Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  She waved over Quintin, who was booze marshal, and pressed an illicit Jack ‘n’ Coke into Tim’s hand. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Thanks awfully for the ride. It rocked.’

  ‘Do you mean there was turbulence?’ she teased. ‘Because I simply don’t allow it.’

  He blushed, letting his hair fall over his eyes. ‘Only in my heart.’

  She felt her heart crinkle like a tissue. Poor baby, he was so inept. ‘Oh, Tim,’ she said, and stroked his hair. ‘You are just … beautiful.’ She took his hand. ‘Come with me. I have something to show you.’

  They crept down to the lower deck, where the Jacuzzi was cordoned off. The whole of downtown LA spread below them like a magic carpet.

  ‘Nice view,’ she said.

  ‘I prefer this one,’ he replied, gazing into her eyes. Oh Jesus. On no account must she laugh.

  Somehow, Quintin had found a sign that read ‘DANGER OF DEATH’ above an illustration of a prone stick figure, a lightning bolt pointing at his neck. Em booted it to one side. Then, slinkily, she sat on the ground, and said, ‘I don’t want to get my shoes wet.’

  Slowly, Tim knelt, like a knight before his queen, and slipped off her shoes. It was OK – she’d deodorized her feet to hell. He was breathing hard. She necked her Kir Royale; she tipped her head back too fast and her vision swam. She felt odd, wired, but not in a good way. Fried prawns and white powder didn’t go – remember that for next time. She was about to take off Tim’s shoes, when she saw that he’d whipped off all his clothes, except for his boxer shorts.

  He grinned. ‘Let’s Jacuzzi.’

  She stood up and, silently, he pulled at her obi-style sash. The black mini kimono fell open, and she shrugged it off. Tim’s mouth actually fell open at the sight of her in her tiny knickers, stockings and Wonderbra. He pulled her on to his lap, and their lips met in a hard clash. To her surprise he took the lead.

  ‘You kiss good,’ she gasped, and he replied, ‘I fuck better.’

  His dick pressed hard into her stomach, and she felt a lurch of desire. ‘Oh, baby,’ she sighed, wrapping her legs around him. ‘I’m just a girl.’

  She should really go down on him now … now would be a good time, but she had to let her stomach settle. She leant back as he leant forward, chasing the kiss, and, screaming, they toppled into the Jacuzzi.

  ‘My hair,’ she shrieked, and got a mouthful of Kir Royale.

  ‘Far out!’ gargled Tim, surfacing, and then he pulled her under. But she couldn’t kiss for laughing, and then got Krug up her nose. She surfaced, spluttering, and so did he. Her eyes stung, but she was so wasted she couldn’t stop laughing, and nor could he.

  ‘Stop laughing,’ she gasped as he grazed his lips to her nipples. Zing! Every sensation was magnified and it wasn’t entirely pleasant. ‘I’m going to …’ It was quite hard to focus. She wasn’t sure she could hold her breath that long – she tried a sexy smoulder. ‘I’m going to give you the chew of your life.’

  He shouted with laughter. ‘Emily, Emily,’ he muttered, as his mouth found hers. ‘You dirty girl.’

  He stood up and she pulled off his boxers. Oh my. Basically, in the cold light of day, these things weren’t the prettiest. In fact, a penis was, like, gross. But right now, she was so in the mood, and to her, it looked good enough to eat. She licked and sucked, and he shuddered and groaned and thrust. It was fine, except when he thrust. When it hit the back of her throat it made her stomach heave. But she writhed, and sighed, and gave him the coy looks for about a thousand years, and he rolled his eyes, half comatose with bliss, but showed no sign of approaching the finish line. Bloody hell, hurry up, she wasn’t exactly having fun here. She should really do the deep throat thing now, the grand finale, and he would never look at another girl. He would dream of marriage – he was an old-fashioned boy, he’d be digging through his mother’s jewellery box, ferreting out the great-grandmother’s engagement ring in no time. The thought spurred her on and she could feel – thank God, her lips were totally numb – it was near the end. ‘Yes, I’m going to come.’ She squeezed her eyes shut tight as he jerked violently. Come on, Em, keep going, think of castles. God, she felt rough. Her head ached, as if it was being crushed, and he was pushing her hard, down and – ‘OH YES!’ Oh no – rearing back in horror, she puked a great stinking fountain of pink champagne and half-digested fried prawns all over him.

  LONDON, A YEAR EARLIER, 1995

  Claudia

  ‘One large tea, please. Can you put two teabags in there, please? And cold milk – it must be cold, not hot – just to the colour of a St-Tropez tan. Or, um, pine wood! A caramel slice – yes, the exact colour of a caramel slice. Please don’t put too much milk in there, it mustn’t taste milky. And one latte, medium-sized, can you put extra cinnamon on the top, please? Not too much froth, the froth mustn’t exceed onethird of the cup. And the milk must be semi-skimmed. Oh, sorry, I forgot to say, the milk for the tea must be full fat. Yes. And a triple espresso, with an extra two inches of hot water. And one slice of peanut butter on toast – brown toast, not too well done, and absolutely no butter. Smooth peanut butter – on no account crunchy. Sorry. A fried-egg sandwich, still runny yolk, with butter, not margarine, on white bread – bread, not toast. Could you – I’m so sorry about this – cut off the crusts? Thank you! And, finally, you’ll be pleased to hear, a low-fat blueberry muffin. Oh God. Is there anywhere else, do you know? Oh, really? Are you sure? She won’t be able to tell? I’ll risk it! Well, thank you, thank you.’

  It was hard work, being a journalist.

  Claudia pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor and tried not to drop three hot drinks on the red carpet. She also tried not to think of JR wreaking terrible dog vengeance in her flat.

  According to Upstairs – who’d given the information with remarkably gentle reproach – JR had howled at teeth-gritting pitch for seven hours straight every day this week. For a senior citizen, he was remarkably spry. She suspected that he’d also pissed in her black Prada bag. She’d left it on the floor by mistake and every time she passed it, she got a whiff. She’d have to organize a dog-sitter, one who could fend off bites. JR knew who was leader of the pack, and it wasn’t Claudia. He slept in – not on – her bed, his long haughty snout resting on her cream pillow. His breath was foul, he snored, and he had fleas.

  She suspected her grandmother was looking down and laughing.

  Still, Claudia was happy. She was twenty years old and she was free.

  She had a home of her own, a tiny, one-bedroom flat, allegedly in ‘Highgate’ but nearer to the Al, which mostly belonged to the bank. Ruth had left her no money – everything had gone to the RSPCA – and she’d choke before she took a penny from her father.

  When Claudia brushed her teeth, she could hear the ping! as her upstairs neighbour switched on his bathroom light. At night, in bed, she could hear him cough (or worse). He had a cheap sports car and a second wife, and he was always smiling. The people on the ground floor had three little boys, one in a wheelchair – MD, she thought – and the mother was always smiling, too.

  It was a happy house, not exactly the high life.

  Truth was, people expected her to be loaded because of Dad, even since his disgrace – which was not that he’d been ruined by the Lloyd’s crash, but that he hadn’t. He’d lost millions but he’d managed to keep enough. The lawsuit had failed to prove that Jack had knowingly transferred funds and properties; he’d won his case but lost his reputation. The Times’s Financial Editor had written, ‘Everyone is bankrupt, but some are more bankrupt than others,’ and a letter signed by forty destitute Names had been printed the next day; ‘Some are more corrupt than others.’ She’d felt sick reading it, but she agreed.

  Jack hadn’t always been like this. Once, he’d been a good man.

  Claudia’s colleagues had discovered who she was, despite the fact that she’d taken Ruth’s last name – Mayer – and they didn’t like her for it. She spent her day fetching dry cleaning and p
recisely ordered snacks, endlessly yo-yoing in the silver lifts of Canary Wharf’s Tower, and trying to set up exclusives with reclusive, press-hating stars for the writers. And she knew that when she wasn’t looking, Linda, the frumpy secretary, mimicked her walk.

  She didn’t care. She had a job, unconnected to the family, and she had her pen friend Lucy to thank for it.

  It had been Lucy who’d suggested that Claudia call the deputy editor of UK Sunday, Martin Freshwater. ‘My stepdad works on the publishing side,’ she’d written, ‘although don’t mention his name. I know that Martin is looking for people.’

  Lucy had even written down Martin’s direct line. It was incredibly kind of her. Odd that when Claudia called, Martin said he wasn’t looking. But he’d said he liked the sound of her voice, and she was welcome to come in for a week on work experience.

  She’d been so excited that she’d wanted to ring Lucy and hear her voice – they’d never even spoken on the phone. But Lucy’s response had been disappointing. Lucy’s stepfather was moving the family abroad: a business opportunity in South Africa. Lucy was to join the family firm and train as an accountant. She’d promised to send her new address in Cape Town but never had. Claudia guessed that it was to do with the stepfather. She tried not to be hurt.

  She succeeded.

  This had nothing to do with inner strength and everything to do with Martin Freshwater.

  Martin Freshwater was unfairly gorgeous. He had bluegreen eyes and a hint of stubble. He had sharp cheekbones and blond floppy hair with a touch of grey. He typed like a demon, using two fingers. Usually, a lit cigarette rested between his ring finger (unadorned) and his middle finger as he tapped away. He was a brilliant editor, so … masterful and his shirts were a little crumpled, suggesting he needed a woman to – oh God, shut up! No, what she meant was, Martin Freshwater needed a woman who could recommend a good dry cleaner.

  Martin Freshwater was the reason she was eating again.

  According to her shrink, who was a nice person but made her feel mad, an eating disorder was a form of depression. She had all this anger, but she didn’t dare show it, so it had festered inside.

  She supposed the shrink was right. At first it had been a way of snatching back some control from her parents. But bulimia was such an ugly way of trying to be beautiful. It made you hate yourself even more than you did when you were fat. After four years of it, she wanted to be normal.

  She’d tried. It was the same as other people quitting smoking. You did it a million times but then you suffered one miserable day, no, two miserable days, and you craved the delicious comfort of a nice poisonous lung-clagging fag. And then you thought, Sod it, bought a pack, smoked the lot.

  She wanted to love herself but she needed verification from a respected source. There were a few boys who ‘liked’ her. But she didn’t like them, and not just because of their two-ply personalities, or designs on her father’s money. She’d know, after one minute, that these boys didn’t get her. To them she was no more than a slot machine: good to stick something in, or get money out of.

  Martin Freshwater liked Claudia for herself. He had given her the strength to kick her habit. She wasn’t going to be eating pastry anytime soon, but she was doing all right. He wasn’t a boy, he was a man. He was thirty-seven. Martin Freshwater made Claudia feel happy. There was a connection there: when she looked into his eyes, there was recognition. They were kindred souls. Her attraction to him was primal, something not experienced before, and she felt sure – the feeling was so strong – that he felt the same way.

  They hadn’t even kissed.

  But they were going to.

  She placed his triple espresso on his desk. He glanced up. Everyone was crowded around the picture desk, squinting over the light box, no doubt to cackle over stills of young female celebrities as yet un-airbrushed and revealing some happy human flaw such as facial hair.

  ‘Claudia, busy tonight?’

  She took a breath. ‘Well, er, I need to take my dog out … a quick walk … he has to go to the toilet …’ Yes, mention ‘toilet’. ‘But otherwise …’

  ‘I’m meeting Meg Ryan’s PR at the Connaught. Come along. See how it works. Might have to run a puff piece on some nobody before we get Meg.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That would be great.’

  ‘Good. See you there. Eight thirty.’

  She was stupidly happy. She left the office dot on five thirty, sped home and spent two hours beautifying. JR (who had ripped up three cushions) got the briefest toilet break of his life. When she put down his freshly made pasta and chicken – JR famously had a weak stomach which you ignored at your peril – he turned coldly away from the bowl.

  ‘JR, I beg you!’

  He sat down with a thump on the carpet, and rested his head on his paws. He was pining for Ruth. She crouched beside him and stroked his silky head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr.’

  She glanced covertly at her watch. Time to go. She looked hopefully at JR’s tail – not a twitch. Ah, crap.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam. Dogs are not allowed in the hotel unless—’

  ‘He’s a guide dog!’ Claudia, you idiot. She stared into the middle distance. ‘I’m partially sighted.’

  ‘I see. I mean … I wasn’t aware that collies were …’

  She considered the response, A collie? I was told an Alsatian! but she said, ‘I’m meeting someone in the bar. Could you … ?’

  The woman firmly took her arm. This gave new meaning to the term blind date. Why, why?

  As they approached, she saw Martin. He stood up. She sensed a double-take.

  ‘Martin?’ she said, feeling her face purple with embarrassment.

  ‘Claudia!’

  The woman was still regarding her suspiciously. Miserably, Claudia patted the back of the sofa and pretended to feel her way to a seat. Meanwhile, that bloody JR wasn’t behaving like a guide dog. His tail waved wildly and he jumped at Martin and licked his wrist.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Martin. ‘This dog is going to fail his seeingeye training.’ He smiled at the woman. ‘Thank you.’

  She scurried off.

  Claudia couldn’t meet Martin’s gaze. ‘The PR cancelled,’ he said.

  ‘Good. I mean … because I …’

  ‘Not at all. She would have been impressed to find that UK Sunday is an equal-opportunities employer,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’

  ‘I am.’

  She giggled. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘What will you have?’ he asked.

  She tried to think of an impressive drink. ‘Campari and lemonade.’

  Martin ordered, and she blurted, ‘Do you have any pets?’ It was as if her brain had been hijacked by a really stupid person.

  ‘I do. Keith. He’s a Siamese cat. He chose me.’

  ‘Keith?’

  ‘Keith Moon. Same personality.’

  ‘I love cats, but I inherited JR and he’d never tolerate the competition. He barely tolerates me. I suspect he disapproves.’

  ‘Then he is a dog of poor taste.’

  She looked up. She wanted to kiss him. She wasn’t afraid. A kiss didn’t have to mean sex. She could put him off for … a year? Anyway, she didn’t have to worry about that. All she had to think about right now was a kiss. And she knew, in her heart, that when she kissed this man, there would be no panic, no constricting throat. She knew that she would sink into that kiss like a feather pillow. Everything about him was desirable: the scent of him; the way he spoke. It was like an invisible force drawing her to him.

  It was fate.

  Of all the billions of people who had passed through the world, Martin Freshwater and Claudia Mayer were, by chance, on the planet at the same time, in the same country, in the same city, sharing the same 20 square feet of office – gosh. He could have been born five hundred years ago, and she could have lived her life in miserable isolation, her soulmate dead and buried before she was even born! Or she could have grown up on a sheep farm in New Zeala
nd, unaware that the love of her life was on the other side of the world! But there was a God, and here he was, smiling at her, their knees not quite touching. He was also her boss. Well, if it got serious she could quit. Talk about jumping ahead. You haven’t even—

  Oh. Oh! Oh.

  After a long, long while, she drew away, bit her lip. No inhaler!

  ‘I’ve wanted to do that ever since I first saw you,’ he murmured. He shook his head. ‘This sounds like a line but I don’t do this. Hit on colleagues. Or girls as young as you. When I was younger …’ He grimaced. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m an anti-social old git. But’ – shrugging – ‘something about you, Claudia, I find’ – he leaned towards her again – ‘magnetic.’

  She looked down. ‘I find you … also,’ she finished.

  ‘So,’ he said, raising an eyebrow, ‘Claudia Mayer, what would you like to do about it?’

  PARIS, LATE SUMMER 1996

  Jack

  The place had no address worth mentioning. He felt so tense he was fizzing. He couldn’t pop any more pills. And that fifth coffee had been a mistake.

  It was so mortifying. What was he doing here? It was going to be a disaster. He was hated in Britain by the press, by the Establishment – people who had been his friends.

  Only Harry remained constant, but Jack was so cynical now, so paranoid, he couldn’t believe that Harry liked him for him; he felt sure that Harry must get some kick out of consorting with a poorer, humiliated Jack, that he must feel smug and good about himself: Ah, I’m clever and rich, but you did everything wrong, no more jets and ‘copters for you, my friend, and serve you right!

  The worst thing was to have the world know that Innocence was the boss of Élite Retreats. The world had to know – and see for itself – that his wife truly owned and ran the empire, or Lloyd’s would seize every brick and coin of the business he’d worked so hard to build.

  He could still barely believe that the unscrupulous bitch had stolen the last fifteen years of his life’s work shortly before the Lloyd’s crash – fraudulently signed over millions and millions of pounds’ worth of his properties and assets to herself – but that he couldn’t grass her to the police, because if she lost everything, he’d lose everything, which was a lot worse than losing nearly everything.