House of Trelawney

by Hannah Rothschild

  Once Blaze started talking about Wolfe, she couldn’t stop; facts and feelings tumbled out in no apparent order. Her mind, normally incisive and orderly, was scrambled by reawakened emotions. She felt idiotic and elated as she told Ayesha about their phone calls. Most of the time their conversation hovered around neutral subjects like investments, market fluctuations and political events, until the tension became too much and they’d lapse into silence, both caught up in longing for more intimacy.

  “Why hasn’t he made another move?” Ayesha asked.

  Blaze wriggled in her seat. “I’m not ready.” How could she explain that her desire to see him was swamped by a paralysing fear of losing control and of being rejected.

  “What is it you like most about him?”

  Blaze thought for a while before answering. “He’s so clear about who he is and what he stands for. Joshua doesn’t try to prove anything or seek confirmation. It sounds arrogant, but I find it reassuring.”

  “His parents must have adored him. That kind of confidence only comes with unconditional love,” Ayesha said wistfully.

  Blaze leaned over and took her niece’s hand. “You must miss your mother.”

  “Of course.”

  “And your stepfather and half-brother?”

  “My stepfather tolerated me because he loved my mother. My brother, as the youngest, was horribly spoiled, mostly by me.” Her face contorted. “He’s only twelve. When I get my own house and husband, Sachan will live with me.” She hesitated. “That’s why I am in such a hurry to sort out my life and create a home. I want Sachan to have the best of everything.”

  “And what do you want?” Blaze asked.

  Ayesha laughed. “Power.” Then she grinned widely. “And I intend to get it.”

  Blaze didn’t doubt her.

  The car made its way through West London and out onto the M4 towards Newbury. Ayesha broke the silence.

  “Who is this Thomlinson Sleet?” she asked.

  “He used to follow your mother around at Oxford. Once he climbed up the drainpipe and through a window to give her a rose.”

  “Oh, one of those,” Ayesha said dismissively.

  “There were so many climbing suitors that the dean moved her to a ground floor in an inner courtyard.”

  “She was lucky to have the opportunity to drive men mad.”

  At the gates to Sleet Towers, two full-grown elephants stood guard, ridden by frozen-looking mahouts. The elephants’ heads and trunks were intricately painted and the animals swayed restlessly from foot to foot.

  “I didn’t come all the way to England for this,” Ayesha said crossly. “Every wedding in India has an elephant.”

  They gave their names and invitations to a young man who handed them each a small parcel with their initials inscribed in italics on the front. Ayesha tore the wrapping off hers immediately, to find a map of the party, a dance card and a gold pencil. Opening up the dance card, she laughed.

  “Sleet has reserved the first dance with me already! How charming.” She smiled knowingly.

  Blaze grimaced, hoping his interest in Anastasia’s daughter would quickly wane. Her own dance card was empty and, she suspected, would remain so the whole evening.

  Their car joined a long line of chauffeur-driven vehicles. After a quarter of a mile the cars stopped and guests were asked to climb aboard a golden train. Inside they found mini bottles of champagne and hand-peeled gulls’ eggs. There were two other couples in their carriage: a well-known American senator and her husband and a pop star whose last great hit was in the 1970s. They made hesitant introductions to one another, but their small talk was abruptly ended by a loud whistle. Outside a heavy fog descended and the windows were lashed with violent waves. The carriage rocked from side to side and Blaze grabbed hold of the edge of her seat.

  “We’re at sea!” Ayesha called out.

  “We’re in Berkshire!” But, looking out of the window, Blaze saw that they were indeed bobbing around on a huge ocean. To the left was a great whale, held down by tree roots, and, striding across its back, a young man wearing golden trousers brandishing a cutlass. Nearby a boat tossed on frothing waves until it came close enough for the young man to jump aboard.

  “The Seven Voyages of Sinbad,” Ayesha said, her eyes wide with amazement. Around them, in tableaux vivants, scenes from Sinbad’s life were re-enacted as their carriage moved on. The sea calmed and they passed a huge egg which cracked open to reveal hundreds of writhing, slivering snakes; across a spit of land, a mermaid rose from the depths of a lagoon and diamonds rained from the sky. For the entire train ride—neither could tell how far they went or for how long it lasted—Blaze and Ayesha were transfixed. How was it done? Theatre, trickery or technology?

  The train stopped. A young woman swathed in a gauze-like material shot with gold thread introduced herself as Scheherazade and led them along a tunnel lined with fresh rosebuds. To the left and right actors performed scenes from 1001 Arabian Nights.

  “Are they having real sex?” Ayesha exclaimed. “Look at those two—I think they are.” Blaze looked straight ahead; she didn’t need any more reminders of Sleet’s vulgarity.

  The tunnel ended and the guests found themselves in front of Sleet Towers, a low-slung, red-brick, Queen Anne-style mansion. Projected on to its vast façade were more scenes from the Arabian Nights while classical music blared out from huge speakers. Protected from the cold by a domed glass entrance stood hundreds of dwarves, painted gold and holding flaming torches.

  “This is revolting. Complete exploitation,” Blaze said.

  “It is magnificent,” Ayesha corrected her.

  From out of the darkness stepped more young women, their faces hidden by delicate veils of chiffon, to take Blaze’s and Ayesha’s coats. Blaze gasped when she saw Ayesha’s “costume.” The top half of her niece’s body was bare, hand-painted with snakes, ghouls, djinns, wild horses and various couples in states of erotica. Two heart-shaped discs covered her nipples. Her breasts, though small, were perfectly rounded and pert; her figure lithe and curvaceous. Slung low over her hips were diaphanous trousers made from the softest silk that shimmered around her bottom and legs.

  “What do you think?” Ayesha asked, whipping around.

  Blaze didn’t know what to say so she simply nodded, speechless. It was simultaneously erotic and audacious, and yet far too delicate to be considered vulgar.

  “I went to Covent Garden and made friends with the set designers at the Royal Opera House. The company was supposed to be doing the scene painting for a new production of Giselle but preferred the challenge of my body. They’ve done a good job, haven’t they?” Ayesha shimmied in front of Blaze. Around them fellow guests and helpers stopped and stared, stunned by her nakedness, frozen by the beauty of the apparition. Blaze recognised the look of horror on other women’s faces; their weeks of preparation rendered insignificant, their efforts eclipsed.

  “Fuck me sideways,” a voice boomed. Blaze turned to see Sleet striding towards them.

  “You’ve got a nerve coming here, Blaze,” he said. “Walking out of my company, stealing my clients and now eating my food.”

  “Supping at the devil’s table,” Blaze agreed, with a fixed, disingenuous smile.

  “Pity you can’t find anything to invest in,” he sneered. “I hear your clients are getting restless.” As he spoke, he jabbed his fat finger in her face.

  Blaze burned with rage and was about to answer when Ayesha, unseen until then, came to stand between her aunt and Sleet. The tycoon’s mouth opened and closed; his finger dropped, his eyes widened.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met Anastasia’s daughter, Ayesha? Ayesha, this is Thomlinson Sleet.”

  Ayesha looked him straight in the eyes and said in a low, husky voice, “You’re not someone I’d forget.”

  Blaze could hardly believe what
she was seeing and hearing; Ayesha had inherited her mother’s wiles. The past flashed through her mind: memories of Anastasia using a combination of coquettishness and beauty to fell admirers, condemning Jane and Blaze to the status of permanent wallflowers.

  “You are not leaving my side all evening,” Sleet said, recovering his senses.

  “What will your wife have to say about that?” Ayesha asked.

  “Lady Sleet just walked out on me! Said I worked too hard and only the chef understood her needs.”

  “Are you devastated?” Ayesha opened her eyes wide.

  “I certainly am: a good chef is harder to find than a wife.”

  Blaze took her niece’s arm and dragged her away from Sleet. “The man is an absolute creep. You mustn’t have anything to do with him,” she whispered.

  Ayesha looked at her condescendingly. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Not this one, Ayesha, please.” Blaze glanced over at Sleet who was grinning lasciviously at the young woman.

  Extracting herself from Blaze’s grip, Ayesha went back across to Sleet. “I don’t know how anyone could leave you,” she said, raising her beautiful eyes and gazing into his. “Will you show me your house?” she asked. They walked away, leaving Blaze on her own.

  Entering the first marquee, Blaze looked up to see acrobats flying above the guests on trapezes made from brightly coloured ribbons. Scanning around, she recognised four captains of industry, three newspaper editors and their proprietors, two former cabinet ministers, a clutch of rock stars, a bevy of A-list film stars and even a Nobel prizewinner (chemistry). I am, she thought, the only person here who is not famous.

  Standing alone by the bar was a well-known misanthropic hedge-fund manager, Christof Kempey, whom Blaze had met at various conferences.

  “Who knew that Sleet had this kind of address book?” she said.

  “He doesn’t—the guests are either for hire or here on business.”

  “What about the politicians?” Blaze asked.

  “Sleet makes significant donations to all parties, guaranteeing access to the PM and the Cabinet, as well as Leaders of the Opposition, 24/7. The film stars are less expensive and the hacks can be bought for a free glass of anything.”

  “I feel naive.”

  “These events are useful. You might pick up a deal or a tip on the way to the bathroom.”

  “On that note, how have you fared in the recent turmoil?” Rumours abounded that Kempey Capital Partners, his eponymous hedge fund, had been heavily invested in UBS and HBOS.

  “The shittiest year of my life. I’m down 45 per cent and am haemorrhaging clients.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You seem to have all the answers, Blaze—you tell me. I take my hat off to you for predicting all this.”

  A waiter appeared, offering Château Lafite 1961 or vintage champagne. Blaze took the former, Kempey asked for a vodka.

  “I called it right, but don’t seem to be capitalising on the results. Everything looks precarious; things can go much lower.” She took a sip of wine; it was like liquid silk. The claret made the drive worthwhile.

  “There’s the Governor of the Bank of England talking to the Chancellor—shall we go and ask what they’re planning next?”

  Blaze followed Kempey over to a small banquette where the two men sat deep in conversation.

  “Are you going to drop interest rates?” Kempey asked without any introduction.

  The Governor smiled tersely. “I can’t divulge information like that.”

  “Throw a desperate man a bone, why don’t you?” Small beads of sweat broke out on the hedge-funder’s forehead.

  The Governor and the Chancellor didn’t react.

  “You’ve got to do something,” Kempey said, his voice rising.

  “One of the things this crisis has shown us,” Blaze chipped in, “is how little governments and central banks can actually do. Your only options are to print money to try and stimulate the economy, or lower interest rates even further, but what will that achieve in the long run?”

  “You’re Blaze Scott?” the Chancellor asked.

  She nodded.

  “Next time you see a crisis approaching, please can you let us all know?” He laughed half-heartedly.

  “I tried but no one would listen. You wrote me off as a mad doomster.”

  “What do you think’s going to happen next?”

  Blaze could hardly believe it: the Chancellor of the Exchequer was asking her opinion on the economy. “I don’t see anything positive in the short term. Banking systems are teetering. I hear bad news from Bank of America and Anglo Irish, and the consequences following the collapse of Lehman’s will be long and painful. House prices are falling, unemployment rising.”

  The Governor and the Chancellor exchanged weary looks. They were interrupted by a waiter riding a prancing white stallion, expertly balancing a tray of shots. The horse danced on the spot but not a drop of vodka was spilt. Kempey took one, downed it in a gulp and then helped himself to two more. The horse trotted off and behind it came a troop of barely dressed harem dancers offering canapés.

  The Chancellor shook his head. “This is surreal.”

  “Where have you put your money?” the Governor asked Blaze.

  “Mostly in cash or gold. I’ve made some investments in India. Long-term, things will pick up.”

  The Chancellor, a veteran of many governments, smoothed his trousers. “Memories are short. We’ve been here before in 1973 and 1987, to name a few.”

  “Don’t forget the dot-com crash of 2000,” Blaze added.

  “How can you be so blasé?” The sweat ran down Kempey’s face; he looked on the verge of tears.

  The Governor rose slowly to his feet. “I’m going to find my wife.” He walked off towards the bar.

  “I ought to seek out the Leader of the Opposition,” the Chancellor said.

  Kempey went in search of a bar, leaving Blaze on her own.

  Taking another drink from an acrobat perched on the back of a black horse, she walked into the next-door tent, which was lined in midnight-blue velvet. The ceiling had been made to look like the night sky—she identified Orion’s Belt, the Little Bear and Perseus—while the walls mimicked an Islamic palace under moonlight. Guests stared in wonder, faces upturned. There was another doorway, and Blaze stepped through it into a colourful bazaar serving food from all corners of the globe. She saw the newspaper editor Leo Seville deep in conversation with a well-known African dictator, and a perennially perky soap star talking to the leader of UKIP. Blaze knew all by name, but none well enough to approach, and she decided to keep going, hoping to find Ayesha.

  The next room had been transformed into a frozen cave, the floor covered with shaggy sheepskin rugs. In the centre there was a huge, naked sleeping woman carved from ice and her pudenda was a trough of caviar. Vodka spurted from both of her breasts in perfect continuous arcs. A minor member of the royal family stood on his own, shovelling spoonfuls of caviar into his mouth.

  “Might as well,” he said to Blaze. “Don’t want this stuff to go to waste.”

  “We’re making music while Rome burns,” Blaze said.

  The Royal looked at her blankly.

  “Suetonius told the story of Emperor Nero playing a violin while his city was on fire.”

  “Can’t follow what you’re saying,” the man said, stuffing his mouth. “Have some.” He offered Blaze a soup spoon of black shiny eggs.

  Blaze shook her head. The festival of excess, the sheer waste and opulence, was sickening and she felt partially responsible. Sleet had made money from her predictions and those ludicrous profits were on full, appalling display.

  “If I were you, I’d just get on and enjoy it. The world might end tomorrow,” the Royal said.

  Blaze had to ge
t out, and quickly. First, she had to find Ayesha. Hurrying through tent after tent, she saw a famous rock band, perhaps the world’s most famous, was playing live. Below the stage there was a dance floor and in the centre, moving like a flame in a gentle wind, was Ayesha. Next to her, Sleet stamped and gyrated, rolls of fat undulating, sweat pouring from his face and under his armpits.

  Blaze marched across and shouted into Ayesha’s ear. “Let’s go home.”

  Ayesha shook her head.

  “I need to get out of here,” Blaze said desperately.

  “Take the car. I’ll find my own way.” She threw a look in Sleet’s direction and winked.

  “Ayesha, you are better than this.”

  Ayesha threw back her head and laughed. Turning away from her aunt, she shimmied towards Sleet.

  Blaze, smarting, walked out of the marquee and through the other tents towards the exit, where she found her coat and bag. Reaching into her pockets, she searched for the card with her driver’s number. She found nothing. She looked in her bag. Her heart sank. There was an attendant with a walkie-talkie and Blaze asked him to radio for the driver of a black Mercedes.

  “Do you know how many black Mercs there are out there?” he laughed. “What name might it be under?”

  “Scott,” Blaze said, fighting feelings of desperation, unable to face one more minute at the party.

  The attendant shrugged unhelpfully. “I’ll put it out on the radio but most of the drivers are asleep in their cars.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll find him.” Blaze headed outside into gusts of snow, now falling heavily. Flakes landed like cold slaps on her nose and cheeks. Her heels sank into the wet ground and within a few steps the bottoms of her silk pantaloons were drenched. The waiting cars were on the other side of the park, some quarter of a mile distant. Flinging off her gold-strapped shoes and hitching up her long coat, she set off down the driveway, gravel cutting into the soles of her feet. The physical pain paled next to the memory of Ayesha dancing with Sleet; Blaze tried to ignore a deep sense of foreboding.

  In the distance, the bright lights of a car came towards her. It was moving fast, but slowed and came to a stop about ten feet away. Blinded, she put her hands in front of her eyes. The driver got out and approached, his silhouette made fuzzy in the falling snow. Blaze tried to get out of the way by stepping off the road into the verge, but her feet slipped and she fell to her knees, suctioned to the ground by wet mud. The man held out his hand; she took it and, with his help, stood upright.