Pleasure Island

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  Angelika recalled the first night Rupert had asked her out with such clarity that it was as if she had witnessed it happening to someone else – that balmy September day that had slipped seamlessly into evening, the air chilly and deceptive. He’d offered to share a cab with her and she’d been so breathless with adrenalin that she’d simply nodded and got in. Rupert was smart and so terribly handsome then – still was, she supposed – his self-confidence that stopped only just short of arrogance had been devastatingly attractive.

  As she’d stepped inside the cab she had been overcome by the sense that something wonderful was about to happen. Their courtship had been romantic and intense; lazy afternoons spent on boating lakes, his legs draped over the side as he recited sonnets to her – ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ (‘What, drunk and hot, you mean?’) – and her responding with raspy renditions of Rimbaud and Keats. They had debated everything from politics and war to what merited a decent pop record over drunken, champagne picnics that invariably led to exciting, alfresco sex and listen to Lou Reed on his pre-historic (even then) record-player on the dirty carpet of his digs. High and giggly on marijuana, they would imagine they were Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe, even though Rupert didn’t really have an artistic bone in his body.

  She had hung on his every word, captivated by his sharp intellect interspersed with offbeat, bohemian charm. He had been laid-back then – funny even – and less cynical … certainly more tolerant of the human condition. And while she supposed she could never have called their relationship passionate, they had been good friends.

  It had been during a six-month sabbatical from their relationship (he’d needed to ‘find himself’, which she had roughly translated as ‘shag other people’) that Rupert had fathered a child with a French business student called Esme. Angelika had been heartbroken despite his insistence he was not complicit, or even consulted, on Esme’s decision to go ahead with the pregnancy and that it had been a complete accident. He’d been just twenty years old when Serge had been born. For the first ten years of the boys’ life Rupert had been what could be described as an absent father, or ‘a complete shit’ as Esme preferred. It was only when Serge became old enough to challenge his father on a verbally intellectual level that Rupert began to show a little more interest in the boy he would gradually go on to adore.

  Aged twenty-three and twenty-five respectively, Angelika had married her handsome mastermind in a pretty church in Surrey near his childhood home. They’d been too young. She realised that now, but je ne regrette rien; isn’t that what they said? And besides, the photos had been rather beautiful. Over the years they’d clung onto their marriage, largely through habit and lack of time to search for suitable alternatives, although Angelika suspected that she had predominantly been the glue in their union.

  She supposed she still desired her husband; after all, he was still able to steal glances from strangers and took great care of his appearance but she wasn’t entirely convinced that the feeling was mutual. Rupert rarely made love to her anymore and when he did she was usually the instigator. Sometimes she wondered if her husband was satisfying himself elsewhere, though with whom and when she couldn’t imagine. Rupert was a workaholic and when he wasn’t working he seemed to prefer the company of his polo and rugby pals. She trusted him though, and, whatever else, she knew he had her back. Perhaps that what’s love really was at the end of the day, yet still it was a thought that depressed her. Is that all there is?

  ‘You know, we really could sue the arse off McKenzie for this: post-traumatic stress and all of that. Maybe you should act like it’s sent you off your rocker a bit – which shouldn’t be too much of a stretch for you, let’s face it darling – and we’ll be looking at a six-figure sum easily. I might causally drop it into the conversation when we meet him, see his reaction. After all it’s not like he can’t afford it, and actually, I do feel like we should be compensated somehow for the terrible stress. We could’ve lost our lives, you know. In fact, we were bloody lucky no one was more hurt.’

  ‘Assuming he’s even here on the island,’ Angelika mused, ‘and, of course, I’m off my rocker, Rupert; I’m still married to you, aren’t I? Anyway, someone was “more hurt” in case you had forgotten; a man died and God only knows what happened to that poor flight attendant.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Rupert agreed, ‘well, we certainly need some questions answering, that’s for sure. Anyway, what makes you think he isn’t on the island?’

  ‘Don’t know exactly...intuition, I suppose. Something tells me he never had any intention of coming here.’ Angelika felt a niggling suspicion, the lightest flutter of unease ever since she’d set foot on the island though she could not say exactly why.

  ‘Women’s intuition, eh?’ Rupert raised a brow. ‘Good job real decisions aren’t made on that alone.’

  ‘What are you talking about Rupert, your whole fucking career is based on hunches, intuition and gut feeling.’

  ‘That and the small matter of evidence, Angelika.’

  She grimaced at him behind his back.

  ‘You said yourself you had a hunch about the rapist being guilty.’

  ‘His name is Peter Cheshunt, as you very well know, and I never said any such thing!’ Peter Cheshunt was the high-profile TV executive Rupert had recently represented during his much-publicised trial for the rape of a young PA who had worked for him.

  ‘And as you also very well know he was acquitted.’

  ‘You did! When you’d been at the Château Margaux one evening, you said to me you thought he probably was guilty but there wasn’t enough forensic evidence to prove it. Terrible miscarriage of justice if you ask me; thanks in part to you a young woman’s life and reputation is in tatters, and a guilty man walked free. He’ll no doubt do it again, the arrogant bastard.’

  ‘And that’s the whole point,’ Rupert fired back. ‘There wasn’t enough bloody evidence to convict, which is why he was acquitted, and rightly so. It’s called the British Justice system.’

  ‘Yes, but the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming, and you know it. You’re just too bloody good at what you do, that’s the problem. That’s the only reason he’s a free man. We both know he forced that girl to have sex with him, regardless of whether she’d had a drink, regardless of whether she went to his room with him, regardless of her revealing dress or whatever other misogynous bullshit you were peddling to create doubt. She still said no … no, no, no, no, no! What part of the word “no” do you think he didn’t understand, Rupert?’

  ‘It’s a known fact that many women say no when they mean yes, or at least, oh, all right then. It’s a trick they use to make it look like they’re not the easy little sluts, when they know they really are deep down.’

  She shook her head in disgust. He’d said it tongue in cheek to get a rise but she couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure he hadn’t really meant it.

  ‘I will treat that comment with the contempt it deserves.’

  ‘Yes, and will no doubt write a damning piece of journalism – and I use that term loosely – in that ridiculous rag you write for, saying just as much.’

  When did you become so belligerent, Rupert, so small-minded, so nasty?’

  ‘Our wedding day,’ he quipped

  ‘Touché.’ Angelika shook her head as she stomped through the sumptuous cabana in her Calvin Klein pretty-but-functional nude underwear, the sudden knock at the door making her jump.

  Rupert cast a derisory look as he peered around it.

  ‘Yes,’ he snapped at the small olive-skinned woman who greeted him with a subservient bow.

  Saying nothing she simply handed him an envelope and retreated.

  ‘Er, just hang on a minute!’ he yelled out after her but she had scurried off and wearing nothing but cotton boxer shorts, he was reluctant to run after her.

  ‘So British,’ Angelika smirked.

  ‘Didn’t see you sprinting to catch her up in your bloody smalls.’

  �
�I’m surprised you even noticed.’

  ‘Get dressed,’ he snapped as he began to read the contents of the small gold envelope, ‘you were wrong; looks like we’re going to get to meet the man himself after all.’

  14

  Angelika had, in fact, been right; there was no sign of McKenzie as they all gathered expectantly on the decked veranda of the wooden mansion, which was buzzing with staff carrying trays of champagne cocktails and canapés that looked like edible works of art.

  ‘I don’t know about a bloody drink, but I wouldn’t mind some bloody answers,’ Rupert snapped at one of them, swiping a glass from the tray anyway and immediately taking a large slug.

  ‘Were you summonsed here as well?’ He looked at Nate, who was now washed and dressed in a white T-shirt and denim three-quarter-length cut-offs, his dark, thick hair falling to one side, looking like something out of Pour Homme, a complete transformation since yesterday when he’d been a shabby, filthy, blood-stained mess. Rupert sized him up. Poncy-arsed footballers; how they managed to pull so many women when they all looked like one themselves he’d never understand, though he knew the real reason: money and status. The man could’ve had a face like a bag of spanners and they’d still flock to him. It was so … predictable. Still, he had to concede that Nate wasn’t exactly hard on the eye.

  ‘Yeah, the lady – she knocked on the door this morning – handed me the letter requesting we all convene here for welcome drinks.’

  Rupert snorted. ‘Welcome drinks … more like some welcome bloody answers, and they had better be good ones too. I said to the wife I’ll be suing McKenzie’s arse for post-traumatic stress for this fuck up. He’s looking at shelling out millions in compensation, not least a decent chunk to that boy, Joshua. Any news on him by the way?’

  Nate shrugged. ‘Where’s there’s blame there’s a claim, huh, Rupert?’ He smiled. ‘I was thinking more of thanking him for saving my life than suing him after all. He could’ve hardly foreseen such a tragedy, and no, none that I’ve been told, at least not yet.’

  He smiled at Angelika, acknowledging her presence and she returned it with one of her own. He was struck by how pretty she was now that he could see her properly in daylight, her hair freshly washed and loose, sun-dried into natural waves, her skin clear and free of that gunk Billie-Jo covered herself in.

  Today, Billie-Jo had dressed for the occasion in an Agent Provocateur cut-out swimsuit that was completely impractical for sunbathing but showcased her assets to their ultimate best nonetheless. She’d teamed the strappy, sexy creation with a pair of the vertiginous Louboutin gladiator sandals that were among the many she had discovered in the closet, piling on the gold and diamond jewellery that had been neatly displayed at her disposal. More was always more, as far as Billie-Jo was concerned. Her ears pricked. Rupert’s use of the word ‘compensation’ had ignited her interest in the conversation.

  ‘So you think there’s a chance we might be in for a bit of compo then?’ She wasn’t able to conceal the avarice in her eyes, not even with a pair of oversized Chloé sunglasses on.

  Rupert harrumphed. ‘I’ll say. PTS is big business and bucks these days.’

  Billie-Jo made a mental note to herself to keep on his good side. He could be useful when the time came.

  ‘So, was your wardrobe full of designer clobber an’ all?’ she asked Angelika, giving her the once over. She felt a slither of envy as she realised Angelika appeared both slimmer and more attractive now that she could see her in broad daylight. She possessed that quiet sort of natural beauty that usually photographed well, and she had good hair, skin and teeth, even if she was in her thirties. ‘I swear down I nearly had a fuckin’ heart attack when I opened mine!’

  A waitress approached them with a spectacular-looking selection of breakfast sweets and savouries: mini Danish pastries that had been baked in the shape of hearts; canapé-sized muffins with crispy bacon, drizzled with maple syrup; eggs Benedict; and smoked salmon and cream-cheese bagels, which were warm and smelled delicious.

  ‘How many calories are in those?’ Billie-Jo pointed to the offerings. ‘I’m a model, yeah, so I have to watch my figure. You know what I’m saying?’

  The waitress smiled and nodded as they helped themselves. They were all ravenous, even Billie-Jo who’d already ingested a line of coke for breakfast.

  Angelika had indeed been surprised to discover her wardrobe had been neatly stocked with beautiful designer clothes: Dolce & Gabbana capri pants in pretty colours with matching shell tops; neat graphic-print shift dresses by Victoria Beckham; denim cuts-off; and rows of soft, white, cotton shirts, cashmere cardigans and Breton tees – her favourites; wide-brim, straw fedoras with pretty ribbons; an array of floral tea dresses and boho-inspired scarves. It was as if it had all been hand selected by a personal stylist. It was the same for Rupert, too; even down to the pink shirts and paisley cravats he often favoured. McKenzie, so it seemed, had thought of everything and seemed to know more about their sartorial preferences than she could have anticipated. But how?

  ‘Yes,’ Angelika said, ‘and I suppose it was a good job really seeing as though we lost everything in the plane crash. Bit odd, though, don’t you think? How they could’ve known our individual styles and tastes.’

  Billie-Jo blinked at her in quick succession. Odd or not, she certainly wasn’t complaining.

  ‘S’pose,’ she murmured, wondering if Mia Manhattan had been given the same treatment. She suddenly saw Mia approaching the veranda. Seeing her all done up like a dog’s Christmas dinner concluding that she probably had.

  ‘So, where the fucking hell is that dreadful cunt McKenzie, then?’ Mia certainly knew how to make a show-stopping entrance. Her colourful choice of language was enough to raise the most liberal-minded brow, not that she cared. Decades spent in the privileged position of being able to say and do as she pleased without question had afforded her carte blanche to be a rude as she deemed appropriate, even in the court room, as Rupert remembered only too well.

  ‘What was she like?’ Angelika had asked him at the time of the highly publicised trial; she had been keen for an insight into the superstar’s behaviour on a personal as well as professional level. This was Mia Manhattan, after all.

  ‘Exactly how you would expect someone who hasn’t heard the word “no” for two decades to be,’ he’d responded tartly.

  The media had gone berserk for the Manhattan case and not least for the singer’s choice of court attire, which had been religiously documented, discussed, dissected and debated at great length throughout the duration of the trial. Never one to disappoint her fans, Mia had faced such scrutiny with aplomb. Her shameless avant-garde sartorial choices – while deemed wildly inappropriate for legal proceedings – had gone down the proverbial treat with fashion editors the world over and made her something of an unlikely style icon in the process, particularly among the more camp members of society.

  Today she had chosen to wear a white-and-gold floor-length Lanvin Grecian number reminiscent of Cleopatra, chosen from the impressive selection that had been at her disposal. If she was going to tear a strip off McKenzie, then she’d be sure she looked good while doing it. Besides, she hadn’t seen the man for years, and, angry though she was, she still wanted to remind him of what he’d missed out on, all those years ago.

  Mia had felt guilty experiencing a slither of joy as she’d dressed herself in the mirror that morning. She was glad to be alive, to have survived such an ordeal and come through it unscathed. However, as yet there had been no news on Joshua’s condition, a fact that gnawed at her conscience. Hell, she didn’t even know where he was. Moreover she had been incensed to find there was no phone inside the villa on which she could make the necessary telephone calls. As she’d inspected her svelte silhouette from every conceivable angle, she’d vowed to contact Richard as soon as she could locate a telephone. Dickie would bail her out, her and Joshua; she would get him to send a plane for them immediately, fly them away from this place. Ev
en in spite of the bitter acrimony between them, following their highly publicised divorce, she knew deep down he would never see her in any real distress or danger. Then she would promptly phone that great dollop-of-shit agent of hers and fire his fat, useless, greedy arse once and for all. Screw Bailey, she didn’t need him anymore, or McKenzie either for that matter. Bollocks to the pair of them; she’d sort out her own comeback; do I’m a Celebrity…Get me Out of Here! if she had to. Hell if she could survive the past twenty-four hours then she could survive anything.

  ‘That’s what we’re all here waiting to find out, Mia,’ Rupert snapped at her, ‘after all, we’re hardly here for the free bubbly and canapés … or are we?’

  ‘Pity you weren’t flying that bloody plane, Deyton,’ she muttered. ‘You.’ Mia pointed a manicured finger at one of the waiters buzzing past. ‘I need a telephone.’

  He stared at her, bemused.

  ‘A tele-phone …’ she repeated, waggling her hand in a universally understood thumb and finger sign. The waiter simply nodded before hurrying away back up towards the entrance of the house.

  ‘You’d think he’d have managed to employ some English-speaking staff,’ she scoffed, washing down a quail eggs Benedict canapé with a glass of champagne. ‘Bloody miser, probably paying them slave wages.’ She looked at Billie-Jo. ‘Do you have a telephone in your suite?’

  ‘No,’ Billie-Jo replied, a little startled by Mia’s abrupt question, ‘I was hoping to phone me mum as well, let her know I’m OK; she’ll be worried.’ Though in all truth Billie-Jo knew that as long as her old dear hadn’t run out of Johnny Walker and Rothmans she’d probably be right as Larry.

  Not that she begrudged her, mind – Tracy Glynn had endured hardship and suffering like no one else she knew and it was little short of God’s will her old mum hadn’t drunk herself to death with what she’d had to put up with over the years. With four different kids from four different blokes – she wasn’t even sure who had fathered Billie-Jo and had told her it was ‘probably just as well’ – it had been a lifetime of borderline poverty and hardship for Tracy, a stream of misogynists, alcoholics and junkies who were happy to put a fist in her face if the oven chips were served cold, or she’d bought the wrong beer, or there was a ‘y’ in the month.