‘Apparently the engine practically gave out – failed a few seconds before we touched down on the island. The pilot said we were very lucky. I mean, fuck that; since I’ve been here I’ve survived a near-death experiences! Lucky for me I was medicated up on pills and booze. Not sure I ever wanna get on another plane in my whole goddamn life, though –’ he looked at her sagely ‘– which kinda might be a problem when I’m touring, you know. I hope McKenzie’s gonna shell out for some therapy … reckon I’ll need it.’
Mia snorted. ‘Ha, and the rest of us. We’ll rinse that bastard once we’re back on home turf. And your arm?’ The vision of bone protruding through flesh flashed up in her mind and she felt her skin prickle.
He shrugged.
‘It was a freakin’ bad break, but it’ll be good as new, they reckon.’
‘You might want a second opinion on that. We should be thinking about getting off this bloody island and getting you seen to by a proper professional, someone in the States.’ She gently probed him again; he hadn’t been fully compos mentis last night and she hadn’t wanted to push him too much. ‘So you didn’t get to make a phone call? There definitely wasn’t one in the hospital?’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t ask for one … like I said, I was flying on liquid H. Making a phone call didn’t even register on my radar.’
‘You didn’t think of asking the pilot? Or the nurse? Or anyone else you came into contact with if they had a phone you could borrow?’
JJ heard the smallest amount of irritation in Mia’s tone and felt his own rise to match it. ‘You know, Mia, I was alone, injured, not knowing what fuck had happened to me … hell, I didn’t even know my own name.’
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘I was just so worried about you.’
‘Anyways, the last thing I wanna do is get on another fucking plane, dude. Right now, all I wanna do is relax, recuperate and check this place out. It looks awesome.’
She couldn’t argue with that.
‘Did you miss me?’ he asked her, with a cheeky smile. Now that the morphine had worn off, JJ’s faculties – libido included – had returned with a burning vengeance.
Comparatively Mia’s had done the polar opposite, at least as far as JJ was concerned. The horror of what had happened to him during the crash, watching as he’d lay there injured and bleeding – dying, for all she knew – had caused her to view him in an altogether different light. She wanted to take care of him, make sure he was OK, but she no longer wanted him between her legs. In fact, the very idea made her suddenly cringe with embarrassment.
‘Cos I missed you,’ he said, the bulge in his shorts becoming increasingly visible.
Mia sighed. Last night he had fallen into bed and slept like a baby. She supposed it would be terribly mean to deny him now that he was feeling better, and she duly opened the belt of her La Perla kimono, allowing it to slide to the floor.
‘Be quick though, darling,’ she said, as, now naked, she bent over the arm of the sofa, watching as he stepped out of his shorts, his undeniably impressive erection springing forward with alacrity, ‘there’s a party happening on the terrace by the pool and you’re the guest of honour so we’d better get a move on.’
‘So, how is he? Really, I mean?’ Nate looked at Mia with genuine concern, and she was suddenly struck by what terribly kind eyes he had.
‘Can’t remember a bloody thing, poor love.’ She sighed. ‘Dosed up on morphine for the most part, by all accounts.’
Nate took a sip of Kir Royal. ‘Ahh, the pain eliminator that is morphine.’
‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,’ she said.
‘They pumped me full of the stuff when I broke my leg on the pitch. I remember thinking no wonder people become addicted to this shit. It was like dying and going to heaven.’
Mia snorted softly. ‘And that’s just one of the reasons I’ve never tried it, darling. I’ve seen many people succumb to opiates over the course of my career, people who were looking for something to take the pain away.’ At the mention of pain, her thoughts turned to Richard. When he had left her, Mia had used all sorts in a bid to kill the intense emotional agony she’d faced: drugs; alcohol; hypnotherapy; casual sex – all temporary fixes, the high simply masking the pain that would inevitably return with a renewed clarity and vengeance.
‘If only there was a magic pill, eh?’ she said, washing down her bitterness and regret with a mouthful of Cristal.
‘If only,’ Nate agreed.
‘Now you really do sound as if you’re talking from experience.’
She looked at him properly for the first time, studying his face; his large, grey-blue eyes and thick lashes, his full lips and neat bone structure. he was terribly handsome and young – late 20s she surmised – and he had a wonderfully calming presence about him … an easiness she found rather comforting.
‘Must’ve been difficult for you,’ she said, ‘losing the career you’d worked so hard for because of an injury. It would be like me losing my voice.’
Nate cocked his head.
‘Not as hard as learning you’re adopted via national newspaper...’ He was still hurting about it, it was always there.
‘Ahh,’ she said, suddenly understanding. She remembered reading something about it in the papers, albeit briefly. ‘Well, I can only imagine how dreadful that must’ve been.’ She pulled at her long, split-to-the-thigh, chiffon, Versace dress almost in protest. ‘Bloody press have no morals, unscrupulous bastards all of them. Sell their firstborn to you for a fleeting headline, most of them.’ The irony of her own words was not lost on her.
‘The worst thing is not having anyone to turn to,’ he found himself saying. ‘Both my parents – adoptive parents anyway – are dead, and, well …’
Instinctively she touched his arm.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘At least you have Billie-Jo.’
Nate raised an eyebrow, causing her to smile.
Mia felt a sudden overwhelming sadness for him. It was the first time she had spoken candidly with him and she saw he was sensitive – gentle even – quietly intelligent and eloquent. Clearly there was more than met the eye and she berated herself for having judged him so quickly as a stereotypical footballer type; she should know better by now, really.
‘You’ve been married long?’
Nate shook his head.
‘A couple of years.’ It felt like a lifetime already, he thought to himself.
‘Well, marriages have their ups and downs,’ she said, sensing trouble ahead for him; Billie-Jo had it stamped on her like a hallmark. ‘As long as there’s trust and respect then the rest of it is simply riding the storm.’ She realised how incredulous that sounded. Who was she to give advice – newly divorced after twenty five-years of marriage – but it was nonetheless true. She and Dickie had ridden many a storm throughout the duration of their union, storms Mia reluctantly was beginning to concede were predominantly of her own making.
‘I can’t stand the drama anymore, Mimi,’ Dickie had said, ‘the crashing highs and lows, the euphoria and crippling despair. I’m creeping up on sixty years old and I’m tired, tired of being treated like my emotions don’t count, wondering if they ever really did. It’s all about Mimi, me-me, and it always has been. I’ve tried to fill the hole inside of you, Mia – Lord knows I’ve given half my life trying to – but I realise now it would never be enough, and the more I try and fill the hole, the deeper I realise it goes. My whole life has been about you and your career, and now, well, now I want something for myself. Is that so wrong?’
Something? Someone more like, she’d thought. Those words had wounded Mia so deeply that she would have traded an eye not to have been forced to accept them. Deep down she knew all of what he had said was true, but then he had gone and spoilt it all by shacking up with a bloody schoolgirl! That’s when her rage had truly emerged – when all the blame and acrimony had begun. Anger was such a destructive emotion; it tore through her psyche like a
nail bomb with revenge being all she could focus on. And yet really she had wanted to tell him that he was right, that she understood her part in it all, that she had been selfish and dominant, that there was a black hole inside of her that couldn’t be filled. And the hole was in the shape of a tiny person she had met and held in her arms for less than a few minutes.
‘Billie-Jo, she’s very … ambitious,’ Mia said, but then she understood that more than most. Despite having thrown a drink over the girl in outrage, Mia bore her no real malice. She’d dealt with the likes of Billie-Jo a thousand times over in her life and wasn’t about to bear a grudge. They’d all been drinking the night of that stupid game and Billie-Jo was young and feisty, much like she herself had been at her age.
‘Yep, that’s Bee, all right. Fame’s the name of the game,’ he said, ‘I’m only here because of her. I’ve never been interested in that side of things. I just wanted to play football.’
‘Unfortunately talent and fame generally go hand in hand, though the two are not mutually exclusive, especially these days. A girl’s only got to wear a risqué dress to a party and she’s the next big thing.’
She glanced over at Billie-Jo who was, by all accounts, already half-cut, swaying to a Bruno Mars track that was playing in the background, clutching a champagne flute as she attempted to coerce JJ into dancing with her, wrapping her arms around him provocatively, shrieking loudly and laughing as her Hervé Léger body-con bandage-dress rode northwards of her slim thighs. Mia clocked the look of resignation on Nate’s face. She could see their relationship for what it was – the narcissist and the co-dependant – and knew the outcome already. Sometimes she wished she wasn’t so old and didn’t know or understand the things she had come to learn throughout her life. Youth and ignorance really were bliss, if only she had made the most of both.
‘So, what’s next for you, Nate?’
Mia took a swig of champagne, hoping it would wash away the lump of emotion lodged in the back of her throat. She was feeling a little tipsy herself now, even after all that delicious food, and was decidedly melancholy.
‘Who knows?’ He sighed, draining his own glass, his eye sill drawn towards his wife’s inappropriate antics. ‘Get drunk?’ He laughed, acknowledging the speed of which it had been refreshed by a member of staff with a mock-shocked grin. Mia laughed with him. She wasn’t bothered by JJ and Billie-Jo’s brazen flirtatious display; that ship had already sailed.
‘The journo’s more your type, isn’t she?’ she asked, though she wasn’t sure where it had come from.
‘What makes you say that?’ he said, a little taken aback. Was it that obvious?
Mia didn’t know how to answer.
‘Intuition,’ she said, finally. It was the best she could come up with.
27
Angelika was giddy. Barefoot with her ditzy, floral, Chloé dress hoisted up to her thighs, she was dancing on the table with abandon, careering perilously close to the impressive five-tier cake.
‘God, I love this song!’ she shrieked, breathless as she sloshed champagne down the front of her dress, soaking her cleavage. ‘Oops!’ She laughed, putting her hand over her mouth. ‘Come on, Billie-Jo! Let’s dance!’
Rupert was watching his wife with unconcealed derision. What in God’s name did she think she was playing at? He didn’t recognise her. This wasn’t Angelika; sociable she may be, but an exhibitionist? He eyed her curiously as she tossed her long, caramel hair behind her and ground her hips up against the gazebo pole, kicking her legs in the air.
‘She’s a better dancer than I thought she would be, I’ll give her that.’ Billie-Jo sniggered, watching Angelika’s display through a mix of humour and mild jealousy. ‘And check out her fella’s face!’ She laughed. ‘He looks right pissed-off. Couldn’t have fun in a prozzie parlour with a packet of Durex, that one.’
‘Jeez, he should let the girl have some fun.’ JJ was standing next to her, a little too close to be wholly appropriate. ‘That dude has a real stick up his ass, man. He needs to lighten up.’ He copped an eyeful of Angelika’s thighs as she twerked on the table to the sound of Chris Brown.
Angelika was enjoying herself, lost in the moment, her head spinning as fast as her body around the pole. She felt light as a feather, as if she might float off into the night like a balloon if she didn’t hold on tight.
‘It’s good to be back on the island with you guys,’ JJ said, and he meant it. The past few days had been all but a blur, a kind of weird psychedelic trip almost. If it wasn’t for the very real cast on his arm (he’d discarded the sling, too cumbersome and uncool), he might’ve written it all off as a bad dream. He wasn’t even in any real pain anymore.
‘Good to have you back,’ Billie-Jo said, returning the compliment. JJ offered a more appropriate, appreciative audience for her narcissistic validation. She would enjoy him watching her perfect, young, fit-and-toned body as it paraded itself around the island in a perpetual state of near nakedness, his lustful wide-eyed stares and lascivious smiles as she did her best Halle Berry impersonations while exiting the swimming pool.
But she was worried; what had transpired between her and the masseur had seriously freaked her out and she was struggling to enjoy herself as a result. Following her unplanned intimate encounter, Billie-Jo had returned from the spa in a hazy state of shock and – something she wasn’t used to experiencing – guilt. For all the layers of protection she had built around her fragile soul, manifesting itself in the form of selfishness, lack of empathy and general self-entitlement, she was not entirely without human conscience. She had not set out to cheat on her husband and certainly not in such a spontaneous and reckless manner, and now she was panicking. What would happen if Nate found out? She’d made a grave schoolgirl-error by shitting on her own doorstep, big style.
She thought about the question she’d been given in the game of truth or dare – ‘none of the above … because I wouldn’t cheat in the first place’ – and swallowed dryly. In her defence Billie-Jo had not been herself in that room. So she’d had a few lines of coke; that was no biggie, a regular occurrence, nothing she couldn’t or hadn’t handled before. She was a high-functioning user, and had never before found herself in such a precarious predicament. There had been plenty of opportunities for her to cheat in the past, men she’d been attracted to, men she might’ve considered fucking if it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d already secured the golden goose itself. How had she allowed herself to have such a spectacular lapse of judgement and self-control? She swigged back some more champagne as she half-listened to JJ droning on in the background. To make matters worse, the sex had been the most incredible of her entire life, her orgasm more intense than any she’d ever experienced, so much so that it had fleetingly crossed her mind to go back for more. However, common sense had prevailed. What if the masseur told one of the other members of staff, confessed all after a few beers like blokes did? What if word got out she had screwed the hired help? Visions flashed through her mind of what it must have looked like when his impressive cock was sliding in and out of her from behind as she moaned with pleasure pushing himself slowly, deeply, gently inside her. Fucking Jesus shit Christ.
‘I heard from Mia that all the staff here are like mutes or something freaky like that, man,’ JJ said, continuing with the one-way conversation, oblivious to the chaos taking place inside Billie-Jo’s mind.
A light switched on inside her head. Fuck, yeah, of course; they were all fucking mutes! Maybe that would just be enough to save her pretty, little ass.
‘Do you think they talk to each other?’ she asked. ‘In secret, I mean?’
JJ shrugged. ‘Fuck knows, dude. I mean, it’s some kinda social disorder or some shit like that, isn’t it, so I kinda doubt it.’
Billie-Jo gave him a smile of light relief which he translated as a sign she would probably, at some point over the course of proceedings, agree to sucking him off, just so long as Mia and her husband didn’t find out, of course. He may have
been doped up to the eyeballs the night he’d come back to the island and they had played that game, but he knew a sure thing when it saw it. He smiled at her as he threw back more champagne. He would look forward to it.
28
‘What’s the matter, Rupert?’
Mia sashayed towards him, her black, shiny bob swinging in time to her hips, her Heidi Klein kaftan flapping dramatically, affording him a waft of her cloying signature scent. It was the same perfume he remembered her wearing throughout the duration of the trial: Shalimar. He’d hate it then, too.
‘Is she having too much fun for your liking?’ she asked, nodding at Angelika, who was still throwing shapes on the table with gusto.
Rupert inwardly groaned, though in all honesty he was beginning to loosen up a little himself, his feet subconsciously tapping along to the deep, urban bassline that was pumping out of the state-of-the-art surround-sound speaker system. He, nor, in fact, any of them, had the first inkling that their drinks may have been laced with a little ‘livener’, as McKenzie had called it, and that, together with the music, a ‘special substance’ was also being pumped out via the air-mist sprinkler system above them that was supposedly in place to keep them cool from the sultry evening heat. For tonight’s special occasion, McKenzie had given staff strict instructions to be most attentive towards Angelika, ensuring her glass was always full. Bloody inquisitive bitch had been asking far too many questions and needed to be kept in check.
‘Do you remember that time you shut that mouth of yours and kept quiet, Mia?’ Rupert addressed her with a saccharine smile, quickly adding, ‘no, me neither.’
‘Bothers you, doesn’t it, watching your wife having a good time, indulging her sexuality?’ She sipped at her glass, eyeing him from above the rim, enjoying his obvious discomfort. ‘Such a hypocrite, Rupert,’ she mused. ‘Tell me, when was the last time you indulged yours …’
Pleasure Island Page 17
