Pleasure Island (17 page)

A
ngelika woke with a start
.

‘Jesus Christ, I'm going to throw up.'

She sprinted from the bed to the en suite, dropping to her knees and grasping the rim of the toilet before emptying the contents of her guts into it.

‘Ang?' The sounds of her retching had caused Nate to stir awake. ‘Ang, are you OK?' Unsteady on his feet, he pulled himself up and shuffled into the bathroom after her. ‘Fuck,' he whispered, kneeling down next to her, pulling her long hair from her face and rubbing her back as she violently convulsed. ‘
Fuck
.'

Nate thought he heard the door to the cabana open. It was Rupert; he was pale and dishevelled, his hair sticking up on end almost comically, the buttons on his white, muslin shirt askew, pool sliders in his hand.

Rupert was not prepared for the sight that greeted him. Billie-Jo was spreadeagled on the white, leather couch, naked, her hair a tangled straggly blonde mess, limbs protruding awkwardly at various angles, her mouth open. She looked like a mannequin, a blow-up doll, and for a horrifying second he thought she might even be dead – that was until he saw her large breasts heaving.
Thank God.

JJ was slumped on the armchair opposite her, his body leaning to one side. He was, at least, wearing boxer shorts. Empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot and Jack Daniels were scattered around the room like bowling pins. There was shattered glass on the floor, a marble ashtray upended on the table next to remnants of white powder, rolled notes and other paraphernalia discarded besides squashed cigarette butts.
Aftermath
.

Rupert swallowed dryly, his anger beaten down by his own sense of shame. It seemed like he wasn't the only one with some explaining to do. Instinctively he walked over to the glass coffee table and with a shaking hand up-turned the ashtray and an empty bottle next to it. He stepped over Billie-Jo's discarded bikini bottoms and made his way towards the bedroom. Where the hell was his wife? Where was Angelika? He was torn between calling out her name and turning and leaving the carnage behind him, his own guilt following like a shadow. He needed time to think about what he was going to say to her. He was scared that his face would project the truth – that it would silently confess his own terrible sins from the night before.

God almighty, what had happened to them all last night? He wasn't sure what but
something
had … something bad. He could recall Angelika dancing, that he himself had begun to dance at one point, a pastime he hadn't indulged in since his student days. Last night, however, he had been compelled to move himself around to the music, lost in it like it had somehow become part of him.

Images flashed up in his mind, grainy and sketchy; he'd been dancing with Mia,
Mia
… the sound of human noise, of chatter punctuated by the chorus of crickets in the air, the music – God, the music. It was like he'd been born deaf and was hearing it for the first time; the clarity of the drums, the pulsating bass and hiss of hi-hats … he'd been in tune to every cymbal, every note. And it had enchanted him, hypnotised him like a snake charmer, forcing his body to respond, to move and react in time to it.

He'd watched Billie-Jo enter the Jacuzzi, her narrow, tiny body almost like that of a child's, were it not for the shop-bought air bags making a splash on entry. JJ had followed her, dancing, his good hand in the air, lost, too, in the music.

It had occurred to Rupert that his wife might be sexually attracted to Nate Simmons; he had been briefly aware of fleeting clandestine exchanges between them, how she seemed slightly looser of limb in his presence. Naturally he'd been jealous. After all, Nate was a good deal younger, fitter, and aesthetically blessed than him – these days at least.

Rupert struggled to admit it to himself but his feelings of envy were based less on the fact that his wife might lust after another, and more that someone as ridiculously attractive as Nate was would actually consider her an option. It was a competition; everything between them always was: who was the more successful, witty, popular and attractive. Well, two can play that game, he'd thought at the time, watching as they had begun to fool around in the Jacuzzi, Angelika practically impervious to his existence. Rupert had never seen her like it in all their years together; she was behaving like a common slut, dancing like a hooker displaying her wares in a brothel window; stripping down to her underwear and jumping into the pool like a teenager on drugs.

Good God!
The thought suddenly hit him like a comet. Had their drinks been spiked with something? It seemed too absurd an idea to entertain but it would explain things. Dismissing the thought more or less instantly, Rupert made his way up towards the bedroom where he was met with the sound of his wife's vomiting.

He looked around the bedroom. Had Angelika and Nate spent the night together? Had they fucked each other's brains out? The carnage and discarded items of clothing would certainly suggest that
something
had taken place. Not that he was in any position to start creating even if they had.

Rupert stopped short of the en suite, hovering outside it. He caught sight of himself in the ornate wall mirror, a look of anguish etched across his tired face. This was all Mia Manhattan's fault, he decided. Whenever he was around that woman bad shit happened. She was a fucking omen, make no mistake. He'd been dancing with her;
him
, dancing, with
Mia
, twirling her around to the sound of Nicki Minaj's latest, dross he would otherwise have switched off the second it came on the radio.

‘He's looking at you,' she'd said with that half-raised-eyebrow mocking expression of hers.

‘Who is?'

‘Raj.' She nodded at the handsome dark-skinned mute with the washboard stomach, his ice-white teeth illuminating his face in the low, night sky as he looked on obediently.

‘Can't say I noticed,' he replied tartly. ‘Besides, why would he be looking at me?'

Mia had fixed him with a knowing smile, her blood-red lips parting, almost Machiavellian.

‘One indiscretion,' he'd eventually said quietly.

‘Didn't look much like an indiscretion to me at the time.'

‘Leave it, Mia. It was a long time ago.'

During Mia's ill-fated trial, Mia had been driven to and from court by a young man called Michael Curtis whom inevitably Rupert had come to know. Michael was vivacious, attractive and out, though not overly camp, and the two had struck up an unlikely friendship, a friendship that had turned into a quiet obsession, for Rupert at least, and he had begun to grapple with emotions he had never experienced before. He'd been attracted to Michael – sexually attracted – and it had left him feeling both elated and unhappy. Was he gay? Had he always had homosexual leanings that he'd buried, refusing to recognise in himself? He'd loved women all his life: Angelika being the ultimate. He was engaged to be married to her when the inevitable happened and he'd given in to his desires and slept with Michael. The sex had been incredible, had made him feel whole and alive, more than any sex he'd had with any woman, his wife-to-be included. But gay? Rupert didn't think so. If only that spectacular cunt Mia hadn't walked in on them, then it would've been an experience to have savoured, a memory to treasure and remember fondly before burying. Only Mia wasn't about to let that happen. When the case collapsed and her vitriol was at its worst, she had threatened to out him, to tell Angelika, go to the press. And he'd been in no doubt she would've had he not known about her own secret. Rupert didn't feel particularly gallant about using it against her but she'd backed him into a corner. She'd confessed all to him one very drunken evening when she'd been in one of her highly emotional and vulnerable states during the case, possibly even using such tragedy to try and make him work even harder on her behalf. Who knew that damned woman's motives? What he did know, however, was that she didn't want her confession leaked to the press, and so there they were, adversaries, each with something on the other, bound by respective secrets, each holding the others over them like a weapon.

And now he'd gone and given Mia the upper hand. How he'd felt last night, Raj … He'd been powerless to deny those emotions once more. Only now it was a thousand times worse. Rupert felt like physically crying. It had been the three of them – him, Raj
and
Mia – at one point. Flashbacks seized his mind, strong arming him to remember, Raj's hands on his own, the touch of his skin, the look on his face as he had entered him from behind, Mia standing over them, her black, shiny bob, her red-lipstick stains on his own body … was it all jut a diabolical nightmare? Rupert couldn't recall if he and Mia had done the ugly deed. If they had then he had promptly blanked it out and hoped it would remain that way. But she had definitely been there, involved, watching, observing, encouraging. The very idea made him physically sick to his stomach.

‘Angelika!' Rupert almost screamed her name as he took a breath and marched into the en suite.

‘What in God's holy fucking name,' he said as Nate looked up at him, startled, his hand still on Angelika's back as she threw up for England inside the toilet bowl. She was naked save for her nude underwear.

‘It's not what it looks like,' Nate said calmly as his eyes met with Rupert's.

Rupert swallowed. Frankly, a part of him hoped to God the man was lying.

T
he evening air
was rich and warm, almost palpable, alive with a chorus of crickets and birdsong. She was sitting on the edge of the pool looking out across the sea, the low light forming a halo around her silhouette, her bare legs stretched out in front of her, hair hanging past her shoulders in loose, beachy waves. The pool was tranquil and smooth, blending seamlessly into the ocean, the sunset projected upon it, ombre reds and purples melting like watercolour on its mirrored surface.

He wished more than anything that he had a camera to capture her in that very moment: beautiful but with a certain vulnerability. He stood for a second and watched her until she became aware of his presence behind her.

She turned, her eyes briefly meeting his. ‘Nate,' she whispered, before looking away.

‘Is it OK …?' He stared at the empty space next to her.

She smiled faintly and nodded.

‘Spectacular, isn't it?' he said of the view, as he took his place beside her and she nodded again.

‘I needed to get away,' she said after a moment's pause. ‘I needed … to think.'

He wanted desperately to hold her but knew that he shouldn't, that it would be unwise to instigate any physical contact. He thought he might be falling in love with her. Whatever it was he couldn't explain it; just being around her made him feel content, the opposite to how he felt around his own wife.

‘Last night …'

‘I wanted to talk about …'

They spoke simultaneously, both laughing through the nervousness lingering between them.

‘You first,' he said.

‘No,' she said, ‘you first.'

Nate stared outwards at the perfect view and paused for a long moment.

‘When I was young, you know, just a little boy, I wanted to be a photographer. I was always obsessed with cameras, taking pictures of family and friends, used to drive them all nuts.' He smiled wistfully. ‘I got a Polaroid camera for my eight birthday and thought it was the business: this thing that took pictures and processed them there and then … none of the hassle of putting the film in the chemist. Just, snap, boom, there they were – instant gratification.' He paused again and she turned to him slightly, a sign he took as encouraging. ‘I never really wanted to be a professional player, you know … but I was just … just so good at it, I suppose, and my dad – well, the man I believed was my dad – he was just so made up with the fact that his son had been picked to play for a professional team. He was so proud of me and I was so happy to please, you know. That's all kids really want to do at the end of the day, please their parents.' His voice trailed off. ‘The footballing world wasn't really for me, though. Don't get me wrong, being part of a team – being accepted, praised, adored – it's pretty addictive.' He brushed his thick fringe from his face; it was beginning to stick to him in the sultry heat that was still gently persisting. ‘And the money … well.' He sighed. ‘But the lifestyle, what it all came with: the girls and the cars, all that stuff … it made, well, it
makes
me uncomfortable.'

She didn't know what he was trying to say.

‘I don't know who I am, Ang,' he said quietly, his large eyes glassy as they met her own, and she saw the sunset in them. ‘It destroyed a part of me when I found out about the adoption. The questions, Ang, my whole existence … like, I'd always thought I had my dad's eyes, similar mannerisms, only I didn't, not really, I couldn't have. I wonder where, or who I got my eyes from, my determination, sense of humour even – all that stuff that makes you who you are.'

‘I'm so sorry,' Angelika said softly, ‘perhaps the private investigator will have something for you when we get back home. But you know, Nate, sometimes you should be careful what you wish for. Sometimes there are things best left unknown … unsaid …'

They were silent for a moment, the sound of the crickets' musical language providing an aural backdrop.

‘What happened last night …' Angelika's heartbeat escalated, her bare foot began to twitch.

‘What happened last night …' She repeated the words but could not bring herself to add to them.

The truth was she couldn't remember much; it was blank in her mind, wiped out like chalk on a blackboard. She was biting her lip nervously and instinctively he touched her hand, grateful when she didn't recoil.

‘I haven't been that drunk in my entire life,' she confessed. Had they made love? The situation she had found herself in upon waking up would certainly suggest so. She'd been wearing underwear, a small relief, but Nate had been next to her in her bed in only his Calvin Klein boxer shorts. After vomiting violently, she had locked herself away in the bathroom, the low sounds of Nate and her husband's hushed conversation from behind the door almost drowned out by the sound of her retching. Did she feel any different? She had touched herself intimately in a bid to try and gauge. Would she have felt him on her still, would there be signs? Shame had swept through her like fire. Had she cheated on her husband without recollection? Had they indulged in some kind of four-way sex orgy with Billie-Jo and JJ? The very idea made her blood run to ice. To add to the surrealness of the situation, Rupert had remained perfectly calm upon his return to the cabana. He told her he had woken Billie-Jo and given her a robe to cover her nakedness before Nate had seen her, then he'd set about rousing JJ. Once the three of them had left he had knocked on the bathroom door.

‘Are you OK, Angelika?' he'd asked and the familiarity of him had undone her completely.

Guilt and shame, embarrassment, regret, confusion; she'd been flooded with all of it.

‘I don't know, Ru,' she'd said, panic evident in her voice, ‘last night … I don't know what's going on.'

‘I think I do.' Rupert paused. ‘It's possible our drinks were spiked with something.'

To her shock and surprise he had taken her in his arms, a gesture so rare that it simply compounded her guilt and she had struggled not to cry.

‘Where did you go?' she'd asked him and she'd felt his body sag in response to the question. Her last memory was that of watching as Rupert had danced with Mia, twirling her around to the music with abandon, and then he had gone. In fact, now she recalled it, so too had Mia.

Rupert had swallowed so hard that she'd heard his throat click.

‘I … I don't remember much myself,' he'd said. They'd stood together in the beautiful en suite bathroom with its gold taps and shiny marble floor, the ornate mirrors duplicating them from every angle, his long arms stiff around her small frame. And in that moment she'd felt for the first time in ages that her husband needed her and that whatever else was missing between them, trust and friendship still remained.
Why
wasn't that enough
?

‘I think we may have been drugged, that our drinks were spiked.' She looked at him, still chewing her lip nervously. ‘It would explain … my behaviour, so out of character. Even Rupert said as much and he's not prone to wild imagination, let me tell you. If he smells a rat it usually means there is one.'

‘It's OK, Ang,' he said, ‘if you're worried that we … well, we didn't.'

‘We didn't?' She blinked at him with a confusing mix of disappointment and wide-eyed relief.

Nate felt a little deflated.

‘Would it have been so terrible if we had?' It was a stupid question and he wished he'd not asked it. They had kissed though, that much he
could
remember, and he had held her as he'd slept next to her, felt her skin against his own, soft as cashmere. He'd been so scared to touch her in case she'd disappeared like a dream.

‘I'm sorry.' She looked down at her legs awkwardly. ‘Not terrible at all, just not ideal given the situation: the fact we're both married.'

‘Not that my wife would know it, at least it certainly didn't seem that way last night from what I can remember.' He had a look of resignation on his face, like he'd half expected it.

‘But that's just it, Nate,' she said, ‘none of us
can
remember. Don't you think that's odd? I really do think Rupert may be right and that we may have been drugged.'

‘But why? And by who? Elaine McKenzie? Why on earth would she want to spike our drinks?'

‘I don't know,' she said, wondering if it wasn't such a ridiculous thought now that she'd said it aloud, ‘but I'm telling you, there's something not right about this place, Nate. It gives me the heebeejeebees.' She thought of how calm Rupert had been despite having walked in on his semi-naked wife in bed with another man. Instead of the scene she had expected, one in which her husband rightfully lost his shit, he'd been a picture of composure and had even comforted her. Was he not even the least bit upset or jealous to have found her in such a compromising situation? He had not grilled her over what had happened, not properly as one would expect anyhow. Did he not care? Was the bond between them now so platonic that sexual jealousy was no longer part of the equation? Or, she wondered, was it because he himself had something to hide? His whole demeanour had been one of malfeasance that morning, his reticence disconcerting. Rupert liked to have the upper hand, always, and the scenario had presented it to him on a plate. Only it seemed that morning he just wasn't hungry.

‘Can I ask you something, Ang?' Nate looked at her intently, forcibly refraining himself from brushing the hair from her face with his fingers. ‘Do you love your husband?'

Angelika pulled her chin into her chest, suggesting the question impertinent.

‘Of course,' she said without hesitation. ‘What a question to ask!'

‘Only last night, after we kissed, you told me that you weren't in love with Rupert anymore. That sometimes you loathed him and wished you had left him a long time ago.'

She blinked at him in shock, her heart beat rapidly escalating.

‘We kissed? But I thought you said we didn't –'

‘– make love? No, we didn't, but I wanted to Ang,' he said, suddenly feeling braver than he'd ever felt with a woman before. Unlike his wife, being with Angelika fed his soul rather than his ego. He was, however, too much of a gentleman to admit to her that it had been she who had instigated the kiss. They'd both been intoxicated, though she seemingly more so, and he'd been cautious not to take advantage of this fact, but she was just so human and real, so unlike Billie-Jo, her hair damp and loose and natural, her skin luminous and that snuggle tooth … he'd only had eyes for her the entire evening, impervious to his wife, to JJ, to Rupert or Mia. As far as he'd been concerned they were invisible. She was all he could see and when she spoke he absorbed every word, savouring her tone of voice. It had intoxicated him so entirely that he didn't care who knew it; he'd just wanted to the feeling never to end.

‘We shouldn't have done that,' she swallowed dryly, wishing she meant it. Angelika knew that if she'd been stripped bear, metaphorically speaking at least, if the myriad barriers had not presented themselves then she would be in his arms right now, but there were just too many of them.

‘But we did,' he said, flicking his hair from his boyish face. If only it wasn't so boyish.
Forget it Angelika, this is absurd, you're married, he's married …

‘What about Billie-Jo? She's your wife.'

Nate shook his head.

‘You've seen Billie-Jo. Look at her, most men's dream … just not mine.' He shook his head. ‘It's not her fault, it's my fault. I married her because she is who she is, what she is, what she represents. I thought … I thought that's what I was supposed to do. The world I lived in, the trophy wife, I'm ashamed to say it, Ang.'

‘Then don't,' she said, pleading with him. ‘If things were different, Nate …' It sounded like a cliché but she meant it.

‘Don't get me wrong, I care about Bee; she's what she is, the product of a screwed-up life, making money from the only assets she has. I don't blame her, don't hate her, but I know what she is.' His voice faltered as he caught the expression on Angelika's face.

She'd stopped listening to him and was leaning forward, her attention caught by something, something deep within the brush nestled on the side of the cliff. The pool was at sea level, built into the side of the bay which, like the entire island, was shrouded in shrubbery, brush and wild flowers, tiny buds that somehow flourished in the biting heat.

‘What is it?' he asked, turning to look, ‘what have you seen?'

‘There!' She said, her light summer dress falling mid-thigh as she abruptly stood.

Her sudden movement startled him. ‘What?'

‘There in the bushes.' She grabbed his arm, the sensation of her touch sending an electric current through his body. ‘There's something flashing.' She was up on her feet now, moving towards it, dangerously close to the edge. ‘Nate, look. See it?'

She pulled him towards her, the warmth of her skin touching his own as she pointed at the shrubs.

‘What am I looking for?'

‘In the bushes, down there.'

He crouched down, squinting.

‘I don't see any … Oh, hang on …'

The tiny red light, practically a dot, was buried deep beneath the brush, but it was there, flashing silently, a claret spec almost invisible to the human eye.

‘How the fuck did you see that?'

‘Hold my ankles,' she said, dropping to her knees.

‘No,' he said, ‘let me do it. Just make sure I don't fall.'

They looked down at the rocks below them. The drop was 200ft at least, and it was getting darker now, the light low and atmospheric casting shadows around them.

‘Be careful,' she warned as he lay down onto his belly and snaked towards the edge. She grasped his ankles firmly, the feel of his cartilage stiff against her palms, his pulse detectable on her fingers.