Pleasure Island (8 page)

‘
F
ucking 'ell
! You ain't gonna believe this!'

Billie-Jo had been known to try and disguise her harsh cockney accent in the past, particularly in company she felt could be of potential benefit to her, but it was a little like attempting to push a rubber ball to the bottom of a swimming pool, invariably it bobbed right back up again. Now that she was safe and on dry land, and following a half decent night's sleep, she was all set to put the horror of the past twenty-four hours behind her and turn her attentions to inspecting the luxury state-of-the-art villa that was to be home for the duration of the fortnight.

Billie-Jo King, as she had been before marriage, may have appeared fragile on the surface thanks to her diminutive stature and delicate aesthetics, with which she, ostensibly, manipulated men, but underneath the candy coating lay an inner steeliness that often went quietly undetected.

She was nothing if not one of life's survivors; but then when you'd spent your formative years watching your own father kick the living shit out of your mother every day of your life and had been sexually abused by your own uncle from the age of seven to fourteen you tended to grow skin as thick as a rhinos.

Martin McKenzie, Billie-Jo was convinced, was her fast track to the fame and the credibility she so desperately needed to bolster her cripplingly low self-esteem, an affliction that she would do almost anything to disguise, and she wasn't about to let yesterday's events, however much they'd rattled her, stand in the way of her achieving her aim. She was here to enjoy herself and make a good impression – and she fully intended on doing both.

‘Nate …
Nate
!' her voice grew more urgent, demanding.

Nate reluctantly rolled over on the enormous bed complete with muslin drapes and what felt like cashmere sheets. Even he had noted how soft and inviting they had felt on his bruised skin as he had fallen between them in the early hours, exhausted.

‘Come back to bed, Bee,' he murmured, aware of the sourness of his morning breath, the stench of his own body.

Billie-Jo pulled a face; Nate's lack of urgency irritated the fuck out of her sometimes. His emotions were the sonic equivalent of monotone. She could tell him she'd fucked all of his teammates in a gangbang and she doubted he would even raise an eyebrow, let alone his voice. Still, she knew there was something of his she
could
raise easily enough.
That
had never been a problem; after all Billie-Jo had been peddling her sexuality since she'd been an unfortunately knowing teenager. It was the only currency she had. Occasionally even now the memory of her uncle's depravities seeped into her subconscious, invading her dreams as she slept; the sour, rancid smell of his body, his hot alcoholic breath against her young neck, those long, stiff, spiteful fingers like hot knives tearing at her most intimate skin...

She had told no one, not even her mother, of the atrocities she had suffered as a child and instead had internalised those feelings, built an impenetrable wall around her emotions, a bog-standard coping mechanism by all accounts, or so the do-gooder social-worker bitch she had seen a handful of times kept telling her, not that it had done her any favours. By that stage her mix of narcissism and co-dependency had formed. Shit happens, right?

Billie-Jo's childhood may have been a fucking abortion but she would make sure that she would never suffer hardship again. If men wanted her, and they most certainly did, well, then, they had to pay to get a ganders at the goods – a simple transaction when you thought about it. Being desired in the eyes of men and envied by women afforded Billie-Jo a sense of power, filling a tiny fraction of the gaping emotional void inside her.

Flashing her clout on camera had proved quite a lucrative gig so far too: calendars, lad's mag shoots, promotional events – it was all mounting up into a right tidy little sum. But she was already growing complacent and bored with being small fry; Billie-Jo had enjoyed an elevation to minor celebrity status since her nuptials to Nate. Frequenting various third-rate gossip mags and celebrity websites on a regular basis gave her a buzz, but if she played this one right who knew where it could lead?

She didn't want to be a pair of tits forever, or even a WAG; she wanted a bit of credibility and respect … to be someone in her own right. As ‘famous as Persil', she'd once said in an interview. She'd lifted that quote from Victoria Beckham in her early Posh Spice incarnation. And look where
she
was.

‘Oh, sod ya, then,' she muttered under her breath, wondering if there was anywhere on the island she might be able to score some coke. Her nose felt a little bruised where she had bashed it in the crash and she absentmindedly rubbed at one of the scratches on her leg, surprisingly small reminders of the past twenty four-hours, all things considering. She was starting to feel that familiar restlessness creep in. Still, she thought, as she began to inspect the cabana once more with wide, appreciative eyes, her attention caught by the sumptuous huge white floor cushions and sheepskin fleeces that were lavishly strewn throughout, checking out this place would keep her occupied, for a while at least. It was fucking huge!

The private accommodation was set over two floors, one being a mezzanine level which housed the huge, round, super king-sized bed surrounded by draped canopies that her husband still occupied and a vast wet room that had been hand-decorated by artisans in precious stone mosaic, not that Billie-Jo would've known that, or been in the least bit interested even if she had. She was more concerned with the abundant stock of Chanel bath products displayed on the floating glass shelves: soaps, body washes, perfumes, oils, shampoos and treatments. She'd squealed like a pig when she'd seen the in-built spray sun-lotion booth and the self-cleaning set of his-and-hers toilets, the huge fluffy white towels and matching bath robes with their initials, B-J S and NS, hand-sewn onto the front in fancy font.

Will you get a look at that lot, thought Billie-Jo as she momentarily sat down on one of the toilets to admire them; details; it's what separated the hoi polloi from the superstars and no mistake, you could've had a decent sized party in the bathroom alone. Exiting the impressive en-suite, she made her way past the bed to inspect the contents of the huge in-built wardrobes. She hoped there was something for her to wear; it had devastated her losing the best of everything she owned in the crash.

‘Holy shit!' She screamed as she swung the doors open to see row upon row of couture dresses: Chloé, Chanel, Westwood, Cavalli, Versace, Prada, Hervé Léger … a vast colourful array of her favourite designers, and, on closer inspection, all in
her
size. She began rifling through them manically, pulling dresses from their rose-scented padded hangers, laughing and snorting with delight … and fuckin' hell! The shoes! There was a shop full of 'em: Jimmy Choos, Louboutins, Gucci, Pierre Hardy. And handbags too: huge, squashy Mulberry totes, sparkling crystal Alexander McQueen jewelled clutches, and the
piece de resistance
, a Chanel quilted number.
No. Fucking. Way.
There had to be millions of pounds' worth of designer clobber here, she thought, as she mentally totted it all up. Was it hers for keeps? The very idea that it might be gave her a bigger buzz than any line of the cocaine she was craving ever could.

Energised by the discovery, she skipped down the hand-carved winding wooden stair case, her gasps accelerating loudly as she caught first sight of the lower floor properly for the first time, all vast white-leather couches offset by dark, shiny wood, scattered with animal-skin rugs, mink-fur throws and sumptuous cushions. The furniture was of Balinese influence, lots of dark driftwood, glass coffee tables, huge white hand-carved wooden floor mirrors, and an enormous ornate chandelier.

She clocked the Bang & Olufsen stereo system, the large, rustic-looking solid wood dining table with high back Perspex chairs, and fresh, exotic, floral display as an impressive centrepiece. The kitchen area was all black marble, granite and chrome appliances, bottles of Cristal neatly stacked one on top of the other inside a huge chiller next to a fully stocked bar containing every spirit save for the holy ghost himself.

Overwhelmed, she made a beeline for the chiller. She would crack open a bottle immediately; after all, it wasn't like she didn't deserve it after what she'd been through – and besides they were on holiday now. Snatching a fresh bottle she tore off the yellow cellophane and opened it with a satisfactory bang.

As she sucked the neck of the bottle to stem the overflow her eye was drawn to a small silver bowl of white substance on the granite work surface that on first glance looked like sugar only, hang on … fuck
off
… no, it couldn't be, could it? She licked her pinkie and gently dabbed a little of it on her tongue. It instantly turned numb and she squealed. Holy Mother of God, it
was
coke. And good shit at that. She'd shoved enough up her hooter in the past to know the difference.

Throwing a tentative glance up towards the mezzanine level where her husband was still sleeping, she took the small, silver spoon from the dish and loaded it with powder before snorting deeply. Within seconds she was greeted with the familiar rush, filling her with warmth like a long-awaited old lover's return, her exposed nipples stiffening as the Grade-A powder met her blood stream. Shit the bed, there had to be a kilo of the stuff in that bowl!

She swigged back some champagne from the bottle and began to giggle. McKenzie, it seemed, really had thought of everything! Lurking in the back of her murky unconscious mind, however, Billie-Jo did wonder why he would facilitate her in such a way, and how exactly did he know she had a penchant for the old yay-yo? But they were distant thoughts, like a half-remembered song. Her mum always told her she'd asked too many questions anyway; perhaps she was right. Billie-Jo eyes scanned the exquisite accommodation with delight once more.

For now she had all the answers she needed.

‘
W
ell
, it's not exactly a mystery as to why he decided to call it Pleasure Island, is it? It's absolutely stunning.'

Angelika was leaning over the enormous balcony of the cabana that looked out across the eternal expanse of sea, her arms folded, fingers clutching her freshly washed, damp skin. She had scoured herself clean that morning, scrubbing every inch of her body with the abundant designer bath products until she was free from the filth and grime that somehow felt ingrained in her skin.

‘I mean look at this place, Rupert; it's unreal.' She gazed, entranced by the crystalline water that was directly below her, the shoreline swirling in an out of the dips in the sand, the sun low on the horizon, casting a delicate, lace, crystal pattern across the sea as it made a gradual and majestic appearance – the promise of a new day.

Unspoilt beauty that was somehow luxurious in its simplicity, the bay-shaped island was sheltered by cliffs and bending palms swaying and nodding in the delicate, pine-scented breeze. A wood and rope jetty led down from the chalk-white sand through the transparent sea. A couple of small fishing boats rocking gently in unison with the tide moored to it, white string hammocks fluttered like feathers tied to more surrounding shady palms.

Angelika inhaled the perfumed air deeply, its raw natural beauty drawing her in and causing her to momentarily forget the horrors of the last twenty-four hours. To the left of the cabanas there was a cliff that housed a large, raised, wooden decked area complete with vast canopied day beds that were scattered with sumptuous, white, padded cushions shining like moonbeams in the glare of the harsh morning sun. Next to it a deep, azure-blue swimming pool complete with an in-built raffia-topped bar in the centre that seamlessly blended into the water's edge. Set back further up the mountain she saw the faint outline of a trail, a road perhaps, though it was difficult to tell without her glasses.

‘It's not what
I was expecting.'
She turned to Rupert, watching as he removed the white fluffy towel from his waist and stepped into his underwear, wishing she felt some kind of emotional or physical reaction to his nakedness,
anything
. After all, he was still pretty fit for forty-odd.

‘And what
were
you expecting, Angelika?' Her husband's tone was terse as usual. She only had to open her mouth these days and he seemed irritated, the provenance of which she could not pinpoint. They no longer held conversations like they once had, a long time ago, or so it seemed. Their conversations had left her feeling invigorated, and they'd had conversations where they actually discussed things and listened to each other, laughed and debated good-humouredly. These days everything was a prelude to a cross word, bitter snipes interspersed with caustic asides and snide remarks spoken in hushed, exasperated tones.

It was with deep regret that while Angelika loved Rupert she no longer liked him much, nor understood him. The years had seen her deep affection for him dissipate into bubbling resentment and repressed bitterness, stealthily creeping up on her like an undetected terminal disease. Her once dynamic, attentive husband had gradually become petulant and distant over the years,
unlikeable even
, a far cry from the brilliant man she had met and married. It was as if he had gradually become a different person with the passing of time, so gradual that she'd hardly noticed it happening until it was too late to do anything about it.

Rupert Deyton had been a face at Oxford university where they'd met as students and where he'd procured a reputation as being something of a cad: charming and charismatic. It was difficult to believe now, although he still knew how to turn it on when the mood, less frequently these days, grabbed him, but back then his reputation had preceded him. He'd admired her once, she was sure, and had pursued her relentlessly.

Angelika recalled the first night Rupert had asked her out with such clarity that it was as if she had witnessed it happening to someone else – that balmy September day that had slipped seamlessly into evening, the air chilly and deceptive. He'd offered to share a cab with her and she'd been so breathless with adrenalin that she'd simply nodded and got in. Rupert was smart and so terribly handsome then – still was, she supposed – his self-confidence that stopped only just short of arrogance had been devastatingly attractive.

As she'd stepped inside the cab she had been overcome by the sense that something wonderful was about to happen. Their courtship had been romantic and intense; lazy afternoons spent on boating lakes, his legs draped over the side as he recited sonnets to her – ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' (‘What, drunk and hot, you mean?') – and her responding with raspy renditions of Rimbaud and Keats. They had debated everything from politics and war to what merited a decent pop record over drunken, champagne picnics that invariably led to exciting, alfresco sex and listen to Lou Reed on his pre-historic (even then) record-player on the dirty carpet of his digs. High and giggly on marijuana, they would imagine they were Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe, even though Rupert didn't really have an artistic bone in his body.

She had hung on his every word, captivated by his sharp intellect interspersed with offbeat, bohemian charm. He had been laid-back then – funny even – and less cynical … certainly more tolerant of the human condition. And while she supposed she could never have called their relationship passionate, they had been good friends.

It had been during a six-month sabbatical from their relationship (he'd needed to ‘find himself', which she had roughly translated as ‘shag other people') that Rupert had fathered a child with a French business student called Esme. Angelika had been heartbroken despite his insistence he was not complicit, or even consulted, on Esme's decision to go ahead with the pregnancy and that it had been a complete accident. He'd been just twenty years old when Serge had been born. For the first ten years of the boys' life Rupert had been what could be described as an absent father, or ‘a complete shit' as Esme preferred. It was only when Serge became old enough to challenge his father on a verbally intellectual level that Rupert began to show a little more interest in the boy he would gradually go on to adore.

Aged twenty-three and twenty-five respectively, Angelika had married her handsome mastermind in a pretty church in Surrey near his childhood home. They'd been too young. She realised that now, but
je ne regrette rien
; isn't that what they said? And besides, the photos had been rather beautiful. Over the years they'd clung onto their marriage, largely through habit and lack of time to search for suitable alternatives, although Angelika suspected that she had predominantly been the glue in their union.

She supposed she still desired her husband; after all, he was still able to steal glances from strangers and took great care of his appearance but she wasn't entirely convinced that the feeling was mutual. Rupert rarely made love to her anymore and when he did she was usually the instigator. Sometimes she wondered if her husband was satisfying himself elsewhere, though with whom and when she couldn't imagine. Rupert was a workaholic and when he wasn't working he seemed to prefer the company of his polo and rugby pals. She trusted him though, and, whatever else, she knew he had her back. Perhaps that what's love really was at the end of the day, yet still it was a thought that depressed her.
Is that all there is?

‘You know, we really could sue the arse off McKenzie for this: post-traumatic stress and all of that. Maybe you should act like it's sent you off your rocker a bit – which shouldn't be too much of a stretch for you, let's face it darling – and we'll be looking at a six-figure sum easily. I might causally drop it into the conversation when we meet him, see his reaction. After all it's not like he can't afford it, and actually, I do feel like we should be compensated somehow for the terrible stress. We could've lost our lives, you know. In fact, we were bloody lucky no one was more hurt.'

‘Assuming he's even here on the island,' Angelika mused, ‘and, of course, I'm off my rocker, Rupert; I'm still married to you, aren't I? Anyway, someone was “more hurt” in case you had forgotten; a man died and God only knows what happened to that poor flight attendant.'

‘Hmm,' Rupert agreed, ‘well, we certainly need some questions answering, that's for sure. Anyway, what makes you think he isn't on the island?'

‘Don't know exactly...intuition, I suppose. Something tells me he never had any intention of coming here.' Angelika felt a niggling suspicion, the lightest flutter of unease ever since she'd set foot on the island though she could not say exactly why.

‘Women's intuition, eh?' Rupert raised a brow. ‘Good job real decisions aren't made on that alone.'

‘What are you talking about Rupert, your whole fucking career is based on hunches, intuition and gut feeling.'

‘That and the small matter of evidence, Angelika.'

She grimaced at him behind his back.

‘You said yourself you had a hunch about the rapist being guilty.'

‘His name is Peter Cheshunt, as you very well know, and I never said any such thing!' Peter Cheshunt was the high-profile TV executive Rupert had recently represented during his much-publicised trial for the rape of a young PA who had worked for him.

‘And as you also very well know he was acquitted.'

‘You did! When you'd been at the Château Margaux one evening, you said to me you thought he probably was guilty but there wasn't enough forensic evidence to prove it. Terrible miscarriage of justice if you ask me; thanks in part to you a young woman's life and reputation is in tatters, and a guilty man walked free. He'll no doubt do it again, the arrogant bastard.'

‘And that's the whole point,' Rupert fired back. ‘There wasn't enough bloody evidence to convict, which is why he was acquitted, and rightly so. It's called the British Justice system.'

‘Yes, but the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, and you know it. You're just too bloody good at what you do, that's the problem. That's the only reason he's a free man. We both know he forced that girl to have sex with him, regardless of whether she'd had a drink, regardless of whether she went to his room with him, regardless of her revealing dress or whatever other misogynous bullshit you were peddling to create doubt. She still said no … no, no, no, no, no! What part of the word “no” do you think he didn't understand, Rupert?'

‘It's a known fact that many women say no when they mean yes, or at least, oh, all right then. It's a trick they use to make it look like they're not the easy little sluts, when they know they really are deep down.'

She shook her head in disgust. He'd said it tongue in cheek to get a rise but she couldn't be one hundred per cent sure he hadn't really meant it.

‘I will treat that comment with the contempt it deserves.'

‘Yes, and will no doubt write a damning piece of journalism – and I use that term loosely – in that ridiculous rag you write for, saying just as much.'

When did you become so belligerent, Rupert, so small-minded, so
nasty
?'

‘Our wedding day,' he quipped

‘Touché.' Angelika shook her head as she stomped through the sumptuous cabana in her Calvin Klein pretty-but-functional nude underwear, the sudden knock at the door making her jump.

Rupert cast a derisory look as he peered around it.

‘Yes,' he snapped at the small olive-skinned woman who greeted him with a subservient bow.

Saying nothing she simply handed him an envelope and retreated.

‘Er, just hang on a minute!' he yelled out after her but she had scurried off and wearing nothing but cotton boxer shorts, he was reluctant to run after her.

‘So British,' Angelika smirked.

‘Didn't see you sprinting to catch her up in your bloody smalls.'

‘I'm surprised you even noticed.'

‘Get dressed,' he snapped as he began to read the contents of the small gold envelope, ‘you were wrong; looks like we're going to get to meet the man himself after all.'