Pandora

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘So sorry I’m late.’

  Through the swing doors came a grim-faced Si, navy-blue coat collar turned up against a jaw already blackened with stubble.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ began Rosemary, then, lowering her voice in case she hurt the feelings of the staff, ‘that I chose such a sleaze hole.’

  She was so nervous as she leapt to her feet, she overturned her bag, which spewed out its contents. Next moment Si was on the floor beside her. As he retrieved a little paperback of Matthew Arnold’s poems and her notecase from under the table, the photograph of them both at the British Portrait Awards fluttered out. A smile of such delight softened Si’s heavy features.

  ‘I clipped the same picture. I cut out David too,’ he said.

  As they were both on their hands and knees, and her mouth, open in amazement, was so near his, he kissed it very gently, then, edging nearer, extremely hard.

  ‘Just adore your new hair-do,’ he added, ruffling her hair.

  ‘It’s a hair-don’t, actually. Oh, Si, I’ve only driven past and never noticed it was a motel . . . I don’t want you to think . . .’

  ‘Best idea you ever had.’ Si squeezed her hands. ‘How hungry are you?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Nor am I. I’ll get a room, and we’ll have a bottle and some sandwiches.’ Then, seeing the terror in her eyes: ‘It’s OK, we can just talk and smooch. No big deal.’

  Si was overjoyed with his bunch of flowers, unwrapping them from their silver foil and putting them in a tooth mug beside the vast bed. This had a headboard like the console of some touring opera, complete with telephone, lights to dim, air conditioner, music controls, levitating television set, electric window blinds and a button to make the bed do the humping if you were feeling tired. An ice bucket holding a chilled bottle of Moët came up through a trap door.

  Rosemary got the giggles and wanted to try everything as they talked about Tiger Woods’s swing, Si’s new horses and his airline company, and, best of all, in between lingering kisses, how they had missed each other. Si was so huge and hunky, he made her feel by comparison as fragile as Anthea.

  By the second glass, he had most of her clothes off and in the rose-coloured lighting, her flesh didn’t seem nearly so pleated, particularly when they snuggled under the sheets, and he stroked her and told her how pretty her body was until she stopped trembling.

  ‘The first time I saw you, I thought what a fritefly attractive man. What did you think?’ asked Rosemary.

  ‘That’s the woman I’d like to spend the rest of my life with.’

  ‘Oh, Si.’ Rosemary buried her blushing face in the pillow. ‘I’m so plain.’

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ snapped Si.

  Then, rolling her towards him so he could look into her face: ‘I had a pretty rough childhood, my mom drank and knocked me about, there wasn’t any money, but my dad promised me a puppy, and after a lot of nagging he took me to the Dogs’ Home. There, amid all the din and barking, I saw a brown crossbreed, about nine or ten I guess, whom no-one wanted. She’d been there for months, her despair and loneliness was palpable’ – smiling down at Rosemary, Si caressed her cheek with the back of his hand – ‘I said, “I’ll have that one”.

  ‘I called her Sunny, and she lived for another eight years. She was the sweetest, best, most loving dog I ever had, and never stopped wagging her tail. She made my adolescence bearable.’ Si couldn’t speak for the moment. ‘The day she died was the blackest of my life. I’ve been looking for another Sunny ever since.’

  ‘Woof, woof,’ muttered Rosemary, to hide how touched she was, turning her head to kiss his fingers.

  ‘And once she was loved,’ added Si softly, ‘she became beautiful.’

  Rosemary couldn’t believe that a man normally in such a hurry seemed to have all the time in the world to kiss her breasts, her tummy button, even her chilblained toes, and all the way up her thighs.

  ‘Sorry it’s taking so long,’ she muttered, rigid with tension.

  ‘Hush, honey, relax.’

  Wearing her dark forest of pubic hair as a moustache, Si looked more like a bandit than ever.

  His chunky gold rings grazed her breasts as he caressed her.

  I mustn’t fake, she kept telling herself. This is the really real thing, I mustn’t.

  ‘Oh! Oh! Oooooh! Oh Si!’ she cried as suddenly she toppled over the cliff into the lovely warm ocean, shuddering in wonder and amazement.

  But soon she was panicking again. It was clearly her turn to give Si pleasure. Feeling dreadfully amateurish and out of practice, she began licking him, as nervously and surreptitiously as a child warned not to accept lollipops from strangers. But soon nerves gave way to joy at his obvious delight.

  ‘That is so good, honey, but I want to come inside you.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to get inside,’ confessed Rosemary. ‘My gynae says, after a certain age, women close up if they aren’t used, like rusty old gates, padlocked and entwined with goose grass.’

  ‘That’s bullshit. I’m so fired up, I’ll probably shoot before I get inside anyway.’

  They were both wrong.

  Afterwards, Si ordered another bottle.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, as Rosemary examined herself in the mirror.

  ‘Seeing if I’ve turned to gold, Mr Midas. I could use my clitoris as a torch on dark nights.’

  ‘You are not to take the piss.’ Pulling her back into bed and into the crook of his arm, Si asked idly, ‘What’s happening to all those mad Belvedons?’

  ‘Oh, masses. Jonathan’s still trying to dig up dirt for the court case in Paris, Berlin and Vienna I think. Jupiter’s frightfully excited about his new baby and is treating Hanna like a discovered Leonardo.’

  ‘What about the blind one?’

  ‘Alizarin? He’s had his op. Jonathan, Sienna and Sophy were all with him. They’ve got the tumour out. Now he’s got to bite his nails to see if his sight comes back.’ Rosemary sighed. ‘Such a tragedy. Evidently that snake Zachary Ansteig had the temerity to send Alizarin a basket of fruit. Jonathan chucked it out of the hospital window. Poor little Sophy was rather cross. She’s trying to diet and could have lived on it for days. Jonathan said it was probably poisoned like in Snow White.’

  ‘What about the deranged daughter?’

  ‘Sienna? She got off with a six-month suspended. The prosecution tried to prove she took the Raphael because she knew it was looted. But she clearly had no idea and stood up to cross-questioning extremely well.’

  ‘Lucky she was tried in the UK.’ Si filled up Rosemary’s glass. ‘They really hammer you in the States for smuggling art. How’s the old boy?’

  ‘Desperately missing his picture.’

  Leaning on his elbow, Si ran a finger down Rosemary’s flat tummy. ‘How did he acquire it in the first place?’

  ‘Found it in some burning château during the war. He was in the Larkshire Light Infantry. My cousin Nicky was in the same regiment before they amalgamated with the Rutshire Yeomanry. Leo Cooper published an awfully good regimental history. Anyway, Raymond and his platoon took a village and found the nearby château ablaze from a direct hit.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Somewhere in Normandy. It was called the Château des Rossignols, because the nightingales sang so sweetly there. After the war it was rebuilt and turned into a hotel called the Coq d’Or, rather like yours.’ Rosemary put a fond hand on Si’s penis.

  ‘We stayed there as a foursome,’ she went on, ‘after Anthea married Raymond. The village was called Bonfleuve. Actually, it wasn’t very bon.’ Rosemary shivered. ‘I caught David kissing Anthea behind a fig tree, which rather spoilt things. Raymond never found out, thank God. I anaesthetized myself with lots of calvados.’

  ‘Poor baby.’ Si’s hand was creeping upwards, finger circling a tawny nipple. ‘And Raymond told you about discovering the Raphael?’

  ‘Evidently, he burst into the château, discovered some
dying Nazi, gave him a glass of water and a last glimpse of the Raphael, and was given it in return as a keepsake. Awfully romantic, Raymond would have carried the Nazi out of the château if he hadn’t died. He never dreamed the picture belonged to Zac’s family; such a ghastly coincidence. It’s all so long ago. If the Nazi gave it to Raymond, surely it’s his?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. It’s certainly going to cost them a fortune in legal fees. I love you,’ said Si jubilantly. ‘How about a replay?’

  Rosemary adored the way Si refused to let her drive home, following in the Merc which he was also too drunk to drive. Goodness knows what his poor chauffeur, who had to drive Rosemary and the Range Rover up to the gates of the Old Rectory, thought to have this giggling, garrulous granny beside him.

  The rush hour had come and gone. The yellow houses of Limesbridge looked appropriately flushed and post-coital in the last red rays of the sun. Thrushes, robins and blackbirds were giving thanks for such a lovely day.

  Once home, reality reasserted itself. There were eight messages on Rosemary’s machine. Before she had time to listen to any of them, the telephone rang.

  ‘We’ve been trying to trace you all afternoon.’ It was a smug, delighted Anthea. ‘You forgot the Limesbridge Improvement meeting. I had to take the chair. David and Geraldine turned up. We thrashed out details of the Borochova Competition’ – Anthea was clearly so pleased to have David back, she was actually now pro the idea – ‘and David’s going to be so busy with his extra High Sheriff functions, they want me to take over as Treasurer. “Because you’re a treasure,” David said, which made General Anaesthetic awfully jealous.’

  Which means a lot of lunches for Anthea and David, reflected Rosemary, and for the first time in twenty-six years she didn’t mind.

  ‘Gerry’s such a poppet,’ continued Anthea, ‘she wants to throw the competition wide open.’

  Like my legs, thought Rosemary and, putting the receiver carefully on the window seat, swayed off to feed the frantically mewing and complaining cats. When she picked up the telephone five minutes later Anthea was still chattering.

  ‘We’ve scrapped your idea of a Galena Museum. David wants to move his mother into the barn.’

  ‘“To keep herself warm and hide her head under her wing, poor thing,”’ sang Rosemary and rang off.

  All the same, she was sweating. How could she have gone missing for nearly six hours, pinching David’s car when he and Geraldine were in the area? Had he noticed it was missing? She didn’t care. She was just knocking back a glass of Sancerre when a spluttering David rang.

  ‘How could you forget a Limesbridge Improvement meeting? Geraldine came down specially. And I’ve just had a furious call from Larkshire Life, they were supposed to be interviewing you about being a High Sheriff’s wife at two o’clock and found no-one at home.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

  ‘How can you be so self-centred? Ring them at once and grovel. And I suppose you’ve forgotten Casey’s coming to stay on Friday to paint my portrait.’

  Rosemary was defiantly pouring herself a second glass when the telephone rang yet again. It was Emerald.

  ‘Can I ask you a colossal favour, Mrs Pulborough? David’s just told me about the Borochova Memorial Competition. I’d so like to enter and do something to please the Belvedons to make up a little for wrecking their lives, particularly Jonathan’s.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I want to do a sculpture of Galena and try to capture some of her charisma.’

  ‘What a good idea.’

  ‘I’d ask Anthea, but I don’t think she’d be too keen, and I know how much Galena liked you. Could I come and pick your brains?’

  ‘Of course,’ said a blushing Rosemary. ‘I’ve got loads of photos, so has Lily. I’m coming up to London next week. Just let me look.’

  Reaching for her bag, tugging at the crimson satin book mark, she opened her diary and nearly dropped the telephone, for across a whole week, Si had scrawled, ‘I adore you, don’t ever change.’

  ‘Actually, I could make it this Friday,’ she told Emerald. To hell with Casey, he and David could fend for themselves. ‘Let’s treat ourselves and see if we can get into the Ivy.’

  As she drew the landing curtains, Anthea glanced into the Old Rectory garden and saw Rosemary waltzing round the lawn with a large ginger cat in her arms. The silly old thing must be going potty.

  ‘“And then my heart with pleasure fills,”’ sang Rosemary, ‘“And dances with the daffodils.”’

  General Anaesthetic, still angry that David had hijacked the Borochova Memorial meeting, popped into the Goat in Boots for a glass of beer and to admire the nude of Sienna on the wall. He found the locals chuntering over the fact that David Pulborough’s new Range Rover had been parked outside the Grasshopper and Sixpence throughout the lunch hour.

  ‘Talk about shittin’ on your own doorstep.’

  ‘Man’s a bounder,’ agreed the General happily.

  As neither Zac nor the Belvedons were prepared to settle, the case deciding Pandora’s fate was listed for just after Easter on the fourth Tuesday in April with the Mr Justice Caradoc Willoughby Evans presiding. Several judges had regretfully refused the case, feeling they had enjoyed too many evenings carousing in the Garrick with Raymond to provide impartial judgement.

  Heartened that Sienna had not been sent to prison, that Alizarin, albeit still blind, had survived his horrific operation and that Hanna in early April had given birth to a beautiful son, Viridian Edmund, with whom the entire family was besotted, the Belvedons perhaps didn’t take quite enough trouble amassing evidence for their case.

  They were also relying on their smooth-tongued QC Sampson Brunning. The only rival to the revered and renowned George Carman at whipping rabbits out of hats, Sampson had grown famous getting Belvedons off everything from hitting fat critics through glass doors to, more recently, smuggling Raphaels. They were in no doubt Sampson would triumph again. Sampson was in no doubt either – if Sienna didn’t shoot them all in the foot.

  Goodness knows, he stormed to Jupiter, how he had kept that opinionated, slovenly, ungrateful little tramp out of gaol. In the middle of her trial, Sienna had even given the judge a lecture on the rights of animals, comparing their fate to far worse than the Holocaust. Mr Justice Willoughby Evans was known to have a fondness for pretty, feminine, agreeable women. Sienna must bloody well learn to be polite.

  Sienna had already produced a written statement for the civil case giving her version of events and hoped the matter would end there. Sampson wasn’t remotely surprised when Zac’s side didn’t accept this version and expressed a desire to cross-examine her in court.

  ‘What are they doing this for?’ demanded Jupiter.

  ‘They clearly don’t believe the story Sienna told last time, that she had no idea Pandora was looted. Looking like she does, they probably think she nicked it for drug money.’

  ‘Oh come off it, Sampson. Will Sienna have to show up?’

  ‘Course she will, or it’ll look ten times worse. She’ll just have to keep a civil if studded tongue in her head.’

  Despite her air of truculent indifference, Sienna had been terrified that she might go to prison last time and was panic-stricken at the prospect of being grilled in court again.

  On the Tuesday before Easter, she had sulkily agreed to lunch with Rupert Campbell-Black at the Ritz, and rolled up twenty minutes late, looking deliberately awful. Her paint-stained hair hung in rats’ tails, a shapeless sleeveless black top showed off her tattooed arms, black baggy combats wrinkled over dusty trainers.

  Out of the big dining-room windows could be seen the first pale olive green leaves of the plane trees in the park. Their innocent freshness was an unhappy contrast to Sienna’s sickly grey face and the indigo shadows beneath eyes reddened as much by tears as by working all night. A drastic weight loss made her face armour of rings and studs the more obtrusive.

  Rupert, equally fed up at having to come up from Penscombe on such a lovely day, w
as only there because his brother Adrian as well as Jonathan had begged him.

  ‘She’s a really good kid, Rupert, she needs help.’

  Needs a bath for a start, thought Rupert sourly.

  All round the room, people who’d recognized him were nudging each other, speculating whether this was another illegit come out of the woodwork.

  ‘What d’you want to drink?’

  ‘Water, I can’t stay long.’

  ‘Don’t be fatuous.’ Rupert ordered another whisky for himself and a glass of champagne for Sienna, who shook her shaggy head when the waiter offered her first a menu and then a basket of bread.

  ‘I’m not hungry. What are you staring at?’ She scowled at Rupert.

  ‘You. I thought Alizarin was the one sleeping rough.’

  Sienna glared up at the ceiling, on which were painted garlands, musical instruments and happy little pink clouds floating across a turquoise sky.

  After a long pause, Rupert said, ‘The more I look at your brother’s pictures, the more I like them. I’m supposed to be selling them on to Adrian, but I’m tempted to hang on to the lot.’

  ‘In case his sight comes back, and his pictures soar in value.’

  ‘You really are a bitch, aren’t you? I never dreamt I’d feel sorry for Anthea, having you as a stepdaughter.’

  But as he waved for the bill, Rupert heard a sob, and saw a tear was glittering beside the diamond in the hollow of Sienna’s nose.

  ‘You shouldn’t cry,’ he said, not unkindly, ‘salt water rusts metal, like wrecks at the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘I’m s-s-s-o-orry. I don’t like know what gets into me.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ then, as the waiter arrived: ‘You’d better make that a bottle rather than a glass.’

  Waiters, used over the years to Mr Campbell-Black lunching with tearful women, obligingly rearranged the seating so he and Sienna had their backs to the room, which was transfixed with interest.

  ‘D’you think he’s got her pregnant?’ hissed the editor of the Tatler to the Chilean ambassador’s wife.