Wicked Pleasures (46 page)

‘Shopping. Seeing my friends. Whatever any woman does in London for the day. He’s very busy, Charles, on the estate. He leaves me to my own devices a lot. He won’t wonder. Honestly. You mustn’t worry about it.’

After a while, in the way of all lovers, they became greedier. Lunchtimes, and the inevitably swift, disturbing partings they brought, were not long enough. They spent the occasional evening together, and once Charles took the day off and they stayed in bed all day, picnicking at lunchtime on cheese and grapes and champagne, listening to music, talking. He did not learn much of her marriage, but he learnt about her; her sadness at not pleasing her father more, her love for Baby, her pleasure in eventually finding work she loved, her friends –‘You’d love Tiffy, she is just the best fun in the world.’ And he talked too, of his own childhood, lyrically happy, growing up on the magically beautiful west coast of Ireland, with his brother and his sister, his beloved sister Felicia, now a nun, he told her, at the convent in Cork; he had been allowed to stay at home until he was thirteen, and even then only going to school in Dublin, not being sent to England, to Eton like his brother. ‘I was my mother’s favourite, she would die for me.’ Doing all the country things, playing with the local children, riding, fishing, climbing trees, ‘Although I fell one day, thirty feet, and broke my arm, the doctor said I was lucky not to break my head, I’ve never liked heights since,’ reading Law at Trinity College Dublin, ‘A place of such charm, you never quite get over leaving it,’ and then the long slow haul upwards into practice. ‘You can’t do it, you know, without a private income, and mine is very very small.’

‘How lucky you are,’ said Virginia, ‘to have had such an uncomplicated life.’

‘Well – yes. I suppose so. Is yours so very complicated?’

‘Very,’ she said, ‘but I am learning to live with it.’

Towards the spring, she became obsessed with the idea of spending some real time with him. ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to become embarrassing and want
to run away with you. But it would be nice, so nice, to have whole days and whole nights, without worrying, without watching clocks. Wouldn’t it?’

‘It would, but how would that be possible? Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m going to visit my mother at Easter. I could come home two days early. Or fly out there two days late.’

‘Virginia, my darling Virginia, it sounds horribly risky.’

‘Not really. Alexander is going to visit his old bat of a mother. He wouldn’t know. What do you think? You must like the idea, you simply must.’

‘Of course I do, but I’m scared. For you, but also for me. Just suppose Alexander found out. Just suppose.’

‘He won’t. He won’t. He isn’t – possessive. Honestly. Oh, Charles, let’s try. Please.’

‘All right. I’ll try to think of something. But I’m not spending two days in Fulham. OK?’

‘OK.’

In the end he thought of a cottage on the edge of his father’s estate.

‘No one ever goes there. It’s right down by the sea. About two miles from the house. We could stay there.’

‘It sounds wonderful.’

‘It isn’t. It’s cold and damp, and there’s no electricity. The water has to be pumped from a well. The fire has to be lit and the lamps are oil. The bed is lumpy and I’m sure there are mice.’

Virginia kissed him. ‘I think you’re trying to put me off.’

‘I am.’

‘Well you’re failing. Dismally. We’ll go there. And fuck and fuck for two whole days. And then I’ll fly to New York and go to church on Easter Day with my mother and do penance for my sins.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ said Charles. ‘I’m a Catholic, I’m being condemned to eternal hellfire for all this.’

‘I’ll be worth it. I promise.’

He smiled at her. ‘I think you will. Well, don’t forget my Easter egg. Otherwise I’m not coming.’

‘I won’t.’

They met at Cork airport and drove down in an old car Charles had hired. ‘God help me if anyone I know sees me. My mother will kill me.’

‘What, for being here with a married woman?’

‘No, for not going to see her first.’

‘Ah.’

The cottage was tiny and stone built; it was evening when they got there and freezing cold. Charles had bought logs and coal, and food and wine.

‘And what have you brought?’

‘Just myself.’

‘Bloody aristocracy,’ he said, kissing her. ‘Incapable of looking after itself. Make yourself useful and go and pump some water.’

She came in looking shamefaced. ‘I can’t make it work.’

‘You’re useless. Here, you carry on making this soup. I’ll do it.’ She looked pleased. ‘Cooking I’m good at.’

She was. She added cream and wine to the carrot soup, served it up with bread warmed on the wood stove, and champagne.

‘It’s a bit warm, I’m afraid. But it’s vintage.’

‘So you did bring something.’

‘Yes. And some gorgeous cheeses, and some glacé fruits and some nuts and some wild strawberries and some fresh figs. All in my overnight bag.’

‘An overnight hamper. How unusual. Where on earth did you get fresh figs at this time of year?’

‘Fortnums.’

‘Of course. How silly of me to ask.’

After they had eaten he said, ‘Well, we’d better get down to business.’ She looked at him, startled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Airing the bed. Don’t panic.’

‘Sorry. How do we do that?’

‘Hot-water bottles.’

‘You haven’t brought them too?’

‘I have.’

‘You’re wonderful, Charles.’

‘I know.’

The bed was freezing, even with the hot-water bottles, and lumpy as Charles had promised: Virginia climbed into it, shivering violently.

‘I’ve never been in a cold bed before.’

‘Spoilt bitch.’

‘I know I am. I can’t help it.’

‘I’ll make you warm. Come here, nestle up.’

She pulled herself into his arms, holding him tightly to her. Her body did feel unnaturally cold.

‘Are you all right, darling?’

‘Yes of course. Let’s just lie like this for a while. I’ll be fine.’

‘I don’t think,’ said Charles, his hands moving tenderly, exploringly over her, ‘I can just lie. I’m sorry.’

‘Well, try. Every time you move a blast of cold air comes in and hits me.’

‘Serves you right. This was your idea.’

‘It was a wonderful one. Wasn’t it?’

‘I think so. I wonder if you could just –’

‘Yes?’

‘Let me have my wicked way now, quickly. Then I’ll lie quietly. I promise.’

‘Oh all right.’

Afterwards, they lay in front of the fire, naked, on a thick blanket. The little room was warm now; dark, except for the firelight. Charles fetched a bottle of wine; they drank it, talking idly, smiling.

‘Oh, here,’ she said suddenly, ‘I have your Easter egg.’

‘Not from Fortnums too, I hope? Too predictable.’

‘No. It’s from Fabergé.’

She dug into her bag and produced it, an exquisite, golden, ruby-encrusted egg, wrapped up in a roll of cotton wool in her toilet bag.

‘It’s to say thank you. For you’ll never know how much.’

‘Virginia,’ said Charles in awe, ‘you can’t give me this. It must be worth a fortune.’

‘What you’ve given me is worth a fortune,’ she said, smiling, ‘to me. I want you to have it. My father gave it to me when I was twenty-one.’

‘Well,’ he said, turning it over and over in his hand, in awe. ‘I will have it then. If that’s what you want. But I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘Don’t. You don’t need to. And if ever you’re starving, you can sell it. I promise not to mind.’

‘I would much much rather starve,’ he said solemnly, and meant it.

In the morning they woke early, driven out of bed by the cold, and the dead fire. Charles sent her out to the pump again, said he would not let her in until she managed to work it.

She came in triumphant with half a kettle full; he made coffee and they ate rolls and honey and some of Virginia’s figs.

‘Now we’re going out. Enough of this intimacy.’

‘Charles! I thought we were in hiding.’

‘We’ll be quite safe where I’m taking you.’

He drove her down the valley to the sea; they walked on a beach so wide and long it was like a country of its own. Behind them were the mountains, the small valleys, the jaggedly primeval cliffs, before them the sea, wild, cold, relentlessly beautiful.

‘Oh my God, it’s glorious. I love it. I want to live here.’

‘I know a little place you can have. At a modest rent.’

‘You’re on.’

They got back to the cottage hungry, for food and each other. They made love with a gentle, sweet familiarity; afterwards Virginia turned her head from him, and he realized she was crying.

‘What is it? Darling, what is it?’

‘Nothing. Release. Happiness. I don’t know. I just feel utterly utterly at peace. And it makes me cry. Does that sound silly?’

‘Very.’

‘You’re too frank, Mr St Mullin.’

‘I know.’

They ate in front of the fire, and then slept again, in one another’s arms; woke up starving. Charles cooked dinner, chicken in wine; it was delicious. ‘You’re wonderful,’ said Virginia.

‘I know.’

‘Come to bed. Let me say thank you.’

‘On one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You wash up first.’

‘You’re so romantic.’

‘I know.’

‘This script is getting predictable.’

‘Sorry. Come here, my lady, let me screw you. It seems suddenly terribly important.’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

She was particularly abandoned that night; in a way he had not known her be before. She clung to him crying out, over and over again, in great seemingly endless cascades of orgasm, and when finally she was finished, spent, she lay back, smiling at him almost triumphantly, and said, ‘That was very special. Very very special.’

‘I thought so too. Am I allowed to go to sleep now?’

‘Yes you are. But thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘Everything. But specially that, then. Specially.’

For years after he remembered her saying that, wondering what she had meant, really meant.

In the morning they were depressed, their holiday mood vanished. They had to leave at lunchtime and go back to Cork.

Virginia was particularly sad, withdrawn, an odd look in her golden eyes. ‘Don’t be sad,’ he said. ‘We have some lovely memories.’

‘I know. Lovely ones.’

‘I love you, Virginia. Very much.’

It was the first time he had said it, the first time he had allowed himself to even think it. There was no future in any of it, he knew, and certainly not in loving her. But it had crept up on him, a gentle, tender warmth, a shock of sweet pleasure, and he wanted her to know.

She sat and looked at him, very serious, concerned, her eyes heavy; he could tell at once that she did not feel the same. It hurt; but he preferred to know. ‘Charles. Look – I –’

‘It’s all right, Virginia. I understand. You don’t love me. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I did. Of course we can’t have any more than this. Ever. It’s fine by me. Honestly. Well,’ he added, an oddly hurt, crumpled smile working its way into his face, ‘well of course it’s not. Of course I should like to take you off into the sunset and make you mine. For ever more. But it can’t be. I’d be crazy even to think it.’

‘Crazy, but very lovely. Charles, I’m sorry. Sometimes I think I should never have started this. It was selfish and wrong of me. I –’

‘Virginia.’

‘Yes?’

‘Virginia, why did you? Why did you start it?’

There was a long silence. Then she said, ‘I can’t tell you. I just can’t. Not all of it. But one reason was I wanted you. I thought you were the most engaging,
sexy man I had ever seen. And I knew I could trust you.’

‘Trust me.’ He felt a stab of hurt, of anger. ‘Ah. Well, that was convenient. Nice for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, obviously you need a lover you can trust, don’t you? In your position. Your important, high-profile position. Someone who won’t blab all over London. Someone who won’t jeopardize your standing, make you look cheap, put your marriage at risk. Yes, I can see it was very important you should trust me.’

‘Don’t, Charles. Please.’

‘Why not? Has it never occurred to you I feel slightly used, Virginia? A nice handy, rampant cock stuck on a nice dutiful, trustworthy body. Just what you wanted. Well, maybe I wanted something too. Some love, some future even. But I’m not going to get it, am I? I just have to carry on, doing my bit, fucking away, making you satisfied and then going quietly back to work, not asking for anything, not saying anything. Well, I might just get tired of it soon. After this little honeymoon of yours is over. You might have to find some other poor sucker to do your bidding, fulfil your fantasies.’

‘Charles, please!’ She was crying now, tears pouring down her face.

‘And don’t start crying. This whole bloody thing started with you crying. Very useful things, tears. Do you cry for Alexander when he doesn’t exactly come up to scratch?’

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Alexander never makes me cry.’

Later he was remorseful. He went out to her, where she was sitting in his car, silent, white-faced, and got in beside her, taking her hand.

‘I’m sorry, darling. Terribly sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘No it isn’t all right. It’s all wrong. I shouldn’t have done it, spoilt your little idyll.’

‘Why do you keep calling it mine? Haven’t you liked it at all?’

‘Yes of course I have. But it was very much your idea. And it was a wonderful one.’

‘Well, I hope so. Anyway, I’m sorry too. It must be awful for you. I can see that. Maybe we should end it. For your sake.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t let’s end it. It’s my problem if I can’t handle it. If I’ve been messy enough to fall in love with you, I certainly don’t want to lose you before I have to.’

He did lose her though. He had to, two months later.

She came to meet him one day in London, pale and tired-looking. She smiled at him wearily as she came in the door, and then sat down heavily on his couch; she was obviously not feeling well.

He hadn’t seen her for a fortnight; he had been busy, she had been involved with planning the Hartest midsummer fête.