easy.

‘I don't remember that much of anything, really,' he'd said truthfully. ‘They doped me up to the eyeballs on morphine, man …. I was out of it.'

‘Do you remember the crash?' Mia had asked as she had fixed them both a glass of champagne to enjoy on the balcony of their cabana, fluffing up the pillows on his sunlounger in a bid to make it more comfortable for him. It was the least she could do.

Joshua had shrugged, tapping her flute with his own and taking a generous slug.

‘Nah, not a thing.' He ran his good hand through his long hair as he carefully lowered himself onto the sunlounger. His injured arm was in a cast and he was wearing a white sling but otherwise seemed perfectly healthy and lucid. ‘First thing I remember is waking up inside a plane, some nurse looming over me. I was so out of it I couldn't really tell you what was going on … where I was … nothing.' He paused.

‘You have no idea where they took you?'

He shrugged again.

‘Well, it's all kinda hazy, really.'

‘How did you get back to the island?'

‘The plane,' he said, ‘they took me back in some light aircraft.'

‘It landed on the island? So where is it now?' Mia felt her heartbeat accelerate. If there was a plane, then there was a way off the island, although strangely the urgency she had initially felt to leave was somewhat on the wane now. It was a stunning place, after all, and she supposed she was even beginning to enjoy the luxury it offered. Besides, after last night's ‘icebreaker' she was determined to show that little bitch Billie-Jo who was boss around here, not to mention that supercilious prig Deyton. Now that the horror of the crash had subsided, and with Joshua finally back, she was intrigued to find out what was next. What they were
really
here for.

‘Apparently the engine practically gave out – failed a few seconds before we touched down on the island. The pilot said we were very lucky. I mean, fuck that; since I've been here I've survived a near-death experiences! Lucky for me I was medicated up on pills and booze. Not sure I ever wanna get on another plane in my whole goddamn life, though –' he looked at her sagely ‘– which kinda might be a problem when I'm touring, you know. I hope McKenzie's gonna shell out for some therapy … reckon I'll need it.'

Mia snorted. ‘Ha, and the rest of us. We'll rinse that bastard once we're back on home turf. And your arm?' The vision of bone protruding through flesh flashed up in her mind and she felt her skin prickle.

He shrugged.

‘It was a freakin' bad break, but it'll be good as new, they reckon.'

‘You might want a second opinion on that. We should be thinking about getting off this bloody island and getting you seen to by a proper professional, someone in the States.' She gently probed him again; he hadn't been fully
compos mentis
last night and she hadn't wanted to push him too much. ‘So you didn't get to make a phone call? There definitely wasn't one in the hospital?'

‘No, I didn't. I didn't ask for one … like I said, I was flying on liquid H. Making a phone call didn't even register on my radar.'

‘You didn't think of asking the pilot? Or the nurse? Or anyone else you came into contact with if they had a phone you could borrow?'

JJ heard the smallest amount of irritation in Mia's tone and felt his own rise to match it. ‘You know, Mia, I was alone, injured, not knowing what fuck had happened to me … hell, I didn't even know my own name.'

‘I'm sorry, darling,' she said. ‘I was just so worried about you.'

‘Anyways, the last thing I wanna do is get on another fucking plane, dude. Right now, all I wanna do is relax, recuperate and check this place out. It looks awesome.'

She couldn't argue with that.

‘Did you miss me?' he asked her, with a cheeky smile. Now that the morphine had worn off, JJ's faculties – libido included – had returned with a burning vengeance.

Comparatively Mia's had done the polar opposite, at least as far as JJ was concerned. The horror of what had happened to him during the crash, watching as he'd lay there injured and bleeding – dying, for all she knew – had caused her to view him in an altogether different light. She wanted to take care of him, make sure he was OK, but she no longer wanted him between her legs. In fact, the very idea made her suddenly cringe with embarrassment.

‘Cos I missed you,' he said, the bulge in his shorts becoming increasingly visible.

Mia sighed. Last night he had fallen into bed and slept like a baby. She supposed it would be terribly mean to deny him now that he was feeling better, and she duly opened the belt of her La Perla kimono, allowing it to slide to the floor.

‘Be quick though, darling,' she said, as, now naked, she bent over the arm of the sofa, watching as he stepped out of his shorts, his undeniably impressive erection springing forward with alacrity, ‘there's a party happening on the terrace by the pool and you're the guest of honour so we'd better get a move on.'

‘So, how is he?
Really
, I mean?' Nate looked at Mia with genuine concern, and she was suddenly struck by what terribly kind eyes he had.

‘Can't remember a bloody thing, poor love.' She sighed. ‘Dosed up on morphine for the most part, by all accounts.'

Nate took a sip of Kir Royal. ‘Ahh, the pain eliminator that is morphine.'

‘Sounds like you're speaking from experience,' she said.

‘They pumped me full of the stuff when I broke my leg on the pitch. I remember thinking no wonder people become addicted to this shit. It was like dying and going to heaven.'

Mia snorted softly. ‘And that's just one of the reasons I've never tried it, darling. I've seen many people succumb to opiates over the course of my career, people who were looking for something to take the pain away.' At the mention of pain, her thoughts turned to Richard. When he had left her, Mia had used all sorts in a bid to kill the intense emotional agony she'd faced: drugs; alcohol; hypnotherapy; casual sex – all temporary fixes, the high simply masking the pain that would inevitably return with a renewed clarity and vengeance.

‘If only there was a magic pill, eh?' she said, washing down her bitterness and regret with a mouthful of Cristal.

‘If only,' Nate agreed.

‘Now you really do sound as if you're talking from experience.'

She looked at him properly for the first time, studying his face; his large, grey-blue eyes and thick lashes, his full lips and neat bone structure. he was terribly handsome and young – late 20s she surmised – and he had a wonderfully calming presence about him … an easiness she found rather comforting.

‘Must've been difficult for you,' she said, ‘losing the career you'd worked so hard for because of an injury. It would be like me losing my voice.'

Nate cocked his head.

‘Not as hard as learning you're adopted via national newspaper...' He was still hurting about it, it was always there.

‘Ahh,' she said, suddenly understanding. She remembered reading something about it in the papers, albeit briefly. ‘Well, I can only imagine how dreadful
that
must've been.' She pulled at her long, split-to-the-thigh, chiffon, Versace dress almost in protest. ‘Bloody press have no morals, unscrupulous bastards all of them. Sell their firstborn to you for a fleeting headline, most of them.' The irony of her own words was not lost on her.

‘The worst thing is not having anyone to turn to,' he found himself saying. ‘Both my parents – adoptive parents anyway – are dead, and, well …'

Instinctively she touched his arm.

‘I'm sorry, darling,' she said. ‘At least you have Billie-Jo.'

Nate raised an eyebrow, causing her to smile.

Mia felt a sudden overwhelming sadness for him. It was the first time she had spoken candidly with him and she saw he was sensitive – gentle even – quietly intelligent and eloquent. Clearly there was more than met the eye and she berated herself for having judged him so quickly as a stereotypical footballer type; she should know better by now, really.

‘You've been married long?'

Nate shook his head.

‘A couple of years.' It felt like a lifetime already, he thought to himself.

‘Well, marriages have their ups and downs,' she said, sensing trouble ahead for him; Billie-Jo had it stamped on her like a hallmark. ‘As long as there's trust and respect then the rest of it is simply riding the storm.' She realised how incredulous that sounded. Who was she to give advice – newly divorced after twenty five-years of marriage – but it was nonetheless true. She and Dickie had ridden many a storm throughout the duration of their union, storms Mia reluctantly was beginning to concede were predominantly of her own making.

‘I can't stand the drama anymore, Mimi,' Dickie had said, ‘the crashing highs and lows, the euphoria and crippling despair. I'm creeping up on sixty years old and I'm tired, tired of being treated like my emotions don't count, wondering if they ever really did. It's all about Mimi,
me-me
, and it always has been. I've tried to fill the hole inside of you, Mia – Lord knows I've given half my life trying to – but I realise now it would never be enough, and the more I try and fill the hole, the deeper I realise it goes. My whole life has been about you and your career, and now, well, now I want something for myself. Is that so wrong?'

Something?
Someone
more like, she'd thought. Those words had wounded Mia so deeply that she would have traded an eye not to have been forced to accept them. Deep down she knew all of what he had said was true, but then he had gone and spoilt it all by shacking up with a bloody schoolgirl! That's when her rage had truly emerged – when all the blame and acrimony had begun. Anger was such a destructive emotion; it tore through her psyche like a nail bomb with revenge being all she could focus on. And yet really she had wanted to tell him that he was right, that she understood her part in it all, that she had been selfish and dominant, that there was a black hole inside of her that couldn't be filled. And the hole was in the shape of a tiny person she had met and held in her arms for less than a few minutes.

‘Billie-Jo, she's very …
ambitious
,' Mia said, but then she understood that more than most. Despite having thrown a drink over the girl in outrage, Mia bore her no real malice. She'd dealt with the likes of Billie-Jo a thousand times over in her life and wasn't about to bear a grudge. They'd all been drinking the night of that stupid game and Billie-Jo was young and feisty, much like she herself had been at her age.

‘Yep, that's Bee, all right. Fame's the name of the game,' he said, ‘I'm only here because of her. I've never been interested in that side of things. I just wanted to play football.'

‘Unfortunately talent and fame generally go hand in hand, though the two are not mutually exclusive, especially these days. A girl's only got to wear a risqué dress to a party and she's the next big thing.'

She glanced over at Billie-Jo who was, by all accounts, already half-cut, swaying to a Bruno Mars track that was playing in the background, clutching a champagne flute as she attempted to coerce JJ into dancing with her, wrapping her arms around him provocatively, shrieking loudly and laughing as her Hervé Léger body-con bandage-dress rode northwards of her slim thighs. Mia clocked the look of resignation on Nate's face. She could see their relationship for what it was – the narcissist and the co-dependant – and knew the outcome already. Sometimes she wished she wasn't so old and didn't know or understand the things she had come to learn throughout her life. Youth and ignorance really were bliss, if only she had made the most of both.

‘So, what's next for you, Nate?'

Mia took a swig of champagne, hoping it would wash away the lump of emotion lodged in the back of her throat. She was feeling a little tipsy herself now, even after all that delicious food, and was decidedly melancholy.

‘Who knows?' He sighed, draining his own glass, his eye sill drawn towards his wife's inappropriate antics. ‘Get drunk?' He laughed, acknowledging the speed of which it had been refreshed by a member of staff with a mock-shocked grin. Mia laughed with him. She wasn't bothered by JJ and Billie-Jo's brazen flirtatious display; that ship had already sailed.

‘The journo's more your type, isn't she?' she asked, though she wasn't sure where it had come from.

‘What makes you say that?' he said, a little taken aback. Was it that obvious?