Wicked Pleasures (73 page)

‘No, I don’t think so. No I won’t. I can never work there. I’ll be at the Pierre.’

‘Fine. Well, it all seems to be settled. I can’t quite see why you’re asking me.’

‘Don’t be silly, Alexander. You know I wouldn’t go if you really minded.’

‘Do I?’ he said. ‘Do I know that?’

‘Of course you do.’

‘Well that’s all right then. I presume you’ll be back for the twentieth, though.’

‘The what?’

‘The twentieth, Virginia. The summer garden party. You know? The one you always enjoy so much.’

‘Oh God, Alexander, I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry. It completely slipped my memory. And yes, I do love it. It’s one of my favourities. But I had thought –’

‘Yes, Virginia? What had you thought?’

‘Well I had thought I could go straight on to Sconset. From New York. If it wasn’t for the – the garden party. I mean that would be much more – much easier. And I am tired. As you said. But –’

He felt her falter, knew she was wondering if she could get away with it, with not being at the garden party.

‘I hope no client is more important to you than your life here with me, Virginia,’ he said, picking up his coffee cup, returning to
The Times
.

‘No, Alexander, of course not. I’ll be back. And then go again.’ She sighed. He smiled at her encouragingly.

‘Good. That’s settled then.’

She called from New York five days later. Could he possibly manage without her, just this once, at the garden party? And then send the children on the plane with Nanny? She was terribly busy, and extremely tired, not feeling well at all, in fact her mother’s doctor had said she should have complete rest for a few days. He had been most emphatic, as a matter of fact, that she should not rush backwards and forwards across the Atlantic. If Alexander didn’t believe her, or wanted to check, the doctor was more than willing to talk to him. She just felt that it seemed madness to come back, just for one day; no one would miss her, after all, it was him and the children the tenants and everybody liked to see.

‘
I
shall miss you, Virginia,’ said Alexander. ‘I shall miss you very much. And Nanny hates flying so much.’

‘She doesn’t, actually. She told me last time she really enjoyed it. She can stay at the house for a day or two, and then come back. She’ll have a lovely long holiday after all, without us.’

‘She doesn’t like holidays.’

Virginia sounded exasperated. ‘Well, if you’re really so worried about Nanny you could come over earlier with the children.’

‘Thank you, no.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Alexander. But I really can’t help being ill.’

‘In this particular instance,’ he said, ‘I think you probably can.’

He gave in of course, as he always did, when she trapped him like this; what kind of a husband would insist his exhausted, sick wife made an unnecessary trip across the Atlantic for a one-day function? But there was a blind blanket of fury in his heart, that she could have forgotten, was prepared to neglect, to forgo something so important to him, to Hartest, should put herself first. She was cheating now and cheating badly; he knew what she wanted, he knew she wanted to be with Baby, to talk to him, to share her troubles. And no doubt to share his. Perhaps make another offer of free accommodation for him and his little tart.

Alexander stared blankly out of the window. This was not how he had envisaged things at all.

He wanted to punish her. He wanted to punish all of them. He had no idea if the affair was still going on between Baby and Angie, but he had seen Baby using the phone in the village earlier in the day, and he could imagine why it had been. He sat and looked at them round the supper table, contrasting it with his garden party supper table, the first night on Sconset, and hated them. All of them. Not just Baby but Mary Rose for her blind complacency, and (although they were not physically present) Fred for his outrageous, overbearing arrogance and Betsey, for contributing to that arrogance, for persisting in her myth of a happy family. And Virginia of course. Certainly Virginia: for her terrible disloyalty. On many counts.

So – how? How to maximize his knowledge, to cause the most pain? And to ensure that any action he took could not be traced back to him.

Later, he went for a walk on his own. He needed to think.

The plan came to him two days later, as he sat reading on the deck, as they called it. Ridiculous name. Virginia had announced she was going in to New York. That in itself had angered him. He had a very shrewd idea why she had to go, but it still angered him. He had trekked all this way to be with her, to please her, and she promptly left him. She could surely have gone earlier. But at least it enabled him to carry out his plan. It was so simple he almost choked on the apple he was eating. He could do it easily. Tomorrow would be fine. He could do it in the afternoon. That would cause maximum havoc. And it would hurt all of them, neatly, beautifully. And they would never, ever dream of how it had happened.

He slept peacefully that night for the first time for weeks.

Next day, after breakfast, he went to his room, scribbled some notes on a piece of paper. He didn’t need to memorize them, but he did need to get the accent absolutely right.

They were all in the garden.

‘I have to go into the village,’ he said, ‘I want a newspaper. A New York newspaper. See you at lunch.’ The children waved, and he left them, and pedalled slowly into the village of Sconset, rehearsing aloud as he went. He walked into the Chanticleer restaurant; they were all known there, the proprietor was friendly, waved him towards the telephone near the back of the restaurant, poured him a beer. It was very quiet; the only person around was a cleaner.

Alexander picked up the phone slowly; he was nervous now. He had written the number down; he sat looking at it for a while. It was a pity that Betsey, the only innocent person in this whole mess, had to be hurt along with the others, but she would probably benefit in the end. Make Fred a little less arrogant. And there really was no way he could spare her. She was absolutely essential to his plan. Of course there were still hazards. Betsey might be out. Virginia might answer the phone. No, that was very unlikely. It was always Banks. It was one of his jobs. Yes, unless something very extraordinary had happened, Banks would answer the phone. And then he could ask for Betsey and then it would be straightforward. And if she wasn’t there, wasn’t going to be back, he would move onto Plan Two, and give the message to Banks. It wasn’t as neat, but it would do. The message he had written sat looking at him from the card propped in front of him. Yes, it was perfect. He took one careful mouthful of the beer, and picked up the phone again.

‘Mrs Praeger?’ The accent was perfect, one of his best, thick oily Brooklyn. Poor Betsey, he thought, she would never hear a Brooklyn accent again without feeling upset.

‘Yes, this is she.’

‘Mrs Praeger, I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I’m very anxious to contact your husband.’

‘Well he’s not here.’ Betsey’s accent, her terminally anxious tone, came over more strongly on the phone. ‘He’s in his office. Why don’t you call him there?’

‘Well naturally I did, Mrs Praeger, but he’s out and it is a little urgent.’

‘Well I’m sure he won’t be long,’ said Betsey, ‘did you speak to his secretary?’

‘She was temporarily out of the office also.’

‘Oh I see. Well – can I help in any way?’

‘Well – I certainly would appreciate that. This is the Cholly Knickerbocker column here. I wondered if you would care to comment on the story that your son has been seen a lot around town with an English girl? A Miss Burbank? Who used to work for your daughter? I believe she has an apartment in the Village, which your son visits from time to time. I’m sorry? Oh no, Mrs Praeger, there certainly isn’t any mistake. I picked up the story from a very reliable source. I’m afraid I can’t reveal it. But I can tell you it was someone close to Mr Fred Praeger. Mr Praeger Senior.’

So simple, so easy. He could scarcely believe he had done it.

Charlotte, 1985

It was blowing up a little. The sky was as brilliant as ever, the sea as fiercely green-blue, but it was roughening. The raft rocked, gently at first, then more aggressively; Charlotte gripped the sides of it more firmly with her hands, afraid she would fall off. The water felt almost cold as it washed over her legs. She hadn’t realized how hot she had been; she wondered briefly if she was burning. Another wave; another lift of the raft on the water; and suddenly, just for a moment, a drift of cloud over the sun darkened the day, and the sea turned almost grey. She was startled at the change, felt vaguely threatened; the curving shore looked suddenly far away.

‘Turn over,’ said Jeremy’s voice, gentle, almost amused in her ear. ‘Turn over onto your stomach.’

‘I can’t,’ she said, laughing, ‘I’ll fall off.’

‘No you won’t. I’ve got you.’

‘Yes you have,’ she said, laughing still but more resignedly, and turned carefully, cautiously, afraid of slipping into the water. As always when she was making love to Jeremy, her mind was focused with a fierce, painful concentration; every other thing in the world was cancelled out. Had a hurricane been blowing, had they been in danger of their lives, she would still have thought only of her body, and its needs, and the gratification he could bring her.

She lay on her stomach, and felt him settling on top of her; felt his penis huge and warm in the crease of her buttocks. His hands were beneath her, holding her breasts; he was kissing her neck, tenderly, slowly. Her hunger increased, intensified; she pushed her back up, slightly, so that it was arched, so that he could have access to her. Another wave; she slipped, thrust up again, slipped again. Frustration and tension increased her desperation for him; she sighed fretfully, arched for the third time, thrusting at him, felt him enter her, slowly, steadily. Her vagina clenched triumphantly round him; he pushed, harder, she felt her entire body invaded, oddly stable suddenly, in their rocking, sea-washed bed.

She felt, faster than usual, her greed growing, the heady, irresistible climb towards her climax, pushed, urged on by the rhythm beneath her; she clasped the sides of the raft more firmly, riding the sea, riding her pleasure. She felt cast adrift from reality, from herself even, from everything on earth except the glorious sensation of him within her forcing her, pushing her, drawing her; his penis feeling, in the midst of her, so large, so strong, so powerful she could scarcely contain it. And then, as the raft rose again, as they rose with it, as she struggled to hold him, as he thrust again and again, and she felt his own climax,
slow at first, then growing, throbbing, flowing inside her, her own came in a sweet almost heavy rush to meet him, and she rose halfway to her knees, crying out, clenching, clinging within herself to the delight and to him.

Afterwards, they went sailing; there was a strong sea running. Jeremy was a superb sailor, and all she had to do was let the jib in and out, and dive across the boat whenever he changed direction. It was quite enough that day. They went far out to sea; she sat on the side of the boat, leaning out, her feet crammed under the rope for safety, and looked up at the sails, pushing, straining against the wind as she had pushed and strained against him, and felt a great sense of tenderness and release. She looked at Jeremy, concentrating fiercely on the boat and its passage, as he so often concentrated on her, his brown body tense, lashed with spray, his strong hands, the hands that knew her and her body with all its idiosyncrasies so well, holding the ropes with the same strong, sure skill, and the journey through the water, cutting, soaring, relentlessly onwards, seemed to echo the pleasure, at once smaller and larger, they had just shared on the raft, and he smiled at her suddenly, and read her thoughts and shouted above the wind, ‘I love you!’

Charlotte didn’t believe it, and she knew he didn’t believe it either, but it was good to hear nonetheless.

They had been lovers for six months now, six heady, frightening months. At first she had been terrified, afraid of Isabella finding out, of her grandfather finding out, of anyone finding out; but Jeremy was a most skilful philanderer, greatly versed in the art of secrecy and concealment. He courted her (as much to amuse himself as to reassure her) by strange anonymous phone calls, by letters hand-delivered by constantly changing messengers in what came swiftly to be their own code; he arranged meetings in hired apartments, quirky, out-of-town hotels. He owned a tiny cottage on the furthermost tip of North Haven in the Hamptons, where he took her for a wonderful twenty-four hours, driving her out along the Expressway in a rather elderly Volkswagen Beetle which he had bought particularly for the occasion, and holding her hand and murmuring soothingly to her as they sat on the creaky ferry that took them across from Sag Harbor while she literally shook with terror that her grandfather or one of his friends from the Hamptons would recognize her; once there, they never left the cottage, but simply made love endlessly, and ate the meals painstakingly prepared by Dawson and packed in hamper and ice box, complete with champagne, wine and ‘other substances for me, and for you if you want them’, accompanied by hour-on-hour instructions from Dawson: ‘Four p.m. uncork claret, five p.m. place half-baked bread in oven, six p.m. spread steaks with herb and garlic butter, light barbecue grill, seven p.m. toss salad, dress (ready-cooked) baby potatoes with chives and mayonnaise, remove ice cream, raspberry mousse and summer pudding from ice box, place in fridge to soften, take cheeses out of fridge’ and so on right through to ‘one a.m. latest, remove lobster meat from freezer to defrost overnight, also hash browns’; and then finally ‘eight a.m. squeeze oranges, add to chilled champagne, place croissants in oven, hash browns in microwave, grind coffee beans’.