Guilty Pleasures

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Is what true, darling?’

  Emma came in and sat on the blue and white gingham bedspread.

  ‘That Dad and Aunt Julia had an affair? Was that why Uncle Desmond left her?’

  She watched her mother’s face carefully but she didn’t even flinch, she simply carried on with her task.

  ‘Who told you this?’ she said finally.

  ‘Cassandra.’

  Virginia turned round to face her daughter.

  ‘Jonathon will be back in a moment,’ she said, looking over Emma’s shoulder. ‘He’s only gone to get some coffee.’

  ‘Cassandra said she saw them,’ insisted Emma. ‘She saw them together the summer before Dad died. Uncle Desmond found out and that’s why he left Julia.’

  For a moment, Virginia had a faraway look in her eye as if her mind had drifted off somewhere else. Then her face tensed, as if she were about to deny everything, then her cool face saddened with emotion, as an old wound re-opened, raw and bloody.

  ‘Tell me, Mum,’ said Emma softly.

  ‘Some of it’s true, some of it isn’t,’ she said, walking over to the bedroom door and closing it. ‘Yes, your father and Julia had sex in Provence. You’re a grown-up, Emma, you know how it can happen. You’re drunk, it’s hot, you’re on holiday and caution flies out of the window on nights like that.’ Her voice had the edge of sarcasm and the hint of regret. It was as if she were reciting lines from an old play she had long ago ceased to enjoy.

  ‘How did you find out? Who told you? Dad?’

  ‘Saul,’ said Virginia quietly. ‘I don’t know how he knew. He told me he “suspected”. I suppose in the same way that I suspected. You can just tell you know, sometimes.’

  Virginia closed her eyes for a moment, seeing it all as if it was only yesterday. She told Emma about the way her husband Jack and Julia had begun to avoid each other on the holiday; about the way her hand used to spring back from his when he touched her at the breakfast table; about the way two people who try to force themselves to be natural in front of one another, just end up looking even more contrived and unnatural. Emma could see the sparkle of a tear slip down her face; she who was usually so cool and restrained, usually such a mask of control. Emma wondered if it had always been that way.

  ‘Julia and Desmond’s marriage was very rocky,’ she continued. ‘It had been since Tom was born when Julia became very depressed. Several weeks after the Provence holiday Desmond left her; Saul suspected that he had found out about Julia and Jack. So Saul called up Jack and asked him to come round to the manor for a conversation, a man to man chat.’

  A small smile pulled at Virginia’s lips. ‘Saul was like that. He was dreadfully irresponsible in some ways but in other ways he really understood his position as head of the family. Anyway …’ she puffed out her cheeks, ‘… that’s when your father’s crash happened. On the way to see Saul.’ She gave a low, angry laugh. ‘The irony was that Des didn’t leave Julia because of any affair she was having. Julia and your father – that was a one-off on holiday. Julia told me that many years later. Des left her because he’d met Helen by then, the South African trollop he eventually went to Durban with. Julia hid it from the kids, she didn’t want them to know that Des was in a serious relationship so soon after he’d left them. She wanted to protect them.’

  Tears were now running down Emma’s cheeks.

  ‘But Cassandra thinks it was all Dad’s fault.’

  ‘It wasn’t. And I don’t think Saul ever forgave himself for the accident. A fateful intervention,’ she continued with a slow sad smile. ‘Saul used to tell me over and over again that he’d left you without a father.’ She looked at Emma with a more controlled expression as if she was putting her mask back on again.

  ‘I don’t doubt that’s why he left you the company, Emma. It was his way of trying to make things up to us.’

  Emma nodded, taking a tissue from the dressing table and wiping her eyes.

  ‘Who knows about this?’ she asked.

  ‘To my knowledge, no one apart from us and Julia.’

  ‘Cassandra certainly doesn’t.’

  Virginia turned to her; the cold eyes were back and the shutters were down.

  ‘And you must make sure it stays that way.’

  ‘But she despises me. She’s trying to destroy the company and ruin me because she wants revenge for something she’s got the wrong way around!’ protested Emma.

  Virginia grabbed Emma’s hand and squeezed hard.

  ‘No, Emma. I know Cassandra is hard work sometimes, but she’s suffered enough. Please, for me,’ she said, searching her daughter’s eyes, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’

  In her attic bedroom, a tiny room she had been furious about being allocated, Cassandra was unable to sleep. She sat on the bed, looking over to the small single bed in the corner, where Ruby was fast asleep. She watched the rise and fall of her breath under the duvet and felt a tug of guilt somewhere distant inside her. Did her daughter deserve a father? Cassandra had always rejected marriage in favour of her own career, thinking it would be better that way. That way, you didn’t get hurt. But was she right?

  There was a decanter of port on her bedside table and she poured herself a small measure. There was no balcony in the cramped living space in the rafters, but there was a door leading to some narrow steps which led to the ground, a relic from when the chalet had servants living in the attic who needed to come and go without disturbing the family. Cassandra put on her cashmere robe and went out onto the wooden steps. She sank down, and breathed in the ice-cold air. So finally she had told Emma, had told someone. But instead of the sweet relief of sharing a secret she had kept for over twenty years, there was a terrible sense of emptiness – and she had to admit it, embarrassment. I’m such a bloody cliché, she thought, her cheeks flaming despite the cold. All that time, without even knowing it, she had used the pain and hurt to drive her onwards, to transform herself into something bigger and better than that bruised 13-year-old who felt so worthless. If I make myself clever and pretty and successful, then maybe Daddy will come back, she mocked with an ironic smile. But now it had been vocalized, it didn’t seem like such a potent force. Now it just felt like what it was; pain and envy so fierce it stuck in her throat and made her want to choke. Despite all Cassandra’s bluster and threats, Emma had been right on two counts: every kick she gave her did make Cassandra feel better; she simply wanted Emma to suffer the way she had. But Emma was also spot on when she had said it was futile: Milford was successful. She had achieved nothing.

  She looked at the dark jagged edges of the mountains and took a deep lungful of air, trying to let go of all the tension so that she could finally sleep. She was about to go inside when she heard the low creak of a balcony door opening beneath her and voices.

  ‘Come in, Rebecca,’ said a man’s voice. ‘It’s bloody freezing.’

  Cassandra peeked over the edge, keeping in the shadows. From her lofty position, she could see the whole balcony beneath her. Rebecca and Roger were talking in low mumbled voices. Rebecca was trying to talk in a whisper but her anger made her words clear.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ said Roger, ‘we’ll get this sorted. I’ll get the money for the Ricardo deal. Perhaps we can sell this place. That will be a start.’

  Moving silently in her cashmere socks, Cassandra moved down two more stairs, cocking her head and holding her breath.

  ‘I’m not selling Les Fleurs to raise the money,’ hissed Rebecca. ‘People would kill for a place in Gstaad. It’s the only decent thing we’ve got. Forget the Ricardo deal. Something better will come along. And it better bloody had. We have a second-rate house and a 2-year-old BMW. Do you realize how embarrassing it is for me getting it valet parked? I’m sick of living like the wife of middle management.’

  ‘Ricardo’s business is the something better, darling. I want to make some serious money for us both. I want us to have a better life. One day soon you can have whatever house or car you want. We’ll get her
out of the picture. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’

  Rebecca laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘Or a bitch.’

  They moved back inside their room and closed the French windows. Cassandra pulled her robe tighter around her body and hurried back up the stairs to the warmth of her room, knowing exactly what they were talking about.

  Christmas Day passed quietly. Lunch was subdued after which Emma retreated to her room. By Boxing Day morning, she was desperate to get out of the chalet. Christmas had turned into a nightmare. Gstaad was still Gstaad of course, super-chic and chocolate-box pretty, but with all this pressure, Emma couldn’t even enjoy the view. She was aching to get up onto the slopes where she could be alone and clear her head. When she came down into the living room, she found Tom watching the television in track-suit bottoms, his feet clad in massive fluffy slippers, a Christmas gift from Cassandra which he suspected was a dig at his layabout status.

  ‘I’m going up to Les Diablerets,’ said Emma. ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘Nah,’ he shook his head, sending crumbs from the croissant he was eating showering onto his sweater. ‘It’s Boxing Day, Em. A holiday – you’ve got to take these things seriously.’

  ‘This is a holiday for me – getting away from it all. And everyone.’

  Tom pulled a sympathetic face.

  ‘Well, don’t wear yourself out too much. I’m taking you down to Greengos or Hush tonight. Your treat.’

  Emma giggled. ‘Why not? Maybe I can bag myself a Eurotrash prince.’

  The drive to Les Diablerets only took twenty minutes. The roads had been salted so there was no need for chains on the tyres. Emma loved being out in snow, and as she left the car and headed for the lifts, the air was so crisp the inside of her nose tingled. Les Diablerets wasn’t as smart or chic as Gstaad. There were no Hermès boutiques or world-class hotels, no tourists in fur coats and moon boots. She could never understand the snobbery and posturing attached to ski resorts: skiing was all about surrounding yourself with natural beauty and pitting your own body against the elements; it was not about the social scene. Consequently, Emma loved skiing on her own, going deep into the powder off-piste, feeling the wind in her hair, spray on her goggles, her thighs like pistons aching to stop. It was the same well-hidden streak in Emma that made her love cave-diving, a recklessness tempered by reason: she would take herself to the edge of her abilities, no more. This was why Emma had arranged for a guide to show her the best skiing, but steer her away from the real dangers.

  Johann was tall and lithe, a proud German-speaking Swiss mountain guide who knew every run, slope and crevasse in a thirty-mile radius. He was also devilishly handsome, observed Emma, taking in his chiselled, if wind-chapped, features.

  ‘There is some fresh powder today,’ said Johann. ‘Avalanches are a possibility.’

  Emma nodded; she had already seen the reports. Avalanche alert was on level 3 today: a threat but not dangerously so. Wasting no time on small talk, they stamped into their skis and Johann took off, Emma hard on his heels. Immediately, Emma’s world shrank to the stretch of snow directly in front of her skis. The roar of air in her ears, the exhilaration of the speed, the concentration as Johann led her in a series of sharp turns, it all blew everything else from her head. At first Johann skied at a fair pace, occasionally glancing behind to gauge her ability, but within minutes he was carving through the snow at full speed, confident Emma could handle everything he threw at her. She was grinning as he scythed to a halt at the edge of a cliff. In front of them across a gorge, Emma could see the jagged edges of even higher mountains, white velvet slopes broken with grey exposed walls of sheer rock. The air felt crystal clear and Emma felt her body and mind respond: she felt sharp and clear, unburdened by business worries or petty feuds.

  ‘You ski well,’ said Johann.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Emma, feeling her cheeks blush. ‘I’ve got a good guide.’

  She stood drinking in the fabulous view for a moment more, trying not to notice Johann’s blue eyes fixed on her. The fitted white salopettes and bright blue jacket may have covered Emma’s slim, athletic body, but not even the fleece headband covering her ears and the large goggles could hide the striking angles of her face.

  ‘It’s quiet today,’ she said to fill the silence.

  ‘Holiday time. People come less for skiing and more for drinking,’ he smiled, then flipped his goggles down and plunged down the slope. Emma shot down straight after him, adrenalin rushing around her body. She felt free. This was when she felt truly alive, not staring at a spreadsheet or hammering out deals, but here, barrelling down a sheer face at 100 kilometres an hour. She was a natural skier, having learnt on these very slopes at Saul’s invitation throughout her childhood, and every time she took to the snow, she wished she could spend her whole life out here, surrounded by crisp white nothingness. Out here, she felt at home.

  All too soon, the sun began to sink, the light was fading fast and the ink-blue sky was slashed with ribbons of gold and pink. Johann brought them back round to their starting point. As she stepped out of her skis, Emma considered it a day very well spent. The conditions and scenery had been perfect, plus Johann had made her feel good – capable and attractive. She pulled her goggles off and hung them over her arm.

  ‘Can I tempt you to a glass of Gluhwein?’ asked Johann.

  Emma pointed to the car. ‘Driving, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then perhaps a chocolat chaud?’

  She almost licked her lips at the thought of it, imagining Johann’s strong hands wrapped around the mug.

  ‘I’m afraid my family have plans for supper,’ she shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps you will come up to Les Diablerets tomorrow, then? Here is my telephone number,’ he said, handing her a card. ‘Any time, day or night.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ she smiled.

  ‘Auf wiedersehen.’

  She attached her skis to the roof of the car and took off her thick padded jacket to drive more comfortably. She pulled out and Johann lifted a hand to wave. Why am I such an idiot? she thought angrily. Why am I running back to a family who are trying to pull me down, when I could have …

  ‘Damn,’ she cursed herself. Maybe Rob Holland was right, maybe she didn’t know how to relax and have fun. She grimaced. That thought only reminded her of the day at the recording studios and her foot pressed down on the accelerator angrily. There were a few farms and chalets along the side of the road and although Boxing Day was a popular day for tourists flying in to the French Alps for the run up to New Year, there was hardly any traffic and once she was out of Les Diablerets it was almost pitch black. Emma thought of the folklore that Saul had once told her about the area. How the name Les Diablerets means ‘abode of the devil’ and how legend had it that lost souls drifted around the mountainsides at night carrying their lanterns. Slowly she became aware of headlights closing in behind her. The snow had started to fall again, so Emma hung back, waiting for the vehicle to overtake her. Instead, it came closer and closer until she could no longer see its lights. Then she jolted forward as the car behind touched her bumper.

  ‘What the hell?’ whispered Emma, tightening her grip on the steering wheel.

  The vehicle behind bumped her again, this time with more force. As her mind searched for a rational explanation, she glanced down to check her headlights were on: maybe he hasn’t seen me here. Suddenly Emma’s head whipped forward as her car was slammed from behind. Her heart lurched; there was no mistaking the stranger’s intent, and in front of her the snow was coming down quite heavily now. She looked into the mirror, trying to make out the driver, but there was another shuddering crash and her car veered dangerously onto the gravel siding, as her bumper glanced off the crash barriers.

  ‘Who are you?’ screamed Emma. ‘What do you want?’

  But the dazzling lights behind gave her all the answers she needed. Whoever they were, they were trying to push her over the edge. They were trying to kill her. D
esperately, Emma stamped her foot down on the accelerator, and pulled away from the car behind, her hands shaking on the wheel as she fought to keep her car steady round a bend. And then she saw it in her headlights: two hundred yards up ahead, the sturdy crash barrier disappeared, to be replaced by a flimsy wooden fence. That meant the drop was less severe, less fatal – surely? As she gunned the engine, the chasing vehicle caught up and crashed into Emma’s car so hard that her head cracked against the steering wheel. Her car was suddenly wrenched over to the right and thrown into a skid; the rear end whipped round and caught the last section of the steel crash barrier. Emma jumped on the brakes with both feet; her car veered off the road and slammed into the rough timber fence, chunks of wood and metal flew at the windscreen like missiles. The car slid along at a crazy angle, the fence holding its weight for the moment; only a few slats of wood preventing it from rolling down the mountain. Emma knew she had to move. She unclipped her seatbelt and pushed all her weight against the door. It flew open and she used the momentum to throw herself up and out of the car, landing facedown into the gravel at the side of the road, tearing her hands and elbows as she did so. She rolled over just in time to see the fence finally splinter and the car plunge away into the dark. There was nothing but a rushing sound for a few long seconds and then a crash, followed by a crump and a white glow as the engine ignited. Emma scrambled away from the edge, clawing her way across the dark road and into the snow bank on the other side. The cold air stung her bruised and torn body. She lay back as she watched the car burst into flames. And then she felt nothing.

  55

  The first thing Emma saw when she opened her eyes again was the sterile white of the hospital ceiling. Slowly her vision adjusted and she became aware of a shape standing by her bed.

  ‘Rob?’

  ‘Hey,’ he said in a quiet voice, a sad smile on his lips. ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ she croaked. ‘How did you … what’s going on … ?’