Those Wicked Pleasures (29 page)

‘The Winthrop Steel family. Martha?’

‘That’s right.’

‘She’s Julia’s first cousin. She was a Van Fleet. She’s much older than we are.’

‘Much older than you and Julia, yes, dear. But then, I’m much older than you two.’

‘But she’s lovely, David. I can hardly believe it. And with all that money, and all that Philadelphia main-line snob society bred into her. Mother will be delighted. Elizabeth will all but coo. Mother’s delinquent will have made the best catch of all of us. A merger even better than mine.’

They began to laugh. Lara had pinpointed the way Emily and Elizabeth would react to his marrying Martha.
‘She’s even older than you are. And when I think of all those thwarted dolly-birds, all those chic mannequins, who have fallen by the wayside.’

‘Only just a little older, Lara.’

‘Oh I see. It’s “who’s counting?” time. You must be in love, a playboy reprobate like you marrying the older woman. But hold on, it’s just beginning to sink in. She’s one of those grand Washington hostesses. Her husband was Minister of Finance or something. Secretary to the Treasury under some recent administration.’

‘That’s right.’

‘She’s gorgeous and so chic! A great beauty. Very intelligent. I remember when they came and stayed with us in the South of France … Oh!’ And Lara cocked an eyebrow at him.

‘Oh, no, nothing like that. I never touched her till long after he died. And we have been very discreet. There are children involved. She’s a wonderful woman, Lara. Really quite perfect for me.’

‘Is she one of those power ladies?’

‘Yes, but in the nicest way. Let’s just say, I don’t think she would mind rearranging the furniture in the White House.’

‘Ah?’

‘I did tell you it was a career
and
a love move.’

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘You’re the first. But we’re going to have to do something about that soon.’

‘Oh?’ The other eyebrow.

‘No, she’s not pregnant. But that old biological clock of hers is ticking away.’

‘Then there will be children?’

‘As many as we can fit in.’

‘David, I can’t believe we are having this conversation. It’s so exciting. How about a bottle of champagne?’

‘Why not?’

The pudding arrived: pears poached in red wine with cinnamon and cloves and paper-thin vanilla wafers. They ate sitting on the foot-rests of their steamer chairs and drinking champagne. Afterwards David removed the dish from her hands and placed it next to his on the polished deck. He refilled their glasses. ‘I’d like to raise a toast. To you, Lara. I loved you from first sight, and still cherish you. I’m devoted to you as a cousin and you’re my best friend. Thanks for being so happy for me.’

It was a sentimental declaration of love, made more poignant by the obvious excitement and joy they were both experiencing in their relationship and the new phase in it which was about to begin. There was just a moment when each of them searched back through time to choose their own particular memory to reflect on. The moment passed, and they raised their glasses to drink. The last of the many ghosts haunting their affection seemed at last to have been put to rest.

It just seemed so amazingly right that he should marry Martha Winthrop. It prompted Lara to ask, ‘A big wedding?’

‘Yes, a very big wedding. All the trimmings.’

‘I’ll be there for it. Back from wherever I may be.’

‘No, La. Not that I don’t want you to. There’s no one I’d rather have there than you. It’s more that I only want you to come back for my wedding if it fits into your plans. It’s just another family wedding. Right now, it’s far less important than your cutting loose. I’m really with you on that, you know.’

‘I know, and you’re a dear about it. But, David, I am simply
not
going to miss your wedding. I’m so thrilled. I thought for years how miserable I would be when this day would come. And now it’s here, and I’m not. It’s as if a part of me has found not just the rainbow but the
pot of gold at the end of it. Will Martha be at your party tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then count me in. I want to get to know her. I always had a kind of secret admiration for her, but all that beauty and sophistication warned me off. Though she has always been nice to me. But that cool, elegant reserve of hers always made me wonder if she did in fact like me.’

‘She thinks you’re very feminine. She reckons you must be the most beautiful deb in America.’

Allowing herself to be flattered, Lara said, ‘You don’t mean it? Well, if she does, she’d better slap it into the past tense. A divorcee, a mum – hardly a deb any more.’

‘And there’s something else – she knows about us. That in the family, you are the most important member to me. And she understands. Knowing us all as she has for years, she’s rather in awe of the family. She was an only child, and she sees the Stantons and our closeness as something formidable, and at the same time enriching. But she wants to be as much a part of us as possible. She sees our world as much bigger than hers. The power of a family like ours is greater on all fronts than the small closed society she’s lived in all her life. She is, for all her cosmopolitan life, quite provincial in some ways. Not nearly as worldly as you are at your young age. But she has that same Van Fleet kindness. She’s not unlike Julia.’

‘David, enough! You’re beginning to sound like a man in love. Let’s just turn this tub around and go meet the future Mrs Stanton.’

David could host a good party. The one at his house in Georgetown that evening was no exception. There were to be thirty for a sit-down dinner. A table resplendent with family silver, not the Henry Stanton silver but David’s own parents’ silver. It was only on rare occasions
– and sometimes years could separate them – that Lara remembered that he was not her real brother. The silver flashed that message through her mind tonight, then it was forgotten. For all the world, even for all the family, David was just Henry and Emily’s eldest son.

David watched her put the finishing touches to her make-up, then announced, ‘I’ve rearranged the dinner table. Sitting on your left will be a journalist from the
Washington Post
. A nice, good-looking, bright guy. Fits your idea of a journalist to perfection. On your right, my old polo-playing friend from Argentina, Jorge Mendez. Remember him? We were at university together. Still the same smooth Latin lover. Just grey-tinted now. I chose the cream of the wifeless men at the party to grace you. So you can do your stuff. You’ll wear them like a pair of earrings.’

And she did do her stuff. She flirted and played amusing and charming, and was by far the most attractive and sensual-looking woman at the table. All through the meal she let her dinner companions hope. David delighted to see sidelong glances flickering up and down the table towards her from some of his other male guests. Veiled lusty glances. The women were too busy being charming themselves to take much notice of Lara. She was, after all, a bird of passage in Washington. Transients are important in Washington, but only as transients.

Lara favoured the
Washington Post
journalist because at one point during dinner, he leaned close to her and in a low voice whispered, ‘That upbeat personality of yours is making blithe music somewhere deep down in my prematurely jaded heart. Stirring my spirit. You are rapidly becoming an object of desire.’

It was nice to think that this young man could see right to the core of who and what she was, and could express it. A few words from a near-stranger, and Lara caught
a vision of herself that she had never recognised before. The journalist was right. She did have a blithe spirit. And, if others had told her that before in various ways and she had understood it, she had not till now believed it. It was like looking in a mirror for the first time. Who was that person smiling out at her? A whole person of substance. She liked what she was seeing.

Yes, she was enjoying her dinner companions, and the other guests. But Lara was also distracted. Not just by Martha, whom she had met that afternoon, but by Martha and David. As a couple they fascinated her. David with Martha was the same David she had known and loved all her life, and yet not David at all. She had rarely thought of him as powerful, charismatically powerful. Nor as interested in power, not anyway on as serious a scale as he was emanating this evening. He and Martha were like a royal couple: dignified, solid, establishment. Still just that little bit apart from everyone around them. And all that in the nicest most polite way!

They made the other power-players at the dinner table appear much as David had described such people earlier that day: borderline crass, naive. From that dinner party on she would always think of David as David with Martha. It was extraordinary to her that she should love Martha so well, so immediately. She felt instinctively as if that would never change for her.

After dinner, the guests retired to the livingroom to be tempted with coffee and cognac. The journalist placed his cup and saucer carefully on the table and leaned towards Lara again. ‘You inspire the romantic knave in me. If I had a magic carpet, I would whisk us away from all this. Off to New York. Our carpet would take us to all the best jazz-joints. We’d listen and get very drunk. Then there’d be a carriage ride through Central Park. I’d buy you flowers from a stand with real money, and we’d
watch the sun come up, and then … Well, who knows about then? And what does it matter? The last magic carpet left years ago.’ He retrieved his coffee cup, and Lara distinctly thought she heard him sigh.

‘Grab your seat-belt, John. Tonight’s the night. I’ve got the magic carpet.’ And she rose from her chair and seized his hand, pulling him to his feet.

Forty-five minutes later she was taxiing down the runway, one hooked journalist by her side. He laughingly told her above the noise of the engines, ‘You’re a heartbreaker.’ Then, surprisingly sweetly, asked her, ‘Please don’t break my heart.’

Lara was concentrating on take-off. She stopped the plane for a final instrument-check while awaiting a signal from the tower. It came, and only then did she turn to John and tell him, ‘Rest easy, I don’t break hearts. I only look like I break hearts. And no one has ever fallen off my magic carpet.’

They exchanged broad smiles. John looked visibly relieved and sat back in the seat, relaxed and ready to go.

Chapter 20

Lara was always amused when she heard people describe her as a restless American heiress complete with a shady past. No one outside the family ever suggested that she was having the best time of her life. Or had been for the past two years. There seemed to be form and substance to her wanderings, and in many ways she continually inspired those close to her. Bonnie and the entourage travelled with her periodically during these years. But from that last morning in the New York town-house, when she had decided to break out, she was in the world, discovering it alone and for herself.

She drifted in and out of romantic attachments and places, feeling the almost casual enrichment of her experiences. She did things as the fancy took her, and her circle of friends widened to include artists, writers and historians. People from milieux other than those she had previously been exposed to. Her own circle of friends and her familiar social life remained for her, not to be frivolously abandoned. She enjoyed it all. During this time she did several rewarding things that she could have focused on as being important, impressive work. But that was not Lara’s way. She left the rewards for Harland Brent to pick up as his own. She lived every day for that day, every experience for that experience. Every morning when she awoke, she behaved as if yesterday had never been and tomorrow was unlikely to come.

As Stantons went, she was unique. The one who broke the mould. The family and her friends learned to respect her as something special in their lives. She was still in her late twenties. Who knew where her life might take her next?

The sun was quitting the sky above Florence. Slim streams of greyish cloud lay streaked across its brooding terracotta surface. A dark blue veil was descending, and the daytime sky slipping into the horizon. They were well into the traffic flowing into Florence. Roberto knew all the short cuts. They sped into the centre of the city just as bells greeted the roseate tones of sunset on the dome of the Cathedral.

They had driven in from Siena where Lara had been for lunch with friends at a distinguished twelfth-century palazzo. She wanted to take the ring-road to the Fiesole hill above the centre of Florence, where she kept rooms in the Villa San Michele. She hadn’t been to the hotel in several days. There might by now be letters from Sam about Bonnie. He had taken her away for a month’s holiday. But Roberto insisted they stop for coffee or a drink in town.

With only minutes of colour for the city left in the sun now, the narrow streets, the ochre and buff, the mocha and terracotta buildings, were bathed in a dark dusty pink. Coarser light from lamps was spilling from the windows. The Ponte Vecchio, over the Arno, in that theatrical light was a perfect setting for some lurid opera Verdi neglected to write. They were driving beside the river from below the Piazza della Signoria.

‘It still captures, our Florence?’

‘Still. Every time I return, I think I will be disappointed. That all we visitors must by now have plucked the heart out of it. But I am always wrong.’

Roberto wound his way through several side streets and
pulled into one that led into the Piazza della Signoria. He abandoned the car, which was strictly forbidden. He shook the hand of a guard near the end of the street. Then, taking Lara’s arm, walked her into the Piazza. ‘Why don’t you marry me? There would be advantages. In Florence, contessas get to park anywhere.’

‘You never stop, do you?’

‘Never.’

‘You don’t even mean it.’

‘I think I do.’

‘When you’re asking?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Then it’s all a game you feel compelled to play with every woman you meet.’

A wry smile. He shook his head, perhaps indicating that it might be true. Then said, ‘Yes.’

‘Why do it?’

‘Ah, the ego demands it.’

‘But I say no every time. That surely can’t be good for the ego?’

‘But you are the exception to the rule. I might wear you down. And anyway egos are strange creatures.’

Lara was laughing at Roberto and his infuriating Italian charm. They were walking among the thinning crowds of the Piazza. ‘Just look, Lara, at this wonderful Piazza. Once all the political and social bigwigs of the great Florentine Republic rubbed shoulders here. Even the hordes of tourists cannot diminish its grandeur. My ancestors saw history made here. In medieval times, and even today, all momentous meetings are held here. Only one is hardpressed to find a noble Florentine among all those visitors paying homage to our past. Such is life. Such is progress. But I and several other friends still uphold family tradition. When I am in Florence, I come here at least several times a week. I can never remember
not meeting someone else from one of the old families doing the same thing. You have to be proud to be Florentine.’

Roberto gave his own twist to orthodox Italian charm. He was a clever and successful man who loved to play the fool without being anything of the kind. He had more power than most in Florence, and he used it sparingly and wisely. At thirty-five, he had taken very seriously his obligation to his family and heritage. His efforts for the conservation of Florentine treasures bordered on the heroic. But he was a notorious cad with women. Lara listened, relishing him and his love of Florence without ever taking him seriously as a lover or suitor. To become the target for lightweight womanising was not her goal in Italy.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘we will pay our respects to “
Il Biancone
”.’ The Florentines habitually referred to the statue of Neptune in the Fountain of the Ammannati as ‘
Il Biancone
’, the big white one. A colossus of a figure, it dominated everything in the Piazza, even the glorious statue of David. The fountain itself was magnificent. Neptune stood on a cart pulled by seahorses in a basin surrounded by elegant bronzes representing the sea gods, with eight satyrs standing on the marble edge. It was an outrageous, breathtaking work of art that Lara never tired of looking at. Every time she saw it she found something new in the fountain that she had not seen before. And the god Neptune? He had a special kind of attraction for Lara. Whenever she saw ‘
Il Biancone
’ he seemed to speak to her. Draw her to him and hold her in a lustful affection she had yet to experience in real life. Like the great bronze Poseidon in Greece. These two works of art excited her love of men as no others ever did. Neptune, the huge virile god, arising from the sea, that manufactory of myths, the mature and powerful man. He had exerted his marbly erotic power over Lara
the first time she saw him. But his rude force was counteracted by the coolly poised statue of David, close by in front of the Palazzo Vecchio. The epitome of young male beauty. She found herself mesmerised by the handsomeness and youth of the Michelangelo masterpiece, and was often led by the copy in the Piazza to approach the original that had been moved to the Academy Gallery.

Roberto and Lara drew near the fountain. A large group of chic Japanese, guidebooks in hand, cameras worn like tribal jewellery, was just dispersing. That left a clear view of the fountain. Dusk had come and night was closing in. The sky was now a bruised blue, fast taking on the colour of night. Although it was warm for the early days of April, a light mist rose from the Arno and lazily wafted into the square. It skimmed across the water in the fountain and swirled ethereally around the cart and Neptune’s legs. It was eerie because mist appeared almost nowhere else in the Piazza. It was the first time Lara had seen the Neptune in that light – dramatic and unnervingly mysterious. As if he were rising from his subaqueous world to cast his alien aura over their lives.

As if by divine command, the fountain lights came on. First dimly, almost imperceptibly, and then slowly becoming brighter. There were gasps of wonderment from the groups of people around the fountain. Next, the David sprang alight, then all the statues under the Loggia della Signoria: the Giambologna, the Sabine ladies elegantly undergoing their rape, the Benvenuto Cellini bronze of Perseus eyeing the severed head of Medusa in his grasp. Within minutes, light played on all the other treasures, and finally the lanterns of the Piazza itself glowed.

Roberto was thrilled. But, no less than Lara, remained silently enthralled by Neptune’s magnetic power to draw them in to a fantasy of another world. Neptune captivated
them, and Lara felt dizzy with the power of such magnificence. She and Roberto stood there arm in arm, each supporting the other. It would hardly have surprised her if Neptune’s strong white marble arm had plucked her from the Piazza, and plunged with her back into his miniature sea. Fanciful, yes. But the imagination working overtime is allowed to be fanciful.

‘Lara.’

Back to reality. She recognised the voice behind her at once. She detached herself from Roberto and swung around to face Jamal. They were in each other’s arms, hugging each other, to the surprise of Roberto and the two men with Jamal.

‘How long has it been?’

‘David’s wedding.’

‘And we hardly had a chance to talk then. Nearly two years?’ He hugged her again. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘What does anyone do in Florence? I’m a tourist and a shopper, just like everyone else.’

‘Jamal, how ridiculous. You’ve never been a tourist in your life.’

‘Yes, well, maybe you’re right. I brought my mother to Montecatini to take the waters. Two days, and I had to escape. I find these spas wonderful for everybody else, but too healthy for me. I will tell you all about that another time. But first you must meet my friends.’

Lara, momentarily forgetful of Roberto, was embarrassed. She introduced him to Jamal. The two men shook hands, and then Jamal continued introducing his friends, an American and an Italian. Roberto distracted them with details about the fountain while Jamal and Lara spoke.

‘I must see more of you, now that I have stumbled upon you. Where are you staying, Lara?’

‘The Villa San Michele. And you?’

‘The Excelsior. They couldn’t accommodate us at the Michele. Come and have dinner with us this evening? And bring your friend.’

‘Not possible.’

‘But we leave Florence in the morning. It’s too long, I must see you.’ Jamal, profiting by the three men’s preoccupation with the fountain, propelled her by the elbow away from them. ‘How are you, Lara? You’re lovelier than ever. I’ve missed you. Very much. I’ve always regretted our parting. Mistreating you, if that was what I did. And these last three years, since my father died, I’ve been preoccupied with settling his affairs, and haven’t had the time to see you all as much as I used to. Don’t run away. We have so much catching up to do.’

‘I wasn’t going to, Jamal.’

He looked relieved. Lara gazed at him more closely. Was it possible that he had become even more handsome than she remembered him? The light in the square, was it giving added fire to his normally smouldering looks? An excuse. The fact was he still stirred in her those familiar sensual feelings he had always evoked, but that she had blocked out of her life for so many years.

He grazed her cheek with the back of his hand, then raised her hand in his and lowered his lips to kiss her fingertips. Her body reacted to him as it had the first time he seduced her. She felt enlivened, filled with an urge to travel with him once more to that special erotic place only he seemed able to take her to. Did he sense it? She would not tell him. He would have to find out for himself. ‘I will be dining with friends at the San Michele this evening.’ That was all she said, nothing more.

Jamal wanted her. But his desire to bed her was tempered by the ease with which she handled their meeting, the affection she showed for him. He was quite
surprised at the relief he felt when she reacted to his touch. She wanted him not merely as she always had, but more, yet without desperation or absolute need. It quite thrilled him to know that she was and had always been no other’s but his. Never mind a husband or lovers. He had been right all along: she had never replaced him. It was painful for him to realise that he had not had her since the day she walked out on him.

‘Meeting like this, just bumping into each other – I suppose we could only come together again if fate dealt us a good turn. We mustn’t tempt the gods by missing out on this coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘No, we mustn’t.’

‘I’ll call you this evening.’

Lara hadn’t realised how much a part of her life Jamal still was, even if she had excluded the memory of him for so many years. Until she had turned and found herself facing him in the Piazza. She walked away from him and his friends still standing at the Fountain of the Ammannati. On Roberto’s arm now, she was aware that something momentous had indeed happened in the square, as he had airily predicted. Lara felt such inner joy, as if she and Jamal were meeting for the first time. The past was there, but very much buried. She could hardly focus it. There was something in the attitudes of both of them that was new and fresh. It appeared to lay the ghosts of unhappiness that had haunted them for so long.

They were caught in the evening traffic, driving nearly bumper to bumper through the noisy streets towards Fiesole. Roberto and Lara had hardly said a word since they left the Piazza. ‘You are very quiet,’ he remarked. ‘Nothing unpleasant in your encounter in the Piazza, I hope?’

‘Oh, I doubt it, Roberto. I’ve been meeting that man on and off for most of my life. But I will admit he was
the last person I expected to meet among the tourists of the Piazza della Signoria.’

But what she didn’t confide in Roberto was how good it felt to see Jamal. How she still found him the most sexually exciting man she had ever had. That in his arms, for a second, had been rekindled those same old erotic drives. And how good it felt to have those intense feelings again.

They were zigzagging up the steep, lush green of the hill of Fiesole to the Villa San Michele. Roberto drove the open black Bentley up to the subtly lit Michelangelo façade of the ancient monastery perched among the cypress and olive trees on the hill, overlooking Florence. Lara adored staying at the Villa San Michele. With only a few rooms available for guests, it was more like an exclusive country club. Lara had a three-room suite with city-wide vistas over Florence.