Pleasure Island (32 page)

‘
I
f I never fly again it
will be a moment too soon,' Angelika said to no one in particular.

Kirkbride, as promised, had sent a plane for them. They were going home, although somehow the word meant something different to all of them now.

Rupert looked at Angelika. They had all been in complete shock but now it was starting to wear off…

‘You had an abortion and never told me.'

‘Yes,' she said quietly.

‘Why?'

‘Because … I don't really know, Rupert. Because something told me it was the right thing to do at the time…something inside told me it was.'

He looked down into his lap in resignation. This time there would be no smart comeback.

‘Who is Michael Curtis?' There was no anger in her tone, just a deep sadness that had wrapped itself tightly around her throat like a vice. His denial and deception hurt beyond words, no one more so than himself, she could see, and so her anger had tempered more into pity for him really; for both of them.

Rupert stared at the cutting he still held between his fingers. There was no point in denial now; McKenzie had seen to all of it. He glanced over at Mia, slumped in her seat, still wearing in her finest evening attire, her crumpled face indicative of her once magnificent dress.

She briefly met his eyes and he saw the anguish in them as though it were his own. Sighing heavily he took a swig of champagne.

‘He was Mia's driver during the trial,' he said. ‘It was a dalliance …' He looked at her, met her in the eye. ‘We were lovers, briefly.'

Angelika nodded. ‘Lovers …' The word trailed from her lips and oddly she thought of a phrase she had remembered from the Bible. She'd read it as a child, many years ago now, and had largely forgotten it, but somehow these words came to her: ‘the tongue is a small thing, but what enormous damage it can do.' It all made perfect sense to her now, the years of bitter resentment, his physical despondency, his growing indifference towards her.

‘Yes,' he said, ‘I'm gay, Angelika. I think I always have been.' He had said it aloud, thus making it real at last. Even if she could not understand, he hoped she would forgive in time, just as he hoped he could forgive himself, and even though her ensuing silence pained him, he felt a sense of release, even elation. Not because of a lack of consideration for her feelings but because there was nothing left to do. It was the truth: a
fait accompli
.

‘We should prepare ourselves,' Angelika said eventually. She looked at Nate and wondered if he still wanted her with the fervour he had displayed in the boat the night before. ‘Kirkbride has warned me that the paps are waiting for us by the truckload. None more than for you, Billie-Jo,' she added. ‘We're famous now, international superstars by all accounts, whether we like it or not.' She supposed in a strange way they had all gotten what they wanted in the end: Billie-Jo would now have the fame she so desired; Mia and Nate had found each other; Joshua's band would attract huge attention on the back of the furore; and Rupert … she felt the pain burn inside her guts. Well, Rupert got to tell the truth about who he really was. So where did that leave her?

Nate suddenly seized her hand in his, in full view of everyone, though no one objected. This experience had pulled them all apart and thrown them back together in the strangest and most bizarre way. She took his hand gratefully and kissed it.

They didn't speak for the rest of the duration of the journey. There was no hate or animosity between them, just a collective sense of survival. The silent sense of comradery between them was almost palpable, each of them understanding the powerful connection they would have for life as a result of what they had experienced together. Angelika could not help but feel that even among the madness of it all – and the sadness – that somehow the wrongs had been righted and natural order restored. There had to be some good in that surely, because whatever else she understood in that moment as the plane finally began to make its descent onto home soil, she realised that wherever there was pleasure in life, there was always, inevitably, pain.

‘
I
t's here
,' Nate said smiling, handing her the envelope as he trotted out to join her on the patio where she'd been working and enjoying her favourite breakfast of fresh coffee, fruit and French toast.

‘Wow, that really was quick,' she said, opening it, ‘but then again I expected nothing less.'

He took a seat next to her, his hair still a little damp, his white T-shirt off-setting his suntanned skin. She loved him fresh from the shower; she loved him full stop.

Angelika looked at the decree absolute. The end of her marriage was right there: final, in black and white, stamped by someone deemed high enough to adjudicate such decisions. She wasn't sure how she really felt but it was something close to relief. There was no real bitterness, no anger, nothing but a sense of finality. She and Rupert had parted on the best terms as they could have, under the circumstances. In truth she had felt pity for him for having not been true to himself, or to her, for all of these years but it was hard to hate him; they had experienced so much of life together that she could not bring herself to regret, even if she struggled to forgive. Like her, being thrust into the public eye had been too much for Rupert to bear, the exposure just too intrusive, and as a result he had fled the UK for South Africa with his son, Serg, for what he had called a ‘life sabbatical'. She understood his need to escape the harsh glare of the media spotlight, to start over again. She would never forget him; a part of her would always love him in a strange way. But he was no longer the man she had married, perhaps he never really had been.

She stared at the official document for a few moments before folding it up and placing it back into the envelope. It was a glorious morning and the sun was high already as she gazed out across the patio at the tranquil setting, at the miles of spectacular Italian countryside below. She was happy here in Urbin
o; they
were happy. The town, nestled on a high, sloping hillside, was as beautiful as it was historic, having been home to artistic greats such as Raphael, Botticelli and Piero della Francesca during the Renaissance period. It was peaceful and private and still retained much of its picturesque medieval charm. Their villa, perched atop a hill, was modest but stunning, with original wooden shutters that opened out onto the spectacular view and mosaic tiles on the walls. No one bothered them there; they were able to go about their day in relative obscurity, her with her writing and him with his photography. No one knew their story, and if they did then they certainly didn't remind them of it. It was the kind of town that was big enough for you disappear in, and remain anonymous – something with they were both content to be.

‘How's the writing coming on?' he asked.

‘It's getting there.' She smiled. ‘I'll read you something if you like?'

‘Yes, please.'

He studied her face, drinking in every part of her: her skin lightly sun-kissed; the faintest smattering of tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose which he was sure he'd never noticed until now; her long, wavy hair, which always looked as though she had just come back from the beach; and, of course, that snaggle tooth, the one at the front … perfectly imperfect. She was a picture he would never tire of looking at, seeing something new in her every time.

‘I have to say it's been quite cathartic so far,' she explained, ‘and you never know, after this they might stop requesting interviews and finally leave us alone.'

The months following their return from Pleasure Island had passed in a blizzard of press attention of the like she had never seen, and that was some statement coming from a journalist. Nothing had prepared them for the media onslaught. The six of them had become an overnight sensation and the interest – particularly in her and Nate's budding romance – had been off the scale, eventually forcing them into hiding.

One small mercy was that the final act, as McKenzie had referred to it, had not been broadcast, thus sparing Nate and Mia from inadvertently sharing the revelation that she was his birth mother to the world. They had made a pact between them all to keep this information private, allow them to come to terms with the truth without the eyes of the world watching. Lord knows, everything else was out in the open, their tangled lives served up for scrutiny. It was a small victory perhaps, but a victory nonetheless.

Angelika sipped her coffee and gazed at Nate with loving eyes.

‘Looks like Billie-Jo's having the time of her life,' she said, nodding to the newspaper on the table that contained his estranged wife's picture alongside the caption ‘BillieJosh – the official on-tour pictures!' Angelika laughed. ‘She's been on the front page pretty much every day since.'

Billie-Jo and Joshua – or ‘Billiejosh' as they were now known in the press – in direct contrast to Nate and Angelika had positively relished the exposure in the wake of their ordeal, cashing in on their notoriety without regret. Billie-Jo's sex tape had jettisoned her into A-list territory, ranking her alongside the likes of Kim Kardashian, Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson: a list she considered to be most illustrious indeed. Although at first Billie-Jo had been mortified by the fact the world had witnessed her sexual encounters on the island, not least because it had exposed her lack of moral compass, she had soon realised that there was a silver lining,
a platinum lining
, to such hideous intrusion.

The offers had subsequently flooded in: interviews; TV-show appearances; magazine spreads; modelling contracts … she'd been inundated. Even more sublime was the fact that she was, to all intents and purposes, largely perceived as a victim. After all she hadn't meant to make a sex tape, and certainly hadn't intended for it ever to be in the public domain. But it had been the biggest blessing in disguise, as now she and JJ were now the modern day Pammie and Tommy, a bona fide celebrity couple.

Her dreams had become reality: fame, money, notoriety, an agent and a rock-star boyfriend – perhaps she always would have realised her ambitions but Pleasure Island had certainly escalated the process for her and as much as she never wanted to relieve it, she could not regret it. She had even gone on record and finally spoken about the abuse she had suffered as a child and was working closely with a charity that helped survivors of similar backgrounds.

It had deeply saddened Nate to learn about Bee's suffering through the press; she had never opened up to him throughout their marriage but in a way her confession explained a lot. Nate supposed he was pleased for her of sorts; despite her infidelities he could not bring himself to hate her. Billie-Jo had got what she wanted, what she
needed
, at the end of the day. Then again, he supposed so had he.

‘Any word from Mia?' Angelika asked.

‘Actually, yes. I got a text. She and Richard are hoping to come and visit as soon as she's finished in the studio. She's been asked to act as one of the judges on the
Wow-Factor
.'

Angelika raised an eyebrow.

‘Wow indeed! And …?'

‘She says she's “considering her options,
darling”
.'

The both laughed good-humouredly. Nate was beginning to come to terms with the knowledge that Mia was his mother, an idea that no longer seemed as shocking and preposterous as it initially had. He was happy for her that she had since been reunited with her ex-husband. Dickie had been waiting for Mia as she'd stepped off the plane.

‘Good grief, woman,' he'd said as she had collapsed into his arms, ‘no more drama, you said.'

‘Where's your wife?' Mia had asked through her sobs.

‘She ran off with someone … older,' he said. ‘She couldn't bear being in your shadow any longer.'

‘Oh, Richard.' Mia had held onto him so tightly he'd barely been able to draw breath comfortably.

‘We're taking things slowly, darling … letting it happen organically,' Mia had told Nate in the text, though knowing Mia as he did, he doubted it. She'd had something of a career renaissance too, thanks to all the publicity, and had taken full advantage of the interest that surrounded her on the back of it by promptly bringing out a back catalogue of her music while promising a new album and tour.

‘Strike while the iron's hot, my dear,' Bailey had advised her. Despite promising to, she had been unable to sack him in the end, silly old bastard; all those years counted for something, didn't they, even in the most uneasy of relationships?

In spite of how he had discovered the truth, Nate was now glad that he had. They were getting to know each other gently, establish a relationship and he was slowly, surely coming to accept Mia's explanations as to why she had given him up. It felt good to learn about his past, listen to the stories she had told him about family and relatives he'd never known, piece his life history together. He doubted he would ever call her ‘mum' but he hadn't completely ruled the idea out; after all, above all people he knew that stranger things could, and did, happen.

‘I think this is cause for celebration, what do you say?' He produced a bottle of Chateau d'Esclans Whispering Angel rose champagne from an ice bucket he'd deliberately hidden underneath the table earlier. It was the first time they'd drank champagne since they'd left the island.

‘You planned this …' Angelika smiled at him through narrow eyes.

‘Guilty as charged.' He grinned, popping the cork and messily filling two glasses.

‘To being a free woman.' He touched her glass with his.

It sounded odd. She was no longer Mrs Angelika Deyton, no longer Rupert's wife. It felt good.

‘No,' she said, ‘let's not drink to my freedom. Let's drink to … Martin McKenzie.'

‘McKenzie …?'

They had barely been able to bring themselves to say the man's name aloud in ten months, let alone raise a toast to him. The fact that Nate had discovered he was his biological father had been perhaps the most distressing of the whole sorry episode.

‘What if I've got his twisted genes and just don't know it,' he'd said to Angelika earnestly one morning in bed together. ‘What if his sickness is in my DNA?'

‘Oh, Nate, darling.' Angelika had held him close, stroked his soft hair between her fingers. ‘Remember what I said about nature, nurture that time on the island, down by the pool? No child is born evil.' She'd reassured him, though in truth she wasn't entirely convinced this was true; perhaps some people were born to develop into monsters, men like Martin McKenzie. Either way, she knew in her heart that the man lying next to her, whatever his biological provenance, was not one of them.

There had been no irony lost on the fact that McKenzie's fate had been to die in one of his own private jets, with the added bonus of a bullet to his brain. When the authorities had discovered the aircraft wreckage and the three bodies within it, part of Angelika couldn't help but feel cheated. By all accounts McKenzie's death had been mercifully swift, his suffering short-lived; he had died, somewhat ironically, in a plane crash and would never be held accountable, made to pay for his crimes or suffer the humiliation of his public fall from grace. Elaine's remains, a skull and some teeth, had been found washed up off the island of Santorini some months later. The coroner had recorded a verdict of suspicious death as it had been ascertained that she had received a large, blunt trauma to the side of her head prior to her death and was probably still alive when she'd hit the water. Poor Elaine; in a way she had been McKenzie's biggest victim of all.

‘Why would you want to make a toast to
him
?'

She smiled at him, so handsome, so adoring and kind, so different to what she'd always known. Angelika opened her laptop and began to read.

‘Chapter One: I suppose if nothing else it will make the ultimate story for the grandchildren one day when they ask, “how did you and granddad meet?” I'll admit I have pre-empted this question, given much thought as to how, when that times comes, to answer them, to make sense of the nonsensical, explain the unexplainable. It's usual for a writer to place their acknowledgments at the end of a book, but I no longer care much for protocol these days and so I would like to start by thanking Martin McKenzie. Now I know what you may be thinking, why on earth should I show a man like that any gratitude whatsoever, so let me explain: without Martin McKenzie I would not be sitting here with the love of my life, on the balcony of our modest-yet-charming home, sipping on a glass of the local wine – just the one glass, mind, now that I'm in the family way... '

Nate's eyes widened and he almost spat out his champagne.

‘You're kidding me … you're pregnant?'

His expression had been even more priceless than she'd imagined.

‘Yes!' She giggled. ‘We're having a baby.'

He scooped her up into his arms and she squealed.

‘A baby … my God, I love you, Ange.' He kissed her lips and they tasted of French toast and champagne.

‘I love you too, Nate,' she said as he carried her from the patio into the bedroom and laid her softly down onto the bed.

‘Mmm,' she murmured as he gently untied her silky robe to expose her naked skin beneath and began to kiss her neck.

She thought once more about the pleasure/pain principle, how one could not seemingly exist without the other, the yin to its yang, only she had a suspicion that there would be far more of the former than the latter in her life now. She was done with pain; from now on it was going to be pleasure all the way.