He smiled down at her. ‘Do you think so? She reminded me of you.’
Harriet shrieked with laughter. She was later seen leaving hand in hand with one of the waiters.
Apart from William’s business associates and staff, the rest of the guests had been from Margaret’s side: dukes, earls, judges and Members of Parliament. Everyone knew William as a business tycoon, a multi-millionaire IT magnate, and he relished the attention. During the wedding luncheon he bought his first racehorse, and was invited to the Dunhill polo match. Later as they boarded his private jet, bound for St Lucia, William was convinced that marrying Margaret had been the best business and social move he had ever made. On the plane she made a toast: ‘To Angela, for introducing us.’ William raised his glass but felt a dreadful pang of guilt. Angela had been at the wedding, but he had not even spoken to her. He knew he had hurt her badly, but she gave no indication of this, just a shy smile when their eyes met over lunch. ‘To Angela,’ he had said, and quaffed the glass in one.
During the honeymoon, after their brief consummation, Margaret suffered a bout of cystitis. William slept in another bed for the entire two weeks. During the days, while Margaret stayed inside ‘in the cool’, William remained at the bar, wondering now if he had just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.
Back in London, Margaret devoted herself to the marital home, lavishly decorating it to the tune of nearly a million pounds. She also found a country house in Berkshire with stables and twenty-two acres of land. The cystitis recurred virtually every time they had fumbling, dutiful sex. After a year they were sleeping in separate rooms.
Gradually William spent more time away from home, and this was when he began to pay high-class prostitutes for what he neither got nor wanted at home. At Royal Ascot he saw Harriet again. As usual he was alone: Margaret had a headache. Harriet was wearing a novelty hat and the usual short, tight skirt, her pregnancy visible to all. She was not in the Royal Enclosure, and was accompanied by a rather seedy-looking young man. William spent a considerable time with his binoculars trained on her. The sight of her made him wonder if theirs might have been a long-term relationship, but that was foolish.
‘William, come and join us!’ It was Cedric, Lord Hangerford, making drinking gestures with his hand. As he entered the private box William was struck by a beautiful woman sitting alone in a corner, studying form. ‘What do I get for twenty to one?’ she called, pen poised over her card.
‘Put one pound on, you get twenty back,’ William replied.
‘God, I’m stupid sometimes,’ said the beautiful blonde, without looking up.
William bought two more horses from Cedric Hangerford, and went home to find Margaret out, playing bridge with friends. ‘She may stay with Mrs Castleton tonight,’ said the maid, grimly.
William nodded as she shut the door behind her, then flicked at the blotting pad on his desk. Bored, he looked around the room at the décor, so carefully chosen by Margaret and that terrible old queen who claimed to be an interior designer. It was an elegant study, lined with hundreds of leatherbound books. White linen was draped as curtains and a large antique mahogany desk was placed beneath the window. Margaret loathed reproduction furniture: she said it was made for the middle classes. William had a sudden urge to swipe everything off the desk and hurl the Georgian ink-well at the curtains. He put his head in his hands: he was rich, successful, and bloody lonely. He dialled Madame Norton, who ran an up-market call-girl agency. He told her what he wanted, then informed the staff that they could retire for the night. Half an hour later the doorbell rang and William answered it personally.
Nina strutted in and followed William up the marble staircase towards the bedroom. She let her coat fall to the floor, stepped over it and threw a cheap black bag on to the damask-covered king-size bed. William poured two glasses of champagne and glanced at the girl, who was looking around the room. ‘It’s on the bedside table,’ he said casually, and watched her pick up the roll of money then stuff it into her bag. She smiled sweetly as he passed her the champagne. His notion had been to try to reenact the moments he had enjoyed with Harriet, but this girl was too cheap. He realized he had made a foolish mistake in asking her to come to his home.
‘Cheers!’ She took a sip and kicked off her shoes.
William was about to tell her that she could keep the money and leave when the bedroom door opened. He caught Margaret’s reflection in the mirror and turned, holding out his glass of champagne. ‘Why, Margaret,’ he grinned, and went on with characteristic bravura, ‘would you like to join us?’
Margaret was frozen to the spot, mouth hanging open in stunned amazement. Then she started to scream.
The divorce cost William the house and a substantial pay-off, negotiated by her weasel of a lawyer, who could hardly stop rubbing his hands in anticipation of his cut. However, William’s own lawyers were clever enough to insinuate that if she did not accept his offer, they would issue a counter-action accusing her of frigidity and denying her husband his conjugal rights. He celebrated the decree nisi with Cedric Hangerford over dinner at Rules. Cedric brought along his cousin, Katherine, the leggy blonde William had met in his Ascot box. ‘Twenty to one, you’ll say yes to the coffee at my place,’ she quipped, as they left the restaurant.
William married her within the year. It was a small register-office affair, with a private dinner afterwards. But that evening the couple threw a ball at the Ritz, ensuring the marriage made not only the social columns but the glossy magazines too. Two days later they were honeymooning on safari.
It was far from the disaster of his first marriage. During their ten days in Zimbabwe they enjoyed each other’s company. Katherine’s genuine interest in wildlife and her inability to handle a camera were endearing. However, the sex was unsatisfactory. Katherine was not exactly frigid, just unloving. She evidently felt that the sooner it was over the better. William’s inexperience of dealing with someone like Katherine made it impossible for him to discuss his frustration with her.
When they returned home and moved into their new house, William discovered that Katherine was no housewife either. She was useless at organizing, hopeless with money, loathed shopping, never read anything other than Tatler and was generally bone idle. After a few months she was pregnant, and demanded that they sleep in separate bedrooms and expected to be waited on hand and foot. William soon realized that he had traded in one nightmare for another. When Katherine gave birth to a boy, they moved to a larger house. Although they employed two nannies she complained incessantly that she was tired and depressed, and spent all day in her bedroom watching television. He noticed that she was always lively enough to attend the dinners, balls and society parties she was invited to, but when he asked her to accompany him to a business function she always had a migraine. According to her, his business associates were ‘middle-class and boring’, which made William acutely ashamed and aware once more of his background.
Two years into their marriage, to Katherine’s horror and William’s surprise, she was pregnant again. After the birth of their daughter, Sabrina, Katherine locked herself in her bedroom, complaining of post-natal depression, but was overjoyed to have a daughter. However, he had had enough of the marriage. Despite that he did not file for divorce for another two years, and then only because he had found out his wife was handing over thousands of pounds to her cousin Cedric, whose stud farm was in financial difficulties. It wasn’t that William didn’t have the money to ‘donate’, it was just that every relative of Katherine’s seemed to treat him like a soft touch.
The divorce was drawn-out and costly. For all Katherine’s perpetual inertia, when William decided to leave she found the energy of a maelstrom. She wept, screamed and threatened to take the children abroad so that he would never see them again. He fought for custody, but Katherine threatened to tell the court of his trips to Madame Norton’s, determined to prove that he was not a fit father.
Since his last divorce William had been almost conte
nt. He had concluded that marriage was not for him and had vowed that he would never contemplate it again. He didn’t acknowledge that he was lonely, but buried himself in his work. Then he had met Andrew Maynard and his life changed. He found he had not only a face and a purse, he had a voice too. In return for his sponsorship, Maynard had helped him realize that he should be proud of his achievements.
After Maynard’s death William felt as though the light had gone out of his life. Now he sat alone in his study and thought. He poured himself a large Armagnac, lit a cigar, and decided to set fire to Maynard’s diaries. Then, on impulse, he decided to read them. He needed answers. Deep down he could not believe he had so misjudged the man for whom he had cared so deeply. As he unlocked the safe and took out the first diary he felt strangely calm.
In the months before Maynard’s death the diary contained frequent references to ‘JC’. William assumed this was Chalmers.
Lunched here in Grimaud. They used to live here with their parents. They are the most astonishingly beautiful couple. She is as blonde as he and just as charming. I never believed in love at first sight until this moment. It was as if every movement was held under a bright magnifying-glass. I could not take my eyes off them, it was all I could do to stop myself kneeling at their feet. It is so rare to find such perfection. I am an adoring slave, nothing in my life meant anything, all I wanted was to
The rest had been blacked out, making it impossible to read.
William began to feel cheated as he turned the pages: there were more blacked-out passages. Then he read,
… took me to a place that I could not believe. I am ecstatic, I am flying, I am a slave. I have never known such total peace and tranquillity. I want nothing but to be embraced and tortured in such sweet pain. I am a dog to be chained and beaten into total submission.
There then followed a long sequence of dreadful adolescent-style poetry, in which the word ‘torture’ featured over and over again. Maynard never referred to a ‘he’, or specifically named Chalmers, but wrote often that he was desperate to hear from JC. William found a note at the top of a page, decorated with a heart, that read, ‘JC called. I am in heaven, must get more money.’ There followed a long list of items of clothing he had purchased, gifts for JC, and then
I am beginning to realize that beneath the drugs and the debauchery, beneath his perfectly handsome, stunningly beautiful profile, his face sometimes takes on a coldness, just as hers does. Sharp like a knife-edge. I feel frightened … Justin was so sour to me today, he made me weep.
Then more blacked-out lines, and then over the page, the ink was blotched, from tears perhaps.
I think Justin hides in a bottomless well of cynicism, which at times is so deep there is no sun, there are no stars, only darkness, and I have such a need to reach out to him, as he has become the centre of my universe.
William sighed at such twaddle, hardly able to believe this had been written by the man he knew. He flicked through the pages, then stopped at the sight of his own name.
Mr Need-to-be-accepted, Sir William B, came round today. A tedious, wretched man with too much money. He believes I will be his political hero. If only he knew what I really felt about his persistent intrusion into my life, this inarticulate buffoon who got lucky with some computer chip and believes himself to be my equal.
William felt sick. A buffoon! He had ploughed hundreds of thousands of pounds into this egotistical pervert. How could he have been so stupid? He hurled the diary across the room.
Alone in his vast bed, William tossed and turned, asking himself over and over why he had allowed himself to be subjected to such abuse. Did he have such an inferiority complex that no matter what success he achieved he felt unworthy of it? Why had he allowed himself to be humiliated by virtually everyone who had entered his life? He had been living in some fantasy world since meeting Maynard. He had deluded himself that at last he had found contentment. Eventually he fell into a restless sleep.
He woke feeling tired, wretched, unwilling to face the day, and stayed in bed with the curtains drawn. He told the servants not to disturb him, and refused to eat. For two days and nights he cried as he never had before, until at long last he felt he had no more tears to shed. Then a calm sense of relief washed over him.
When he got up for a pee, he saw his reflection in the full-length mirror. He was in appalling shape: his eyes were puffy and dark-ringed, his face was pasty. William had never been handsome, but he had believed he was attractive, particularly since his success. He laughed bitterly to himself. Who would want him now? The depression returned. He had never been in love, had never felt passion the way Maynard had. He had wanted sex and been willing to pay for it, but he had never experienced ecstasy. Now, he thirsted for love.
He walked back into his darkened bedroom and threw on some clothes. First he called his office to say that he would be away for some time. Then he instructed his valet to pack a suitcase with evening suits and casual wear. He asked Michael to arrange for his jet to be fuelled and made ready to depart from Heathrow’s private airfield.
‘What destination shall I tell the pilot, sir?’ Michael asked.
‘Nice.’
‘Will you need your apartment prepared?’
‘No, I’ll be at the Hôtel Negresco. Book me a suite.’
‘Would you like me to arrange meetings?’
‘No, this is not business. I need …’ he gave the ghost of a smile ‘… need some space, as they say. I’m taking a break.’ He gave another wan smile. ‘Taking a break from my life, Michael. No more questions.’
The flight to Nice was comfortable, and the drive to the hotel uneventful. On arrival he didn’t unpack but telephoned the villa in Grimaud. Justin Chalmers’s villa. Part of him denied what he was doing, but the other part knew perfectly well: he was going to find water in the desert. He believed that here he would find solace for his lost soul.
A woman answered. ‘Countess Lubrinsky speaking.’
‘Sir William Benedict,’ he said. ‘A friend of Justin Chalmers. I’m going to be in Grimaud at the weekend …’
‘Really?’ crooned the Countess. ‘Then you must join us. We are having a small dinner party.’
‘I’d be delighted, thank you. If your plans change, I’ll be at the Negresco.’
‘I look forward to meeting you.’
The phone went dead and he replaced the receiver on the cradle. He had no idea what he was doing. It was the beginning of an adventure. He liked the sound of Countess Lubrinsky’s voice, but he really wanted to meet whoever had accompanied Chalmers to meetings with Maynard. Was this countess the beautiful woman to whom he had referred in the diary?
He thought again of how Maynard had described him, and his lips tightened. A buffoon! His whole body flushed with indignation. Was that what they all felt, how they all saw him? God Almighty, he wanted to get back at Maynard – at them all – and he would start with Justin Chalmers. That was why he had come to France. It was because he needed space to think, to make plans for how he would take his revenge. He would pay back every one of the bastards. No one was ever going to call him a buffoon again.
Chapter Five
The Countess Lubrinsky tied her silk sarong tighter round her slim waist, and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the telephone table. She ran her fingers through her thick auburn hair, the curls in ringlets around her neck. She had long tapering fingers with short, unvarnished nails, and wore no jewellery apart from a gold ankle bracelet. At forty years old, Sylvina was proud of her figure, and her sculpted face was without a wrinkle. Her slanting green cat-like eyes, fine straight nose and high wide cheekbones gave her the look of a mystic. She lit a cigarette and, turning to the right, caught Sharee’s reflection behind her. ‘Hello, darling, have you had your swim?’
‘No, just about to. Who was that?’
‘Some friend of Justin’s. I invited him to dinner.’
‘Oh, God, why do you always invite every stray he gives our phone nu
mber to?’
‘Because I presumed he’d arranged it.’
‘Well, don’t presume. Ring the bastard up and ask.’
‘Don’t start. It’s just for dinner, and I’ve left a message on his mobile.’
Sharee, blonde and fair-skinned, was twenty-four. She had a fuller figure than Sylvina, slightly plump around her bottom and thighs, with full, perfectly shaped breasts. Sylvina stared at her, took a long drag on her cigarette and blew out a perfect smoke ring. It coiled around Sharee’s right nipple.
‘You smoke too much, Sylvina.’
‘I know. Keep still. Let me see if I can circle the left one too.’ She sucked at her Gitane, held her breath and pursed her lips. The smoke ring floated in the air and Sharee wafted it away, strolling out on to the patio.
She leaned against the balustrade and, one hand shading her eyes, watched the butterflies in the garden. Sylvina, not knowing their correct names, had called the various species after Parisian couturiers: the blue was Dior, a deep black, brown and orange one Schiaparelli, a remarkable multicoloured one Versace, and a rather dull moth type she found amusing to nickname Chanel.
‘Penny for them, sweetie,’ Sylvina said now, pouring herself a Dubonnet.
‘I was looking for a Gaultier,’ Sharee said, and turned back to the garden.
‘Did Justin use all those trees he cut down to build the bridges?’
‘No idea, darling,’ Sylvina said, flopping on to a teak sunlounger. Its cushions were hot from the sun, and she yelped.
‘You should open the parasols,’ Sharee said, and started towards the curved narrow staircase that ran round the outside of the house like a spiral of small white marble pillars. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ she said, and Sylvina watched her climb upwards to the rooftop pool.
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