by Anna Maxted
She dry-heaved all the way to the sleek limestone shower. She washed her hair and every inch of her body. She tried not to look at herself. She dried her hair, applied lipstick – scarlet lipstick – and lashings of mascara. She put on a white lacy bra and matching knickers, little white knickers. She had a red dress from Stella McCartney that she’d bought for her and Martin’s anniversary of meeting – what a cursed day. It was a velvet clingy material, with a low-cut scoop neck, short sleeves and flared skirt. Since her recovery from the eating disorder, she’d put weight on her chest, and her cleavage swelled out of the top of the dress. She felt horribly exposed. She had also – stupid fool – bought a pair of red patent Jimmy Choo stilettos, more to look at than to wear; they were a tart’s shoes, but so pretty. Well, she was certainly dressed for the occasion.
Now she had to make one last call.
Afterwards, she put her head in her hands. But she didn’t cry.
She sat on the large white bed and waited. She moved once, to change the rainbow lighting over the headboard to a red glow. Then she jumped up to draw the blinds so that London would not witness her shame. And then she made an order on room service.
The phone rang beside the bed and she jumped. ‘Yes. Yes. Send him up, please.’ She swallowed. Her throat was dry.
There was a sharp knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ she called.
He was sexy – if you hated yourself, which she did. He was sexy – if you thought sex was a dirty, sleazy thing, which it was. All the same, she felt sick with fear and self-loathing. She watched him assess the situation. The cold, sneering expression on his face was replaced by a sly curl of the lip.
‘Claudia,’ he said, raking his hand through his hair. ‘How nice of you to give me an exclusive. We’ve missed you.’ He paused, lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve missed you.’
He’d do it. She’d known he would. It wasn’t because he fancied her, it was about power, and rivalry. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ she said. ‘Would you like to … sit down?’ She patted the bed.
He sat down next to her and his leg brushed hers. She tried to focus on now. He was a man, a sexy, bad, unsuitable man, but no relation, and she was a woman who needed to get laid and they were going to do what all adults did – for fun. They did it for fun! She was not a girl of eight, lost on a desert island, with a bearded man pressing her face towards his lap.
Her inhaler was beside her, though. Surely, buried within the fear, she felt some excitement? She had always been such a good girl; turning bad should thrill her. It was still wrong, and she wanted to run; she could have smashed through the great glass window, she wanted to run so badly. She should focus on hating Martin, loving him but hating him, and getting them both out of a desperate situation with no more collateral damage than was necessary.
He offered her the cigarette. With a trembling hand, she took it. She inhaled, and started to cough.
He laughed and tweaked it from between her fingers. ‘You’re breaking all the rules today.’
She gazed at the floor. Roughly, he tilted her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. His breath smelled of smoke and the red light above the bed reflected in his dark eyes.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. Oh God. His mouth was inches from hers. She didn’t move. She felt his hand, snaking up her bare leg. Trail of fire, she thought, in a flashback to one of her books. She didn’t want this, but she did. She couldn’t help it. She shivered and tried to press her legs together, but he wedged his knee between hers.
‘Oh, no, Claudia,’ he murmured as his fingers reached her knicker elastic. ‘Don’t tease.’ His knee pushed her legs wider, and his thick fingers probed deeper. She gasped and gripped his shoulder. ‘You want it, bitch. You’re as juicy as a peach.’
‘Don’t …’ she whispered, ‘stop,’ and when words came out wrong she knew why. It was easier to fuck this man in cold blood than to make love to her ‘fiancé’ because her only experience of sex had been a hideous ordeal for which she’d blamed herself. The idea of sex with dribbling, moony love was revolting to her: she hated herself too much. Sex was supposed to reek of guilt and shame. It was perverse and this was the only way she would ever enjoy it. This was what she deserved.
She closed her eyes. Breathe.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Fu—’
‘It’s our … room service,’ she whispered. ‘Wait.’
Seconds later, the door was on the latch and she was back, carrying the bottle of vintage champagne. The insides of her thighs were hot and throbbing. Carefully, she placed the bucket on the desk.
‘How adorable,’ he said. ‘I’m being seduced.’ She could see the great bulge in his jeans. He saw her looking, and laughed. ‘It’s all for you, baby. I’ve been saving myself.’
She thought she was going to pass out. He was so crude. She wanted to beg him to be gentle, but she knew he’d get off on her fear. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly time. She bit her lip to stop a whimper.
‘I need … Let’s have a drink,’ she said.
He nodded at the bottle, and slowly, wobbling in her high shoes, she walked over to the desk. She poured two glasses of champagne. She took a great gulp of hers, turned and gasped. He was right behind her. He downed his, then shoved a hand down her front, harshly squeezing her breasts. His breath was hot in her ear, as he hissed, ‘I’m going to give it to you good.’
He twisted her around and pushed her head down, so she was bent over the desk, and yanked up her dress. She heard the rip of his zip, and then he pulled her knickers aside, and rammed into her with a grunt. It was sharp white-hot pain and she bit her fist. The tears rolled down and plopped on to the glass desk. She was shaking. Don’t panic. Relax, relax. She closed her eyes and tried not to resist. It felt a bit better then. His hands were on her hips, strangely gentle now. Could he tell she’d never … ? He was showing her how. She tried to move with him.
He leaned over her. ‘You sexy bitch, Claudia,’ he whispered, and she pressed against him. This … it … him … it was horrible, but it was nice. She was a disgusting, disgusting girl. ‘Tell me how much you want it,’ he said as he pumped into her. ‘Say it.’
‘I want it, Jim,’ she said, and her voice was a moan of desire – because it was over; nothing would matter to her again. She was lost, and she might as well surrender.
‘You slut,’ said a quiet voice. ‘You evil, lying slut.’
They both whirled around. Jim, smiling, unrepentant; Claudia, hastily pulling her dress down, her eyes glazed with a curious mix of lust and despair. Martin had walked in, as she’d known he would, and had obligingly witnessed the act that would part them for ever. She opened her mouth to speak but he held up a hand.
‘Don’t.’ He paused. His face was pale. His eyes were narrowed and there was a single crease in the centre of his brow – just as when she narrowed her eyes. The expression was identical, stupid man. No, it was his fault, how could he not have known?
‘I hope you get what you deserve, Claudia, and I think you will. And if I see you in hell it will be too soon.’
She stared at him, defiant, and he shot her a look, a look of such acute pain, it pierced her heart like a flight of arrows. You think you’re in agony? You have no idea, Daddy. I’ve saved you from insanity.
He turned and left.
She sank to the floor. She put her hands over her face. Her breath came in wheezes, then not at all – she groped for the inhaler.
Jim tossed it to her, rolling his eyes. Then he lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve been used,’ he said. ‘Haven’t I?’
She waved away the smoke, smoothed the tears from her face, glanced in the mirror. They hadn’t kissed and her scarlet lipstick remained pristine. ‘What do you care,’ she said. ‘You enjoyed it.’
He grinned and traced his thumb across her lip. ‘You have natural talent. So … where were we?’
She pushed his hand away. ‘You were just going, boss. Take that as my resignation.’
He stared at her in
surprise, and his nostrils flared. Slowly, he put on his clothes and picked up his notebook. ‘You are a slut.’
She smiled wearily. ‘Jim,’ she said, ‘aren’t we all?’
She was a different person now. She had shed her meek, virginal skin like a snake. Life had wrung her out, done her wrong, toughened her up. It was true: the person who’d written that warning letter about Martin was a friend. But she had an enemy out there, she was sure of it. Someone had, painstakingly, led her to this, the lowest, most vile and desperate point of her existence. Why?
ITALY, JANUARY 1998
‘Thank you,’ said the woman as Isabella set the wild boar ravioli on the wooden table.
Isabella smiled. ‘Prego.’
The woman and the man, they looked so happy. It was good to see happy people. They were holding hands across the table. It made a nice change. These couples who sat, eating in silence, it pained her to see. It was not a good thing to see people eat without joy. Food and love: two of life’s essentials. She thanked God daily for sending her Luca, her blessed Luca, busy in the kitchen, his dark curling hair falling over his handsome face. It was, she guessed, the second time around for these two – or perhaps the first? Many people, they waited longer now. The woman’s wedding band shone in the candlelight. It was new, for sure. The man, he wore no ring, but Isabella knew love when she saw it, and the light of love was in his eyes.
‘You marry, here?’ You could ask. What harm in asking? Happy people liked to tell.
‘Si,’ said the woman. ‘Last Sunday. In the Church of La Madonna del Soccorso.’
Isabella’s eyes widened. ‘Molte congratulazioni!’ she said, smiling again to cover her surprise. ‘I wish you great joy.’
Only villagers married in that church. These people, they must have influence. Movie stars, perhaps? They came here now, with their baseball caps and the sunglasses stuck on their faces, too thin, terrible, like starving children, even the men, picking at their delicious food like it was no good – the menu, change this, change that – and they looked at you, Indeed, it is I, you know me, yes? She had no time for movie stars. They came to her beautiful homeland not to admire, but to be admired, and they were not happy. She saw only need in their eyes, eyes that searched for something they would never find.
These people – Americani? Inglesi? – this bride and groom, they had good looks; the man, he was a fine-looking man, but not the movie star. Rich, she decided. The shoes, the smooth skin, the fingernails, the easy manner: ah yes, money beyond dream. But today, she saw, it wasn’t the money that made him smile, it was the woman – as it should be.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman, and she smiled again.
‘Thank you,’ said the man, and she heard the tremble of great emotion in his voice. ‘We feel that joy has come to us.’ She tilted her head to hear. Perhaps his next words were not meant for her ears, but Isabella was skilled at lip reading – if she was not, what a waste of running a restaurant! She was sure he said, ‘At last.’
LA, OCTOBER 1998
Emily
Emily wasn’t good with money and, frankly, she’d always been proud of that. She’d never had to be. She was born into billions and she hadn’t a clue how to live any other way. Anyone who was ‘good’ with money was in fact budgeting – talk about common. Housewives in, like, Liverpool budgeted. If you were rich enough, you didn’t budget. You didn’t have to think about money; it was just there, loads of it, like air.
She was missing Tim. He’d gone up to Cambridge early, leaving her alone in the apartment. She’d visited him once; it had been amazing to see him after two whole weeks – she’d even given him a chew in his room; he’d grabbed a cushion so her knees didn’t get sore but they hadn’t really talked. She didn’t want to tell him about their … her … problems, because if you told your husband your problems, he thought you were the problem.
Horrible things had been happening – it had started a month before he left. Just awful. Stuff she didn’t want to face or think about. Things she didn’t want to have to deal with. After the first threatening letter, she’d told the housekeeper that she’d open the mail. She’d never opened anything but Valentine cards in her life. It was terrifying. The things they said. So cruel, so inhuman, when she was expecting a baby in a month!
The letters kept coming: she grew to recognize them on sight. They would have a vague return address, nothing suspicious, and then you’d open them to be confronted with that hateful red paper, and, in black, bold capitals across the top, ‘CREDITOR’S NOTICE’. She had no idea that people lived like this. How did they survive? How did they sleep, with the unbearable, suffocating stress of it all?
‘Take notice unless you make payment of this debt within 7 days a County Court Claim may be issued against you … legal department … EvilCorp Debt Recovery Limited …’ Surely it was illegal to threaten people like this?
‘We may issue a County Court Order against you and then put the case in the hands of the bailiff who will add their own costs to the penalty charge …’
‘Failure to pay may result in prosecution … please pay immediately to avoid further action …’
And they phoned her – on her mobile, at home. She was stunned and furious. Not so much as a hello, they were brusque and rude. She had never been spoken to like that. She had never been spoken to like a poor person.
Tim had a bank account for home stuff, but for some reason, it was empty. She didn’t have access to it, but the mortgage company – she hadn’t even known he’d had a mortgage. What was a mortgage? – claimed there were ‘insufficient funds’ in the account and were threatening to ‘repossess the property’.
‘What?’ she’d said, stupidly, on the phone. ‘Take it?’
She’d called Tim at Magdalene seven times, but he never called back. He was still rubbish at phoning. In a panic, she’d called the Earl, but he had refused to take her call. She’d written to him, but there had been no response and, eventually, her unopened letter was returned.
Her mother … she might have asked her mother to lend her some cash, but Innocence always got that closed look on her face, as if Emily had asked her for a pound of flesh. Innocence was weird with her money. She spent and spent, but she hated to give. Also, it was now a matter of pride. Innocence had been so mean about Tim being disinherited. If Emily asked for money, it would look like she’d failed again.
The only other possible source of cash was her father. She’d rather starve.
She had tried so hard. She had given Hello! seven exclusives in the space of three months – too many. She learned that she had ‘cheapened’ herself; she was ‘overexposed’. Also, there wasn’t that much left to confide. Now the tabloids hated her, because she refused to be their ‘friend’. She had briefly employed a PR. The stupid cow had advised her to ‘smile’ and ‘be friendly’, but the hacks were so rude, so enraging, why shouldn’t she give them the finger?
Of course, the photo of her giving them the finger was reprinted in every crappy magazine, earning the slug who took it half a million quid. It had taken supreme self-sacrifice, but Emily had worn the same outfit, day in, day out, for a fortnight to spite them. That way, if she kept her hair the same, and a blank expression, there were no new pictures. But they were too powerful to fight. Now it was personal; they wanted to crush her. They were succeeding. The one time, since knowing she was pregnant, she had a glass of Baileys and a fag – one fag, because she was about to explode with worry and fear – there’d been a snapper hiding in a tree with his long lens.
She had been on the verge of signing a hundred-thousand-pound-a-year contract to represent a Bond Street jewellery store. Peanuts, but it would have helped. She guessed they were fooled by the marriage to the Earl’s son, and the fact that her father was making a comeback, and she still had enough gorgeous clothes and shoes and bags and earrings to give the illusion of holding it together. The jewellery store was aiming itself at young people; Emily would add that ‘dangerous’, glamorous
edge.
If only they knew.
When the photo of her looking like a washerwoman, with a fag, a bottle of Baileys and a big pregnant stomach, hit the front pages, there was a polite, regretful letter, explaining that, given her ‘error of judgement’ and the ensuing public condemnation, and their responsibility to choose a positive role model for the impressionable young women who were a growing percentage of their client base … our sincere apologies … good luck with future projects … and the sprog … now please fuck off.
There were other avenues to explore: an autobiography. But both her parents would sue. They’d said so.
Modelling? There had been offers, but Christ, she had a brain. Her father had grudgingly paid for a home tutor. Oh God, at school they’d predicted ten As, but this year had so shaken her, she couldn’t concentrate: eight Ds and two Cs. Had it really come to selling her body? And now that she was desperate it was too late. She would have modelled knickers for BHS if they’d asked. But they hadn’t. At eight months pregnant she was too enormous and the washerwoman shot had been reprinted too many times to count. The consensus was, she had let herself go.
She was sixteen, for heaven’s sake!
She should have saved the interview fees, but seriously, how? It was amazing how fast you could get through a million quid. When you were lonely, bored, sad and poor, blowing cash was your only comfort. Just as when you were rich, in fact. She tortured herself with dreams of the old days when she and Mummy would breeze into Versace and they’d lock the store doors and bring out champagne on a tray. They’d spend a hundred thousand a pop and never give it a second thought.
Versace was no longer an option, so Emily had booked herself into the Priory for a fortnight, mainly to see what the fuss was about, and partly for company, but the press had dug out an old, old picture of her – in it, she was plainly fourteen! – falling out of a club, coked up to the eyeballs, and labelled her ‘a drug addict’. She’d sued and won, but their printed apology had been so tiny, and hidden on page sixteen, that it felt like a hundred grand down the toilet. Also, the Priory had been shit. It was nothing like a spa.