Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  Today was his birthday. Would have been, she corrected herself. Jack Bailey would have been fifty-seven. Looking down, Emma noticed with surprise that there was a fresh bouquet of flowers by the oak tree. Emma wondered who could have put them there. Her mother? She’d seen her yesterday and she hadn’t mentioned it. In fact Emma couldn’t remember when the last time her mother mentioned Jack; with her new life with Jonathon it was as if she had forgotten the existence of her first husband entirely. Anger bubbled up, but she fought it down. That was no way to remember him. She walked over to the tree and put her ear against its bark. Happy birthday, Dad. I wish you were here.

  She paused for a few more moments, then set off back towards Winterfold, the thought of a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums tied to a tree making her run faster. Who had left them? Who had beaten her to it? She veered off the road onto a wide grassy open space. In the distance she could see the edge of the village, the church steeple soaring into the sky. As she made for a path which would take her back towards the house, her foot caught on a rabbit hole and she stumbled forward, twisting her ankle. ‘Ouch. Shit!’ she muttered.

  Her ankle was throbbing – not broken, she thought – but too weak to run on. A few feet away was a felled tree and she hobbled over and sat down on the trunk.

  Emma took a swig from her water bottle and tipped her head back so the sun warmed her face. She was wriggling her foot around trying to loosen it up, when she heard footsteps behind her. She looked up, squinting into the sun. There was a man standing in front of her. He was wearing shorts and vest and she could see he had the firm physique of someone who worked out regularly. Tall, a strong chin, a crop of dark brown hair and narrow eyes, he was also out of breath.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he panted, hands on his knees. ‘I saw you trip.’ He was American: an East Coast accent, she thought. Not quite hard enough for a New Yorker or rounded enough for a Bostonian she thought trying to place it.

  ‘No, no. I’m absolutely fine,’ said Emma, ‘My ankle went a bit wobbly there, but it’s OK.’

  ‘You’re pretty fit,’ said the man admiringly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ snapped Emma coldly.

  ‘Just saying that you’re fit,’ said the man frowning. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

  Emma laughed. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s an expression we used to use as kids. Over on this side of the pond “You’re fit” means “You’re attractive”, “You’re sexy”.’

  ‘Dumb American,’ he smiled, pointing to himself and shrugging. He pointed down to the heart monitor strapped to her arm.

  It read sixty-five.

  ‘Pretty good. For a woman.’

  ‘For a woman?’

  ‘You know. Women aren’t as good athletes as men.’

  ‘Actually there’s very little between male and female athletes,’ surprised at the casual sexism. ‘Some of the Chinese middle-distance runners will be beating most men soon.’

  She wiped a few droplets of water off her lips while she tried to work out if she recognized him. Looking up and squinting in the sunlight his face didn’t look familiar. He was definitely handsome underneath the red cheeks and sheen of sweat. It irritated her to think it.

  ‘Rob Holland.’ He extended a hand and she took it.

  ‘Emma Bailey.’

  ‘Ah. Local royalty.’

  ‘Hardly,’ she replied. ‘How do you know my family?’

  ‘Everyone in this village knows the local mafia.’

  ‘Local mafia,’ she said, trying to work out if he was joking.

  ‘So you live in Milford,’ she said slowly.

  He sat down on the tree beside her and she felt herself flinch, the intrusion somewhat unwelcome.

  ‘London actually. I live in Notting Hill in the week. Weekends I head west and come to this place. Do you mind if I have some of your water?’

  She looked at him suspiciously. ‘OK,’ she replied, hesitantly handing him her bottle and watching him drain the water from it.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said handing her back the empty container.

  He was beginning to rile her. It was a time to clear her head and here was some cocky American slagging off women and drinking her water!

  ‘Which house?’

  ‘None of the best ones, obviously. Your family has the monopoly of those,’ he said playfully. ‘I’m at Peony House. The owners are away in Australia so I’m renting it.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Parker’s place.’ She nodded thinking of the fine double-fronted Georgian house by the church. ‘I heard they were away.’

  ‘They have been. They come back in two weeks so there goes my weekend retreat. I’ve offered the Parkers 20 per cent over the value of the Peony House but they’re not having it.’

  ‘I could have told you they wouldn’t sell.’

  ‘You’ve not been around to ask,’ he smiled.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure Notting Hill isn’t that bad. I thought W11 would be more your scene.’

  ‘It’s full of people I see during the week. That’s why I like coming here. To get away from the day-job.’

  ‘Which is?’ she said curiously. Whenever she met someone new she couldn’t help herself size them up; guess what they did; create a mental picture in her mind of their life and past. It was probably why she had studied psychology at college.

  ‘I work for a record company.’

  ‘Argh,’ she smiled. She should have guessed from the long baggy shorts that weren’t much use for the serious runner. She had him pegged as something maybe in PR although he had that arrogance, that cocksureness that came with the young and very wealthy. Maybe it was family money.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at crazy parties at the weekend?’

  ‘Don’t you know they happen in the week,’ he laughed. ‘I like my weekends for escaping from the music industry. Escaping from band managers, and people like John James.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Emma asked innocently.

  ‘You’ve never heard of John James? Biggest rock act this decade. Fifty million album sales, the most downloaded artist in the history of downloading. You don’t get out much,’ he chided.

  ‘I just don’t really listen to music’

  ‘What about MTV?’

  She looked at him. He must be mid to late thirties. Clearly a Peter Pan.

  ‘Until a few weeks ago, until I came to Milford, I didn’t have a television.’

  ‘What? Why? Are you Amish?’

  For a moment she thought he was flirting with her.

  He was looking at her through thin, curious eyes.

  ‘Not Amish. Just busy,’ she replied quickly. ‘When you work 18 hours a day there’s no time for TV or music’ She had a vision of him lounging all over Peony House with MTV blaring in the name of work, surrounded by beer cans and pizza boxes and wondered what Mr and Mrs Parker would think of it all.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s always time for music’

  The sun was beating down now on the common.

  In the background she could hear the church bells pealing.

  ‘I’m late. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Wait up,’ he said grabbing her arm.

  They both stood up from the tree and began walking back to the village.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you today. That’s why I’m here. Let me buy you lunch in the pub.’

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘I didn’t have your phone number and anyway, I wanted to talk to you face to face. I noticed you come running every weekend and I thought it might be the only opportunity to speak to you,’ he said, shaking his shoulders.

  ‘You followed me!’ she gasped.

  He looked sheepish.

  ‘You take the same route. Not wise by the way. Any weirdo could be lying in wait for you.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she replied flatly.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Winterfold. I haven’t got a clue if you planned to stay there. Make it your home. I know it’s not for sale yet, but I heard talk in t
he village that you thought it might be too big for you. I can pay top dollar. If you would consider renting it out on a long-term lease I’m open to that too.’

  She stared at him open-mouthed. The cheek of him. Following her here. Suggesting the house was too big for her as if she was some sort of mouse.

  ‘You couldn’t afford it,’ she said, still angry at being monitored.

  ‘Sweetheart. That’s my problem,’ he said coolly.

  Of course he could afford it, she thought quickly. She didn’t suppose record company executives made a great deal of money. Therefore it was definitely family money. The worst sort she thought, remembering the boys at Harvard with their sports cars and their country club memberships.

  She started to walk away from him and then broke into a slow jog.

  ‘Won’t you at least think about it?’

  ‘I’m not interested. Winterfold is my home.’

  He trotted alongside her, his bare arm brushing alongside her and tickling her with its light down.

  ‘Think about it. I could be useful to you. Word is you’re trying to revamp the company and I know every celebrity worth knowing over here and in the States. I can get Milford bags on the arm of every A-lister worth their salt. I can get them on the red carpet of the Grammies, the Oscars, MTV awards. You can’t buy that kind of endorsement, that sort of visibility for the company. You help me, I’ll help you.’

  Rob Holland! Who was he? How did he know so much about her? He was creepy. And cocky.

  ‘Who said I wanted that sort of pop culture endorsement, Mr Holland?’

  ‘Don’t be so pig-headed,’ he said.

  She began to quicken her pace.

  ‘Hey, well forgive me for asking!’ he shouted after her, throwing his arms into the air. Emma started pulling away from him, her ankle suddenly feeling much better. He slowed to a trot and cupped his hands around his mouth to shout after her.

  ‘Well, call me if you change your mind.’

  She didn’t bother to look back.

  13

  In the luxurious bedroom of Alliance’s Knightsbridge company flat, which was ostensibly kept for visiting senior management, Cassandra was doing her own brand of corporate entertaining. Kneeling between Oscar Braun’s pale thighs she focused all her attention on his considerable cock. As her long fingers closed around the base of his shaft she slowly, expertly, moved her mouth from his velvety tip down its entire rock-hard length, feeling it pulse between her ripe lips. Hearing Oscar groan, she looked up over his gently undulating stomach. He was lying flat out on the bed, his face strained with concentration, close to the edge.

  Time to get this over with, thought Cassandra, unfastening the white bra from the Forden lingerie collection she had worn specifically: Oscar was chief executive of the brand, and it was only right that he did a little market research every now and then. She tipped her toned body towards his face, dipping one erect nipple into his greedy mouth.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she whispered, guiding his throbbing cock into her, knowing she was taking him to the brink.

  ‘If there’s one thing you can do, Cassandra, it’s fuck,’ he panted in perfect English.

  She rotated her hips, moving him deeper inside her, arching her back, her arms behind her, fingernails trailing up the inside of his thigh. Finally, he bucked into her, crying out in German, before collapsing back onto the sheets, barking out an amazed laugh.

  Cassandra reclined on the buckwheat pillow, her firm breasts pointing towards the ceiling, and poured herself a glass of water from the bottle on the bedside table.

  She had swapped business cards with Oscar at the Paris Rive party and had enjoyed playing phone-tag with the dark-eyed Austrian until he was next in London. But the breakfast meeting arranged at the Berkeley Hotel had not turned out exactly as Cassandra has hoped. Whenever Cassandra mentioned the thorny issue of Forden pulling their advertising budget, Oscar simply changed the subject.

  By the time she had finished her pot of white jasmine tea, she had decided on a different tack and had started to brush her stockinged foot against his leg under the table. Three hours on from that breakfast, she had no complaints about Oscar’s performance in bed; she’d genuinely almost come. For Cassandra, that was satisfaction. Slightly recovered, Oscar crawled up the bed to lie next to her.

  ‘I shouldn’t have expended so much energy,’ she said, lighting a cigarette, ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. Getting Forden clothes into Rive.’

  Oscar simply smiled and stroked her cheek.

  ‘Incidentally,’ she said turning to face him, ‘Jason Tostvig said there might be a problem with Forden advertising in the second half of the year.’

  Oscar paused slightly before answering.

  ‘It’s true we are cutting down on our advertising budget for that period,’ he said distractedly. ‘You’ll have to speak to our marketing director to discuss it any further.’

  ‘Really? I was under the impression that all orders came from you.’

  He stepped out of bed, naked except for his chunky gold Rolex and started putting on his boxer shorts which had been jettisoned onto the chair.

  ‘Honestly, Cassandra, if this little interlude has all been about advertising, then I think I’ve been right about moving the brand from Rive,’ he said with cruel amusement. ‘The editor is the embodiment of the magazine. I think it’s starting to look a little cheap, don’t you?’

  ‘Cheap?’ hissed Cassandra. ‘Do you know how many pieces of editorial Forden have had in the last twelve months in Rive? Do you know how much that is worth in commercial terms?’

  Turning around, he gave her a cool gaze. ‘Darling, I really don’t count those little mentions in the retail pages, or a tit-bit in the fashion news to keep us happy. How many times have you featured our skirts, jackets or pants in the main fashion stories?’

  Well, perhaps if your stuff wasn’t so hideous, thought Cassandra, maybe there might be a few more. It was true that Forden had barely featured in the magazine for years, but the bottom line in magazines was profit, over 70 per cent of which came from advertising. And Cassandra simply could not afford to lose a quarter of a million pounds worth of Forden’s money, even if their clothes were laughably frumpy.

  ‘How many times? Once,’ said Cassandra, calmly stubbing out her cigarette.

  ‘I see. Well, Cassandra my dear, we don’t advertise for your good health, but my company’s,’ said Oscar evenly. ‘Over the last five years we have spent 1.5 million pounds in your magazine and yet we have received only a handful of significant credits. Need I remind you that fashion advertising keeps your magazine alive? Editors who forget that tend to have a very short shelf life.’

  ‘You and I both know it’s not that simple,’ said Cassandra, shrugging off the threat. She eyed him shrewdly, however. If she had thought Oscar would be a pushover, she was wrong. ‘Everyone knows that simply being in the pages of Rive is endorsement enough. Our readers more than any others come to our magazine for the advertising as much as the editorial – when they see Forden ads in Rive, they accept that we have chosen to run those ads because we are giving the products our tacit approval. We don’t let any old brand buy their way into Rive.’

  She wanted to tell him the truth, of course. That with the clothes his company was producing, he would simply be pouring those millions down the drain and that it would take more than pretty ads to be a Chanel or YSL. For that, you had to design and produce beautiful, luxurious things that people would kill to wear, but you also had to go even further, to create a fantasy world that would transform the wearer and transport them to a different place altogether. For that, you needed to have some style. But she thought she would save that information for a consultancy fee. Cassandra lay on her side and watched as Oscar dressed. If he thought he had won this particular battle, she would see how he dealt with this little broadside: ‘Have a nice time with Karoline at the opera tonight.’

  Oscar looked over at Cassandra, his eyes lingering on h
er naked skin.

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  She saw the nervousness in his eyes at the mention of his wife.

  ‘She told me when I spoke to her yesterday,’ smiled Cassandra.

  ‘Incidentally darling, I am chairing a Charles Worth exhibition at the V&A. We need a very connected committee of members and I thought Karoline would be perfect. I’m meeting her for talks on Friday. I told her to keep it all quiet until we’d firmed everything up.’

  There was no mistaking Cassandra’s implication. She let it sink in for a moment. Married men always took their lovers too lightly, thinking only with their poor neglected cocks until it was far too late. If there was one thing men feared, it was a vengeful wife and this was compounded in Oscar’s case, as Forden was owned by his wife’s family. While Karoline Braun preferred to devote herself to child-rearing in a big schloss near Salzburg, her husband had taken on the role of Chief Executive and he wouldn’t want to lose that. Suddenly Cassandra felt aroused by the power she had over him and stretched out her legs longingly.