‘If in doubt, say nought.’ She thought of the seasoned advice her poor downtrodden mum had often given her. Good advice, she now conceded. Deny, deny, deny, yeah that’s what she’d do. Forgive herself and move on. They’d all been off their tits last night anyway, Nate included. In fact, her husband had been all over that Angelika bird like the clap if her sketchy memory was correct – something she’d not been best pleased about. She’d worked hard to ensnare Nate Simmons and get him up the aisle and she wasn’t about to give up her investment without a fight.
Deep down, however, Billie-Jo knew that he didn’t truly love her, or that they were particularly well-suited, at least not beyond the façade. Nate was happy to let his star fade into obscurity, while hers, she felt, was on the ascent. But she still needed him; he still possessed clout on the celeb circuit, was still receiving offers of advertising deals and invitations to A-list events. In a few years’ time she hoped it would be a different story. By then she planned to be a household name in her own right, in which case if he wanted emancipation from her, to slip back into being a nobody with the hoi polloi, then on he could go. Billie-Jo ended up hurting everyone she’d ever been close to in her life; it was all she’d understood and felt comfortable with. It was damn or be damned, as far as she was concerned. Yet she did care about Nate, more than any of the other geezers she’d known. Maybe it was as close to love as she’d ever been. But if he had to be collateral damage in her bid for fame then que sera, sera, although she wished it didn’t have to be that way.
Inside her fragile heart, Billie-Jo knew that Nate Simmons was a good man, too good for her really. He was gentle, empathetic and sensitive; everything she wished she could be. But there was no good in being sentimental, that shit saw you chewed up and spat out for the dogs. You had to play hardball in this life to get what you wanted, and undoubtedly this meant a few casualties along the way. Nate was slipping away from her and she knew it but she had to make things right with him for now, while she thought of plan B.
Looking up, Billie-Jo saw JJ approaching. He was holding a beer in his good hand and waving at her, his long bed-hair flapping in momentum as he slunk towards her with that insouciant rock-star swagger.
‘Ah,’ she said quietly to herself, ‘speaking of plan B.’
‘Drugged?’ Elaine McKenzie looked up at Rupert, her cold, steely eyes unblinking.
He felt she had a slight smirk on her face and it made him feel like smacking her across it.
‘What on earth would make you think such a thing?’
Rupert sized her up calmly. As a formidable barrister he had, over the years, represented and prosecuted everyone from child murderers and rapists to tax-dodging celebrities, and just about everyone else in between; nothing truly shocked him anymore. He’d seen a life-time of heinous crime and degradation perpetrated by pure evil and come face-to-face with it on many occasions. He was versed in cross examination, used to dealing with narcissists, liars who’d tell you the moon was square and almost convince you of it, too, but he was not about to be fobbed off by this ugly, wizened dwarf.
‘Being drugged would make me think such a thing, Elaine,’ he replied.
‘Really, that’s quite absurd.’ She looked at him with horrified incredulity. ‘How, for one thing, and why, for another, come to that?’
‘All questions I put to you, Mrs McKenzie,’ he replied.
Elaine shook her head and walked towards the wooden antique desk that formed the centrepiece of the vast colonial study.
‘Frankly, I’m a little shocked, not to mention offended. That’s a very bold accusation to make – as a man of your profession would well know – and completely unfounded.’
‘Last night,’ Rupert said, ‘none of us have any recollection of it whatsoever.’ Or so he hoped, praying he was speaking for Mia as well. ‘It’s a total blank. And my wife, she was sick, violently sick. And my wife is never sick, Elaine. That woman hasn’t thrown up on alcohol since the 1980s. Something’s amiss.’
Elaine gave a thin smile, careful to maintain eye contact as she did.
‘I realise a lot of alcohol was consumed,’ she conceded, ‘but Pleasure Island is a special place, Mr Deyton. It can have a very intoxicating effect on a person. I’m sure you all needed to let your hair down a little and …’
Elaine was an accomplished liar but then again so was this man, and no more to anyone than himself, it seemed, having watched the footage of him from last night’s little soirée. She hadn’t had Rupert Deyton down as a closet fag, and it had given cause for a wry smile. Just went to show you could never judge a book by its cover. However, she was a touch unnerved by the conclusions he’d drawn, not least because they were true.
Elaine had researched the correct dosage of drugs meticulously and made sure they had been administered methodically. In hindsight, however, she realised that perhaps she had not policed the amount the journo had been given overall, but then she had been under strict instructions from her husband to pay special attention to Angelika Deyton. Now Rupert Deyton was suspicious and Marty would be angry with her.
Even if she wasn’t even aware of the fact, Elaine McKenzie was under her husband’s complete physical and emotional control. Over the duration of their twenty-five-year marriage, the woman she had started out as had gradually been whittled away and replaced with a virtual ‘stepford wife’. It had been a prolonged process of manipulation and subtle cruelty over the years, withholding affection and money in turn for complete subordination, alienating her from family and friends, cutting her off from society until she was solely and completely dependent upon him, not even so much as having an autonomous thought of her own. Elaine couldn’t so much as take a dump without Marty’s say so, yet in his own way her husband respected her; he had transformed her into a formidable and fiercely loyal ally upon which he could put upon without question, rewarding her with praise and entrusting her with his dirty work. This in turn afforded Elaine a sense of importance and self-worth, her sole purpose being simply to please and appease her husband in any and all ways possible. As a result her own moral compass no longer existed; over the years she had gradually taken on Martin McKenzie’s persona as her own and now they were practically one and the same.
‘Where exactly is your husband?’ Rupert asked through narrowed eyes, ‘It’s been over a week now. This is the twenty-first century, Elaine. You can’t tell me all lines of communication are still down: no phone, no internet … no means of getting off the island to get help.’
‘Help from what?’ she answered him coolly, lighting a thin, brown cigarette from a packet on the table.
Unsure exactly how to answer, he moved closer towards the desk, placing his hands upon it like he would when cross-examining a witness. He could smell her perfume, musky and unpleasant, almost cheap. Her practical no-nonsense white shirt, buttoned to the neck, was clearly tailored, designer probably, yet teamed with loose grey slacks gave her the overall sartorial look of a prison warden, which he was beginning to think she was, of sorts.
‘Aren’t you a little pissed off that he’s left you in the lurch, here, alone, to deal with your guests, tend to our myriad whims? I know I would be. And if he’s expecting positive publicity on the back of all of this …’ He snorted. ‘He can bloody well think again. We were almost killed in that crash. Two people died, Elaine … died! And, frankly, it’s rather worrying, your lack of concern.’
Elaine struggled to maintain composure, though Rupert was not aware of it.
‘One person,’ she corrected him, adding, ‘that we know of.’
‘Drop the act, Elaine,’ he said stoically, ‘you can’t kid a kidder. Tell me why we are here?’ Rupert addressed her slowly, his eyes fixed upon her in a fierce glare. ‘What’s the real purpose of this exercise? And don’t fob me off with all that promotional bullshit because I don’t buy it. I want – no – I demand you tell me straight, Elaine? I’ve smelt a rat from day one, and I’m not talking about that rancid perfume of yours either.
’
Elaine didn’t much care for such a personal remark and was offended. Marty had bought her this perfume back from the Middle East on one of his business trips and she thought it was rather exotic. She would need to speak to her husband about this; she had expected questions, complaints even, but she didn’t want a mutiny on her hands. What was wrong with these people? They were enjoying luxury of the like only those with the most-colourful imaginations and deep pockets could possibly envisage and yet still they were bitching and moaning like a bunch of spoiled children. Elaine McKenzie had genuinely believed that, in spite of the crash, or perhaps even because of it, they would actually be grateful to her and realise just how lucky and privileged they were to be alive.
‘You don’t like the island?’ she mused.
‘What’s not to like,’ he replied sharply, ‘it’s paradise. Only that’s not the issue and you know it.’
‘You really ought to explore a little more, go fishing perhaps, snorkling... Maybe you should spend the day at the spa, pamper yourself, or watch a film if sunbathing isn’t your thing. And I trust the cuisine has met with your high expectations, although I understand you have already sampled some of the delights on offer.’ She smiled again, the corners of her thin lips twitching.
Rupert’s jaw clenched. What was she insinuating?
Elaine smiled, more affably now.
‘Please don’t look so concerned. Whatever happens on Pleasure Island stays on Pleasure Island, I can assure you of that.’
Rupert felt his blood run to ice. Did she know something? He struggled to hold his nerve but years of practise kept his core from collapsing.
‘The only thing I’m concerned about, McKenzie, is getting out of this Goddamn place. And when I do –’ his voice was low now, menacing even ‘– I’m going to file the biggest lawsuit in history against you and that twisted control freak you’re married to, bankrupt the pair of you. You’ve endangered six people’s lives, killed a pilot and possibly a flight attendant, poisoned us with God knows what, and have refused to allow us to make a phone call. Strip you of all that wealth of yours and you’re nothing but a pair of common criminals.’
Elaine picked up the receiver from the old-fashioned antique telephone on the desk and held it out to him.
‘Check for yourself. The lines are still down. Perhaps you haven’t quite understood,’ she explained slowly, her tone falling somewhere between disingenuous and patronising, ‘this is a remote place Rupert, one that my husband has gone to great lengths to make inhabitable but nonetheless still quite rudimentary in parts; the storm destroyed all the cable lines we had put in. I’m afraid they were very basic and could not withstand the battering they took. I’m hoping they will be fixed imminently and that we’ll soon have satellite signal again but you must understand, this is a slow place...the pace of life, everything is mañana.’
‘I think you’re forgetting just who’re you’re talking to.’ Rupert raised his chin defiantly. ‘You may think you can try and pull the wool over my eyes but really this would be a foolish mistake, Elaine.’ He accentuated her name with a smirk. ‘And frankly I’m sick of talking to the organ grinder; I want to see the monkey face to face.’
She dismissed his invective with an affable smile.
‘Well, that makes two of us,’ she said, ‘but as I’ve already said, it’s not safe for my husband to fly here while the weather is still inclement and we’re on alert.’
Rupert shook his head. ‘The breeze wouldn’t even knock your hat off; it’s been the epitome of calm ever since we got here.’
‘That may be, and long may it continue, but until we have the official go ahead –’
‘So what happens when the food runs out, hmm? When there’s no more champagne and lobster? What then? And what about the staff? Don’t they have families who’ll be concerned about their safety, worried when they can’t make contact home? You insult my intellect, McKenzie.’
‘Your concern for the staff is touching, I must say. It’ll just take a little longer to be fixed, and then … all will be well. These people have come to expect such inconveniences in life, Rupert, unlike you and I. A little more patience is perhaps a good lesson, no?’
Rupert chortled.
‘Well, they do say you have to meet the wrong people to teach you the right lessons in life, so perhaps you’ve got a point.’
She laughed too now, a manic sound that made him feel edgy.
‘I appreciate your cereal-box sentiment, Rupert, but I fear your profession has made you somewhat cynical and suspicious.’
‘What’s in the boxes?’ He met her steely gaze with his own. ‘Those big, black, metal boxes you gave us all at the start of the week … not to be opened until you get the “nod from God”.’
‘I really have no idea, I’m afraid,’ she said, honestly this time. The boxes had been Martin’s plan, a plan she hadn’t been privy to. All she knew was that she was not to distribute the keys until he said so. Frankly she was as intrigued as her guest.
‘I’m sure once the phone lines are up and running …’
‘And what if that doesn’t happen?’
Questions, so many damned questions. He was beginning to irritate her. But then she supposed she might be as uptight, too, if she had to carry around the secrets he did.
‘Will we be stranded here forever, for the rest of our natural days. Will we die here, Elaine?’
This was not really an idea Rupert had truly contemplated but it had dramatic effect in driving his point home nonetheless.
Elaine McKenzie undid the top button on the collar of her shirt, white bespoke Givenchy poplin, and lit another brown, foul-smelling cigarette. She looked up at him. Stupid, pompous, arse of a man, she thought, forcibly blowing smoke in his direction.
‘I never had you down as a drama queen, Rupert.’ She sighed, her eyes fixed intently upon his own. ‘Besides, I could think of a lot worse ways to go, couldn’t you?’
33
The moribund silence during aperitifs was deafening as all but Mia convened, as they did every evening, underneath the shaded, canopied patio on the grounds of the McKenzie mansion. Set back into the mountains at some considerable height, the position afforded perhaps one of the most-stunning views over the entire island, though this was subject to debate; the sea stretched out eternally into the distance like a shimmering, rippled blanket, the last of the days rays dancing on the surface like silver fish, surrounding shady trees casting intricate black crochet shadows around them like a web. The sun was beginning to descend now, slowly slipping behind the water, dripping its final throes of maroon light into the giant expanse of sea.
‘Not even a boat,’ Angelika said, her thousand-mile stare unbroken by her words. ‘Just the perfect colours of nature, untouched … the sun and the sea …’ Her words trailed off along with her gaze.
‘If only a blasted boat.’ Rupert’s brittle tone shattered the moment. ‘I mean, have you even seen a boat?’ He addressed no one in particular and no one answered. ‘Exactly. It’s been over a week and none of us has seen anything pass this godforsaken place, sea or air.’
The mention of a boat once again sparked something in Angelika’s memory. She felt sure she’d seen one, possibly two at some point but couldn’t quite remember where or when. Perhaps she really had just imagined it after all and it was just wishful thinking. Or perhaps they had been on the far north side of the island that was obscured from view by McKenzie’s mansion and gardens. Access to this part of the island wasn’t straightforward; you had to pass through McKenzie’s grounds and on a descending rough trail that led down to the other side of the beach. She vowed to take a look soon.
‘Ah, who gives a shit, man,’ JJ said, swishing his long hair from his face in a laissez-faire manner, ‘who cares where the fuck we are. It’s awesome here. And we’re supposed to be having fun, right?’
Jesus, JJ wondered, did this dude ever stopped complaining? From the moment JJ had returned to the island, Rupert had
not stopped bitching about something or the other. Whiney-assed Brit. Like, what did he have to complain about anyways? After all he was the one who’d almost lost his freakin’ arm in a plane crash. He was the one with his digits in fucking plaster unable to wipe his own ass properly. If anyone had cause for griping it was him, but why bother? It was done, right? He’d survived, they all had, and his arm would mend. Besides, this place was six-star luxury of the like he’d never see again in ten lifetimes. What’s not to like? While admittedly the accident had been a real bummer, the welcome-home party in his honour had more than made up for it in JJ’s eyes.
Still, in a way he’d wished he’d not put so much of that shit up his nose because it had clearly fucked with his head, he couldn’t remember a damned thing and was pissed about it; he would’ve liked to have had some recollection of boning Billie-Jo. Whatever was up the British dude’s asshole he didn’t know but he was certainly enjoying himself.
‘How’s the arm, JJ?’ Nate asked. He thought it best to make small talk with JJ, act ignorant to his obvious designs on Billie-Jo. There was every real chance JJ had already screwed her: a fact he was oddly resigned to and not nearly as upset about as he should’ve been.
Pleasure Island Page 20
