Unlike hers his seems sinister and forbidding.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes.’
He puts his hand in the small of her back and guides her out of the room. They cross the large empty space and go through another door. It turns out to be the back door of the lodge. A man sitting on a horse-drawn coach is waiting. He does not turn to look at them but stares straight ahead. The bizarre and forbidding alchemy of the moment causes Lana to blankly note the white socks on the horse. They climb in and the coachman immediately sets the horse to a trot. They follow a path that snakes through woods until they suddenly come upon a grand mansion perched on high ground.
Lana breath is swept away by it. Made of cut gray stone, it is like something found in a windswept ghost story. Awestruck, she stares at the roaring gargoyles and the many soaring gothic spires that pierce the purple sky.
Hundreds of windows stare out like glassy dead eyes. Lana thinks one of the windows might have blinked, a flash of yellow iris, before it snapped shut. Someone was watching their arrival.
The coach comes to a stop on the entrance stairs and they climb out. She feels Blake’s hand on her waist as he helps her out.
‘Remember, the mask does not come off, even in the ladies.’
‘OK.’
‘And don’t tell anyone your name.’
‘OK.’
‘Don’t speak unless spoken to.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m serious, Lana.’
She looks up at his masked face. ‘You’re making me nervous, Blake.’
‘It’s important.’
‘Then don’t leave my side.’
‘I’ve no intention of doing that.’
They go up the shallow stone steps. When they reach the top, Lana turns to look down upon the magnificent garden maze. In the purplish light it is very beautiful. At the entrance, a totally expressionless, bone-thin man, dressed in black coat-tails, nods at Blake and slowly waves his hand towards the interior of the house.
There are more ushers and silent staff dressed in black who nod at them and wave them deeper into the interior.
The funereal garments and the silence begin to seep into Lana. She recognizes them to be poisonous.
Finally, two men open a pair of double doors and they enter a large hall full of masked, robed people. There is a stage at one end with a throne on it. The room reminds her of an old-fashioned theater with balconies, where people are standing and talking in whispers. There are also many doors that lead away from the hall. A strange throbbing music is playing into that odd air of expectancy and waiting.
Lana looks up at Blake. ‘This reminds me of Eyes Wide Shut.’
‘Yes, Stanley Kubrick’s movies are filled with hidden messages.’
A waiter brings a tray. Blake shakes his head. When Lana tries to reach for a glass, she feels the subtle pressure that he exerts on her hand. She shakes her head. It is at this point that Lana realizes that there are other women besides her who are wearing the exact same mask as her.
‘Hello,’ a man’s voice addresses them from behind.
They turn. A stocky man in an odd grey and silver mask is standing about a foot away from them. ‘You brought…someone,’ he says, his eyes glittering blackly through the eyeholes of his mask. Lana feels Blake tense.
‘Yes.’
‘Will you be going into the main room?’ the man asks.
‘Of course,’ Blake says smoothly, but Lana feels the tremor that goes through his body.
‘Good, I will see you there. If I don’t, tell your father I send my regards.’
Blake nods, and the man turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd of robes and masks.
‘Come,’ Blake says, and leads her towards the entrance.
The large doors open, and they retrace their steps out into the evening air. They go down the shallow steps and into a waiting coach.
When she turns to Blake, he puts a finger to his lips.
The coach drops them off outside the lodge house, they traverse that strange empty room, and go back out to where the hired car is waiting. Blake unlocks the car.
‘Take your cloak off and drop it on the ground,’ he orders as he takes his own cloak off and chucks it into the back seat.
She does as she is told and gets into the car. Her hands are trembling. Blake’s fear and tension have transferred themselves to her.
Blake starts the engine and the car screeches away. He says nothing and drives very fast.
‘Chuck the mask out of the window,’ he says when he has been driving for about five minutes. He takes his mask off and flips it onto the back seat where it lands on his black cloak.
‘Why did I have to throw mine away but not you?’
‘Yours is generic; my cloak has my family insignia sewn into it and my mask is distinct to me.’
Ten minutes later, Blake pulls off the road and, turning around, takes her into his arms. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have taken you there. I don’t know what I was thinking of. You’re just a baby.’
‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘Nothing happened.’
He looks into her eyes. He is ful of secrets. ‘Yes, nothing happened.’
That night he jerks awake in a cold sweat. He sits upright. The movement wakes her. ‘Did you have a nightmare?’ she asks, her hand reaching for his back.
‘I dreamed I took you into the main room,’ he says. His voice is hoarse with horror.
‘What happens in the main room?’
He turns to her. In the dark his eyes are tormented pools. ‘Oh, Lana, Lana, Lana,’ he whispers in her hair.
‘Tell me,’ she urges, but he shakes his head. ‘My world is ugly and corrupt. It only looks good from the outside.
When our time is over, I must return you the way I found you, pure and innocent.’
Gently he opens her legs. ‘Let me hide a little while longer in your world,’ he rasps and buries his mouth in her sex. His mouth is warm and soft. Her body responds, arches; her hands come out to grasp his hair; her legs entwine like ropes around his head, and she comes with a gasp while she is wonderfully full of him, but through it all she never forgets what he said—when our time is over.
Twenty seven
ana wakes up and turns around to look at the man Lbeside her. In the dimness she stares at him. He is so heartbreakingly beautiful when he sleeps he makes her want to cry. That hard mouth softened, the thick, stubby eyelashes dark-blue smudges on his face. She slips out of bed quietly. She is ravenous these days. She smiles to think it must be all the sex. She closes the bedroom door and pads into the kitchen. She switches on the light and goes to the fridge. Her hands reach for the tin of caviar and a jar of marmalade. She goes to the breadbox and cuts two slice of nutty bread. She pops them into the toaster and stands by the counter, yawning.
When they are ready, she spreads a thick layer of caviar on one slice of toast and spoons a dollop of marmalade over the other. She slaps them together, pops herself on a stool, and bites into her creation. It is so delicious she closes her eyes to savor it. She opens her mouth to take a second bite.
‘Is this another terrible combination that you Brits have conjured up?’ Blake teases from the doorway.
Her eyes snap open, her mouth closes, and her eyes move over her food. Marmalade and caviar. Slowly her gaze lifts to him. He is lounging against the doorframe as nude as the day he was born.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.
She closes her mouth and tries to smile. ‘It’s my own thing,’ she says weakly. Her heart is beating so loud in her ears that she is sure he must be able to hear. She puts the sandwich down and looks at him. ‘Can’t you sleep?’
‘Come back to bed and put me to sleep,’ he invites, his eyes darkening.
‘OK, I’l finish my sandwich and come join you. Go ahead.’
She smiles at him, willing him not to enter the kitchen, but go back to bedroom and wait for her. He looks at her and as if he has heard her wi
shes he nods and, turning around, leaves. The air escapes her lungs in a rush. She puts her elbow on the surface and leans her forehead against her hand. She actually feels sick. She opens the sandwich and really looks at what she has concocted. The smeared caviar and marmalade. It is revolting.
Her mother ate anchovies and marmalade when she was pregnant. She covers her mouth.
She’s pregnant.
She looks at the clock above the door. It is two in the morning. She closes the sandwich. Her appetite is gone.
Oh God, what now? She begins to count backwards.
Yes, she is definitely two weeks late.
Twenty eight
lake opens the door to the apartment and instantly Bfeels that she is gone. Not gone out shopping or gone to see her mother, but gone away from him. Forever.
Her presence seems to have evaporated into thin air. He pushes down the sensation of horror and walks down the corridor to the living room.
The curtains are drawn shut. It is dim and cool. He moves to the coffee table. It is empty. He passes the dining room on his way to the bedroom, his eyes skimming the long table. His gaze falls on her purse. For an odd moment, he finds himself staring at it. The thoughts in his brain are foreign. He shakes his head and walks away. Three steps down the corridor, he stops and goes back. Like a sleepwalker he drifts to her bag. He puts a hand out and lifts it by its strap, a metal and black leather interlaced affair.
He raises the flap and looks inside.
Lip gloss, ballpoint pen, compact mirror, sparkly eye shadow and…a small maroon wallet. He fishes it out, runs his finger along the leather and opens it. He looks at what appears to be a collage of photographs cut out from different photographs and carefully, lovingly stuck together. Her mother, Billie and Harry. The child-like innocence of her handiwork causes him pain.
He does not know why it should. He closes the flap, returns it to her handbag, and walks away from the dining room. He has never done such a thing before. His shoulders feel tense with worry and confusion. What is the matter with him? He has never been curious about the contents of any other woman’s purse before.
In the bedroom, he glances towards his bedside table then hers. Nothing. He goes into the kitchen. He looks at the island top, his eyes scanning the room quickly. No, she has left no note. He goes back into the bedroom and opens the cupboard. Handbags, shoes, clothes. It is all there. She has taken nothing. He keys in the combination and opens the safe. The velvet box is in there. He opens it and the necklace lays nestled on its satin bed. He sighs with relief, puts it back carefully and locks the safe.
She must have gone to visit her mother. He rings her number and waits, but on the second ring he hears another ring coming from the living room. He follows the sound.
Her phone is lying on the sofa. He cuts the connection and picks up her phone. Last caller, him, last call, her mother. He rings her mother’s landline. It rings out. He goes through her address list and rings Billie. Her cocky recorded voice comes on and he leaves a message for her to call him back urgently. He rings Jack. Jack answers on the sixth ring just as he is about to give up.
‘Jack, do you know where Lana is?’
‘No, why?’
‘Just trying to find her. She’s gone out without her cellphone.’
‘It’s raining here. Is it raining there?’
Slight pause. ‘Yeah… It’s raining here.’
‘I wouldn’t worry, mate, she’s probably just gone out walking in the rain.’
‘Right.’
Jack laughs. ‘She’ll come home looking like a drowned kitten. It’s something to behold.’
‘Right. Thanks, Jack.’
Blake goes out onto the balcony. It is pouring with rain. A jagged flash of lightning splits the sky. He waits for the thunder. It comes deafeningly loud almost immediately. He frowns. He doesn’t like the thought of her in the rain. He goes to the edge of the balcony and reaches a hand out to catch some rain. Strange. He leans over the edge and turns his face up to the shower.
He tries to imagine what she must be feeling, thinking.
The rain is cold and he is quickly drenched. He peels off his shirt that has become transparent with the rain. He balls his shirt in his hand and hears the key in the door. It opens and they stare at each other.
Indeed, she is a sight to behold. Instantly he knows she is not the same anymore. There is such hurt in her eyes.
He strides to her.
‘Come,’ he says and takes her to the bathroom.
He guides her under the shower spray. The water that pelts her cold shivering skin is perfectly warm. She hears him moving away and she closes her eyes and savors the pleasant sensation. She feels life coming back to her fingers and limbs. She has walked too long. She leans her forearms against the tiles and lifting her face to the water, abandons herself to it. She hears the shower door slide and her eyes snap open. He is nude and standing outside.
Her eyes rove over him and settle in fascination on his manhood that is already half erect before she suddenly realizes what she is doing, and flushing with embarrassment, turns away.
He catches her by the chin and brings her eyes to him.
‘I want you to look at me. Look at me.’
She returns her eyes to his manhood. It is no longer at half-mast but standing proud. She lifts her eyes back to his face. He steps into the shower. She moves back to make space for him. She watches him through the drops of water and steam. He chuckles and, finding the soap, slips it across the skin of her chest.
‘Lift your arms.’
She obeys.
He soaps her under her arms. His touch is light and unticklish. His swipes the soap along her shoulders and then down to her breasts. Here he is rhythmic and meticulous. The mounds get much attention. So much she longs to have him take her nipples in his mouth. The soap travels downward. To her stomach and further to her bare-skinned sex. He doesn’t have to tell her. She spreads her legs and the soap slides between them. The water sluices through his hands.
‘Turn around.’
She turns. The soap is travelling her back and down her spine along her hips and finally entering the crack of her bottom. She feels him kneel to wash her legs down to the soles of her feet, which he does one by one. Then he stands. In her line of sight she sees him return the soap.
And pick up the shampoo bottle. She hears him squirt it into the palm of his hand. Then he is washing her hair.
The bubbles run down her body. Heat collects between her legs.
Now he is so close she can feel his hard body slipping and sliding against hers. Her legs begin to tremble. He turns her around and sucks her nipples. His hands slide down her stomach and boldly without warning grab her hips. She gazes into the storm clouds in his eyes. His jaw is clenched tight. He lifts her body and penetrates her. She curls her legs around his hips and cries with an animalistic pleasure. The deeper he buries himself inside her, the deeper she wants him to go.
Afterwards he carries her to the bed and dries her body carefully.
She looks up to him. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Your body.’
She says nothing.
‘Why did you walk so far in the rain?’
She stares into his eyes. They are unreadable. ‘I like the rain. I’ve always walked in the rain.’
‘But the rain in England is cold.’
‘I don’t know any other type of rain.’
He brings the hairdryer and a brush and sits on the bed with them beside him. Then he calls her to sit on the floor against the bed between his knees and begins to towel dry her hair. He is careful not to rub hard. Afterwards he runs his fingers through her hair and gently untangles any knots he finds. Only then does he switch on the hairdryer and begin to dry her hair. When he switches off the hairdryer she says, ‘You can’t cook but you can blow dry hair.’
‘I used to dry my sister’s hair for her.’
She swivels her neck around. ‘You don’t have a sister.
’
Firmly he turns her head to face away from him. ‘I’ve told you before, don’t trust everything Wikipedia says.’
The brush glides through her hair in long, slow strokes.
‘Why is she not known to the public?’
‘She was born with a genetic anomaly. She’s not like you and me. She lives in her own world. All great families have such relatives—they just don’t acknowledge or advertise them. It’s an unfortunate effect of interbreeding.’
‘So she is locked away?’
There is a pause. ‘Something like that.’
‘Do you still see her?’
‘No, she is in our Buckinghamshire property. She has a whole wing and sectioned off grounds. Nurses and servants to care for her twenty-four hours a day.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘A four-year-old child. She communicates by pointing and smiling.’ His voice is sad.
‘Why did you stop going to see her?’
The brush stops for a second, then starts again. ‘The last time I saw her was when I was twelve. I was brushing her hair and my mother walked into the room. She was horrified. “Are you going to become a great man like your father or a sissy like your great uncle George?” He is another family member that we all pretend doesn’t exist. I never went back after that.’
She turns around and catches his wrist. The brush stills mid-air. ‘I don’t care what anybody else says, you are a good man,’ she says.
‘Don’t fool yourself, Lana. We’re all no good. Don’t trust any of us. Not even me.’
‘Is there no one you trust?’
‘No one.’
‘Not even your dad?’
‘Dad?’ he repeats sarcastically. ‘Dad’s a sociopath.’
Lana’s eyes widen. ‘Isn’t he a great philanthropist?’
‘Naïve little Lana. My father’s a trillionaire. And there is no such thing as a philanthropist trillionaire. Do you know what one has to do to become a trillionaire? Spend your whole life crushing people for profit and then donate a library? I don’t trust him and neither should you. It would cause him the same grief to crush you if you stood in his way as it would if he trod on an ant in his path.’
The Billionaire Banker Page 16
