Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

  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.

  Chapter 38

  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.

  ‘Some big order’s come in,’ said Chrissie. ‘That’s Chris Hill. They’re all like that, but he’s the most like it. He is just the greatest. You should watch him. If he’ll let you. He works a twenty-hour day. Last year his wife spent one whole day with him. Christmas Day.’

  Another girl came up to them. She smiled. ‘How you doing, Chrissie?’

  ‘Good,’ said Chrissie, ‘good. This market is just flying today.’

  ‘I know,’ said the girl. ‘I know, I feel it.’

  Max was so hyped up by then he could almost feel it himself. Suddenly he had seemed to have a nice, neat, and most pleasurable plan for his future. Fred III could give him a job either in New York or even London, and he could in due course get a fair-sized chunk of the bank for himself. Which would help to pay for the upkeep of Hartest, which was quite clearly prohibitive. Max had no idea of the details, but he did know the whole place hung on a knife edge.

  And then Charlotte had had to blot her copy book in that idiotic, crass way and get sent home to London, in disgrace.

  And as a result, there was the shadow of scandal and disgrace hanging over not just Charlotte, but the entire family, and as a further result there was no hope whatsoever (or so it seemed) for the Viscount Hadleigh to take up a position within the aegis of Praeger and Son, however much he might have taken it into his head that that was where he most wished to be, what he most wanted to do.

  However (as it was often remarked around the photographic studios and more exclusive parties and night clubs and dinner tables of London), if Max Hadleigh fell down a sewer he would undoubtedly emerge clutching not just one, but a large handful of gold watches; and in the newly discovered arms of Miss Gemma Morton, model and debutante, he seemed set fair once again to do exactly that.

  Chapter 39

  Baby, 1985

  Baby came through customs and looked for his driver; no use even thinking that Angie might be there. Parkinson held out his hands for Baby’s bags, neat and expressionless in his grey uniform.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Welcome back.’

  ‘Thanks, Parkinson.’

  ‘Good trip, sir?’

  ‘Yes, on the whole.’ Baby was tired; the news he had received in New York had not been guaranteed to make him feel any better. ‘You have to take the rough with the smooth, don’t you, Parkinson?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The car is right outside, sir.’

>   Baby wondered if Parkinson would have said anything different if he had told him he had spent the entire five days in a gay brothel and encountered therein not only the President of the United States but the Queen of England, and decided he wouldn’t.

  It was early evening; in the spring dusk, even the landscape around the A4 looked quite pretty.

  ‘Is Mrs Praeger at home, Parkinson?’

  ‘No, sir. She asked me to give you this, sir.’

  He handed him a letter; Baby felt slightly sick as he tore open the envelope. Angie’s rather ugly, childish handwriting was at least easy to read.

  ‘Dear Baby, Welcome back. I hope you’ve had a good time in the bosom of your family. It’s been pretty exciting here, the twins are both well and Sandra has given in her notice. I have to be out this evening, with a client in deepest Essex. You should understand and sympathize with that one. May be late. Angie.’

  Well, that was very affectionate. Made him feel glad he’d come back. What on earth was he supposed to have done? All those years, all that closeness, and now she was colder towards him half the time than Mary Rose had been. Baby folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He’d hoped to be able to talk to her this evening, tell her everything. Well, it could wait. It wasn’t going to go away.

  ‘Straight home, sir?’

  ‘Er, no. No, let’s go via the office. I’d like to pick up my messages, see what’s been happening.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  They reached the Mall at seven o’clock, and promptly got stuck in a long line of taxis. Baby looked back at Buckingham Palace, and then towards Admiralty Arch and the awesomely classic beauty of Carlton Terrace. To his right, St James’s Park, with its tangle of trees and birds and water, was sinking into the dusk. The sky was that deep dark turquoise seen only on clear spring evenings; the buildings were dark against it. Baby smiled, in spite of his gloom.

  ‘This is a beautiful city of yours, Parkinson.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ said Parkinson, drawing up outside Praegers in St James’s.

  ‘I do, Parkinson. I do. Wait for me, will you? I won’t be long.’

  The building was in darkness; the night porter, just settled in with his sandwiches and his Penthouse, came to the door grumbling. When he saw it was Baby he switched on a polite obsequious smile and turned the Penthouse over on its face.

  ‘Mr Praeger, sir. How are you, sir? Good to see you back, sir.’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Willings. I’m just going up to my office. I’ll be down in a while.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Baby got into the lift, went up to the first floor. His office was in darkness, the desk horribly empty and un-busy-looking. He felt slightly sick looking at it, then told himself that of course it would be tidy, that he had been away, that Katy would have tidied it. But there were very few letters in the in-tray for him to see, just a few hopeful notes he had dictated, suggesting meetings, waiting for signature. He always hoped that when he went away things would by some magical process improve, gather momentum, but it had clearly been as dead as the week before he went. The days were increasingly quiet and empty, now that they had worked their way through so many major introductions. Baby sighed and went over to the window. Then he heard a sound from the neighbouring room and there, working away in her small pen, was Charlotte. She looked at him slightly sheepishly.

  ‘Hallo, Baby. How are you?’

  ‘I’m – OK,’ he said slightly heavily. He was beginning to feel very tired. ‘You’re working late.’

  ‘Well, I’m used to that, remember. This was early afternoon to Gabe. And I have things to do.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Baby. He sighed.

  Charlotte looked at him. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, honeybunch. Don’t worry. Are you – settling down all right?’

  Charlotte had been in the London office for three weeks now; working for one of the assistant directors, ostensibly doing the same work she had done in New York, but in fact he knew she was finding it dull. Dull and slow. The whole operation was dull and slow. Like me, thought Baby, leaning against the door for a moment. He felt deathly weary. Charlotte looked at him.

  ‘Uncle Baby, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just tired.’ He looked at her and thought that she looked tired, too, tired and pale and subdued. He reflected on the wretched time she had been having; it might have been her own fault, some of it, she might have behaved extremely foolishly, but she was only twenty-three years old; and no doubt, in a lonely city, Jeremy Foster with his formidable charm and glamour had seemed fairly irresistible. Much of the blame for Charlotte’s behaviour had to lie with him. But as usual, Jeremy would have got off scot free, while someone else paid the price. He had called Baby, full of expressed remorse, asked him to keep an eye on Charlotte for him. Baby had said shortly that he had no option, and rang off, making it plain that in this particular instance the client was not totally in the right. He smiled at Charlotte now, told her she looked as if she needed cheering up, and asked her if she would like to have a drink at the Ritz with him before he went home.

  He sat silent over his drink, his mood sober. Charlotte, aware of it, said quietly, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine,’ she said firmly. ‘You look awful.’

  ‘Well – you know. Things aren’t brilliant, are they? At the bank. You must see that for yourself. We just aren’t getting many of the big ones. I’m pinning my hopes now on the opening. I can’t quite understand where we’re going wrong, people come and see us and seem impressed. Then they go cold on us. Gus says it’s because we’re American and new boys in town.’ He sighed, then made a visible effort to smile at her. ‘How is everyone treating you? Do you like Gus Booth?’

  ‘Everyone’s treating me fine. Thank you. Gus Booth seems very nice.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly busting a gut for us. I was lucky to get him. He’s out working on our behalf right now, talking to Tom Phillips from Boscombes. Big regional newspaper chain. I’m very hopeful about that one, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope.’

  He decided to broach the subject. ‘Feeling any better about – things, darling?’

  ‘Oh –’ she sighed, clearly wary of saying anything harsh about his friend, ‘you know. One gets over these things, I’m told. I just can’t believe I was that stupid.’

  ‘Well – Jeremy is very clever,’ said Baby, ‘not to mention charming and persuasive. I don’t think you should blame yourself too much.’

  ‘Well I do,’ she said, brisk suddenly. ‘It was a ridiculous thing to do. Really ridiculous. It’s quite right I should take the consequences.’

  She sounded like her old self again, suddenly, very English, very well brought up. The combination of that with her new sophistication, her slimness, the expensive-looking black dress she was wearing, with the triple rope of pearls (he had noticed a great change in Charlotte’s wardrobe since he had last spent much time with her) was very sexy. He could see why Jeremy had fancied her.

  ‘How were you getting along with Freddy?’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Oh – fine. He’s doing really well, isn’t he?’

  There was a note in her voice he couldn’t quite analyse; jealousy probably. Well, it would do her good to lose her place in the sun for a while. Poor old Freddy had suffered long enough.

  Conversation between them was very stilted; it saddened Baby. He finished his drink, asked her if she’d like another. ‘No, thank you. I ought to be getting home.’ She was staying in Eaton Place while she looked for a flat.

  ‘Heavy date?’

  ‘Yes. With a washing machine.’

  ‘Ah.’ He produced his credit card and asked for the bill; it came, and he picked up the pen, and for the first time in this particular situation, the horror happened. He couldn’t grip it, couldn’t sign his name. He fumbled,
sweating, looked up at the waiter, smiling awkwardly, desperately.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘cramp. So sorry.’

  ‘Here,’ said Charlotte, putting a ten-pound note quickly onto the tray. ‘My treat. I owe you anyway.’

  He looked down, when the waiter had gone, infinitely miserable. ‘Sorry, darling.’

  ‘Uncle Baby, you just have to talk about this. What is it? Does Angie know?’

  ‘No,’ he said with a heavy sigh, ‘no, we’re not communicating too well just at the moment. I don’t talk to her about anything very much.’

  ‘Well, tell me. It might help.’

  Baby told her.

  He walked into the house an hour later, after dropping her off; it was very quiet. Angie was always out, her evening in Essex, or wherever she was, had become the rule rather than the exception. He saw more of Mrs Wicks (who was installed in the new house, as at St John’s Wood, in the basement flat) than he did of Angie; she would often pop up of an evening, as she put it, if he was alone, and cook him a little something. ‘You must eat,’ she would say severely, and if Baby protested would tell him he looked terrible, more terrible every day. ‘Worse than Mr Wicks looked, before he died’ was one of her favourite remarks. Even in his depression Baby found this so unlikely that it always cheered him up, and he would obediently eat the soup, or the toasted sandwich, or the Welsh rarebit that was her speciality and that she had introduced him to. She never ate with him, but sat and watched him with great attention, refilling his glass constantly the moment it was more than half empty, and giving him detailed accounts of what had happened in the various soap operas she watched. Baby would become rather drunk rather quickly, and get more than a little confused about which soap was which, so that on the rare occasions when he watched Dallas or Dynasty, or Coronation Street, he would expect J.R. to walk into the Rovers Return, or see Hilda Ogden going into shoulder-padded combat with Alexis. He knew Mrs Wicks was saddened and even embarrassed by Angie’s behaviour, but they were both too loyal to her to say so, and found a solution in never mentioning her at all, which made their relationship all the more bizarre. Mrs Wicks also took a great interest in the bank’s affairs; he once rather rashly admitted that he didn’t have a great many clients, and she had insisted on giving him her savings, and the money Angie had put by for her (£10,000), to invest; she knew it wasn’t a lot, she said, but every little helped. Baby told her gravely that indeed it did, and invested it himself in some gilts for her. He often told her, and meant it, that she was the nicest female he had ever known, barring his own mother.