Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  The picture that Nathan had drawn of his foster parents in the fire made Shanta feel sick: two desperate scarecrow figures with gaping mouths and red hair of flames and blood. That poor child – he was four – should be singing songs about animals and making hedgehogs out of spaghetti and clay.

  She had a good mind as to what he’d been exposed to instead. He flinched if a man came near him. And his eyes were empty; as if all hope had gone.

  Shanta suspected it was more than the shock of losing his parents in the fire. Adults could commit the worst atrocities and the child would still love them. But Nathan was too young to understand the horror of the accident; he’d been more excited about the fire engines. He knew Clare and Stockley had ‘got dead’ but when asked how he felt, he’d shrugged as if he didn’t understand the question.

  ‘Nathan, this is going to be your new home, and I’m going to be your Auntie Shanta. So if there’s anything you want to talk about, you come straight to me, and I’ll sort it out for you, OK?’

  Nathan looked at her. It was an empty look and she felt her insides curl. What had they done to him? She wished that Shakespeare House was a little more cheery. Goodness knows, they did their best, but there wasn’t the budget to replace the stuff that got trashed and it was too sparse to be truly homely. She’d have to make sure Nathan wasn’t bullied. ‘It’s always a bit worrying when you start somewhere new, isn’t it, Nathan? I still remember my first day at school – I didn’t want to go at all! But it was such fun in the end. I made lots of new friends. And I’m sure you will here. Are you hungry, my dear? There’s shepherd’s pie for supper, and a nice treat for dessert – apple pie and custard.’

  It did cross her mind to ask if he was vegetarian, as a courtesy. After all, she was, not that the dinner ladies could get their heads around this concept. It was always: ‘We’ve saved you some vegetables! And some gravy! Oh! It’s got meat in it!’ But who was she kidding? This child had never been given a choice about anything.

  ‘I’m going to show you your bedroom. I wonder if you like Batman? I put a little poster of him by your bed. And we have some nice new toys waiting for you, because … because your old ones … Well. It’s nice to have new toys, isn’t it, Nathan?’

  She smiled down at him. Oh, his wrists were skeletal. And he needed new clothes, proper clothes, not the cheap option. It couldn’t be all about function. A cool pair of jeans would do wonders for his self-respect.

  Nathan was looking everywhere but at her. Like a feral cat checking its surroundings for predators.

  Shanta unlocked the door of Nathan’s bedroom. Ah, it almost looked normal. Except for the reinforced window glass and the nailed-down table, it was very cosy. Shanta had snuck in a blue teddy bear from home – she’d been given a glut of soft toys when Karlwant was born. Council resources only stretched so far.

  ‘There you go. Perhaps we could sit and read a book together, before supper. Look, we have Green Eggs and Ham. And Fantastic Mr Fox. These books are yours now, Nathan. I’ve written your name inside them. Why don’t we read a few stories, and then I’ll take you to meet some of the other chil—’

  An almighty bang and a bloodcurdling scream. Oh heavens, what now? Just when poor little Nathan needed some peace and calm.

  Freddie Walsh no doubt: a whirlwind of trouble and only ten. She tried to see good in every child, she really did, but Freddie Walsh, bless him, pushed the boundaries. Couldn’t keep his hands off his tallywhacker – it wasn’t nice at the dinner table. And there was the time he’d tattooed the new girl on the arm with a corkscrew. How Freddie Walsh happened to be in possession of a corkscrew in the first place …

  ‘Wait there, Nathan. I’m sure it’s just some bigger children having a bit of fun. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  Shanta hurried off in the direction of the fracas. A trot was all she could manage. It was those bunions. The doctor said they’d caused arthritis in her toes. You wouldn’t imagine a toe could be so painful.

  She caught sight of Kim Harris, pretty little thing, scurrying round a corner. ‘Kim!’ she called. ‘Kim! Would you come here, please.’

  The little so-and-so vanished. Shanta sighed. This was ridiculous. They were understaffed, only by one (still no replacement for Brian, that weirdo with the guitar; she’d had her suspicions) but it made a difference.

  Well, whoever it was had simmered down. She’d best get back to Nathan.

  She saw the closed door, and fear squeezed her heart. She tried to turn the handle. It wouldn’t budge. ‘Nathan! Nathan? Are you in there? Is … is someone with you?’

  Stupid question. He hadn’t barricaded the door by himself. ‘Freddie? Freddie! Are you in there? Lucas? I’d like you to open this door for me please. Or I’m afraid we’re going to have to take away your pocket money.’

  She’d have to call for help. How could she have fallen for this? OK. Be calm.

  ‘Freddie. Can you hear me? Nathan is only little, and we have to look after little ones.’

  The little tinker. For all she knew he could have a knife. It was impossible, but Freddie had a knack for achieving the impossible and, though she shouldn’t say it, always in a bad way. She put her ear to the door. A manic cackle, a whisper, ‘Hold his arm, hold it still!’

  A whine: ‘I’m trying!’

  Lucas.

  ‘Nathan? Are you OK? Freddie, Lucas, I am going to call the Unit Head, and then, if I find that so much as a hair on Nathan’s head has been displaced, I’m sorry to say that I am going to call the police. And DI Morgan really, really does not want to see you two gentlemen again this week. Now I’m sure that won’t be necessary, as I know you are both good, kind boys but this behaviour is unacceptable. We don’t want you to end up in Feltham!’

  Shut up, Shanta. She was making it worse. And then – she’ d never heard a sound like it – a long shrill scream of agony.

  ‘Nathan!’ she cried, and hurled her bulk against the door. With unexpected lightness it burst open, and she fell to the floor with a thud. Trembling, she scanned the room for Nathan, half expecting to see his dead body sprawled on the scratchy carpet. But oh! There he was, sitting calmly on a chair. He looked … unscathed! Green Eggs and Ham was open on his lap.

  A whimpering made her turn. Lucas had pinned himself into a corner. His face was chalk; he was hugging his knees to his chest. She followed his frozen gaze to where Freddie was hunched, just behind the door. His hands covered his eyes. Blood was squirting from between his fingers. A metal compass lay on the floor next to him, and – oh God – that small blob of pink and white jelly, it looked like … a piece of living thing … It couldn’t be … please let it be … vomit … Oh but she knew what it was. Part of an eyeball …

  As Shanta swallowed back the nausea and lunged towards the panic button, little Nathan looked up from Dr Seuss.

  ‘He tried to stab me. He’s a bad boy.’ Nathan raised his voice to a shout and wagged a finger at Freddie. ’Bad boy!’

  AEGEAN SEA, LATE SUMMER 1980

  Jack

  If there was one thing Jack couldn’t stand, it was a boat.

  My Fair Lady was a big boat, and it was custom-made, interior-designed, handsome, obscenely luxurious, sleek, white and superior, with polished rosewood floors and red leather panelling. But it was still a boat.

  He just preferred dry land. Sailing was too much like hard work. And he hated the idea of all that deep dark water beneath him; he couldn’t bear the constant motion. Last time he’d spent a week on Harry’s other yacht he’d congratulated himself on not being seasick, and then returned to London and spent the next seven days walking into doors.

  He supposed the Aegean was beautiful. The tiny islands, with their little white buildings hunched in the middle of clusters of trees, had their charm. And the hot, dry sunshine stroked his face as if to say, ‘There, there.’ And Harry was doing his bit to be hospitable. Under his wife’s nose, he had engaged two professional masseuses, both ex-Playmates. The night before, Jack had sp
rawled on pale silk sheets while Brandi and Candi had writhed, gasped and wriggled out of their little tight white uniforms, slathered each other in sweet almond oil, and tried their best to engage him in a threesome. He wasn’t up for it. They’d left, and Jack found he was shaking.

  He’d slung on his toga, picked at the fried whitebait, and wished that he hadn’t been seated next to Lady Helen. Despite her charity work she was void of compassion.

  It was two years since Felicia’s death and it felt like two minutes. The horror of the funeral still made his gut twist. It had been as elaborate as Lutheran tradition would allow, in the prettiest church in Minnesota, with all of Felicia’s favourite childhood hymns: ‘Amazing Grace’, ‘O Master, Let Me Walk with Thee’, and ‘O Savior, Precious Savior Beautiful Savior’. He’d felt out of place, as if he were intruding on the memorial of someone he didn’t know. Her parents had blanked him.

  No one acknowledged that he was half dead with grief. Not then, not now.

  Last night, one of the puddings (he knew now to say ‘pudding’ not ‘dessert’) was lemon cake, and he’d reminded Lady Helen of Felicia making lemon meringue and forgetting the pastry. The silly cow had tensed, as if mentioning his dead wife’s name was a social gaffe. He’d necked a lot of expensive booze, and was about to tell her how bloody miserable he was. She’d put a warning claw on his arm and said, ‘Jack, I do so admire you keeping a stiff upper lip on this matter. It helps you get over your upset far more efficiently. If one is weeping incessantly, one’s emotion gets out of control.’

  She was wearing a pearl and sapphire tiara. She’d got her maid to weave little olive branches and leaves around the gemstones, presumably a nod to ancient Greece. She still looked the spit of a rhino in drag. He’d nodded, strangled his linen napkin under the table, and tried to swallow a bite of lemon cake. It stuck in his throat like a piece of bath sponge.

  That night, he couldn’t sleep.

  Every night, he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to sleep because he never dreamed of her, despite wanting to, so much. At midnight, he’d wandered on to the deck, nearly tripped over a young, very beautiful woman, with ice-blue eyes, black hair and the sensuous curves of a Greek goddess.

  Innocence.

  He’d braced himself for one of those candyfloss conversations but to his surprise she’d been genuine. She was also widowed. She was obviously rich and posh, but reckless enough to commit to an emotion. She agreed that no one understood the loneliness, that on occasion you felt quite, quite mad, and how dare anyone compare you to a divorced person, they were so, so different from the bereaved: bitter, and yet with a strange glee about them.

  ‘Everyone expects you to remarry in a snap,’ she said, her husky voice catching ever so slightly.

  She knew.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think I will ever marry again,’ she said, sighing.

  He suddenly wanted to run his tongue along the scoop of her collar bone. No. He didn’t.

  ‘I can’t even look at a man,’ she added. ‘I see my … husband, everywhere. Do you find that, Jack, that you’re obsessed with the past?’

  The way she said his name, in that scratchy voice of hers.

  He lit her cigarette for her, and watched as she stared at a shooting star. ‘Pretty,’ she murmured as she sucked in the smoke, and he wanted to rip off her flimsy dress, and … of course he didn’t. Felicia was the only woman for him.

  No sex in two years.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am. I … I won’t ever marry again either.’

  She smiled at him, softly touching her champagne glass to his chest. Now why was that so hot?

  ‘To being alone,’ she murmured, and walked away.

  FRENCH POLYNESIA, NINE DAYS LATER

  Innocence

  She scrunched her toes into the white powdery sand and sighed as the warm tide of the lagoon lapped over her long brown legs. The sun sparkled on her smooth oiled skin, and the sea was a glaze of precious stones under the brilliant sky. She looked beyond the tiny desert island, lush with palm trees, to where the volcano rose over the gauzy horizon, and she knew that nothing in the world could better this.

  Then again.

  ‘Oh darling, yes,’ she purred as the gorgeous man she was straddling pulled her white bikini aside. She slowly sank on to him, squeaking with pleasure, and he removed her top with one impatient tweak of its string.

  He gasped, ‘You gorgeous bitch.’

  She wanted to make it last but she couldn’t. She wanted it all, now, and so did he. That was OK – they’d do it again in twenty minutes. She bit, probably a little too hard, on his ear, then glanced at her Bvlgari-Bvlgari watch. It was 10.35 a.m. He kissed her – God, he knew how to kiss – and they rolled over in the sand laughing.

  ‘Oops-a-daisy,’ she giggled. ‘Where is my bikini top?’

  Her voice was light but she was serious. It was limited edition Chanel. That was the problem with shagging on a beach. You got sand everywhere, and fine and sugary and white as it was, it was still sand and it chafed. And you ran the risk of having your pleasantly expensive designer bikini top float away on the tide like a leaf.

  Sharon Marshall saw nothing good about wasting money. Two million quid hadn’t turned out to be masses. The Hon. Innocence Ashford had hooked Jack Kent just in time. And one non-negotiable of married life was comfort. Never again would her shoes pinch. Comfort was the point of being rich. Screwing on the beach was fun, but actually she preferred doing it in the four-poster. It wasn’t a huge problem. Men were like dogs, they could be trained.

  ‘Excuse me! Sir! Madam!’

  She covered her chest with her hands.

  ‘Allow me,’ said her new husband.

  She tried not to smile and failed. She was just so thrilled to find him sexy. If he’d been a pot-bellied bore with a tiny cock, she would have soldiered on, but he was gorgeous. She’d struck gold.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Kent, je suis desolé. I am excessively sorry to disturb you.’

  She bit her lip. The manager looked as if he were about to cry. Even now, it was a novelty to be deferred to. She loved it.

  ‘I apologize greatly, because I know you are on your honeymoon’ – he attempted a smile – ‘but how can I say? This is a small island, an intimate retreat, only twelve guests all in all, and I am frightened to say that certain of the other couples are objecting to your, ah, frisking on the beach. I am sorry again, but would it be possible to reserve your, ah, activity to your inside?’

  Jack smiled, and the man smiled back, relieved. Although Innocence suspected he would have been happier had she been wearing a bikini top rather than her husband’s hands.

  ‘Monsieur Bertrand,’ said Jack. (He knew the bloke’s name: he was slick. She approved.) ‘I apologize. The other guests will not be disturbed by our … activities again.’

  The manager beamed. Now perhaps he’d scram and they could continue honeymooning. She was prepared to compromise on the open-air mist-shower – it faced out to sea and wasn’t overlooked. Though who would object to a free show? She bet it was a wife. That Raquel woman had definitely given her a look when they’d passed on the pontoon last night. Tough: her films were crap, she was knocking on forty, and the bloke she was with wasn’t half as gorgeous as Jack.

  The manager bowed. He was sweating. ‘Thank you, Mr Kent. I am so grateful for your kind understanding—’

  A faint roar from the ocean made her turn. The manager followed her gaze, squinting against the bright sunlight. She gasped and covered her mouth. She’d never seen such a glorious boat – it beat the shit out of Harry’s. It was silver and sharp at the edges, like a shark.

  She must act less impressed. No more gasping and covering her mouth like a ten-year-old. She knew why Jack had been attracted to her. He might think it was her face and figure, but it was so much more. This man wanted a woman born to the life he craved. She’d seen the light in his eyes when she’d introduced herself in her cut-glass voice. She was hi
s way in, and up. She had to be that person, a woman of breeding, who would show only mild interest in yet another twenty-first-century superyacht racing over the bright blue sea towards her. She was Miss Innocence Ashford now: Sharon Marshall was dead.

  Jack nodded towards the yacht. ‘The other guests will not be disturbed by us again, Monsieur Bertrand, because all ten are being transferred to Hotel Bora Bora for two weeks at my expense. You will understand that I wanted to give my wife a very special wedding gift – and what could be more special than this little slice of paradise?’

  What!

  ‘You have bought the island?’ said the manager.

  This … this was hers? Innocence gasped and covered her mouth.

  ‘Yes.’ Jack grinned at both of them. ‘I am the new owner of Spyglass Island. We are the new owners of Spyglass Island.’

  ‘Oh, darling!’

  He kissed her neck. ‘I’ve wanted to get into the hotel business since … for a while. Banishing all my guests isn’t something I plan to make a habit of, but it’s a unique occasion.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir!’

  ‘And of course, Monsieur Bertrand, with your many years of expertise in the industry, I will be relying on you to …’

  She zoned out. This was better than she could have hoped. He was rich, but not as rich as some. He wasn’t a billionaire, one of those men you couldn’t see for the gold-diggers buzzing around them. But she’d done her research on Kent and knew that, one day, he would be a billionaire. She’d known, because she’d recognized herself in him. He was hungry for excess. The purchase of Spyglass Island was a fine start – and he wouldn’t stop until the world was his.

  Not if she had anything to do with it.

  With many bows and smiles, Monsieur Bertrand retreated.

  Innocence stretched out on the fine, white, powdery, chafing sand, and made eyes at her husband. He deserved it.