Pleasure Island (9 page)

A
ngelika had
, in fact, been right; there was no sign of McKenzie as they all gathered expectantly on the decked veranda of the wooden mansion, which was buzzing with staff carrying trays of champagne cocktails and canapés that looked like edible works of art.

‘I don't know about a bloody drink, but I wouldn't mind some bloody answers,' Rupert snapped at one of them, swiping a glass from the tray anyway and immediately taking a large slug.

‘Were you summonsed here as well?' He looked at Nate, who was now washed and dressed in a white T-shirt and denim three-quarter-length cut-offs, his dark, thick hair falling to one side, looking like something out of
Pour Homme
, a complete transformation since yesterday when he'd been a shabby, filthy, blood-stained mess. Rupert sized him up. Poncy-arsed footballers; how they managed to pull so many women when they all looked like one themselves he'd never understand, though he knew the real reason: money and status. The man could've had a face like a bag of spanners and they'd still flock to him. It was so … predictable. Still, he had to concede that Nate wasn't exactly hard on the eye.

‘Yeah, the lady – she knocked on the door this morning – handed me the letter requesting we all convene here for welcome drinks.'

Rupert snorted. ‘Welcome drinks … more like some welcome bloody answers, and they had better be good ones too. I said to the wife I'll be suing McKenzie's arse for post-traumatic stress for this fuck up. He's looking at shelling out millions in compensation, not least a decent chunk to that boy, Joshua. Any news on him by the way?'

Nate shrugged. ‘Where's there's blame there's a claim, huh, Rupert?' He smiled. ‘I was thinking more of thanking him for saving my life than suing him after all. He could've hardly foreseen such a tragedy, and no, none that I've been told, at least not yet.'

He smiled at Angelika, acknowledging her presence and she returned it with one of her own. He was struck by how pretty she was now that he could see her properly in daylight, her hair freshly washed and loose, sun-dried into natural waves, her skin clear and free of that gunk Billie-Jo covered herself in.

Today, Billie-Jo had dressed for the occasion in an Agent Provocateur cut-out swimsuit that was completely impractical for sunbathing but showcased her assets to their ultimate best nonetheless. She'd teamed the strappy, sexy creation with a pair of the vertiginous Louboutin gladiator sandals that were among the many she had discovered in the closet, piling on the gold and diamond jewellery that had been neatly displayed at her disposal. More was always more, as far as Billie-Jo was concerned. Her ears pricked. Rupert's use of the word ‘compensation' had ignited her interest in the conversation.

‘So you think there's a chance we might be in for a bit of compo then?' She wasn't able to conceal the avarice in her eyes, not even with a pair of oversized Chloé sunglasses on.

Rupert harrumphed. ‘I'll say. PTS is big business and bucks these days.'

Billie-Jo made a mental note to herself to keep on his good side. He could be useful when the time came.

‘So, was your wardrobe full of designer clobber an' all?' she asked Angelika, giving her the once over. She felt a slither of envy as she realised Angelika appeared both slimmer and more attractive now that she could see her in broad daylight. She possessed that quiet sort of natural beauty that usually photographed well, and she had good hair, skin and teeth, even if she was in her thirties. ‘I swear down I nearly had a fuckin' heart attack when I opened mine!'

A waitress approached them with a spectacular-looking selection of breakfast sweets and savouries: mini Danish pastries that had been baked in the shape of hearts; canapé-sized muffins with crispy bacon, drizzled with maple syrup; eggs Benedict; and smoked salmon and cream-cheese bagels, which were warm and smelled delicious.

‘How many calories are in those?' Billie-Jo pointed to the offerings. ‘I'm a model, yeah, so I have to watch my figure. You know what I'm saying?'

The waitress smiled and nodded as they helped themselves. They were all ravenous, even Billie-Jo who'd already ingested a line of coke for breakfast.

Angelika had indeed been surprised to discover her wardrobe had been neatly stocked with beautiful designer clothes: Dolce & Gabbana capri pants in pretty colours with matching shell tops; neat graphic-print shift dresses by Victoria Beckham; denim cuts-off; and rows of soft, white, cotton shirts, cashmere cardigans and Breton tees – her favourites; wide-brim, straw fedoras with pretty ribbons; an array of floral tea dresses and boho-inspired scarves. It was as if it had all been hand selected by a personal stylist. It was the same for Rupert, too; even down to the pink shirts and paisley cravats he often favoured. McKenzie, so it seemed, had thought of everything and seemed to know more about their sartorial preferences than she could have anticipated.
But how?

‘Yes,' Angelika said, ‘and I suppose it was a good job really seeing as though we lost everything in the plane crash. Bit odd, though, don't you think? How they could've known our individual styles and tastes.'

Billie-Jo blinked at her in quick succession. Odd or not, she certainly wasn't complaining.

‘S'pose,' she murmured, wondering if Mia Manhattan had been given the same treatment. She suddenly saw Mia approaching the veranda. Seeing her all done up like a dog's Christmas dinner concluding that she probably had.

‘So, where the fucking hell is that dreadful cunt McKenzie, then?' Mia certainly knew how to make a show-stopping entrance. Her colourful choice of language was enough to raise the most liberal-minded brow, not that she cared. Decades spent in the privileged position of being able to say and do as she pleased without question had afforded her carte blanche to be a rude as she deemed appropriate, even in the court room, as Rupert remembered only too well.

‘What was she like?' Angelika had asked him at the time of the highly publicised trial; she had been keen for an insight into the superstar's behaviour on a personal as well as professional level. This was Mia Manhattan, after all.

‘Exactly how you would expect someone who hasn't heard the word “no” for two decades to be,' he'd responded tartly.

The media had gone berserk for the Manhattan case and not least for the singer's choice of court attire, which had been religiously documented, discussed, dissected and debated at great length throughout the duration of the trial. Never one to disappoint her fans, Mia had faced such scrutiny with aplomb. Her shameless avant-garde
sartorial choices – while deemed wildly inappropriate for legal proceedings – had gone down the proverbial treat with fashion editors the world over and made her something of an unlikely style icon in the process, particularly among the more camp members of society.

Today she had chosen to wear a white-and-gold floor-length Lanvin Grecian number reminiscent of Cleopatra, chosen from the impressive selection that had been at her disposal. If she was going to tear a strip off McKenzie, then she'd be sure she looked good while doing it. Besides, she hadn't seen the man for years, and, angry though she was, she still wanted to remind him of what he'd missed out on, all those years ago.

Mia had felt guilty experiencing a slither of joy as she'd dressed herself in the mirror that morning. She was glad to be alive, to have survived such an ordeal and come through it unscathed. However, as yet there had been no news on Joshua's condition, a fact that gnawed at her conscience. Hell, she didn't even know where he was. Moreover she had been incensed to find there was no phone inside the villa on which she could make the necessary telephone calls. As she'd inspected her svelte silhouette from every conceivable angle, she'd vowed to contact Richard as soon as she could locate a telephone. Dickie would bail her out, her
and
Joshua; she would get him to send a plane for them immediately, fly them away from this place. Even in spite of the bitter acrimony between them, following their highly publicised divorce, she knew deep down he would never see her in any real distress or danger. Then she would promptly phone that great dollop-of-shit agent of hers and fire his fat, useless, greedy arse once and for all. Screw Bailey, she didn't need him anymore, or McKenzie either for that matter. Bollocks to the pair of them; she'd sort out her own comeback; do
I'm a Celebrity…Get me Out of Here!
if she had to. Hell if she could survive the past twenty-four hours then she could survive
anything
.

‘That's what we're all here waiting to find out, Mia,' Rupert snapped at her, ‘after all, we're hardly here for the free bubbly and canapés … or are we?'

‘Pity you weren't flying that bloody plane, Deyton,' she muttered. ‘You.' Mia pointed a manicured finger at one of the waiters buzzing past. ‘I need a telephone.'

He stared at her, bemused.

‘A
tele-phone
…' she repeated, waggling her hand in a universally understood thumb and finger sign. The waiter simply nodded before hurrying away back up towards the entrance of the house.

‘You'd think he'd have managed to employ some English-speaking staff,' she scoffed, washing down a quail eggs Benedict canapé with a glass of champagne. ‘Bloody miser, probably paying them slave wages.' She looked at Billie-Jo. ‘Do you have a telephone in your suite?'

‘No,' Billie-Jo replied, a little startled by Mia's abrupt question, ‘I was hoping to phone me mum as well, let her know I'm OK; she'll be worried.' Though in all truth Billie-Jo knew that as long as her old dear hadn't run out of Johnny Walker and Rothmans she'd probably be right as Larry.

Not that she begrudged her, mind – Tracy Glynn had endured hardship and suffering like no one else she knew and it was little short of God's will her old mum hadn't drunk herself to death with what she'd had to put up with over the years. With four different kids from four different blokes – she wasn't even sure who had fathered Billie-Jo and had told her it was ‘probably just as well' – it had been a lifetime of borderline poverty and hardship for Tracy, a stream of misogynists, alcoholics and junkies who were happy to put a fist in her face if the oven chips were served cold, or she'd bought the wrong beer, or there was a ‘y' in the month.

Tracy had been a stunner herself once, just like Billie-Jo was now, but somehow it hadn't been enough to pull her from the clutches of the reprobates she seemed to attract and the gutter from which they came, her looks rapidly disappearing along with her human spirit.

That's what years of being ground down did to a woman; it robbed you of everything. Still, she'd done her best by her kids, by and large; they may have been shit poor but they had never been starved of affection and she had worked three cash-in-hand jobs to make sure they got the occasional treat.

Tracy Glynn loved her kids and she wanted a better life for them, actively encouraging her pretty daughter to cash in on her merchandise. ‘If you got it, flaunt it, or better still, sell it!' Billie-Jo had never confided in her about the abuse she had suffered at the hands of one of her uncles but she was close to her mum and although resolute that she would rather sell her own eyes than end up like her, she secretly admired her.

In a funny kind of way, Billie-Jo knew that her tough upbringing had instilled in her some positive qualities, namely survival, ambition and unrelenting determination. Every cloud, she supposed.

Now she was seriously minted, however, it gave her no better buzz than to be able to bung her mum a decent chunk of change every now and again, take her out on lavish shopping sprees and spa days, pay for a car and holidays and treat her. Watching the grin on her old mum's boat-race as they rapidly melted one of Nate's many credit cards simply confirmed to Billie-Jo that it was a lorry load of bollocks when people said money didn't buy you happiness; that was something only rich people could afford to say. Yeah, but it could certainly buy you out of the fucking misery of poverty and Primark clobber, that was for sure.

A
ngelika sipped
at her champagne glass tentatively, quietly observing her surroundings as the jets above them pumped out a spray of fine mist, presumably to keep them cool in a heat that what was already intense, even at such an early hour.

‘Have you noticed?' she asked, addressing Nate mostly, largely because he was looking at her.

‘Noticed what?' he responded. Her nose wrinkled when she was in thought. He liked it; it made her look cute.

‘None of the staff has uttered a word, not even to each other …'

Before Nate could answer however, the door to the mansion opened.

‘
P
lease accept my sincerest apologies
.' The woman was unsmiling but seemed ingenuous enough, ‘I can only imagine what you've all been through these past twenty-four hours.' Her voice was low and masculine, her accent reassuringly British. ‘I'm Elaine, Elaine McKenzie.'

‘Where is your husband?' Rupert marched towards her. ‘I'd be very keen to talk with him.'

‘I'm afraid it's with great regret that my husband cannot be here to greet you all as planned,' she said in monotone. ‘Please accept my deepest apologies on his behalf. It was his every intention to greet you in person, I assure you, but unfortunately the inclement weather conditions has prevented him from flying out –'

‘Inclement weather … the storm, you mean?' Angelika met Elaine's steely gaze.

‘That's right,' Elaine gave a succinct nod as if Angelika had passed some kind of test. ‘We received a Met Office warning a couple of days prior of its imminent arrival, but were not quite prepared for the devastation it would cause.'

‘So that's why the plane crashed?' Angelika mused. ‘The storm …'

Nate looked sideways at Angelika. There was something considered about the lawyer's wife that he instinctively liked. She had been calm and dependable throughout the crisis they'd just faced, shown strength of character and capability, the total antithesis of his wife. He liked the sound of her voice, too, clipped Home Counties with the lightest northern burr. He found it strangely soothing. ‘I suspect it was, yes.'

‘You suspect?
You suspect
?' Rupert was repeating himself, which meant only one thing: he was irritated. ‘You do realise the pilot's dead,
dead
… and the girl – the Jap – God only knows what happened to her...drowned I suspect, poor bloody bitch. We could've all died. Nothing short of a miracle we didn't, really.'

Elaine's face remained solemn as she absorbed his words.

‘She's Thai, actually,' she corrected him. ‘It was an unforeseeable tragedy about which I deeply sympathise. It must've been a dreadful experience for all of you. It's understandable that you're shaken and upset, which is why, on behalf of my absent husband, it is my responsibility to ensure your stay here, from now on, will be the most enjoyable, memorable experience for all the right reasons.'

Rupert was stunned. He hadn't quite known what he'd expected to hear but somehow this wasn't it.

‘Where the hell has Joshua been taken?' Mia's voice cut through Rupert's incredulity like a pickaxe. ‘Two men carted him off in that rescue plane last night. So I'll need a telephone,
Mrs
McKenzie.' Her eye caught Rupert's for the briefest second in a fleeting moment of solidarity. ‘I need to contact my husband and agent and get them to send a plane for me and Joshua.'

‘And we lost all our stuff, you know,' Billie-Jo joined in, ‘my Rolex, iPad, all my Vuitton luggage. I mean, who's gonna pay for all that?'

Nate felt himself redden; that Billie-Jo was even entertaining matters of a fiscal nature in such a moment showed her up to be shallow and greedy. Sometimes he wished she'd at least have the grace to try and disguise it.

‘A telephone.' Rupert reiterated Mia's request. ‘I'm assuming you do have one?'

‘Indeed,' Elaine McKenzie replied calmly, ‘only I'm afraid all lines of communication have been down since the storm hit. We've no Internet access, no satellite signal, nothing I'm afraid.'

Billie-Jo's lip curled in protest. No fucking phones? No Internet? How would she brag to all her Facebook followers now? She'd been planning daily Tweets and had fully intended to post as many Instagram pictures as possible throughout her stay in a calculated bid to up her profile while pissing off a few haters to boot. She was gutted.

Angelika's eyes were drawn to the pipes that were pumping out fine mist above them once more. ‘But there's light and hot water.' She could feel the beginnings of a headache, her thoughts starting to merge like watercolours in her mind.

‘The emergency generator is working, we have utilities, running water, heat … we're lucky we didn't lose that as well.' She turned to Mia. ‘As for the injured man, he was flown to a hospital on a local island, I believe. I know no more than that as there is no means of communication. Like I said, the network is down.'

‘They took him in the plane, the same one that was used to rescue us,' Angelika said calmly, though her voice still conveyed some authority. ‘If the plane was OK to fly, could it not fly us over to a neighbouring island as well?'

She thought she detected the slightest wry smile on Elaine McKenzie's otherwise-expressionless face.

‘I'm afraid the whole north side of the country has been affected by the storm; you're safer here for now – besides, why on earth would you want to leave? We have everything we need here and more: food, drink, shelter, all in abundance. Besides, I know my husband would want business to continue as usual. Our aim was always to make your stay as comfortable and enjoyable as possible, as was the original plan.'

‘But if it was safe for the pilot to take off, to rescue us and then fly Joshua out –'

‘I'm afraid there's been no contact with the light aircraft that took your friend,' Elaine McKenzie cut her off. ‘The pilot took great personal risk in choosing to fly him off the island. We can only hope they made it to their destination safely.'

‘And where might that destination have been?' Rupert had switched into professional mode, pacing like he did inside a courtroom when cross-examining a witness.

‘Unfortunately I cannot answer that,' she replied, ‘I'm assuming they either flew to the mainland or perhaps one of the neighbouring islands.'

She turned swiftly to Billie-Jo.

‘I'm terribly sorry for any personal loss you've incurred; I do hope you will find everything you need within your accommodation, which I trust has met with your requirements?'

Billie-Jo nodded; she couldn't argue with that.

‘So the gear's all ours then? The clobber and the jewellery and the bags and –'

Nate nudged her sharply. ‘Shut up, Bee.'

‘What?' she hissed at him, ‘I got a right to ask, I lost practically every fucking thing I own in those cases.'

‘Everything you find within your accommodation is complimentary. That's to say it's all yours,' Elaine drolly explained, the grim line of her lips broadening slightly, though you could hardly call it a smile.

She addressed the group as a whole once more. ‘And so, I should really commence by giving you each a welcome pack which details everything you need to know about the island, its history, how my husband discovered it, the purpose of your trip here …'

‘Well, yes, that would be good to know, because we've all been wondering exactly what that might be,' Rupert said, ‘this whole charade has been shrouded in secrecy from the very beginning.'

‘All will be revealed in good time I can assure you. Now,' Elaine said, ‘this island lives up to its name, as I'm sure you will discover to your own delight in due course. It is completely without restriction; you are free to explore, roam and go where you please, whenever you please, as you please, though do take care to ensure you are wearing the appropriate footwear should you wish to go walking, climbing or indeed hiking. Champagne cocktails will commence here on the veranda every evening at half-past seven, followed by a six-course gourmet meal using the finest produce and prepared by some of the most-accomplished chefs in the business, giving everyone a chance to convene and socialise, discuss the day's events. Plus it's a wonderful vantage point to watch the sunset, though there are many places on the island that will afford you as beautiful a setting. Dinner is the only compulsory event of the day, the rest of which is your own to do as you so wish and take full advantage of the facilities my husband and I offer you. Regretfully the full entertainment schedule we had planned has been scuppered by the storm, so –' she paused momentarily ‘– I'm afraid you will have to make your own entertainment. Though this shouldn't be too difficult, I assure you. There is a plethora of activities available to you, including bicycles, mountaineering equipment, a state-of-the-art games room, steam, sauna, swimming pools, your own private Jacuzzis, a floatation tank, plus full and extensive complimentary spa and beauty treatments, for which bookings can be made here via reception. There is also a personal stylist, machinist and jewellers available should you ladies, or indeed gentlemen, require any bespoke alterations or designs made.' She clicked her fingers and on cue three practically identical brothers appeared, forming a military line behind her. Young and tanned, their torsos accentuated by tight white T-shirts, they were each carrying a shiny, black box, their Hollywood grins dazzling in the bright sunshine. ‘And now I would like to introduce you to Remi, Rani and Raj, your personal butlers for the duration of your stay. Should you wish for anything, and I mean
anything
, day or night, then they will endeavour to meet your every need or requirement.'

‘Does that include a telephone?' Rupert said, though this time under his breath.

‘I should explain,' Elaine continued efficiently, ‘that along with the rest of the staff here on the island, Remi, Rani and Raj are selective mutes.'

‘Selective what?' Billie-Jo pulled a face. ‘What's one of them when it's at home?'

Nate cringed at his wife's ignorance.

‘They don't talk is what it means,' he whispered to her.

‘They understand perfect English, of course,' Elaine continued to explain, ‘but please don't attempt to engage them in conversation as this can cause them some considerable anxiety.'

‘Is this some kind of joke?' Mia enquired.

‘Not at all.' Elaine shook her head. ‘My husband deliberately sourced them for their specific – how shall I say – lifestyle choices.'

‘Bet the interview process was scintillating,' Rupert deadpanned. ‘Just another of McKenzie's little quirks, eh? Whatever next, Oompa Loompas? Fire-breathing midgets?'

‘What's inside the boxes?' Angelika couldn't hide her intrigue. She placed her champagne glass down onto the table. She felt lightheaded, a little giggly, even.

‘There is a box here addressed to each couple. It's a surprise my husband organised. I'm afraid I can't say any more than that as frankly I don't know what's in them myself. What I do know, however, is that he left strict instructions for them not to be opened, at least not just yet.'

Elaine deliberately paused, satisfied that her guests had been duly subdued into submission by her announcement.

‘Right then,' she said, smoothing her small, stubby fingers down her black slacks, ‘are there any questions?' She scanned their faces, her narrow, grey, watery eyes evaluating them carefully.

‘Yes.' Angelika raised her hand as though in a school room; she felt odd, her head a tad woozy, limbs light and airy, even though she'd only had a few sips of champagne. ‘Where exactly are we?'

Elaine McKenzie smiled, finally, exposing a set of small neat teeth that didn't quite fit with the rest of her face. ‘You're in paradise, my dear. Welcome to Pleasure Island'.