Pleasure Island

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  Well, she supposed, attempting to find a bright side, at least she now had something else on Deyton, another stick to beat him with; every cloud, eh? Upper hand or no, she’d still rather none of it had happened. But what’s done is done and can’t be undone, Mia told herself and not for the first time in her life either. No regrets; well, perhaps just the one. She thought of her child in her arms then, the moment she had held her son for the first time, an image that hadn’t faded along with her youth and looks and fought back tears.

  Pulling herself together, she smoothed her hands over her neat, shiny, black bob, a trademark style she’d had since time immemorial. ‘Well, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’ as her stylist would say. Bobs never went out of fashion, even if her music had; look at Anna Wintour and Jennifer Anniston. She adjusted the tie on her Diane Von Furstenberg animal-print, silk-jersey-and-chiffon wrap dress, opening the neckline a little to reveal a more cleavage and then pulling it back again. Why was she bothering to try and compete? She’d come here with a boy young enough to be her son, grandson even, and it was clear that he had turned his attentions on Billie-Jo. Who was she kidding anyway; she had been nothing more than a stepping-stone to Joshua Jones. Now that his band was signed to a high-profile label she had been expecting his gradual departure, and frankly he had served his purpose anyway – only it was a bit bloody brazen of him to openly make advances on another woman, another much younger woman, and married at that, right under her nose.

  Feeling sidelined, Mia slipped on a 54-carat diamond Boodles bracelet and spritzed her entire body with Shalimar perfume. She slipped on her 9-inch Louboutin snakeskin sandals and sighed heavily once more.

  ‘The show –’ she said, smacking her red lips together one last time in the mirror ‘–must go on.’

  35

  ‘Finally,’ Rupert deadpanned as Mia sashayed to the table in a bluster of strong scent and bravado, ‘No, really, Mia, there’s absolutely no need to apologise, none of us are hungry or anything.’

  ‘Good evening, Rupert,’ she shot him a sideways glance, ‘and may I say how well you look this evening. Clearly a little fun last night did you the power of good.’

  Rupert swallowed hard. He had expected this – an evening of subtle, snide innuendo from her – and she had not wasted a moment.

  ‘You too, Mia.’ He flashed her a mock gracious smile. ‘And you’re only an hour late as a result of it. Miracles do happen then?’

  ‘Fuck you very much, Rupert.’ She grimaced as she took her place next to Joshua on the vast wooden table which had been lavishly decorated with a stunning selection of floral displays that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a royal wedding. ‘Beautiful flowers,’ she remarked, admiring the lush, exotic, fragrant, fresh mix of bird-of-paradise, bottlebrush, heliconia, frangipani, flame of the forest and blue passion flower. ‘A different display every evening.’

  Angelika’s mind clicked. Mia was right. As someone who had an account with a local florist, delivering freshly cut blooms on a weekly basis to display in her vast hallway, she had over time become versed in recognising certain plants and flowers. She had all but explored the island in its entirety now, with the exception of the far north side and had spotted everything from fragrant orange trees to lurid red poppies, a few wild irises and even an apple blossom or two, but she had not come across anything quite as exotic as the assortment adorning the dinner table. These were tropical flowers that couldn’t withstand harsh heat. So where had they come from?

  As anticipated the atmosphere was tense and despite her misgivings about any more damned alcohol consumption, Mia decided to accept the champagne cocktail immediately offered to her to take the edge off her nerves. Just the one wouldn’t hurt, although she’d pretty much said the same thing last night and look where that had got her. She inwardly cringed. Still, at least she hadn’t been the only one whose moral compass had gone askew; there was some small solace in that, at least.

  ‘I’d be careful drinking that, Mia,’ Nate warned her gently.

  Mia met his eyes, such a handsome boy, well, man really, and his countenance was always polite and gracious, so unindicative of his profession. The football players she had come across (quite literally, on a couple of occasions) had always been rather brash and uncouth. This one, however, had been well brought-up, she could tell.

  ‘I do appreciate your concern regarding my alcohol consumption, darling,’ she said, ‘especially in light of –’ she stopped herself short ‘– but I don’t think Betty Ford will be spinning in her grave anytime soon … hair of the dog and all of that, cheers!’ She raised her glass to him.

  ‘Who’s Betty Ford?’ Billie-Jo asked.

  ‘Seriously, Mia, please don’t.’ Nate looked at her ingenuously and she felt a pang in her chest.

  ‘We’ve reason to believe that the alcohol may be spiked, Mia,’ Angelika cut in.

  Regardless of their concerns, Mia contrarily took a sip anyway before carefully replacing her glass on the table and lighting a cigarette. Rupert pulled a face, as if the woman didn’t smell bad enough. He was convinced he could still detect that perfume of hers on his skin even after scouring himself in a hot shower for some considerable length of time.

  ‘Spiked, you say?’ Mia humoured her but the truth was such a thought had actually crossed her own mind already, albeit fleetingly. ‘With what, by who?’

  ‘Are you serious,’ Joshua piped up. ‘Like, why would anyone wanna spike our drinks, man?’ He supped on his ice-cold beer as if to make a point he didn’t buy a word of it. These people were so damn paranoid they seriously needed to lighten-the-fuck-up.

  ‘The same reason were all being watched.’ Angelika gave Nate the nod and he duly threw the little black plastic device in the middle of the table.

  Mia looked at it blankly.

  ‘Am I supposed to know what this is?’

  ‘Nate and I found it in some bushes down by one of the pools. It was buried deep in the brush. I saw it flashing.’

  Billie-Jo pushed JJ’s hand from her thigh where it had rested from the moment she’d sat down.

  ‘Nate and I.’ she mimicked Angelika’s voice, her jealousy resurfacing. ‘Oh, yeah? And what the fuck were you two doing in the bushes together anyway?’

  Rupert was inclined to encourage her line of questioning, only he remained reticent in case it somehow sparked Mia’s vicious, loose tongue. That Angelika may or may not have been getting up to something with Nate Simmons was humiliating enough but it was nowhere near the league of the shame he would experience if Mia’s mouth ran off with her, which, given her track record, was more likely to be a case of when than if.

  ‘It’s really not like that, Billie-Jo,’ Angelika said, her face flushing, attempted to explain, ‘it’s not what you think, we were just –’

  ‘Which is exactly what people say when it is what you think, or else why would they be thinking it?’ Billie-Jo said, not sure even she understood what she meant herself. She turned to her husband sharply. ‘Are you fucking her or what, Nate?’

  At least the girl didn’t sugar-coat it, Rupert thought to himself, watching Mia’s reaction closely. He was on tenterhooks; it was like waiting for a firework to go off.

  Raj suddenly appeared at the table and silently attempted to refresh their glasses.

  ‘No, thank you. Not for me.’ Angelika shook her head as she covered her glass with her palm.

  ‘Me, neither,’ Nate followed suit, more out of respect for her than anything. She really seemed to believe there was something suspect going on, and while he agreed there were questions to ask he wasn’t entirely as convinced as she was. At least not yet.

  ‘Jesus, you are paranoid.’ JJ laughed. ‘Like, seriously? Spiking our drinks …? You guys have been watching too many detective shows. I know you journo types are paid to be inquisitive, man, but you’re freaking me out with this shit.’

  Rupert felt his body stiffen as Raj brushed past him, not daring to look up until he had passed. Mi
a was staring at him, an eyebrow gently raised. Don’t you dare, you evil bitch.

  ‘Well?’ Billie-Jo eyes were aflame.

  ‘Of course not!’ Angelika was bright red, hot behind the ears, her heartbeat accelerating along with her awkwardness. ‘We just happened to be there at the same time and …’

  Rupert allowed a small snort to escape his lips.

  ‘I didn’t fucking ask you, did I?’ Billie-Jo snarled at her in full-blown confrontation. ‘I was talking to MY husband.’ She glared at Nate.

  JJ watched as the drama unfolded. Jeez man, he was surprised she’d had the front to say anything at all after what they’d got up to themselves, or at least what he thought they’d got up to because he still couldn’t damn-well remember exactly. The girl had some kahunas, but then again he liked a bit of fire in a chick. Maybe he’d get the chance to fuck her again, and remember it this time.

  ‘No, Bee,’ Nate replied, calmly, ‘it’s like Ang said. She was already at the pool when I got there and, well, then she spotted this, didn’t you?’

  Angelika nodded, thinking it best not to speak lest it set Billie-Jo off again.

  ‘Ooh, Ang.’ Billie-Jo’s crimson face was clashing with her neon onesie now. ‘You’re talking like you’ve known the woman your whole fucking life instead of five minutes.’

  ‘Don’t, Bee. OK? Just don’t,’ Nate warned her.

  ‘Don’t what?’ She was standing now, her body forming a Z-shape, attitude oozing from every pore. ‘Don’t make a scene …? Don’t upset anyone … ? Don’t object to you being all over Miss Prissy Pants over there like you were last night, though fuck knows why. It’s not like she’s got anything I ain’t.’

  ‘Aside from a little class,’ Mia muttered under her breath.

  ‘What was that, Grandma?’ Billie-Jo had turned hood. ‘Got summit to say, have ya? Spit it out then but be careful your false teeth don’t come with it.’

  Mia laughed, which disguised her outrage.

  She looked at Nate pitifully. ‘You need a muzzle and licence for this one in public.’

  Angelika was mortally offended, though did her utmost not to let it show. Miss Prissy Pants …? Jesus, was that really what other women thought of her?

  Nate shot up out of his chair.

  ‘Sit down, Bee. NOW!’ he said, raising his voice.

  JJ gently pulled Billie-Jo back into her seat.

  ‘Chill out, babes,’ he whispered to her, not wanting the argument to get round to the point where he might be expected to explain himself. He had hoped they could all be kind of British about it, and sweep it under the carpet. Like, if you didn’t remember it, it didn’t happen, right?

  Mia glanced at Rupert expecting to see a self-satisfied smirk on his face, but he wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Going back to the camera,’ Nate said, his voice returning to normal pitch and the matter at hand, ‘I’m no expert but it looks to me like it’s some kind of recording device – some kind of camera.’ He would deal with Billie-Jo later. For now her histrionics would have to wait; this was more important.

  Rupert picked up the device and inspected it closely. Admittedly he suspected Nate was right. It did rather resemble some kind of camera, closed-circuit CCTV or the like, not that he was any expert but as an educated guess …

  ‘And you found it down by the swimming pool, and removed it?’

  ‘Yes, though I suspect I wasn’t supposed to find it at all.’ Angelika looked at her husband expectantly.

  ‘It’s just a security camera, Angelika,’ he said dismissively. ‘No doubt the place is full of them.’

  ‘If it’s just a security camera, why go to the bother of hiding it?’

  ‘Jeez man,’ JJ said, ‘it’s just a CCTV camera. For protection, what else?’

  ‘Hidden in a bush?’ Nate asked, without looking at him.

  ‘You said yourself that you thought our drinks had been spiked.’ Angelika leaned forward across the table towards her husband. ‘None of us can remember last night. I know I certainly can’t. Can you?’

  Billie-Jo was listening now, her temper gradually dissipating. The conversation was starting to creep her out at little.

  Rupert sighed, wearily.

  ‘So what are you trying to say, Angelika?’

  ‘Yeah, Miss Marple,’ Billie-Jo joined in, ‘what are you saying?’

  Ignoring Billie-Jo’s remark she looked at her husband with visible disappointment. She had hoped he would have her back on this.

  ‘I don’t know exactly.’ She felt herself flush once more. ‘Just that … well, something’s not right, Ru. I’ve … just got a bad feeling, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe it’s your conscience,’ he remarked, instantly wishing he hadn’t. He just couldn’t help himself, especially where Mia was concerned. While he was wholly accustomed to airing other people’s dirty linen in public, his own was a different matter altogether. The last thing he wanted was to open Pandora’s Box, or any damned box come to think of it. He just wanted to go home, play polo and forget this nightmare ever happened. Pleasure Island had thus far proved to be nothing more than a bittersweet misnomer.

  ‘Anyway,’ Rupert said, dismissively, ‘I’ve had it out with Elaine McKenzie already and she’s assured me the phone lines will be up and running shortly, in which case the moment they are whoever wants to can arrange to have themselves flown off this place and back to civilisation. I’ll charter a bloody private jet myself if I have to. So in the meantime try and keep a hold on that wild imagination of yours, won’t you, darling?’

  Rupert had shot her down in flames and Angelika felt humiliated. In hindsight she should’ve known better than to rely on his support. Any opportunity to belittle her he seized with alacrity these days. The rare moment of intimacy between when he had held her in the bathroom had been very short lived and only served as a painful reminder of how it had once been between them. But her intuition told her that her sense of unease was not without foundation. They were being watched; she was convinced of it.

  ‘Ah, at last,’ Rupert said as he watched the staff appear with an array of steaming silver platters, ‘dinner is served.’

  36

  ‘Champagne!’ Elaine McKenzie clasped her hands together in appreciation as her husband instructed the private on-board butler to open the bottle of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay 1998, a snip at $2000 a pop, quite literally. She watched as he meticulously decanted it into two cut-crystal Tiffany flutes, a light, oily sheen forming on his brow thanks to the intense midday sun and the fact that he was dressed in full formal livery as per strict instructions from his boss.

  ‘Congratulations, darling,’ he said, ‘you’re doing a stellar job so far in taking care of things. I’m proud of you.’

  Elaine preened; a compliment from her husband was akin to a shot of amphetamine. She took a slurp of her vintage champagne. She never usually drank alcohol – she liked to keep her wits about her at all times – but today she would make an exception. Mart had returned from his business trip in the Far East and had chartered one of his yachts allowing them to spend a little quality time together. The boat, aptly named ‘Small Change’, at 40 meters long was one of McKenzie’s most understated motor yachts in a progressively impressive fleet that he’d collected over the years like Tonka toys. Today he’d chosen this particular vessel specifically for her distinct lack of wow-factor and unremarkable aesthetic, much like his wife he supposed. He was hoping to keep a low profile as they cruised around the island of Santorini for the afternoon; it wouldn’t do to alert the paparazzi of his whereabouts. With breath-taking hypocrisy, McKenzie loathed having his privacy invaded. He was also mindful of drifting too far south of the island where there was the potential to be spotted on the horizon. He had handsomely paid off the locals to avoid them taking any route by boat that could bring them into clear view of Pleasure Island, lest his prestigious guests attempt to flag them down and so far they had willingly complied. Ahh, the power of the pound, or Euro in this case.


  ‘So, how was the Far East?’ Elaine enquired, ‘I trust you’ve been well looked after these past few days?’

  Indeed he had. In fact once the business side of things had been wrapped up he had done a little detour via Thailand on his return journey and had been thoroughly entertained by a selection of prostitutes for some 36-hours straight. Martin McKenzie gave a small, satisfied smile. He did so appreciate the Thai whores, they were so much more submissive than their Afro-Caribbean or Eastern European counterparts, therefore allowing him to fully indulge his most debased desires without too much objection. He enjoyed degrading the diminutive women, instructing them to engage in all manner of deviant sexual behaviour and had paid them well to whip each other’s naked bodies until they’d screamed out in agony.

  ‘Business as usual,’ he lamented, ‘although the hospitality, as ever, was unfaultable.’

  Elaine adjusted her functional swimsuit; it was cutting into her meaty thighs beneath her sarong.

  ‘I take it you’ve been keeping abreast of events on the island?’ she enquired carefully. Her husband would expect a full debrief and this made her a little nervous. She was concerned he would consider his earlier praise as having been somewhat premature.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, clicking his neat, manicured fingers high in the air. ‘Hors d’oeuvres,’ he barked to the liveried butler, who by now was perspiring profusely in the 95-degree heat. McKenzie placed a small, white bag tied with ribbon onto the table.

  ‘A token of appreciation, my dear,’ he explained, ‘for your most loyal service.’