Wicked Pleasures (77 page)

‘So?’

‘So I don’t know. It might be interesting to know who was there. At the house I mean.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Yes I suppose it might.’

Charlotte decided not to go home and change before Freddy’s dinner; the Friday night traffic would be terrible and might make her late. She took her dress in with her: red crepe, slithery and draped, from Mme Grès in her new ready-to-wear American line. It was a dress she would never have worn a year ago – a bold, extravagant dress which she knew didn’t even suit her, she was too short and too baby-faced for it – but it was certainly a dress to go to the lions in. And she had a feeling they were ready for her.

‘Charlotte, how nice!’ Freddy was standing by the door of the dining room, greeting his guests. ‘What a very grand dress. I do hope the occasion proves to be up to it.’

‘Oh, of course it will, Freddy,’ said Charlotte, smiling at him sweetly. ‘It is already, surely. Here’s a little congratulatory gift.’

She had spent a lot of much-resented time choosing a gift for Freddy and had finally settled on a gold moneyclip from Tiffanys. She resented giving it to him; she would have loved to have given it to Alexander or Charles, but clearly something was required. He took the exquisitely wrapped package and set it unopened on the small table beside him. ‘How kind of you, Charlotte. Thank you so much.’

‘My pleasure, Freddy.’

‘Charlotte, dear, you look lovely and so sophisticated in that dress!’ It was Betsey, smiling rosily above a mass of aubergine frills.

‘Grandma, hallo. I’m so glad you’re here. Where’s Grandpa?’

‘He’s coming, dear. He’s on the phone to Baby.’

‘Ah. Er – how is Baby?’

‘Fine, dear, I think.’ Betsey sounded mildly puzzled. ‘Why?’

‘Oh – nothing.’

‘Now here’s Clement. Clement, dear, you’ve met my darling granddaughter, haven’t you?’

‘Indeed I have.’ Clement Dudley’s stern face softened into what for him represented a smile: a just detectable softening at the edges of his mouth. ‘I hear you are doing great things here, Charlotte. About to be promoted – or am I speaking out of turn?’

‘You certainly are.’ It was Fred; he had come into the room behind her. ‘That’s very long way off. Especially at the moment.’ But he winked at Charlotte as he spoke, and then eased Clement Dudley away from her. Charlotte stood, her heart thumping pleasurably fast. Promoted! To – what? VP? Must be. That was amazing. Fantastic. All the misery, the worry, the exhaustion of her week fell away; she felt warm, excited, pleasedly happy. She was doing all right: she must be. In spite of everything, her grandfather was pleased. She would shine at Praegers yet. She turned, smiling
rapturously, as she felt a light hand on her back, and found herself gazing into Jeremy’s eyes.

‘Oh! Jeremy. Hallo. How are you? Is Isabella here?’

‘She is indeed. Over there, talking to Gabe.’

A pang of jealousy, irrational, violent, shot through Charlotte. Isabella was beautiful, charming, amusing, all the things she knew she was not; and Gabe was a sure-fire victim for such things. She looked across at the two of them, Isabella talking animatedly, Gabe laughing – he hardly ever laughed – his eyes taking in Isabella’s six feet of dark beauty, and thought how she must seem to him, a short, dull, bossy English prefect. She sighed, and Jeremy laughed.

‘Hey! What was that about?’

‘Oh – nothing. I was just thinking – well, how lovely Isabella was, and how much I’d love to be tall and – and amusing.’

‘Yes, and she is frigid, and interested only in herself,’ said Jeremy. ‘Believe me. Very very different from your lovely self.’

Charlotte took a deep breath. ‘Jeremy – I –’

But Freddy had come over to them: Freddy with an oddly pleased look.

‘Jeremy, how nice of you to come. You look very well.’

‘Oh I am,’ said Jeremy, ‘extremely well. I just had a little holiday, you know, last week. Did some sailing, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh really? Doesn’t Isabella mind your going off without her?’

‘No,’ said Jeremy. ‘She doesn’t. She hates sailing. But how do you know, as a matter of interest, that she wasn’t with me?’

‘Oh, I saw her. At the MOMA opening. I was there with my mother. And my grandmother. We invited her back for supper, but she couldn’t come. She was just a little put out that you weren’t there. She was with that interior designer, what’s his name, Dusty Winchester. So amusing. So effete. They were off to Elaine’s. Oh, not just the two of them, I don’t want to be putting ideas into your head. Quite a crowd were off. Although from what I know of Dusty, he’s not exactly a threat to any marriage.’

Charlotte had just taken a sip of champagne; she swallowed it very fast and almost choked. Freddy had been with Betsey that night. At the house at East 80th Street. And Freddy – dear God, Freddy had been at Gabe’s desk that morning, with that nonsense about the lunch date.

‘Excuse me,’ she said and moved across the room. Gabe was standing alone now, watching Isabella who had turned her lovely eyes on Fred.

Fred adored Isabella; he said she was the perfect woman. ‘And the perfect wife,’ he would add from time to time. ‘Like mine. Only mine’s better-looking of course.’

‘Gabe,’ Charlotte whispered, ‘Gabe, come outside a second.’

‘What? Oh, all right. Better not let Grandpa see us though. He’ll think we’re off to meet Beaufort.’

Outside in the corridor, she looked at him, half triumphant, half scared.

‘Gabe, Freddy was at the house that night.’

‘Freddy! How do you know?’

‘He just said so. He was at that – at some opening or other, with Betsey and
Mary Rose. And then went back for supper. And Gabe, he was rooting through your desk that morning. It’s him, it must be.’

‘Holy shit,’ said Gabe. ‘Holy, holy shit.’

The evening was nearly over; she had got through it. Fred had made a short speech and Freddy a longer one. Everyone was chatting now; Fred III was leaning back in his chair laughing at something Isabella said to him. Charlotte felt almost faint with exhaustion and strain.

Freddy was watching her.

‘Charlotte! Are you all right? You look a little pale.’

‘Oh no. No, I’m fine. It’s all right. Just a bit too much brandy.’

Everyone was staring; conversation had ceased altogether. Betsey looked concerned. ‘Charlotte dear, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Really.’

‘You were looking so well,’ said Freddy. ‘Almost as well as you, Jeremy. Look at the pair of them, matching suntans. Or almost. You’ve been away too, haven’t you, Charlotte? Last week, like Jeremy. Quite a coincidence.’

Charlotte froze; she could not have moved if she had been ordered at gun point. She forced herself to meet Freddy’s eyes, his ice-cold blue eyes, staring at her in a kind of triumph, and realized suddenly, with clarity and absolute certainty, exactly what he was going to do. She was to be crucified, publicly, in front of her grandfather, Betsey, Isabella, Gabe, all the partners; everyone who mattered in her life. Knowing, knowing she was done for, that there was no escape of any kind, gave her courage; she smiled back at him, lifted her chin.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘wasn’t it?’

She saw Fred look at her sharply, look at Jeremy; she met his gaze almost boldly.

‘And where was it you went, Charlotte? The Bahamas, you said, I think?’ said Freddy.

‘I didn’t actually say,’ said Charlotte.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you did. But weren’t you sailing? With some very rich friend, I believe you said, who gave you that beautiful watch.’

‘Yes, I was sailing. In the Bahamas,’ said Charlotte. She was flushed now, looking down, but aware that Jeremy had drawn away from her, physically distanced himself as far as he could. There was a long silence.

‘I think,’ said Isabella, looking at Jeremy with some distaste, ‘we should leave, if you will excuse us, Fred, Freddy. We have to go to Aspen in the morning, for a weekend’s skiing. It’s been such a lovely evening. Thank you so much.’

Fred stood up slowly. He was still looking at Charlotte as if she was something totally abhorrent to him; with an obvious effort he switched his eyes to Isabella. ‘Of course. It’s been great to have you with us. Thank you for coming. Jeremy, goodnight.’ He shook Jeremy’s hand briefly, avoided looking at him. They moved to the door. The whole party was breaking up. Charlotte sat utterly still, her head bowed, waiting. Only as Gabe passed her, on the other side of the table, did she look up, meet his eyes. He was looking at her with an
expression she had never seen on his face before: she was too sick at heart to try to analyse it.

And finally they were all gone, and Betsey was banished, slightly puzzled and upset, to the car. Fred closed the door and leant against it.

‘Is it true? Were you with Jeremy Foster? In the Bahamas?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘Yes, I was.’

There was a long silence. Then:

‘I’m so disappointed in you,’ he said. ‘So absolutely disappointed. You’ll have to leave. You realize that. Go home. Maybe to the London office. I don’t know. But you can’t stay here. Not after this. You’re a fool, Charlotte. An absolute fool.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know I am.’

Fred walked out and slammed the door.

Later, much later, lying in her bed, when she could cry no more, she drew comfort from just two things. One was that she had managed to retrieve the Tiffany moneyclip from the pile of presents for Freddy. The other was that she had analysed the expression on Gabe Hoffman’s face. It had, without a shadow of doubt, been jealousy.

Max, 1985

At four thirty p.m. they still hadn’t done a single shot. The first model had arrived with spots and a headache, and couldn’t fit into any of the skin-tight dresses; she said she was about to have her period and always blew up, it wasn’t her fault. She was sent away, and they waited an hour while another girl was found. She had no spots, nor was she about to have her period, but she had no bust, and the dresses looked ridiculous on her. By this time the make-up artist who’d only been booked for two hours had left. Finally at almost four o’clock a very pretty, slightly debby girl arrived who fitted and suited the dresses perfectly; her name was Gemma Morton, she was seventeen, fresh from Benenden, and had only ever modelled twice before. It took a long time to get her hair right, and she made a mess of doing her own make-up and they had to send for another make-up artist, but finally she and Max were posed in front of a rather weary trio on the bandstand, in ever-more-absurd poses, and at six o’clock it was a wrap as the photographer, who fancied himself as a film cameraman, put it.

‘Drink?’ said Max to Gemma Morton.

‘Yes, that would be very nice.’

She was dark, with a mane of long hair, big brown eyes and a just slightly chubby face. Her body on the other hand was not in the least chubby, she had long, slender, rangy legs and a very nice full bosom. Max decided he could really fancy her.

He took her to a pub in South Audley Street; he hoped she didn’t have expensive tastes, he only had three pounds and he knew the cash machine wouldn’t give him any more. She asked for a Campari soda. Max had half a pint of bitter. It left just enough over to buy her one more drink if she proved interesting.

‘Have you been modelling long?’ she said, pushing her hair back off her face and smiling at him rather ingenuously. ‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’

Max, who had grown used to cool, world-weary models, found her rather engaging. ‘Quite a while,’ he said, ‘long enough to be finding it less fun.’

‘I really like it. I’m actually supposed to be still at school, doing my A levels, but I was really hating it, and I’m not actually very academic, so Daddy said I could do this for a bit, and see how I got on. I’m probably going to do a History of Art course next year at the Courtauld. I want to work in a gallery.’

She smiled at him again.

‘And what does Daddy do?’ asked Max.

‘He’s a stockbroker,’ said Gemma. ‘It used to be a really boring job, but he’s just started getting all these machines in, you know, ready for Big Bang. Have you heard about Big Bang?’

‘Just about,’ said Max.

He looked at her with new interest. Since Charlotte’s fall from grace in New York, Fred III had made it very plain to Max that there was no chance of an opening in the bank for him. And Max was getting tired of modelling. Very tired indeed. Gemma’s father was highly unlikely to be anything but a very large fish in the stockbroking pond; maybe he would be able to help him achieve his new ambition. He remembered a phrase from Gabe Hoffman, whom he had met after his morning with Chrissie Forsyte: ‘When London goes upstairs,’ he had said, ‘it’s going to be really wild.’

‘Would you like another drink?’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be on the wagon, watching my weight.’

Max had been genuinely enraptured by what he had seen on the trading floor at Praegers. He had sat next to Chrissie, silently captivated, staring past her across the vast room: a hundred white-faced people, a hundred black and green flickering screens, three hundred phones, all ringing, voices fighting with one another for a hearing. Huge clocks on every wall told the time in London, New York, Tokyo. He had no idea in which city he was, in which he was meant to be, he was in some indeterminate country with a new language, a new time scale, an entirely new culture, and he felt, given the minimum guidance, he could find his way around it with ease.

Chrissie smiled at him. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. What we’re doing is gambling, basically. Did you ever gamble?’

Max nodded. ‘Just occasionally.’

‘That’s all it is. Gambling. On a price. Of currency, on this desk; stock next door; commodities over there. Currency is the most exciting.’

A sudden hush fell on the room; Max looked up. The chief trader, a stout, swarthy man with an expression of ferocious intensity, had raised both his arms. There were great rings of sweat under them.

‘Come on quick, give me dollars, give me yen.’ Several people shouted at him; he listened to the tangled mass of information, for ten, maybe twenty seconds, turned, looked out of the window, spoke into his own phone.