Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

  Angie offered them her house. ‘I’d love it. I could do with a party.’

  Gemma threw a tantrum at the prospect of the party being at Angie’s. ‘It will turn into her party, and that awful old woman will be there, and anyway people will think it’s odd.’

  ‘If you mean Angie’s gran, I do assure you she’ll be at the party wherever it is,’ said Max, ‘and if anyone thinks it’s odd, I don’t want them there.’

  Charlotte however told him he couldn’t have his twenty-first and engagement party at Angie’s. ‘Gemma’s right. Have it at Eaton Place.’

  ‘I don’t think Alexander would like that,’ said Max. ‘And anyway I’d be worried to death about things getting damaged.’

  ‘I think he’d like it very much,’ said Charlotte, ‘and I really think most of your guests are past the stage of throwing up in the drawing room.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ said Max gloomily.

  But Charlotte was right; Alexander was delighted, and said he would send out the invitations in his name.

  The whole thing got out of hand very quickly. By the time Max and Gemma had drawn up a list of friends, it was already looking like a hundred people; then Alexander said, given the nature of the party, there must be some family. Max said OK, as long as that included Melissa – which led to Georgina saying of course it did, and so must it include Kendrick – which meant inevitably that Freddy must be sent an invitation. ‘And Mary Rose,’ said Tommy firmly. ‘She must come, if her children are there. I shall look after her. We can dance together, how wonderful.’

  Fred and Betsey were sent an invitation but turned it down, both pleading ill health; Catriona and Martin Dunbar were also invited at Alexander’s insistence. Max complained vociferously about them, saying that if Catriona was coming, he might as well have the rest of the stables, and that Martin was enough to put a damper on the Rio Carnival and if they came he’d cancel the whole thing. Georgina told Max he was rude and insensitive and that the Dunbars were a great deal nicer than most of his horrible friends and rushed out of the room in tears; in the event they refused also, but Max had often wondered since why Georgina had been so upset about it all. She was a very odd girl at times. He supposed it was Kendrick’s bloody dithering that was making her so stressed. Max resolved to have a word with Kendrick at the party.

  The guest list grew to 150, then to 200. The house was not big enough. There would have to be a marquee. ‘That’ll be great,’ said Angie happily, ‘we can have a disco out there, and dancing.’

  The date set was 10 September. ‘Everyone will be back from holiday,’ said Max, ‘and people like Melissa won’t have gone to college yet.’

  The entire financial community of London appeared to be coming, and a very large slice of the Sloane population as well. Charlotte looked with slight trepidation on the mix of the Jake Josephs, and Max’s colleagues on the trading desk, and Gemma’s girlfriends, almost all of whom seemed to work in art galleries or were applying for jobs as chalet girls. Max told her not to be so old-fashioned: ‘Those girls need waking up a bit, they’ll all have a ball.’

  The Mortons had accepted, but had said (to Max’s relief) they could not stay very long; they had a house-party of Japanese financiers in the country that weekend.

  Much of the modelling fraternity was coming, including the American girls able to work their bookings to be in London for the weekend, almost every photographer Max had ever worked with, and a considerable smattering of designers and journalists; the whole thing was being seen as the launch of the autumn party season, and anybody who had not received an invitation and could possibly imagine themselves to have a right to one was making hasty plans to be out of the city that night, lest their social disgrace should be witnessed.

  Two days before the party, John Fisher came to Max looking deeply embarrassed and said he couldn’t after all come to the party. ‘I’m sorry, Max. Family problems. Got to go home.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Max. ‘I don’t mind you not coming, well I do, of course, but I do mind you lying to me. Tell me what’s going on, John; I might even be able to help.’

  Fisher looked more desperate than ever; then he said almost inaudibly, ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I know what you’re to do,’ said Max. ‘You’re to come and have a drink with me tonight and tell me what’s going on. You’re going to end up in a bin at this rate.’

  It took two bottles of beaujolais to get John Fisher talking; Vernon Bligh had been putting huge pressure on him to push certain issues, when he’d refused a couple of heavies had arrived at his flat, offering to break his legs, and when he’d actually given in his notice, Chuck Drew had sent for him and said they had enough on him to report him to the Securities and Investment Board. He suggested to Fisher that he would be wiser to stay, and then clapped him on the back and gave him a raise, telling him his future in Praegers UK was looking very rosy.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Max. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say anything before? We can take you to old man Praeger, and get this whole thing wrapped up. He won’t listen to anything Charlotte and I say; but this’ll do it for us. Swear you’ll come. Next week. Then you’ll be off the hook.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve still been breaking the law,’ said Fisher desperately.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Max. ‘Have any of the other salesmen been going through this?’

  Fisher didn’t know; he said it was not something you talked about in the men’s room; Max said he was sure they had and that they’d sort the whole thing out the following week. He poured Fisher, looking more cheerful than he had seen him for weeks, into a taxi, went home and called Charlotte. Charlotte was just going to the airport to meet Gabe but said she’d call him and discuss it later. She didn’t actually ring and came in next morning looking slightly sheepish and very sleek, with dark rings under her eyes; Max grinned at her and said she obviously had more important things on her mind than a little insider trading, and the whole thing had better wait until after the party.

  That evening Alexander phoned from Hartest; he said he was desperately sorry, but he was feeling extremely unwell. He had gone to bed with a bad headache and Nanny had taken his temperature and it was over 104. It didn’t look as if he would be able to come to the party. Max grinned at the thought of Nanny standing sternly over Alexander and taking his temperature and, suppressing a considerable sense of relief, said it was a great shame, but he was sure they could manage. Georgina, who had already moved into Eaton Place with George, was worried that she should go down and take care of Alexander, but Max told her she had done enough for the old bugger and that he’d be fine in the care of Nanny.

  ‘Yes, but –’said Georgina.

  ‘Georgina, now what?’ said Max wearily.

  ‘Well, Nanny is a bit unreliable these days,’ said Georgina. ‘I never told you, but she left the pram brake off some time in the summer and George nearly had a horrible accident. That’s why I couldn’t leave him there for the party.’

  ‘How odd,’ said Max. ‘She seems totally compos mentis to me still. Anyway, I don’t think you can compare Alexander to a six-month baby. I’m sure Nanny won’t poison his milk or push his bed out of the window. Relax, there’s a good girl. You can call in the morning and see how he is.’

  Georgina rang in the morning and got Mrs Tallow, who said that Lord Caterham was still in bed, that it was the influenza apparently, but she was sure there was nothing to worry about, and that she would look after him. Georgina said could she speak to Nanny and Mrs Tallow said Nanny had gone to stay with her sister for a few days, while George was away. Georgina told Max she did think Nanny could have stayed to look after Alexander, when he was ill, and Max, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt, told her that if Nanny was going doolally, it was better that she went away. Georgina sighed and started packing up George’s things. He was going to spend the night at Angie’s house, with the twins and Angie’s nanny.

  Georgina and An
gie both arrived at seven o’clock, saying they thought Max might need some help. Georgina was wearing one of her white flowing Victorian robes, with her hair drawn back in a plait, and white roses twisted into it. She looked very arresting and about fifteen. Angie looked a little more than fifteen, but just as arresting, in a scarlet sequin and lace strapless catsuit – ‘It’s from Jacques Azagury and even I thought it was a little expensive’ – her blonde hair a wild cloud round her face. Max looked at her and decided he would have to avoid dancing with her at all costs. Gemma would go completely apeshit.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, ‘it’s chaos.’

  It was; four of the waiters and the doorman had not arrived, a large garland of flowers had just fallen down, Brian Prufrock, the caterer, was having a tantrum because one of the waiters who had arrived had said that maybe the seafood vol-au-vents should be served alongside the smoked salmon spinwheels, rather than separately, the disc jockey had fused all the lights, there was no sign of Gemma, who had promised to be there by six at the latest, the marquee seemed terribly cold, and the Mortons had phoned to say could they come slightly early, to have a quick drink ‘and then we’ll just slip away and leave you in peace.’

  ‘You go and get changed,’ said Angie, ‘I certainly don’t want to have to chat up the Mortons. Georgina, you go and shut the waiters up and tell that old tart Prufrock he can serve the vol-au-vents on his arse if he wants to, and I’ll get some heaters brought round for the marquee.’

  Max stood in the shower, wondering yet again why he had ever thought the party was a good idea.

  Things got a bit better after that. The waiters all arrived, so did the doorman, the DJ came back, bringing his pianist friend, and then two heavies appeared bearing enormous industrial heaters.

  Charlotte materialized on the doorstep, glossy but unfamiliar, her dark hair drawn back in a chignon, her golden eyes heavily made up, catlike; she looked very slim, very chic, thanks to a week of nothing but citrus fruit, and was wearing a white silk jersey body and wraparound skirt from Dona Karan. He heard Tommy’s voice behind him, slightly shaky:

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus, you look like your mother.’

  ‘Tommy,’ said Charlotte, handing him her jacket, ‘Tommy, I’ve told you before, I don’t find that particular line of chat very attractive.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be attractive, darling, I’m being truthful,’ said Tommy. He smiled, but his eyes were oddly sad. ‘You also look absolutely gorgeous. Come along in, and I’ll try and keep my hands off you.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Where’s Gabe?’ said Max.

  ‘Working,’ said Charlotte. ‘Sometimes I wonder if he thinks the bank is more important than me, and sometimes I know he does.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Max.

  The party suddenly took off on a roller coaster at about nine o’clock. Cars rolled along Eaton Place in a never-ending procession; people came into the house, into the hall, took glasses of champagne, shrieked at Max, at Gemma, at one another, at the Mortons who had somehow become part of the receiving line in Alexander’s absence, kissed, exclaimed at the flowers, at Gemma’s dress, and moved into the great golden massing warmth of the party beyond them.

  Gemma, who was looking very pretty in a midnight-blue taffeta ballgown from Anouska Hempel, had arrived just after eight, extremely upset about her hair, which Leonard had curled and which she had wanted straight. ‘Well, go and hang it under the shower,’ Angie said briskly. Gemma glared at her and proceeded to ignore her from then on. She managed to stay at Max’s side, smiling, kissing and shrieking, until the arrival of Opal. Gemma had heard all kinds of rumours about Max and Opal, the six-foot daughter of an African chieftain; looking at her, she felt suddenly they must have been true. Opal was wearing red crushed velvet shorts, and an absolutely see-through white chiffon blouse which revealed her magnificent black breasts. She nodded coolly to Gemma, and then put her arms round Max’s neck, and kissed him on the lips.

  ‘Max, darling. It’s so lovely to see you. Life hasn’t been one bit the same without our trips. And I haven’t really enjoyed a session since that one I was in the bath, remember, and you were the butler. For that horrible bubbly stuff.’

  Max returned her kiss, moving his hands slowly and appreciatively up and down her back, resting them briefly but lovingly on her bottom. ‘I obviously did something right. Opal, this is Gemma Morton –’

  ‘Max’s fiancée,’ said Gemma quickly, holding out her hand. ‘How do you do.’ Opal took her hand for the briefest moment and dropped it again as if it had burnt her. ‘Max, we must talk later.’

  ‘My my,’ said Angie, who had been passing through the hall during this confrontation, looking after Opal’s languid figure weaving a swathe through the crowd, ‘I don’t think she and Gemma are going to get along too well.’

  ‘Tough,’ said Max. He looked at her, and suddenly he didn’t care about Gemma, didn’t care about anything.

  ‘You look incredible,’ he said, and bent to kiss her briefly, putting his hand tenderly on her small firm backside.

  Angie looked at him and smiled briefly.

  ‘Max, if you want to fondle my arse that’s fine by me, but it’s an exclusive arrangement. It has a jealous streak, does my arse. It doesn’t like sharing favours with other people’s. Like six-foot models.’

  ‘I find that very hard to believe,’ he said, and although his expression was amused, there was a touch of pain in his eyes. ‘Ricci! Lovely to see you. I’m so glad you could come. Angie, this is Ricci Burns, hairdresser to the rich and lovely. Ricci, my aunt.’

  ‘I wish all the aunts were like you,’ said Ricci Burns.

  Mrs Wicks had brought Clifford, to whom she was now engaged. She was in a maroon taffeta ballgown, embroidered in green sequins; her hair had been freshly permed and stood out from her head in an orange halo, and entwined in the halo were a great many small pink roses. It was the first time Max had met Clifford; he shook his hand heartily.

  ‘You’re Mrs Wicks’s fiancé. You’re a lucky man,’ he said.

  ‘In what respect precisely?’ said Clifford. He was looking round him rather disapprovingly, a glass of orange juice in his hand.

  Max thought maybe Mrs Wicks had been right in her fears that the party would be too much for him.

  Kendrick had arrived on his own at about nine o’clock, looking rather wild-eyed. He had drunk two glasses of champagne very quickly, before going to find Georgina. Her great eyes lit up as she saw him, and she flushed with pleasure. Silly little thing, thought Max; why can’t she see through him?

  Freddy, Mary Rose and the Drews arrived together, about ten minutes after Kendrick. Freddy smiled coldly at Max and shook his hand rather limply; Chuck Drew on the other hand pumped his arm energetically several times. ‘It’s great of you to ask us,’ he said, with his college-boy grin. ‘Really great. This is my wife, Janette.’

  Janette was a hard-edged American Wives League girl: blonde, lacquered, glamorous, fascinated. If he had decided to give her a rundown on the state of his bowels, Max thought, she would have stood there, an intrigued expression on her face.

  ‘It’s just wonderful to meet you,’ she said. ‘We’re enjoying it so much. You must tell me who did the flowers, they are just incredible.’

  Max told her it was the same girl who had done Fergie’s wedding and wandered off while she was saying, ‘Oh my goodness, that is just so exciting, Chuck did you hear –’

  Mary Rose was talking animatedly to the Mortons, who were still there.

  ‘Isn’t this a lovely house?’ she was saying, ‘although nothing can possibly compare to Hartest, can it?’

  Lucinda Morton slightly coolly said they had not yet visited Hartest, although of course she knew it.

  ‘Oh really!’ said Mary Rose. ‘Of course my children virtually grew up there. They think of it as one of their family homes.’

  They were all going in to supper when Melissa arrived with her n
ew boyfriend, Jonty Hirsch. She was wearing a black jersey dress from Giorgio di Sant Angelo which clung so lovingly to every crevice of her raunchy little body that even the mound of her crotch stood out, and she had only to bend over one of the black mirrored plates of canapés to reveal her taut high breasts in all their glory, including the nipples. She kissed Max and then took Jonty’s arm again rather too possessively. She looked pale and slightly tearful, and had what looked like a bruise on her forehead. Jonty had slicked-back dark curly hair, and his skin looked as if it had not been outside for weeks; he was very thin. He was wearing black leathers, and his boots had high heels. He was smoking a Gauloise cigarette.

  ‘Melissa darling, are you all right?’ said Max, looking at her drawn face. ‘Whatever happened to your head?’

  ‘Oh, I walked into a door,’ said Melissa, smiling brightly. ‘Max, this is Jonty Hirsch. Jonty, my cousin Max Hadleigh.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Max, holding out his hand.

  Jonty did not reply, nor did he take the hand; he blew a mouthful of smoke at Max, nodded tersely at him and looked at the throng beyond.

  ‘This is a bit of a crush,’ he said to Melissa, ‘let’s just see who’s here and then split.’

  ‘Oh don’t be silly, Jonty,’ said Melissa, ‘it’s a fabulous party.’ She sounded nervous, and hurried after Jonty who had stalked off.

  ‘Well he’s a little charmer,’ said Angie.

  Gabe had still not arrived; Charlotte was looking furious.

  ‘He said he’d be half an hour at the longest. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.’ She was almost in tears.

  Georgina was actually in tears. Max found her in the kitchen, picking at some discarded canapés.