“Not anymore.”
“No, OK, not anymore. Nice set of knives to twist in a husbandly wound though.”
“But it was broad daylight, and we’d only had a drink.”
“Did you know that fifty percent of adulteries are committed at lunchtime? In hotels. When it’s usually broad daylight, it must be said. Dear oh dear. Poor old Richard. There you are, so lovely and sexy and funny and fun—of course the poor chap’s jealous. Of any man who comes near you. You must see that. I mean, there you are coming out of a hotel with a particularly fine example of one. Man, I mean, not hotel. Give the poor guy a break.”
She felt rather odd suddenly. Odd and very disturbed. But more than anything, cross.
“Joel, I’m afraid you don’t understand at all,” she said, trying to sound cool. “And it’s not really anything to do with you. As far as I can see. Look, we’d better go, it’s getting very late and—”
“It is something to do with me,” he said. “Because you did, at some stage, agree to tell me about it. Because you were crying this afternoon, so you’re obviously upset. And I like you enough to mind about that. Because I think you’ve been quite foolish. Actually.”
“Just shut up, will you. I don’t want to listen to a lecture from you, I have quite enough of those already. Everyone does it—”
“Well, I’m not surprised,” he said, “actually. When you’re so—so dense.”
“I am not dense!”
“Yes, you are. Irresistibly, sexily, gloriously dense.”
Debbie scowled at him; he looked at her, his dark eyes snapping with amusement. “You are so…so…” she said.
“What? So what?”
“Rude,” she said. “Really, really rude. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Why I came out with you at all.”
Joel began to laugh; then he reached up and caught her hand.
She tried to pull her hand free. “Don’t.”
He hung on to it, still laughing, then said, suddenly more serious, “I’ll tell you what you’re doing here, and why you came out with me. Because you bloody well wanted to. You wanted to be with me, like I want to be with you. You may not have wanted it quite as much as I did, but I think you knew exactly what you were doing—shit, Debbie, stop glaring at me like that.”
“What do you expect me to do?” she said furiously. “Smile dotingly at you?”
“You could try,” he said, and then he leaned forward and kissed her. On the mouth. Quite hard.
And she sat there and wanted to push him away, to slap him, to stalk off to the road and into a cab—but she couldn’t. Because his mouth, working on hers, his tongue, seeking out hers, was having an extraordinary effect on her. She felt it, that mouth, felt it in her whole head, which was throbbing suddenly. And in her breasts now—how could a kiss, a kiss on the lips, reach your breasts, but it had, it was making them desperate for touching, for caressing, for kissing too, and it was all she could do not to reach for one of his hands and place it there. And then the sensation moved on, lower, lower, somewhere in the region of her stomach, or even, oh God, yes, even there, and she felt herself grow sweetly soft and liquid and still the darts of pleasure moved on, travelling as if on fine, piercing threads, broadening now, making their way through her, pushing, reaching, parting her on their way, until she was entirely consumed by them and all she could think of was how quickly she might be able to answer them, to respond, and when Joel said, “Shall we go back to my place then?” any other answer but, “Yes,” was unthinkable. Absolutely, gloriously, emphatically unthinkable.
Chapter 33
JULY TO AUGUST 1990
She really hadn’t wanted to tell anyone yet; she wanted to keep it safe, safe from everybody’s eyes and opinions; she didn’t want it discussed and pronounced upon, she didn’t want to be warned about it, told it was too soon or too much, didn’t even want to be congratulated. It was nothing to do with anybody else, when the next step was so far into the future; it was her treasure, to be locked safely away for her eyes only, a source of happiness to be drawn on when she needed it.
She didn’t say anything to her parents; simply that she had had a lovely time, that Jamie had been totally wonderful, that his family was great (although his mother could be difficult), that she had loved Boston and adored Cape Cod, and that she couldn’t believe it was actually over.
Two days later, Annabel couldn’t bear it any longer. She’d had a phone call from Jamie.
“Please, please let me tell the family. They haven’t stopped talking about you since you left, how much they loved you, how right for me you were.”
She hesitated, then: “All right, but not till I’ve told mine. I’ll fax you when I’ve done it.”
Her parents were having a drink together in the garden; Annabel went out to them. She had her ring on, her hands in her pockets.
“Hi. Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not. Don’t be silly.”
She sat down, took a glass of wine. “Thanks. How’s it going, Dad?”
“Oh, you know. Fine. Lot of people inviting me to lunch.”
“Good. You’ll be back in work in no time then.”
“Could be.” He grinned at her; his usual confident grin. She was comforted. In spite of her total faith in him, she had been worrying.
“And then we won’t have to sell the house?”
“Possibly not.”
“Great. Um…I want to tell you something.”
“Ye-es?”
She took her left hand out of her pocket, held it out to them. “Do you like that?”
They looked at it in silence; then: “It’s lovely, darling,” her father said, “absolutely lovely. Er…any significance in the finger?”
“Just a bit,” she said. “Jamie’s asked me to marry him.” There was another silence; then her mother went over to her, hugged her.
“Darling,” she said, “how absolutely lovely for you. I’m thrilled. Congratulations.”
And her father said, “Sweetheart, that’s wonderful news. Lovely. I’ll get some champagne. Pity the others aren’t here.”
That was all they said about it, either of them; they just sat there in the lovely warm evening drinking champagne, and let her talk endlessly about Jamie and how much she loved him and how happy she was.
“I know you’ll think we’re too young, but we’re not. I just know it’s right. He’s so—so perfect and it’s perfect. I do hope you’re happy about it.”
“Darling, of course we are,” her father said, kissing her.
“It’s lovely to see you so happy,” her mother said. “Now tell us more about the family, they obviously made a big impression on you.”
Days later, when Jamie phoned to say how thrilled his parents had been, how his mother wanted to know when Annabel could come over for an engagement party, that they assumed it would be quite a long engagement (“At least two years, Mother thought, and I guess that’s about right”), that they loved the thought of having her living in Boston with them, that of course she must bring her parents when she came over for the party, and her brother and sister too, and when might the party in London be, what London papers were they announcing it in, they thought they’d put it in The Boston Globe and maybe The Washington Post, and that his mother was writing to Elizabeth “right now”…all through that phone call, almost against her will, she kept contrasting the reactions of their two sets of parents and thinking how lucky, how very lucky she was.
The air was soupy with warmth: that was Joel’s first impression of Nassau; it was like a warm cosh as you got off the plane. The second, as he travelled through it in a cab on his way to Paradise Island, was of a kind of charming toy town, with its packed streets and sudden squares, its wonderful colonial-style buildings and its policemen dressed in gold-braided white uniforms with white pith helmets and white gloves, constantly and rather ineffectually blowing whistles and shouting at traffic; and endless horse-drawn carriages painted in a rainbow of different colo
urs, driving tourists round the city. The noise was astonishing: car horns set on permanent “go,” roaring motorbikes, shouting children, and an incredible mishmash of music—reggae, rock, and the native soca—coming not only from the cars but from the stereo systems carried on the shoulders of teenage boys, the grinning, cheerful teenage boys.
He had tried and failed to book into the Ocean Hill Hotel on Paradise Island where the Bridgeman party were staying; having discovered the cost for even two nights, he was quite relieved. All the hotels on the island had been fully booked; he had had to settle for the Palace, in Nassau itself. It was hardly slumming it; it was pink-and-white and colonial in concept, although its 170 rooms (as against the Ocean Hill’s mere 70) spoke for its lower caste. But it would provide him with a base from which to inveigle himself into the Ocean Hill; and if he failed to collar Allinson, he would have the very slight consolation of knowing he had saved several hundred pounds.
Even so, the investment in the trip had been considerable; he had bought some extremely expensive clothes—a linen suit from Armani, some shoes from JP Tod’s—befitting of a guest at one of the most expensive hotels in the world, and some horrendously expensive leather luggage from Mulberry. It had better be worth it as he was paying for it all himself.
That was before he had discovered he couldn’t get into the Ocean Hill. Bit of a waste, he supposed: but it would last him a lifetime. And in his pocket a new leather wallet, also from Mulberry—a present from Debbie.
“That’s to make sure you think of me at least every time you spend any money. Which I daresay will be quite often.”
“I’ll think of you all the time,” he said, kissing her. “I don’t need a wallet to make me do that.”
He checked in, established that the hotel ran a limo service—he could hardly arrive at the Ocean Hill in one of Nassau’s rackety taxis—booked one for the evening and another for the following day, and went down to the palm-lined pool for a swim. He longed to go to bed, but he had to survive until the cocktail hour at the very least. He’d decided that would be the easiest way to collar Allinson. He was still there; Joel had phoned and checked before even leaving London.
“God, you must have fun doing your job,” said Debbie enviously. “It’s like a James Bond movie.”
“Oh, it is. Especially when I’m in bed with very beautiful girls, which I am all the time, of course.”
He was worried about Debbie; he knew he had walked into quicksand. It had to be stopped: now. Before he got in any deeper. He’d call her when he got back and they could part, friends still, loving, sexy friends after a sweet but very short adventure. He was good at those sorts of partings: always had been, seemed to have the knack of keeping emotions at bay. Probably because he’d been doing exactly that all his life. It had been sweet though, and the sex had been amazing. She had been extraordinarily…driven. That was the only word for it. Fiercely determined to give—and to get—pleasure. And pleasure there had been, in abundance.
Chapter 34
JULY TO AUGUST 1990
“I really liked that house,” said Blue. He was sitting at the table, drinking whiskey; he smiled at her, patted the chair next to him. “Come and join me. You never settle these days.”
This was the time to tell him: to explain why they couldn’t move. And if he was really angry, well, that was her own fault. But…
“Which house?” she said, playing for time.
“The one in Weybridge—the one we saw this afternoon.”
“What, the one without a swimming pool? But I thought you wanted a pool.”
“We can install a pool, Lucinda. It’s not very difficult.”
“But is there room?”
“Of course there’s bloody room. That garden is almost two acres. Now I know I said Surrey wasn’t ideal and it isn’t, not for me, worse journey, but I liked the area and I think it’ll be good for you and the boy.”
Come on, Lucinda, say it. Get it over. He can’t kill you.
“I think we should put in an offer straightaway. Then we can move in, hopefully, in a couple of months. Three at the latest.”
“Blue, I’ll be having the baby in three months. I really won’t want to move then. I do wish you’d agree to let us wait. And Blue, there’s something—”
“Lucinda, this is beginning to get on my nerves. I’m fairly patient but you are testing me rather.”
Now she’d missed her chance; he was irritable already. So—not just now. Wait for the next good mood.
“What on God’s earth is the point in waiting? It’s not as if the house is in a bad state, it seems fine to me. Just needs redecorating. It’s even got a nursery.”
“With Peter Rabbit wallpaper,” said Lucinda witheringly.
“What the fuck’s wrong with Peter Rabbit? Thought you liked all that sort of thing. And I just said redecorate, didn’t I? Or did I not? Bloody change it before you do anything else.”
“Oh, stop swearing!” cried Lucinda. “You know I hate it. And I hated that house and I don’t want to move into it.”
“Lucy, you said you loved it. At the time. What’s the matter with you?” Lucinda hesitated. She had actually liked the house rather a lot. It was big and rambly, with huge sunny rooms, gorgeous parquet floors, a massive ranch-like kitchen with an Aga in it, and a wonderful garden, with an almost wild woodland area, furthest from the house. She could already see herself and a little two-year-old person, holding her hand, toddling through the long grass. It was perfectly lovely. But she couldn’t have Blue buying it before the divorce went through. She really couldn’t.
“I don’t want to move yet. I just don’t.”
“OK. We’ll buy it and move in after the boy’s born. Have our first Christmas there. How would that be?”
It was hugely tempting: but Steve Durham would be furious. “No,” she said, “no, I can’t, Blue. I don’t want to even think about moving until after I’ve had the baby. I wish you could get that into your head.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” he said, “I give up. I just bloody give up. I’ve never heard such fucking rubbish. I’m going out.”
And he was gone, slamming the front door behind him. Lucinda looked after it, quite frightened. She did seem to have made a mess of things…
“This is an amazing place,” said Joel.
“Isn’t it? Never been here before then?”
“No.”
“Of course, it’s even better in the winter. When it’s less humid, slightly cooler. And—it must be said—a little chicer. But, well, our host wanted to bring us here now. And who am I to complain?”
He grinned at Joel; Joel grinned back. He could see how Tim Allinson had done so well; he was charming, easy to talk to, amusing, self-deprecating. He could hardly believe how simple it had been, making contact with him. He’d arrived at the hotel, just as the rich darkness was falling, made his way to the cocktail bar, ordered a Bellini, and asked the barman if he knew a Mr. Allinson. “In Mr. Bridgeman’s party,” he added, handing the man some credentials, lest he think Joel was some kind of fraudster, trying to muscle in on the guests.
“Yes, sir, I do. He usually comes down around now.”
“Good.”
He settled in a corner with his Bellini, enjoying the sunset, watching the flow of people into the bar. The drink made him sleepy; he swallowed a handful of nuts, desperately trying to pump up his energy level. Half an hour, three-quarters went by, the Bellini long drunk; he asked for a Virgin Mary, afraid of what further alcohol might do to him. A waiter brought it over; then he noticed the barman saying something to someone, pointing him out. And Tim walked over to him, smiling. It was as simple as that.
“Sorry,” said Joel pleasantly holding out his hand, “Joel Sherlock. You probably want some peace and quiet, after a long hard day here.”
“No, no it’s fine. I’m sorry, I’m not sure…”
“I think you knew my uncle,” Joel said, “Peter Sherlock. He’s a banker, with Chase, in New York. He
said if I ran into you here, to say hi.” He thought of his real uncle, Mick Strickland, white-van man and occasional wife beater. What would Tim Allinson make of him?
Allinson frowned briefly. “Oh—possibly. Does ring a faint bell. How is he?”
“Pretty well, thanks. Yes.”
“Give him my best wishes, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
He obviously left no contact unturned, real or otherwise.
“Anyway, nice to meet you. You staying here?”
“Sadly not, couldn’t get in. Staying at the Palace. It’s not too bad—and I’m only here for forty-eight hours.”
“Oh, really? You working?”
“You could say that. I’m in the export business; my company’s got certain interests out here.”
“Oh, OK. Well, not a bad place to find yourself. Where do you live?”
“Oh, London—Kensington. And I’ve got a house in Berkshire.” Allinson turned just imperceptibly towards Joel, and at the same time sat back in his chair. He clearly found him worth a little time and attention.
“So—working holiday?”
“Indeed. Monday I’m off to San Francisco. But I’m taking tomorrow off, exploring the place. That’s why I came up here tonight, see if it was worth spending it here, or whether I should stay in downtown Nassau.”
“Oh, here, I’d say. Definitely. It really is marvellous. Not just the hotel, that is, but the whole island. You should go out to Paradise Beach, do a bit of parasailing. It’s a bit naff, but great fun. And—” A noisy group had come into the bar, two men of about fifty, and two extremely well-endowed and well-tanned blondes; they waved at Tim. He waved back. “Be over in a minute.” A pause, then: “Mine hosts. Very nice, very nice indeed, but…well, you know. Quite exhausting.” His eyes met Joel’s in the flattery of conspiracy: “we know, you and I, what’s what,” that look said. “I’d ask you to join us,” Tim said, “but—”
“No, no, I’m having dinner with someone at my hotel. In fact, I must get back there now. Now that’s what I call impressive,” Joel added. An extremely tall and beautiful girl had walked into the bar; she was tanned deep olive, not the slightly bright brown of the other two, and she was wearing a long, brilliant print silk dress, modestly cut at the front, outrageously low at the back and slit up the sides. A gleaming dark rope of hair hung over one shoulder in a plait; she was a class act if ever Joel had seen one. She waved at Tim and walked over to him.
An Absolute Scandal Page 37