by Anna Maxted
So he’d hunted for a weak company that was in trouble. Jack felt bad at first. He wanted to be nice. But he wanted to be rich more. He didn’t know if what drove him was a desire to say ‘sod you’ to the world or simply to have a good life. He’d waited until the conditions in the stock market were perfect for the acquisition, and pounced. He would rescue the hotel – the banks were about to foreclose on its debts – but the price he paid was insulting. Still, if he hadn’t exploited the situation, someone else would have.
It was the same with Innocence. He couldn’t believe that such a woman was available. She suited him; she suited his situation. She was self-contained in everything but sex. They came together through sex – it was their main form of communication. He preferred it to talking. Talking got you into trouble. Women expected you to remember tiny things, and he never could. He wasn’t good at detail. He didn’t like to get too close to anything. Not any more.
Which was why along with the elation of owning his first hotel, he felt terror. A hotel was so personal. He’d close it for a year for renovations. He had a vision of its success, but the vision was blurred. It worried him. He knew what he wanted in a hotel, but what did other people want? He’d expected to feel desolate after his wife’s death, but the shrivelling of confidence was a shock. He had less belief in his opinions. He was driven to bolder, showier moves to stop anyone from noticing.
He wasn’t doing too badly. He’d made some good investments lately … He smiled at the memory of the private jet. He’d arranged for ‘You To Me Are Everything’ to be playing as they boarded. Chicks dug that stuff. But Innocence preferred ‘Heart of Glass’ – the only song they didn’t have. So one minute she had the hump, the next she was groping him up and they’d done it in the bathroom.
He looked at her, sitting beside him in the pale red Bristol 401, hands folded in her lap; she had these genteel mannerisms and yet she was filthy. The upper classes, he supposed. They loved dirt, horses, sex; they barked ‘What?’ instead of ‘Pardon?’ They wore the ugliest clothes ever, and looked down on your hand-stitched Italian suit because it was made by the wrong tailor. He stroked her hair. She sat still, but it seemed an effort for her, as if there was this suppressed energy fizzing away inside. He loved that. She was young; she made him feel young, and he was so bloody relieved. He’d felt so old as a widower. Sometimes, he’d moved his head and felt his brain creak.
‘You’ll see your new home in’ – he checked his Purdey watch – ‘five minutes.’
She turned, slowly removed her shades. Her eyes were fiercely blue. ‘Marvellous, darling.’
It made him laugh that when they were fucking, she spoke an entirely different language; frankly, it was like doing it with a brickie. ‘Marvellous’ didn’t enter the equation.
‘I probably shouldn’t say this, and ruin the surprise but’ – he waggled a hand towards her face. God, he was crap at all this – ‘you might want some warning to, er, prepare. I’ve organized a wife-warming party.’
Innocence laughed. ‘A what?’
She was pleased, he could tell. ‘In your honour. A little get-together. Five hundred of my closest friends. Everyone wants to meet you. So I thought I’d make an occasion of it. A little wedding party party. The theme is Moonraker.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought it would be fun.’
He saw her look down at her white Chanel suit. Thank Christ for Martha Green, his secretary. Right, every time! He pulled a blanket off the back seat to reveal a pile of dresses. ‘There’s a few to choose from. The red one is Valentino. The crystal one is Ian Thomas. And the python print is Givenchy.’
He wasn’t sure about the python print – Martha had gone a bit nuts. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I think I know your taste.’ He grinned. ‘And dress size.’ He paused. ‘And there are some baubles back there.’ Martha again: she’d suggested earrings and a necklace from Graff. ‘You can’t go wrong with diamonds,’ she’d said. He relied on Martha. Martha knew best. He’d been right to employ Martha, despite the … awkwardness. But, because of the circumstances, he was quickly forgiven. Martha – middle-aged, stiff hair, compulsive knitter, closet fashion queen – had seen him through the last couple of years. She would not be at the party tonight; her former employers were among the guests, and Jack did not want to rub salt in the wound.
Jack smiled at Innocence. He hoped she would choose the Ian Thomas to meet his friends. He kind of wanted her to save the python print for later.
She was thrilled. She always turned plummy when she was chuffed. ‘The Valentino is divine,’ she said. ‘I’ll look like a Bond girl!’ She snuggled closer, leaning over the gear stick to stroke his thigh. ‘So terribly sweet of you, darling, do tell me more about tonight!’
It was hard to remember the details. Martha and the housekeeper had organized it. ‘Well’ – he must try not to sound vague – ‘I want to keep some details a surprise, but Shirley Bassey is going to sing.’ That had cost, but bugger it, you had to live, and he didn’t think The Jam was Innocence’s kind of thing. ‘And Gualtiero Marchesi is cooking the food. Italian. He’s also doing French.’ He didn’t know this Italian bloke to spit on, but two Michelin stars made him acceptable. He expected Innocence would know the name, but she gave no sign. He’d grown to like the upper-class habit of suffocating all emotion at its inception – it was dignified. Still, a glimmer of appreciation wouldn’t hurt.
Never mind. It was nearly dusk, and the thousands of fairy lights in the grounds would be lit, it would be like magic. He’d ordered the gravel to be raked, and every stray leaf to be incinerated. Fucking nature. It was why he didn’t own a country house. When he visited Harry’s estate in Gloucestershire, the grey-looking sheep ruined the effect. ‘Why don’t you have the, er, shepherd wash them before you arrive?’ he’d asked once, and Harry had laughed so hard that he’d shut up, embarrassed.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he said. ‘Guests arrive at eight, so you’ll have an hour to get ready. And of course, you’ll meet Claudia – she’s so excited. But tonight is all about you, it’s entirely in your honour.’
The trouble with women who were high maintenance – and Innocence was obviously used to the finest – you found yourself crawling up their arse just to raise a smile out of them.
‘Pull over,’ she purred.
‘But … we’re on a main road.’ He wasn’t sure that he wanted to do it in the car – this was a Bristol, not a Ford Capri.
‘Ooh,’ she teased. ‘We’ll get in trouble!’ She sighed, unzipped his trousers and straddled him. Oh God. She whispered in his ear. What! She was crazy. ‘Do it,’ she murmured. ‘You might enjoy it.’
Driving while screwing: it wasn’t specifically outlawed in the Highway Code. Wow. He was grateful that they were approaching the gates. Oh yes. He pressed the remote. Oh Jesus. He could barely see – it was fine when she ground down, but the ups created a bit of a blind spot. Oh, baby. He really hoped that the staff hadn’t lined up to greet them. Well, this gave new meaning to the words coming up the drive. Oh GOD!
Oh God. He’d hit something.
LATER THAT EVENING
Innocence
Was there anything worse than someone else’s misfortune spoiling your day? Nasty little brat. It wasn’t even as if she was badly hurt. A broken leg and concussion and a snapped rib. And a crushed finger. Extensive bruising. Nothing, really. Still. The grandmother would take over, and Jack would be back from the hospital soon. She checked her Bedat watch. Half an hour till the guests arrived – plenty of time. She gazed closely at her face in the mirror. It was, she noted, an ordinary mirror. Jack would have to be taught how to blow cash – he didn’t have a clue. That red car – what was it? A Datsun?
Innocence would have a mirror like the one in Snow White, a mirror fit for a queen, with a frame of solid gold. She batted her false eyelashes, half closing her eyes to admire the dazzling effect of her silver eye shadow. She really was the fairest of them all. She stood up, ran her hands over her svelte curves and g
lanced at the dresses on the bed. The fucking Ian Thomas was going straight in the bin. Jack wanted her to choose the couturier who dressed the royals so that all his braying friends would be reminded that he’d married class. The Ian Thomas was OK, she supposed, the crystal-beaded angel-wing sleeves were a glamorous touch. But it was hardly Bond. Maybe Oxfam could have it, or maybe she’d sell it on.
The python print was more her scene. It was gorgeous, overlaid with transparent sequins, and it clung like the snake itself. And the Valentino – if he was good enough for Jackie O, Valentino was all right by her. But the snakeskin dress was made for her.
Innocence sighed and zipped herself into the dress with the crystal-beaded angel wings.
There was a sharp knock on the door. The housekeeper. They were all the same, housekeepers. Like graduates from the SS.
‘Madam. Would you like to inspect the house and the grounds before the guests arrive?’
Innocence waggled a delicate foot, encased in a silver sandal with a steel high heel. ‘Thank you, but I’m hardly dressed for it. I’ll leave that to my husband.’ He’ll be back any minute, you silly cow, don’t look at me like that.
She’d already inspected the house and grounds. It was good to have space. A toff couldn’t resist a tall thin house, where you were forever traipsing up and down stairs. Her townhouse had been no better than a council flat in some respects: the walls were as thin, and you could hear your neighbours shouting on the other side. It had made her feel watched, and uncomfortable – as if she hadn’t progressed. Jack’s house was vast and sprawling, with huge gardens. You couldn’t see your neighbours, which was how Innocence liked it. There were too many people in the world. She liked the basement swimming pool with its dolphin mosaic. She liked the ballroom with its acres of oak floor that someone else had polished. She liked the curly staircases – the something-style staircases? Guggenheim-style! She hated the yawning gaps in her education.
Jack’s pad was a little bit disco, which surprised her. He obviously liked modern art. Fuck: another cloud of ignorance. She cringed at the time she’d attended a gallery opening in South Ken and picked up a jacket lying on the floor. It had turned out to be the artist’s signature piece, entitled Absent Father.
Talking of absent, Jack ought to be back by now. He’d need to shower and change before they greeted everyone as husband and wife. This was her moment of triumph, and she wondered if the diamonds were enough. She lit a Marlboro. She wasn’t sure what to do. She opened the French doors and stood on the balcony. It was a cold, crisp, dry evening. She felt a curl of fear as a line of cars snaked up the drive – the Jaguar XJ-S, the Aston Martin DB5, the Triumph Spitfire, silver, black, bog green – the colours of combat. This was a disaster! Where the hell was he? He’d promised.
She tottered downstairs at dizzy, dangerous speed. The place looked spectacular. There were orchids, dyed black, everywhere, their strong, dirty scent thick with sex. Rolling cameras shot moving images on to every wall against a soundtrack of Abba. Very proper. A tall man in a Ziggy metallic spacesuit was giving instructions to a gaggle of pretty waitresses with frizzy blond hair and silver hotpants – very retro, very cute. But she should be wearing hotpants. God, sometimes it was hard, acting toffee-nosed. Oh, sure the Ian Thomas was hot on her but, on second thoughts, a forty-year-old could wear it. This party was being held so that she could show off, and it was bloody unfair that she had to dress so primly.
The housekeeper sidled up, not quite meeting her eye.
‘Call the hospital, find out where he is,’ snapped Innocence. ‘Please,’ she added. ‘Thank you so much.’
You didn’t want to make an enemy of Himmler. Also, as hard as she tried to squash it, she felt rotten if she was rude to a servant.
The housekeeper smiled grimly and, without warning, a great noise of people flooded through the main doors – a fury of furs, cigarette smoke, jewels, laughter, glitter and alcohol. Innocence swallowed, forced herself to approach – someone, anyone – and introduce herself.
‘Good evening,’ she cried, a great, dazzling fake smile cracking her face. Her own wedding party and her new husband was too busy to attend. He and his wretched daughter were making a fool of her in front of all these people. Be charming, be lovely: the words ran through her head like tickertape. Imagine yourself a film star, you’ll get through it, girl.
‘Hello, gorgeous girlie, and who are you?’ shouted a young man with slick hair and a bright orange shirt, taking her hand in his.
‘I am Mrs Kent,’ she replied, hoarse with repressed rage.
‘What? Speak up!’
Her heart beat fast, and she ripped her hand away. ‘I’m the hostess. The host. Excuse me,’ she muttered. She felt close to tears, so she bit her lip hard. The housekeeper had vanished, to leave her to her doom. All these stunning, polished people: she already felt judged, and lacking. She must take control, but it was like trying to control a herd of rhinos in full charge. They were mostly young and gorgeous, born into wealth; she supposed that rich men had beautiful wives. Half of them were wasted. From their dress, more Bowie than Bond, they obviously thought they had something to rebel against. What – too much money?
She’d show them. There was a Giacometti statue of an anorexic – nasty – on a massive grey chunk of marble. She tossed the statue into a corner, hitched up her dress, scrambled on top of the plinth, stuck two fingers in her mouth, and whistled.
She felt a ripple of dying noise, as everyone gazed at her. Ziggy, sensing drama, fluttered a hand for Abba to be turned down.
‘Welcome!’ she cried. ‘For those of you who don’t yet know me, I am … Miss Innocence Ashford. Mrs Kent.’ So stuff that up your arses. ‘My husband, Jack, will be here very soon. A close relative of his has been taken ill’ – no way was she going to allow Claudia even a dot of limelight – ‘but even so, we want you all to enjoy yourselves and … party!’
She smiled and pouted a little, hoping that no one could see her shaking. There was a murmur; the faces looked friendly, or were they kindly … sympathetic … pitying?
‘Bravo!’ shouted a deep muted voice. Harry. Thank God. A cigarette dangled out of the side of his mouth as he scrambled to join her on the plinth. ‘Three cheers for Innocence! She’s a rock – an absolute diamond!’ Through the haze of cigarette smoke, people started to clap and whoop. Harry winked at her. ‘Come on, old lady,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’
She drank a little Bollinger, smoked a lot of Marlboro, blanked the sexy waitresses, ate duck, passed on the coke, ignored the orgies. (Ugh. The steam room would have to be scrubbed with Dettol and bleach and Vim.) At ten, Shirley Bassey swept in, wrapped in acres of white fox fur. It had been going OK, considering, but then Shirley had decided to compere, calling the host and hostess to the floor to dance to her greatest hit, ‘Goldfinger’.
Shit. Innocence answered to no one. But this was Shirley. Innocence felt unable to disobey. She looked wildly around, as if Jack might appear by magic. It was as if he was dead. Harry was probably screwing a waitress in the pool. Why didn’t any of the other men offer to join her? Maybe they didn’t dare?
On rubber legs, she walked to the centre of the dance floor, nodded coolly at Shirley. Shirley raised a thin eyebrow, and began to sing. Innocence felt sick. Her body felt as if it was fossilizing. She forced herself to sway to the music. Her face was red as a poppy. Were people laughing? She decided to give them a show: she shimmied, writhed, flung herself around. And then, halfway through the song, she caught sight of a smirk on a pretty face, a colluding bark of laughter, and she couldn’t bear it any longer. She stopped, shook her head at Shirley, and ran from the room.
Five breathless minutes later, she reached the main staircase, and looked up to see Jack ambling down it. ‘Babe!’ he cried. ‘I’m here! You’re gorgeous!’ He was doing up his tie. His hair was damp. He had casually changed and showered, while she’d endured the most embarrassing episode of her entire life.
Innocence t
ook a deep breath. But there were no words in the English language foul enough to yell at him. So she merely said, in a voice of ice, ‘I have a headache, I am going to bed.’
‘Darling, wait!’ he said.
She held out a hand, stopping him. ‘Please. Go.’ She sniffed, wiped her nose on her crystal-encrusted sleeve, ran upstairs, threw herself on to the black-silk-sheeted bed of the master bedroom and burst into tears.
She stopped crying almost immediately. That idiot would pay for tonight. Shirley Bassey called herself a big spender – hah! Sharon Marshall would show Jack the meaning of poor.
As for Claudia: the competition must be eliminated. Innocence had plans for dear Claudia.
LONDON, 1985
Nathan
Nathan sucked in the night air like a drug. It was all right to be out of the secure unit. It was prison, whatever they called it. The same four grey walls and locked doors, and the staff were like prison guards. You were watched, always. If you were lucky, that was it. They beat you, some of them, but apart from that, they left you alone. He’d been fighting, every day, for the last two years. He liked a fight. It was something to do. It was good to make another person scream. But he was bored. His environment didn’t bother him – like it made a difference if someone put up a fucking picture.
Charlie whistled at him, sharply, as if he was a dog. Charlie did all right by him. Charlie was the boss. It was OK. Nathan wanted to learn off him. The day that Charlie did not do all right by him, Nathan would open him up like a bag of crisps. But until that time, they were cool. Charlie was eleven, four years older than Nathan.
Nathan watched how Charlie did his work, with care. He’d asked to go to the British Library; of course, the staff wet their pants. Nathan went too. His world was so small, it was hard to believe that there were buildings this big, ceilings so high. His writing wasn’t that good yet, but he could read – and remember. He had a good memory.