The Gift of Shame

by Sophie Hope-Walker

  Beginning to wonder just how many devoted admirers, like Jimmy, Carla might have, she heard herself blurting out: ‘He’s your lover?’

  The scorn seared through Carla’s reply. ‘No! He loves me but that doesn’t mean we are lovers. Impossible!’ Carla’s tone suggested she thought the question was ridiculous.

  A chastened Helen was further distracted when the car drew to a halt at the gangway of a boat which seemed to her to have the proportions of a minor warship.

  A white-uniformed crewman leapt forward to open the doors of the car and Helen stepped out to better see the sleek lines of the beautiful craft. Two other crewmen, both oriental, appeared as if by magic to seize on her one piece of luggage while she and Carla, with the weedy hairdresser, Jimmy, coming a poor third, walked up the gangway to where a smiling man in his mid-fifties was waiting to greet them.

  ‘Martinez!’ cried Carla on greeting the man. ‘This is the English girl that Qito is so madly in love with!’

  Martinez wore a moustache and his fiftyish, handsome face was sparkling with two rows of teeth which seemed to be crowding out of his tanned face. Murmuring in Spanish he bent low over Helen’s hand before straightening to add, in a pleasantly accented English, ‘Qito will be beside himself that you’ve come.’

  Never having seen a yacht like this before, far less ever been on one, Helen found it hard to believe that anything like this could be private property. On board, the boat seemed even bigger than it had from the outside. Martinez waved forward a petite, slim Chinese girl who wore a very tight-fitting cheongsam and what appeared to be a permanent smile.

  ‘Tsai, would you show our guest to the Golden Stateroom.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the brightly smiling girl.

  Helen was led from the aft deck through a huge sunlit deck cabin that was furnished with an extravagance of white leather couches set about beautifully carved oriental tables. Beyond that was a carpeted hallway leading to a short flight of winding stairs which gave, in turn, into a lower hallway which was bounded on one side by wide windows and on the other by several doors, each of which seemed to have a panel of different colour. The door which was opened for her revealed a room walled with gold panelling and soft velvets, while the gold-bordered white carpet was so silkily smooth she felt guilty to even tread on it.

  ‘This will be yours,’ Tsai told her and started a conducted tour of the facilities during which, she noted, that her baggage had not only arrived but been unpacked and her clothes hung in closets. She marvelled at the speed with which this must have been done.

  Gazing in at the glittering gold bathroom, the dressing room and the king-sized bed, Helen could only reflect that her own apartment would comfortably fit in here and leave room to spare.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ she murmured when, at the end of the tour, Tsai stood smilingly awaiting her verdict. ‘I never imagined there could be cabins like this on a yacht.’

  Looking around, Helen felt uneasy with her lack of experience with anything as grandiose as this before and, since there was no one to ask but Tsai, turned to her. ‘What do I do?’

  Tsai seemed puzzled by the question. ‘Do? You do as you wish.’ Helen nodded and let the girl go, before turning to survey her meagre wardrobe. This totally unexpected journey to a warm climate left her with very little choice. She was still pondering on the best compromise when her legs felt suddenly weary and in need of rest. Not wishing to further crease her dress, she slipped out of it and lay down on the top of the bed intending to close her eyes for a few moments. Helen drifted into a dream in which she imagined she was flying in an aircraft so big it had a dance floor on which naked couples were either upright and dancing, or horizontal and copulating.

  Ghostly hands seized her and lifted her to be impaled on a huge pink phallus that dominated the interior of the aeroplane. Jeffrey was there, encouraging the two uniformed pilots to bear down with all their weight on her legs while her mother sat on a high stool knitting and shaking her head in disapproval.

  She was startled awake as she consciously felt a hand laid gently on her forehead. Opening her eyes, she saw Tsai standing over her. ‘Madame is not well?’ the girl asked.

  Helen, in truth, was not sure how she was and, for a moment, even felt unsure of where she was. It was only when she heard the slap of water against the yacht’s sides that she remembered. Seeing Tsai was still patiently waiting for an answer she shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

  Swinging her legs to the side of the bed she realised that she had lain down naked. Someone had, while she slept, covered her with a white linen sheet.

  ‘Madame Carla sent me to enquire if you would wish to join the company for dinner tonight,’ Tsai said. ‘If so, it will be in one hour.’

  ‘Is it night already?’ asked Helen, looking to the long narrow windows that lined the seaward wall of her stateroom.

  ‘It is seven o’clock in the evening,’ Tsai said. ‘Come, let me help you. It is difficult if you are not used to the sea.’

  Beginning to suspect that life had become unnecessarily complicated, Helen allowed herself to be led into the bathroom which, she saw, was now dominated by a massage table which had been put there since she last saw the room.

  ‘I make you feel better,’ Tsai said with enthusiastic confidence. ‘Just lie on the table and I massage you. You’ll feel better.’

  Feeling that she could cope only with the least line of resistance, Helen obediently stretched herself face down on the towel-covered bench, and, feeling that her body was a mass of knotted tensions, was grateful to feel Tsai’s hands soothing away the aches with oils. ‘That’s marvellous, thank you,’ she sighed, giving herself over entirely to the girl’s expertise.

  Helen lay moaning with pleasure at the girl’s ministrations until she realised with a start that she could easily be lulled back to sleep if she allowed her to continue. ‘I think that’s enough,’ she said, turning to sit up on the couch and looking into the Chinese girl’s worried face. ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. It’s simply that you’re relaxing me so much I might doze off again.’

  The worried frown on the girl’s face cleared to be replaced by a sunny understanding smile. ‘Ah, no!’ the girl cried, ‘I know it. Do not worry.’ The girl reached forward to push firmly on Helen’s shoulders until she lay on her back. ‘I fix that,’ Tsai told her and produced a bunch of twigs. ‘This stimulates the blood,’ she said.

  Worried that the girl might be about to beat her with the twigs, in Finnish sauna style, Helen moved to protest but then groaned with pleasure as she felt the twigs drawn firmly along the length of her legs to leave in their wake a tingling, scratchy feeling that aroused her flesh to the most delicious sensations. ‘That’s nice …’ she murmured, lying back and closing her eyes to better concentrate the sensation as the twigs progressed across her belly and then made a tingling Devil’s dance on her breasts. Embarrassed to feel her nipples rousing and hardening she moved her hands to protect them from further stimulation, only to find Tsai’s own hands intercepting them and pressing them back – this time above her head. ‘You wish?’ asked the girl. Not understanding what she was being asked, Helen opened her startled eyes as she felt Tsai’s fingers seeking out her clitoris and her lips hovering only centimetres above her nipples.

  ‘No!’ she cried, sitting up and aware that the middleclass girl from Eastbourne was reverberating with shock at the oriental girl’s suggestion.

  The beautiful girl from Taiwan was now standing back with the expression of a whipped puppy. ‘I am most deeply sorry,’ the girl was saying. ‘Others like me to do that for them. Please forgive me.’

  Helen still felt ruffled as she wrapped herself in a towel but, seeing the hang-dog expression on the girl’s face, felt Eastbourne rapidly draining from her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I would enjoy it too, I’m sure but, for the moment, I’m so tired it might exhaust me.’

  Looking up, Tsai’s face looked much brighter. ‘Now I
give you shower and after you feel much better.’

  ‘I can do that for myself,’ smiled Helen and tried to shake off the girl by ducking into the shower stall and turning on the water. She was still trying to keep it out of her hair when she was startled to see a now naked Tsai joining her.

  ‘Look, this isn’t necessary …’ she started to protest.

  Tsai’s face furrowed as if worried that her expertise was being challenged. ‘I do this all the time,’ she assured Helen, ‘please.’

  Deciding that further protest would only lead to greater misunderstandings, Helen relaxed and let the girl’s, admittedly expert, hands go to work. Tsai’s promise to make her feel better was more than fulfilled until the point where Helen found herself again becoming embarrassingly aroused. ‘That’s enough for now,’ she told her as she brusquely moved to snatch up a towel before Tsai could offer it to her.

  ‘You are angry with me?’ Tsai asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ smiled Helen. ‘Tell me, have you any idea how the ladies dress for dinner?’

  ‘Very formally,’ said Tsai Lo, her expression still anxious. ‘All the ladies look most beautiful for dinner.’

  This was bad news for Helen. She had packed only the gown Jeffrey had given her and both Carla and Qito had already seen that. She was still trying to decide what might best serve in its place when she noticed a long pale-pink dress with intricate gold thread embroidery hanging from the closet door. ‘Where did this come from?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Madame Carla’s suggestion that you might like to wear this for dinner.’

  ‘How did Madame Carla know I hadn’t brought anything suitable?’

  Tsai stared at the carpet as she murmured, ‘She asked me after I unpacked for you. Are you angry with me, madame?’

  Somewhere deep inside, Helen did indeed feel that she was being treated as something akin to a charity case but, after a moment’s reflection, saw that the gesture did solve a difficult problem. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said finally and was amused to hear Tsai’s held breath audibly exhausted.

  ‘I shall help you with your hair and make-up,’ she enthused. ‘I have training in such things.’

  Giving herself once more over to Tsai she found the multitalented girl able to work minor miracles with both her hair and make-up with amazing facility. After dressing in Carla’s gown, she surveyed herself in the mirror and only then noticed the distinctly oriental lift that Tsai had given to her eyes. It was different but not at all unflattering. Giving herself a final check over she announced herself ready and, as Tsai bowed her out of the stateroom, Helen thought she could, so easily, accustom herself to this life.

  Tsai led her to the door of the aft deck saloon where the company were assembled for aperitifs. Carla, seeing her, hurried forward. ‘My dear, how lovely you look!’ Linking arms, Carla brought her the considerable distance across the salon to where the others were gathered. Martinez rose politely as she would have expected, but Qito’s reaction was startling to say the least. Hurrying forward he brushed aside the bowing Martinez to pull Helen into an embarrassingly close embrace accompanied by multiple kisses on both cheeks.

  ‘I thought you’d never get here!’ he was enthusing. ‘I know exactly where I will paint you. I have the island all picked out and ready for us. Together we shall make it immortal!’

  Overwhelmed by this unexpected deluge of affection Helen looked up to see Carla’s steely eyes fixed on her – a look which silently spoke warning volumes.

  ‘Well,’ said Carla with an undisguised sarcasm. ‘Now that our revered guest of honour has joined us, I suggest we go in to dinner.’

  Qito and Carla took the heads of the long, gold-laden, dinner table while Helen was seated to Qito’s right. Martinez, who, as Host, might have been expected to head the table, was seated to Carla’s right, while Jimmy was placed on her left. Qito seemed determined to dominate Helen’s entire attention to the exclusion of all others. He enthused, almost without pause, over ‘his’ island where, she learnt to her consternation, he intended to isolate both himself and her for several days. ‘I am filled with fire,’ he told her, eyes shining. ‘I have never before been so certain that I shall create a masterpiece.’

  Carla’s voice was the only one to which Qito attended. ‘Qito, caro, please let our guest have some peace.’

  ‘Peace?’ cried an indignant Qito. ‘For what does she want peace? She is to be the instrument of immortality!’

  Carla’s voice was carefully even-tempered but cutting in tone. ‘Qito … If you want to fuck the girl, go ahead but don’t bore us with hyperbole.’

  The stunned silence that greeted this remark only increased Helen’s embarrassment, which became intense when Qito threw down his napkin and leapt to his feet to let go a stream of Italian that Helen was grateful not to understand.

  Carla too was on her feet answering in equally angry tones and the two were soon standing almost toe to toe exchanging what were obviously gutter insults. Helen dared a glance towards the others at the table. Jimmy the hairdresser sat with eyes closed and visibly shook as if the insults being hurled at Carla were digging out pieces of his heart. Martinez had risen to his feet and gone to stand at Carla’s shoulder as if willing to intervene if the shouting match came to blows. Helen, who felt the cause of all this, just wished there was some way to slide invisibly out of her seat and to the calm of her own cabin.

  The raised voices had attracted a worried gathering of the stewards who were standing, staring in from the service door.

  It ended with Qito raising a hand as if to strike Carla but, as she challengingly stuck out her head as if defying him, he turned to stalk from the dining room with Carla in hot pursuit and still shouting.

  In the nervous silence that followed the warring pair’s exit, Martinez turned to the remainder of his guests. ‘Shall we take coffee and brandy in the library?’ he asked.

  Grateful to be distracted, Helen and Jimmy dutifully trooped after Martinez to an upper saloon whose walls were lined with books – all trapped behind panelled wire and glass doors to prevent them being dislodged during rough weather.

  There, already in place, was a large-screen, high definition, TV whose presence Martinez explained as the silent stewards distributed after-dinner brandies. ‘I have my favourite movie of all time to show you,’ he told the guests. ‘Messalina, which, of course, stars our honoured guest Carla.’

  The opening music and titles were played out over a scene of Carla wearing little more than a superior expression and a sprinkling of diamante, as she was carried through the streets of ancient Rome. Helen was just marvelling at how fantastically beautifully Carla photographed when the original herself came storming into the darkened library and, pausing only to pick out Helen in the reflected light from the screen, marched to her, grabbed her hand and dragged her to her feet. ‘You!’ she all but screamed in Helen’s face. ‘Come with me!’

  Dragged off balance by Carla’s determined tow, Helen feared for the hem of the gown she was wearing as her uncertain feet sought to keep up with her body. Feeling that an angry protest was in order she tugged her hand free of Carla’s. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Helen demanded.

  It was when Carla turned back to face her, here in the fuller light of the passageway, that Helen was shocked to see Carla’s eyes brimming with tears. Suddenly all the aggressiveness was gone from her stance. ‘I love him!’ she cried, and Helen found herself moving forward to take her in her arms. They stood, frozen in mutual surprise for some minutes before Carla made an effort to control herself. ‘Come,’ she said.

  In Carla’s stateroom, even grander than the one assigned to Helen, Carla appeared to have regained her self-control.

  Without asking she poured them both whiskies from a side table and lifted her glass in salute before sitting down to stare directly at Helen. ‘How could you understand?’ Carla asked a bewildered Helen. ‘Look at you! Comfortable bourgeois upbringing. Nice school, where they taught nice manners
and how to be polite. My school was different,’ Carla said sourly.

  Not having the least idea of how to respond, Helen sat silent.

  ‘I had no childhood,’ Carla was saying, so quietly it seemed she might be speaking only to herself. ‘At nine I found out that begging bread was not enough. Men were the answer. Dear God – the men! When I was twelve I met this skinny little guy who said he was a painter. He took me to his studio where I found out he was eating even less than me. So now, genius that I was, I had two mouths to feed instead of just my own.’ Carla looked up at Helen with eyes that could coruscate a soul, let alone a camera. ‘But now I had a purpose other than just surviving. You see? I became a much better whore, and we ate well. I fed my genius when he would have starved. I kept him alive to be the Qito who now has the world kneeling before him.’ Carla fell silent and stared into her glass for a long moment. ‘Never once has he ever touched me.’ Those terrifying eyes flared upwards to fix on Helen. ‘Not once!’ she added.

  By some means other than her own volition Helen found she had moved from her chair to sit next to Carla on the couch. Reaching out a hand that was meant to be comforting, she said, ‘Carla, I’m sorry. Look, if it will make things any better, I’ll leave.’

  Carla’s street-loud laugh filled the room. ‘Stupid girl,’ she cried. ‘We’re in the middle of the Caribbean – at sea! Where do you suppose you can go?’ adding scornfully, ‘Don’t you understand anything?’

  Startled at the sudden mood shift, Helen took back her hand and stared at Carla. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

  Carla indicated a bedside panel of buttons. ‘Press that second button down,’ she said, a curious smile now playing about her mouth.

  Helen did as she was asked before turning back to Carla.

  Carla’s voice when she spoke was deeper and more controlled. ‘It’s time for a lesson your polite school never taught. You want Qito? Then you’ll damn well pay your dues!’

  Helen protested. ‘But I don’t want Qito. Not in that sense. He wants to paint me – nothing more!’