Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

  Baby was standing watching the children, taking in the scene, with an odd expression: smiling, but oddly tense … It was true that he looked wonderful; dressed in his dinner jacket, his face bronzed and his hair bleached from the summer on Nantucket Island, his eyes very blue and clear, he looked as he had used to again, handsome, relaxed, happy. ‘You look like Prince Charming,’ she said.

  Baby smiled at her. ‘Not so much Prince,’ he said, ‘King. At last.’

  ‘At last. I’m so happy for you, Baby.’

  ‘You look pretty good yourself,’ said Baby. ‘Incredible that you’re the mother of those two grown-up young ladies over there.’

  Charlotte was sitting on the edge of the stage, swinging her slightly plump legs, clearly aware that she looked sexily ripe in her cream chantilly lace dress from Chloë, with its ruffled, tantalizingly low bodice, and full, just-short-of-long skirt. Her dark hair was brushed wildly full, her tawny eyes were outlined with kohl, and she wore very shiny pale pink lipstick on her sensuous little bee-sting mouth. She was a very pretty girl, Baby thought; and her looks belied her; anyone seeing her for the first time would assume she was a sweetly dumb little thing. It was an oddly dangerous combination, he thought, the baby face and the sharp mind.

  He knew that really he should regard her with the same suspicion that Mary Rose did, knowing that she was the Crown Princess, the best-beloved grandchild, but she was such a disarmingly nice child, so unspoilt, so nicely mannered that he found it impossible to do anything but like her.

  Freddy, on the other hand, viewed her rather differently, Baby knew. He couldn’t stand her. Right through their childhood he had hated her, for outshining him, for being cleverer, and braver, than he was, for bossing him about whenever she had the opportunity – and for being a great deal closer to their grandfather. Baby (who found his eldest son difficult to get along with, with his distant, rather jumpy manner, his shyness which manifested itself as coldness, his lack of any sense of fun) had tried to reassure him on this; to make him realize that he was the heir to Praegers, that no one could take it away from him, that his grandfather was a traditionalist and an accessionist, and nothing on earth would persuade him that Freddy should not have Praegers as his own in the fullness of time, that the constitution of the bank was such that the 30 per cent of the shares that would pass to Freddy on Fred III’s death were as safely and assuredly his as the 50 per cent that would become his own. But Freddy was still uneasy. He was afraid and suspicious of Charlotte, afraid and suspicious of her power over his grandfather, and nothing his father could say would assuage the fears.

  It was taking Freddy a long time to grow up physically, Baby thought; maybe that was a lot of his problem. He was nineteen now and he still looked like a boy rather than a man, and he had none of the exuberance, the air of self-confidence that both Fred III and Baby possessed in such exceptionally generous quantities. Kendrick was more of a classic Praeger, bigger, bolder, more instantly charming, but Baby found him harder to understand. He was very artistic, and he dressed rather flamboyantly whenever he was allowed, which wasn’t often; he was due shortly to go away to the Lawrenceville School, which he was privately dreading, being very unsporty, but which he professed to be looking forward to greatly. He was only modestly clever, and he worked very hard for his just-above-average grades, but he had one outstanding talent and that was for drawing. When he grew up, he said, he was going to be an architect, and he spent a lot of time, whenever he was there, making painstaking sketches of Hartest, which he loved. He had so far displayed no interest in girls whatsoever; the terrifying thought occasionally entered Baby’s mind that Kendrick might be gay. He crushed it ruthlessly, but it wouldn’t quite go away.

  ‘Hi, Daddy. You look really handsome. Oh, Charlotte, that is one great dress.’

  ‘Thank you, Melissa. You don’t look too bad yourself.’

  Charlotte jumped off the platform and gave her little cousin a kiss. Melissa (born a neat nine months after Angie’s departure from Baby’s life) was dressed up in a myriad of frills, a large pink velvet bow holding back her golden curls. She was at eight an enchanting child, sweet-natured, friendly, easy-going, and everyone loved her: ‘The only one of the batch who seems to be Baby’s,’ Virginia had remarked to Alexander once; he looked at her and laughed and said he thought Melissa was prettier than Baby, but even he – who found any children, apart from his own, tedious – liked and played with his little niece.

  ‘When will the people start coming?’ Melissa asked Baby as her brothers joined them.

  ‘Oh, in about quarter of an hour, I should think. Now, Kendrick and Freddy, I want you two to be really watchful this evening, for anyone who might be looking a little lost; make sure everyone is talking to someone, make introductions. And don’t head the rush to the buffet, any of you. Children last.’

  ‘Father, none of us would rush to the buffet.’ Freddy sounded faintly pained. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I would,’ said Melissa. ‘Really fast. I’m starving now.’

  ‘Then you’d better go to the kitchen and fix yourself a sandwich, because you’ve got a long wait. And don’t go bothering Mrs Berridge, she has enough to do. Just sort it out for yourself, OK? And don’t go missing, and don’t get peanut butter on that dress or Mummy will have a fit. And so will I,’ he added hastily. ‘Maybe I should go with you.’

  ‘I’ll go with her,’ said Charlotte, taking Melissa’s hand, ‘and watch out for the dress.’

  ‘Now for that I would be grateful,’ said Baby. ‘How do I repay you?’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ said Charlotte, smiling at him.

  The three hundred and fifty people gathered into the marquee were all what Fred III called family. What this meant was that he and they went back a long way. In several cases, there were three generations of a family there, and in a great many two; several of them actually childhood friends of Fred’s (although no childhood friends of Betsey’s), rich, powerful, moneyed people, who saw the progression of father and son and then grandson through their companies, or at least their fields of work, and their pursuit of the same lifestyles, as being as inevitable as the progression from night to day, or winter to spring. You were born into this particular world and you stayed there, you married into it, you raised your children in it and you strayed from it at your peril.

  Clement Dudley was there, looking disdainful and distinguished, with his still more disdainful and distinguished wife Anunciata, and so of course was Jicks Foster with Mrs Foster IV, who was only a little older than her stepson Jeremy. He was there too, in high spirits, with his fashion model wife, Isabella; their marriage had taken place two years earlier on Staghorn Cay, the Bahamian island Jicks owned, in front of a thousand close family and friends.

  There had been rumours since then that all was not well in the paradise Jeremy and Isabella inhabited in a Park Avenue duplex; she had continued to pursue her career and spent rather less time with Jeremy than she did with her hairdressers and exercise gurus, and Jeremy’s name was constantly in the gossip columns, usually at rather unsavoury clubs. But now things seemed better; Isabella was very publicly pregnant, and had already given her just slightly uninformed views on motherhood to countless journalists, and Jeremy had taken to staying at home at night and in his office during the day. American Suburban, Jeremy’s personal slice of the Foster property empire, was flourishing, despite the rocky market of the past two years; in one of his infrequent but brilliant pieces of lateral thinking, Jeremy had launched an innovation in property development, the Cut Out House. The Cut Out House was well constructed, but totally unfinished inside; it did not even have window frames. It was extremely cheap and for a young couple, desperate for a home of their own, a godsend; they could buy it, and do all the final work themselves, installing doors, windows, plastering, painting, fitting the electrics, building the kitchen – all at a fraction of the professional cost. Investors in American Suburban were, almost alone that year in the property world
, seeing their stock increase in value.

  Baby had personally seen through the financing of the Cut Out House, and Fred III had been delighted with the result; Baby was not sure how Fred would feel if he knew quite how much of the personal proceeds Jeremy had taken from the company were stashed away behind a brass plate in Nassau, safe from taxation, but he certainly saw no need to tell him.

  The Fosters and the Dudleys sat with the family at the top table: Fred III and Betsey in the centre, with Virginia and Alexander on Fred’s right and Baby and Mary Rose to Betsey’s left. They must have looked a bit like the Last Supper, thought Baby irreverently, looking down into the main section of the marquee, with its mass of murmuring, candle-lit people, sharply aware of the oddly stylized picture they all made. It always irritated Baby to be told how similar he and Alexander looked, but he had had to admit this evening, catching sight of the two of them in the large mirror over the fireplace in the drawing room, that they could have been brothers, tall, blond, blue-eyed, the sharp differences in their personal styles cancelled out by their dinner jackets. Their wives on the other hand were looking more than usually different, Virginia in a slither of white crepe, with the Caterham tiara in her swept-up dark hair, Mary Rose in her ice-blue full-skirted satin, her blonde hair sleekly bobbed, her only jewellery the diamond pendant Baby had given her on their wedding day.

  The children were behaving beautifully, although plainly a trifle subdued and bored by now: Charlotte, placed next to Freddy, was working hard at a conversation, but Georgina and Kendrick sat eating in silence; only Max and Melissa, their plates piled dangerously high, sat talking, relentlessly animated, Max pausing in his conversation every so often to offer Melissa some particularly delicious morsel from his own plate, or to beckon a waiter over to refill her glass with Coca-Cola.

  ‘That boy,’ said Betsey to Fred, after watching him fondly for a while, ‘has the makings of a real lady’s man. I never saw anyone of his age flirt so professionally.’

  The meal was finished: the glasses had been brought round, filled with champagne for the toasts; Baby stood up, banging on the table with the heavy silver salt cellar.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is a very auspicious occasion. We in this family are very happy to be here this evening, and happy that you could share it with us. Most of you have known my father for many many years – and those of you who are not old enough to have known him for many years will certainly have grown up hearing about him, aware of him. He is, without doubt, a remarkable man: a remarkable family man, and a remarkable businessman. I could stand here for a very long time enumerating his talents and his achievements, but I won’t. In the first place because you would grow weary, but more importantly, and in the second, because he would hate it. My father doesn’t like adulation, and he doesn’t like fuss. What he does like is fun. Fun is what he has given all of us, and fun is what he wants you to have tonight. So – no more eulogies, except to say, “Dad – You’re the Tops.” ’ Much laughter. Baby looked at his father, raised his glass. ‘Could I ask you all to raise your glasses to my father on this, his seventy-fifth birthday?’

  The room and the glasses rose: ‘Fred’ went up the cry, ‘Happy birthday, Fred.’

  Fred stood up. ‘Thank you. Thank you all. I would like to say a few words, a very few you will be surprised to hear. But first, I want you all to sit down again and enjoy what will certainly be the high spot of the evening. Charlotte, darling, are you ready?’

  Baby looked sharply over at Virginia, who had been half poised to stand up, to step forward, her tap shoes already placed on her feet, after a tactical visit to the ladies’ room. She was sitting back in her chair, looking half relieved, half hurt. He knew exactly what was going on in her head: she had not really wanted to do the dance, and without the comfort of champagne, the thought of facing so large an audience was fearful for her. But it would have been right, on the other hand, for her to do it; it was her rightful role, partner to her father, she had shared that particular piece of adulation with him all her life, it was her own personalized place in the sun, and to be so publicly removed from it was humiliating.

  Baby looked at Charlotte, standing up, smiling into the applause, slightly confused, moving down towards her grandfather, taking his outstretched hand, saw him kiss it; Baby moved to the white grand piano that stood on the corner of the stage, and began to play, confused himself, hardly hearing Charlotte’s clear, surprisingly sexy, throaty singing voice joined to Fred’s in the words.

  The applause was tumultuous. There were cries of encore, and it was only Charlotte’s repeated head-shaking, her flight into the welcoming arms of Jeremy Foster who was applauding with excessive zeal on the edge of the floor, that declared the cabaret unequivocally over.

  Fred stood there, just a little breathless, his hands up, asking for silence. ‘Great, partner,’ he said, ‘absolutely great. I’ll say those few words now, but best get your glasses filled first. They may take just a little while.’

  ‘And while that is going on,’ said Betsey, standing up, beaming into the room, ‘we have something else for you. Happy birthday, Fred.’

  The lights in the marquee dimmed; there was a light from the doorway as two waiters wheeled the cake in: an amazing piece of work, a sculpture of the bank, four feet high, in perfect detail, the doors, the steps, the pillars, and, leaning out of the middle window above the door, a man with silver hair, smiling out onto the world, holding a balloon with ‘75’ on it. There were several people on the sidewalk outside the bank, also holding balloons, and the entire edifice was outlined with candles and fizzing sparklers. The band played ‘Happy Birthday’; everyone joined in; Fred stood, smiling just slightly bashfully. Then he went over and kissed Betsey’s hand.

  ‘Come help me blow the candles out,’ he said. ‘I never could do anything properly without you beside me.’

  A great wave of ‘aahs’ swept through the room; everyone smiled; the children all joined in blowing out the candles.

  And then they were motioned back to their seats, Fred walked back to the microphone and people sat expectantly, as he stood there, looking out, smiling benevolently. Virginia, recovered now, sat back studying him. He looked, in his tuxedo, no more than sixty-five. His silver hair was still thick and wiry, his tanned face still firm; he was slim, fit-looking. He and his immense vitality had cheated the years; he was an astonishingly attractive man.

  He was relaxed, enjoying himself; he was never happier than when he had a captive audience. Betsey, who had played that particular role with great charm and skill all her life, sat as attentive as anyone. There was a long, expectant pause.

  ‘Well,’ said Fred, ‘thank you all for coming. Thank you for the presents. It could take until next birthday to open them all. You’ve all been very generous.’

  He had stopped smiling now, was looking round the room almost soberly.

  ‘I have much to be grateful for,’ he said. ‘It’s been a wonderful seventy-five years, forty-five of which I have shared with my lovely wife Betsey. I ask you to give her a toast. Betsey Bradley Praeger: the best wife a man could have.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Betsey, smiling through her tears; everyone laughed, it broke the tension.

  ‘I have loved it all,’ Fred went on. ‘My family: my beautiful grandchildren; my children have been lucky too. Alexander, Mary Rose: you would adorn any family. Thank you for becoming part of us. The bank of course is family to me: as much a part of me as my flesh and blood. I’ve seen it grow – even shrink occasionally’ (much laughter) ‘develop, change, increase in strength and stature. To be part of that process is a great privilege. It is also a great joy.

  ‘A company is like a family; it has many facets, many elements. And you must respond to those elements, give each branch of the family what it needs.

  ‘And just as you never quite leave your family, it remains with you, always, a source of strength as well as a commitment, you can never quite leave your compan
y, let it go …’

  Baby’s heart lurched suddenly, his mouth went dry. He saw Mary Rose’s eyes close in a momentary, involuntary agony. Dear God, he thought, he’s going to change his mind.

  There was a long silence. The assembled company was spellbound; not a pair of eyes left Fred’s face. Even little Melissa was listening as if her life depended on it.

  ‘Of course the family grows up; gains independence; your attitude to it changes. But you still keep a watchful eye. You must be there when you are needed.’

  Another pause. ‘You can never say, “My job is done. My children no longer need me.” They always need you. They need your attention, your concern, your love. And sometimes you can see what they need before they know it themselves. So it is, my friends, with the bank.’

  Another endless silence. Baby felt the sweat break out on his forehead. His nails were grinding into his hands.

  ‘I am seventy-five years old now. Time to hand the bank over. Which I do today. With great joy.’

  Relief, sweet, cool, flooded into Baby’s body, like a physical presence.

  ‘My son, Baby Praeger, or as I suppose he should now be called, Fred Praeger the Fourth, is to take over the bank. He will be chairman; it will be his to do as he sees fit with. To develop, to change, to take care of. He has served a long apprenticeship; too long, he would tell you – possibly has.’ (more laughter) ‘He will do a great job. I have every confidence in him. I ask you to raise your glasses to – Fred the Fourth.’

  ‘Fred the Fourth!’ The glasses went up again. Baby smiled, then suddenly dashed his hand across his eyes. Mary Rose, unusually gentle, covered his other hand with hers. She smiled with extreme warmth at her father-in-law, and half rose. He gestured to her to sit down again.

  ‘Just a few more words. A very few, I promise. To continue with my analogy about the family: I see new needs, new challenges, to the bank. We are in the middle of great social upheavals; new classes, new races are achieving power. And there are fundamental changes to be made everywhere. The world is not what it was. To ignore those changes, those challenges, is dangerous.’