Wicked Pleasures (74 page)

‘Are you sure,’ said Charlotte, smiling at Jeremy over her breakfast Bucks Fizz, and eating her way greedily through a large plate of hash browns, ‘are you sure he hasn’t also written down there “Seven a.m. awake mistress by kissing nipples, seven fifteen, turn attention to lower parts of body, seven thirty bring mistress to first orgasm of day”?’

‘He might have done,’ said Jeremy, smiling at her, ‘but I wouldn’t have needed to look at the instructions.’

‘How long has Dawson worked for you?’

‘Ten – no eleven years.’

‘He’s a wonder. I wish I could thank him for this weekend.’

‘I’ll thank him for you. And I hope you don’t feel he should have all the credit.’

‘Most of it,’ said Charlotte. ‘Can I have another croissant?’

She gradually became less frightened. Her main emotion, apart from an almost tangible sense of physical well-being, was guilt. From the moment she had been able to think straight after the first time she had gone to bed with him, up in his workroom, that strange, exhausting, difficult night, she had been shocked at what she had done, at tumbling into the trap, led by her own weakness and greed, of not only allowing him to make love to her, but allowing him to know how much she had needed and enjoyed him. She was under no illusions about either of them; they suited one another very well. He was a self-indulgent, spoilt, charming man, and he had wanted her and led her most skilfully into the trap whereby he had been able to have her. And go on having her. And she was using him, and she forced herself to recognize the fact, using him to ease her loneliness, to soften her sense of rejection, to distract her from her helpless passion for Gabe, to amuse her, to make her laugh – and primarily, overwhelmingly, to give her physical pleasure. And there was no harm in any of it, she managed to persuade herself, unless Fred found out; and then there would be harm on a scale that made Charlotte tremble, and in her more sober moments, which were many, she cursed herself for having arrived in so vulnerable a position. If only, she thought, as she lay awake sometimes worrying about it all, if only she had not gone with him to the studio that night, had said she was too tired, that she must go home. Or if only she had not gone to bed with him, simply headed home straight after dinner; or if only the sex hadn’t been very good, and she had been able to tell him that she would never see him again. But it had been good, very good, quite amazingly good in fact, and he had seen that and liked it and, given his considerable charm, and his exceptional position in her life, the thing had taken on a momentum all of its own, and she had (afraid of offending him, hurting him, making him think she had been using him) continued to see him ‘once more, just once more’ a great many times. And it was a trap, albeit a very, a frighteningly, pleasant one, and she felt herself becoming more and more ensnared, and more and more troubled by its eventual outcome.

Jeremy was a skilful lover, Charlotte was sexually hungry (a fact she had not fully recognized before), and the combination of the two factors was highly
satisfactory. Charlotte was shattered, almost shocked by the sensations he could evoke in her. She was not very sexually experienced herself; she had a healthy appetite, first aroused by Beau Fraser, titillated by various young men at university, but never properly and wholly satisfied by anyone. Jeremy set out to teach her what her body could achieve in terms of pleasure; and its achievements were considerable. He was patient, tender, and resourceful in bed with her; he led and she followed, they discovered an almost immediate and surprising compatibility and the pathways they explored together were extremely pleasant. Charlotte was occasionally surprised by how pleasant they were. She had heard many rumours about Jeremy Foster and his depravities, and initially she had been nervous of what he might wish to do to her, ask of her; but as the weeks went by she decided the rumours were ill-founded and rooted in envy and suspicion – of his gilded life, his vast fortune, his charm, his looks, his legendary success with women. She had heard he was bisexual, that he was homosexual, that he ran orgies, that he did a lot of drugs. After several months, Charlotte had seen evidence only of the drugs.

She managed not to think about Isabella very much. She was very often away, she patently led her own life, and had very little time to spare for Jeremy, and Charlotte felt that gave her a right of sorts to have an affair with him. She had no intention of breaking up the marriage; the thought of being married to Jeremy was highly unappealing. And so most of the time, she tried not to worry, simply to enjoy herself. But the situation did not, she knew, entirely suit her. And it was so extremely fraught with danger.

Her affair with Jeremy had certainly not changed her attitude to Gabe. She still felt exactly the same about him: obsessed. It was wearing her down, that obsession; it was like a sickness, a constant pain, ever present, wearing, raw, even when she had forgotten about it herself. It made her tired, irritable, out of sorts when she allowed herself to dwell on it, or when he had treated her particularly badly. Most of the time she tried not to dwell on it, to ignore it; but sometimes when she was low, when she was particularly worried about Jeremy, when Freddy’s hostility became especially apparent, when she was worried about Alexander, or missing England, she would feel it in a great hopeless wave of depression and wonder how much longer she could stand it. He continued to treat her badly: rude, arrogant, unappreciative for the most part, but one thing she knew had changed; he regarded her now as part of his strength, and an asset, and when things went well, when a good deal was pulled off, a new client won, some danger averted, he would grin at her and say, ‘Well done team,’ and take her out for a drink with the others, or even occasionally hug her in a brotherly sort of way. Charlotte never knew whether it was a good sign that he should hug her, or a bad one that he patently regarded her as one of the guys. In either case, it seemed worth it, to have some physical contact with him, however meagre. She was always afraid that Jeremy might guess how much she fantasized about Gabe (occasionally, to her own distress, even as they made love) but she was clearly a better actress than she realized, for he was so deceived by her protestations of hatred for Gabe that he teased her about being secretly in love with him.

More and more, Charlotte feared, she was turning into the kind of person she most disapproved of.

When Jeremy had first suggested three days’ holiday in the Bahamas she had gone white with terror and told him he must be crazy. Then she had grown used to the idea, told herself it was probably safer to be with him there than in New York, realized she had not had a proper holiday for over two years and, ground down by his formidable persistence, weakly given in. The thought of it was so enchanting, so beguiling, three whole days in the sunshine, three whole nights of sex, three days and three nights of fun, that she actually found herself looking forward to it. She bought a lot of very expensive beachwear and evening clothes, told Gabe she was taking a very overdue vacation (and numb with terror told Fred and Betsey too), and booked a return flight to Nassau, sitting at JFK in a trembling panic that Fred would suddenly turn up, join her flight, be in some impossible way at Nassau airport when she got there to be met by Jeremy. But he was not; and Jeremy laughed at her white face and wild eyes and led her by the hand to his private jet that was sitting on the runway and flew her to Eleuthera airport, and then led her into his white Rolls which was waiting for them there, and drove her to the Cotton Bay Club, near Rock Sound, an enchanting hotel on a curve of beach, where he had booked them in as Mr and Mrs James Firth.

She got back to New York tanned, relaxed and pleased with life. They parted at Nassau very fondly, and Jeremy gave her a Rolex Oyster watch as he kissed her goodbye. ‘To remind you of your time as a sea creature,’ he said smiling. Charlotte gave him a hug, and said she didn’t need a watch to remind her, but that it was a lovely idea anyway. She had always wanted an Oyster; she sat and stared at it all the way to New York.

She got home after midnight tired but very happy. She was no longer living with Fred and Betsey; her affair had driven her finally into a home of her own, a very nice studio apartment on the Upper West Side. It had one huge sitting room, a small bedroom, a walk-in closet which was almost as big as the bedroom, increasingly stacked with extremely expensive clothes (this aspect of her relationship with Jeremy intrigued her in a dispassionate way: she had never been interested in clothes before and now she thought of them a great deal), and a small bathroom and kitchen.

She had the walls painted white, hung full-length, natural-coloured slub silk curtains at all the windows, bought a few modern couches, coffee tables and chairs and a very large bed, and settled into single living with great relish. She entertained Jeremy there only occasionally (fearing a surprise visit from Fred, who had actually dropped in on her twice in the ten weeks she had spent there, quite enough to be nerve-racking) but Chrissie was a frequent visitor, and so were Melissa and Kendrick; she had even given a small supper party for her grandparents and Mary Rose, and all three of her cousins (although Freddy had cried off at the last minute pleading pressure of work), a markedly unrelaxed
occasion, but one which she felt had established her as an independent person in the family’s eyes.

There were two messages on her answering machine: one from Gabe, asking her to call him at the office, whatever time she got back, the other from Chrissie saying she had missed her. Charlotte made herself a jug of coffee, poured a cup and dialled Gabe’s direct line.

He had been irritable about her holiday; asked her three times if it had been really necessary. He was obviously now going to extract his revenge.

‘Gabe, hi. It’s me. I’m back. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing really.’ He sounded strained, odd. ‘Could you possibly come over? Or could I maybe come and see you? I’m sorry, but it’s important.’

‘Sure. Why don’t you come here? I’ve done enough travelling for one night.’

‘OK. Where are you?’

‘Apartment Five, 793 Central Park West. OK? I just made a big jug of coffee.’

‘Thanks.’

He sounded very unlike himself. Charlotte was puzzled. She put her holiday clothes away, changed into some jeans and a T-shirt. For good measure, she sprayed herself liberally with Y by Saint Laurent, and put a bottle of champagne in her tiny freezer. Well, you never knew.

Gabe arrived twenty minutes after his call. He buzzed. ‘Hi, Charlotte, it’s me.’ Charlotte pressed the entryphone button; she felt sick already.

Sex was clearly the very last thing on Gabe’s mind. He scarcely looked at her as he came in, shook his head distractedly as she offered him a drink, asked for a black coffee and didn’t mention the fact she’d been away. Charlotte sighed, threw a regretful glance at the events of the last three days and the person she had shared them with, poured a second large coffee for herself also, and settled down at the other end of the sofa. There was clearly no question of their meeting in the middle.

‘This Bloom deal,’ said Gabe quietly, after draining his coffee mug, ‘you haven’t mentioned it to anyone, have you?’

‘Of course not,’ said Charlotte impatiently. ‘You know I wouldn’t. I hope,’ she added slightly balefully. The Bloom deal was a hot issue, the big one that they had been working on for weeks. Bloom, a large paper and print conglomerate, was initially being chased by four predators; two had dropped out, leaving only a Praeger client, Tarquins, and one other firm, represented by Clarkson Wellington, another comparatively small bank, interested. It was a sensitive one, because the money being talked was so huge: out of proportion in relation to the value of the company: as in so many deals these hectic days. It was not unusual for banks to act as ‘common carriers’ for merger money and to lend money to any number of bidders in pursuit of the same prize. ‘No one was remotely interested in what they were getting, of course,’ said Gabe, stretching out his long legs with a heavy sigh, ‘simply the interest on the loan. We just dropped out of the bidding. I really don’t think Blooms is worth that kind of
money. It’s been talked up too much. The price was getting silly. It just wasn’t in Tarquins’ interest. It would have backfired on us.’

‘So?’ said Charlotte. So far nothing was new, and her long day was catching up on her.

‘Well, so we were flying out of a small private airfield in Washington. I went to the men’s room. While I was there –’

‘Yeah, yeah, someone turned the tap on and asked you what was happening,’ said Charlotte. The leaking of information in the men’s room, under cover of a running tap, was becoming something of a cliché in the merger and acquisition world.

‘No, wrong. I got a call. In the washroom. It was from Beaufort.’

‘Beaufort! Gabe, how did he know you were there?’

‘Precisely. Got it in one.’

Beaufort was one of the leading arbitrageurs, in on every deal, examining it, analysing it, assessing it, taking a position on it, prime mover on the junk bond bandwagon, leeching upon the frenetic activity of the merger and acquisition business. He was also suspected – widely suspected – of insider dealing. No one had proof, and officially of course no one acknowledged it; but somebody, many somebodies, had to be doing it, the network was wide and complex and those somebodies were pulling it all together, organizing the astonishing accuracy of the dealings that were going on and the Midas-like pickings that they resulted in. The number of people involved with the somebodies could only be guessed at. It was entirely clandestine, run like some vast subterranean empire, with a coded language, its business conducted behind the closed doors of private houses and apartments, in cars parked on strange lots, on telephones with numbers known only to half a dozen people. And for the most part people didn’t talk, didn’t become citizens of the empire (although the prizes for those who did were shatteringly high, perhaps as much as 5 per cent of the profit of a transaction), but everyone knew it existed, while of course nobody knew at all. It was a gilt-edged conspiracy, suspected, feared, talked of, marvelled at, but for a long time unprovable, undetectable, the money earned disappearing into Swiss bank accounts, the conversations and transactions never recorded, never referred to. And in the empire Beaufort was one of the rulers: a rather quiet, plain man, with a shock of dark hair and painfully honest grey eyes, talking quietly in restaurants, in bars, at receptions. He had risen to power, like Boesky and Levine, on the back of the boom and the junk bond bonanza, playing with Wall Street and its satellite companies like so many amusing toys, confident, careful, watchful – and rich, earning vast fortunes as they did so.