Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  It was a little after six-thirty when she pulled into the drive of their home and dashed upstairs to get Justine’s Pooh Bear. The bedraggled one-eared comfort had been a permanent fixture in Justine’s life since she was born, going to bed with her every night, and drying her tears whenever she was sad or upset. Lately though, at least in public, he had graduated to good luck charm, which was why he had to be at the recital tonight.

  Finding him balancing on his head in a basket of Lego, she tucked him under her arm, then ran back down the stairs. She was about to go out again when she noticed the light flashing on the answerphone, and hoping it might be a message from Rachel she quickly hit playback. But it was only another parent confirming they’d be carpooling tomorrow. Scribbling the message for Cecily to find when she came home later, she ran back to the car, and in her haste, reversing out of the drive, managed to bang the front wing against the gatepost.

  Swearing through the tears, she threw the car into first, stalled, then after several fast pants of breath, she got the engine going again and started back on her journey to the school. She wasn’t coping as well as she should, she knew that, but she’d get some Valium, or something, from the doctor, just as soon as she had time to go. Or maybe Rachel still had some, left over from the shock of Tim’s death. She must remember to ask when Rachel next called, which she hoped would be tonight, to tell her she was on her way back. She hated even to think of her sister being so far away, putting herself through untold hell trying to find the damned woman that Anna just hoped was dead. Fixating like this wasn’t doing Rachel, or the baby, any good, so as far as Anna was concerned she should just come home now. In fact, she should move back to London, where she, Anna, could keep a closer eye on her, because she was too cut off down there in Cornwall, and Anna needed to know, on a daily basis, that she was managing to cope, and if she wasn’t, that she could get to her quickly.

  By the time she reached the church hall the lump in her throat was so big it felt like a football. As she made her way to her seat, smiling politely to the other parents, and clutching hard to the mobile, she felt she was either walking through some refined form of hell, or that she might burst from the sheer volume of her frustration and sadness. It was three minutes to seven, and still he hadn’t called. He’d promised, damn him. He’d promised them all, and now he was going to let them down. What a fool she was to have trusted him. She should have known better, should have stayed till they’d wrapped, then crept into the recital late with him. Now, God only knew what he might do with Stacey, or what kind of pieces she might have to pick up after.

  Some friends had saved seats for her and Robert in the fifth row: everyone knew he was coming. She sat in one, then tried to make small talk with a woman whose name she’d known for years and had now forgotten. The drone of voices, mixed with the sound of the musicians warming up, echoed round the hall, rising to the rafters and seeming to coast down the windows with the rain. She pictured Emily with her little violin, and Justine with her beribboned tambourine. They were so excited, so proud, and anxious that Daddy would be too. And Mummy, of course.

  The woman next to her was talking again. ‘Anna? Is that your phone?’

  Anna stared down at it, then quickly pressing the keypad she tried to hunker down as she put it to her ear.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, and the line went dead.

  Almost laughing and sobbing with relief, she powered the phone down, then sat up straight, hugging Pooh to her chin, just in case Justine was able to see when the curtain went up. Dear Pooh, he was everyone’s good luck charm.

  When he’d called he’d meant it, he was on his way. In fact right up to the turn-off to Chelsea Harbour, he’d been on his way, and even now, as he rode the lift up to Stacey’s apartment, Robert fully intended to make it to the recital. Just as long as he managed to slip into the back row before the lights went up, Anna would think he’d been there throughout – or at least for most of the show.

  The cheating made him feel sick; the lies and deceit crawled over his conscience like lice. He loathed and despised himself, but not enough to change the direction of his footsteps as he exited the lift on the penthouse floor and walked along the corridor towards Stacey’s front door. Then, as he turned a corner he felt his conscience shed like a skin, leaving him free to put a spring in his step and the roguish light of a lovable rake in his eyes.

  ‘Is your husband at home?’ he’d asked on the phone, when he’d called from the car.

  ‘No. He left again, an hour ago,’ she’d answered.

  It was a sign. They were both free.

  ‘Can you come over?’ she’d purred. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  They were the words he wanted to hear. ‘I can only stay a few minutes,’ he’d warned.

  She chuckled softly, ‘When you know what you want, that’s all it takes,’ she’d replied.

  The lubricious burnishing of her words sent a sharp burst of lust shooting through his cock. Yes, they knew what they wanted, for his poems of the past two weeks had asked the questions, while her eyes had spoken the answers.

  He pressed the doorbell then turned to stare along the plushly carpeted hallway where black-and-white photographs hung, tops out from the walls, their shadows dropping in long, thin triangles towards the floor. He saw nothing, and felt only the monumental ache in his groin. She’d asked him to come; she’d missed him.

  ‘Darling,’ she murmured.

  He turned to look at her, fear and adrenalin pulsing through his veins. She knew and understood what would happen now, yet she was smiling, amorously, invitingly, while the curling tendrils of her cigarette smoke wafted between them like a perfumed potion. Her dress was the same kind she always wore, long, loose and somehow managing to reveal more than it concealed. She’d been wearing it when she’d left the set earlier, after the trauma of the film’s climactic scene. She’d come to say goodbye because her wrap had been earlier than everyone else’s. He’d thought then that she was rushing home to be with her husband, but even if that were true, he wasn’t here now, and that was really all that mattered.

  ‘Are you going to come in?’ she said, tilting her head to one side.

  He looked at her, seeing lewd, graphic visions of what she and her husband had probably been doing until he’d left ‘an hour ago’.

  Laughing she turned back inside, leaving the door open for him to follow. He stepped over the threshold, watching her retreating back. She was naked now, except for a narrow black thong and high-heeled shoes. The thong, he knew, was the outer layer of her special panties; he was certain he could hear the muted whirr of its inner vibrations.

  He closed the door, his erection harder than rock. He considered unzipping it so that she could see the might of his desire, but decided not yet.

  She was at the mirrored bar, putting ice into two glasses. The evening sunlight streamed in like mist, turning her dress into a translucent veil. She glanced over her shoulder and for a brief moment the dress vanished again. ‘How would you like it?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a dash of water,’ he replied.

  If she turned round now would she be naked or dressed? Which way did he want her? The choice was his, for lately he’d learned to switch the images, like a slide show, inside his head.

  ‘Help yourself,’ she said, waving a hand to the open box of cigarettes at the end of the bar.

  A brief recollection of where he should be, and why, suddenly halted him, but it passed, leaving only the dryness of guilt in his throat. He took the glass she was offering, sipped the whisky, and felt the burn on his throat like ice on a fire.

  She smiled and indicated the cigarettes again. This time he took one, lit it, and inhaled so deeply that his senses began to swirl.

  She sipped her drink, keeping her cerulean eyes on his. ‘So, it’s almost over,’ she said.

  He was inhaling again, holding the smoke in his lungs and feeling the largeness of his penis growing and growing. Would he bend her over the bar? Lie her ac
ross the table? Thrust her up against a wall? How was he going to penetrate her with this giant erection?

  By the time he exhaled, her words had reached him, and he understood that she was talking about the film.

  ‘Are you happy?’ she asked. ‘Has it lived up to your expectations?’

  ‘In many ways it’s surpassed them,’ he replied.

  She was regarding him intently, quizzically. ‘And Ernesto’s paintings? Have you seen them lately?’

  He shook his head. ‘But I know they’ll be superior to my imaginings – and to my poems.’

  Her laughter made him think of velvet. ‘You underestimate yourself,’ she told him, turning to walk to the sofa. ‘Your poems have been the source of sublime inspiration, and not only to Ernesto.’

  Before she sat down he let her dress fall away, so that once again she wore only the thong, as she had that night with her husband, before he’d made her remove it. ‘The poems I give to Ernesto are quite different to those I write for you,’ he reminded her, gazing at the small, upturned breasts that were peeking through the fiery tresses of her hair.

  Leaning back she crossed one long leg over the other and watched him go to sit in an armchair opposite. ‘Those you write for me are our secret,’ she promised. ‘No one knows about them. Just us.’

  His eyes swept up over her body, clothing it again. ‘You’re sure they don’t offend you?’

  Her eyebrows made a gentle arch. ‘They excite me,’ she replied.

  Several minutes ticked by as they drank and smoked, and felt the eclipsing patterns of their characters – poet and mistress, actress and director, man and woman – take a steal on their senses.

  ‘Tomorrow and the next day your wife will begin to destroy me,’ she said hoarsely.

  Feeling his mind being sucked into the dimly lit scenarios of the film, he watched her fingers idling around her nipples, while somewhere, at a distance, a woman began to scream. ‘Have you enjoyed playing the part for camera, as much as on stage?’ he asked.

  She turned her eyes to her drink as she considered the question. ‘It’s been different,’ she answered. ‘I feel much closer to the character now.’

  ‘Maybe because you’ve had more time to become her,’ he suggested.

  She nodded agreement. ‘I don’t want to let her go,’ she whispered. Then looking up at him, she said, ‘Does Alma Geddon have to win? Can’t the fantasy become our reality?’

  His throat was suddenly dry again, and so tight he found it hard to speak. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’ he said.

  A look of surprise lit her eyes, followed by a sigh of pleasure. ‘You always seem to know what I want,’ she murmured, kicking off her shoes.

  His penis was an outrageous tumescent mass, pressing his clothes for freedom, knowing its goal and wanting only to be there now. ‘I think I read you correctly,’ he said, his hands quivering as he began loosening his belt.

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ she agreed.

  He was on his feet. His penis was free, bobbing from his trousers and straining towards her. She looked at it, then up at him, a hint of nervousness behind her surprise. Reaching for her, he clutched the neck of the dress that had returned and hauled her to her feet. She gasped with shock, as he ripped the dress apart.

  ‘Robert! What are you …?’

  She was struggling to break free, but not so hard that he could mistake her protest for real intent. She wore only the thong now, and as he thrust her down on the sofa her legs came apart, so that he could see the dildo vibrating inside her. Quickly he tore the thong aside, then grabbing the dildo he began ramming it in and out of her, so hard that he could no longer tell whether her writhings were of pleasure or pain. But she wouldn’t care, they were both the same to her, so he carried on plunging it home, knowing that her efforts to push him away, and her screams for him to stop, were no more than an act, and that if he obeyed he’d disappoint her gravely, right at the height of her frenzy. Yet she didn’t want this thing to bring her to climax, she wanted him, and the Priapic monster that was pounding between his legs.

  The dildo clattered to the floor, as twisting her over, he shoved her to her knees and wrenched both her arms behind her back. With her wrists bound in a vicelike grip, he heard her laughter, and tauntings for him to be as rough as he dared. He positioned himself behind her, then finding his way in he slammed home with all his might. The volume of her scream got him riding like a madman, clutching her hips and grunting like an animal as her choking pleas for mercy fired his blood to the point of explosion.

  ‘Stop! Please, stop!’ she cried.

  He let go of her hands, yet she did nothing to throw him off, only supported her shoulders, so that she was on all fours now, legs wide apart, bottom tilted up. She wanted him to carry on. And why else was a cane being thrust into his hand, but for him to use? He brought it down sharply, cruelly, beating her back and buttocks, her shoulders and arms. Then bunching her hair like reins he yanked her head back so that she rose up on her knees, baring her breasts and thighs for the blows.

  Was he still doing as she wanted? Was it too much? She rolled sideways, parting their bodies. His erection loomed between them, huge and red and hungry for more. He looked down at her, breathless and dazed. Her eyes met his in a blurred, moaning moment of calm. Then spinning her on to her back, he thrust her legs apart and plunged into her again. Her face was beneath him, pale and frightened and tear-stained. Her legs were round his waist, urging him to go faster, harder and deeper. He kissed her mouth, while squeezing her breasts hard. She was crying, sobbing, begging him to stop. The sounds in his ears were like a storm receding and gusting. Grabbing her arms he pinned them to the floor as he pushed, and shoved and hammered himself into her, an Olympian journey towards a powerful, maniacal conclusion.

  Then suddenly he was there, gushing, floundering, spluttering and quivering in the might of a climax that was worse than madness, carrying him as though he were a missile, to the very heart of his foe, smashing apart all resistance, only to dispense him in a place of frightening familiarity, where misery and fear were mingling with the bewildering horror and comfort of finding himself at home, in his own study, hunched over his desk with tears streaming down his face and semen spilling relentlessly into his pants.

  ‘Robert? Oh my God, Robert.’

  It was Anna, coming into the room, putting her arms around him, cradling his head and soothing his pain.

  ‘Sssh,’ she whispered softly. ‘Sssh, it’s all right. Everything’s all right.’

  ‘Yes. Everything’s fine,’ he gasped, trying to laugh and brush the tears away.

  ‘Daddy? Oh Daddy, please don’t cry.’ It was Justine’s frightened, quavery voice. ‘We don’t mind that you didn’t come to the concert. Honestly. Please don’t cry.’

  ‘Daddy. Stop! Stop!’ It was Emily, angry, yet trying to put her arms round him too. ‘Mummy, make him stop,’ she demanded.

  Anna’s arms were holding him together: if she let go, everything would collapse.

  ‘Go upstairs,’ Anna whispered to the girls. ‘It’ll be all right, I promise. I’ll be up in a minute.’

  The tiny, hesitant footsteps of his daughters moved from the room, as his wife’s arms tightened around him. The smell of her was moving deeply to the core of him, trying to infuse him with her strength and soothe him with her calm. Yet he could feel her shaking too, worrying, fearing what had happened, what had brought him to this.

  ‘Robert, why are you crying?’ she said, lifting his face between her hands. ‘Oh, God look at you. Please tell me what happened.’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Robert, please,’ she implored. ‘I have to know. Did you go there? Have you seen her?’

  His head fell forward into her chest as his arms clutched her waist.

  ‘Oh my God, Robert, please tell me you didn’t do any of those horrible things.’ She knelt down in front of him and clasped his face in her hands again. ‘You have to tell
me,’ she said firmly. ‘I can’t make it all right, unless I know what you’ve done.’

  He tried to speak again, then shook his head.

  ‘Was it the scene we shot today? Is that what’s done this?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So you haven’t been to Stacey’s this evening?’

  ‘No, only …’ He put a hand to his head. ‘Here.’

  ‘But only there, in your head,’ she insisted, praying to God it was. But no, he wasn’t that crazy. If he’d been at Stacey’s, he’d know. ‘You were deeply affected by the scene we shot today,’ she told him. ‘We all were. It was very powerful.’

  He nodded, jerkily. ‘Very powerful,’ he agreed. ‘I wanted to do all those things to her myself. I hate her, and yet I can’t stop thinking about her.’

  Her eyes closed as the pain of his obsession locked around her heart. Then reaching for the phone she dialled Stacey’s number. She had to be sure.

  After the third ring a male voice answered. Suddenly afraid it was the police, she almost rang off, then remembering Stacey’s husband had just returned to London she said,

  ‘Hello. It’s Anna Maxton. I hope I’m not interrupting.’

  ‘No, not at all. How are you, Anna?’

  Yes, it was him. She’d only spoken to him a couple of times, but she was sure it was his voice. ‘Fine. Yes. Fine,’ she answered, so much relief flooding her that she almost laughed. ‘Is Stacey there? Can I speak to her?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll put her on.’

  Anna’s heart was in her throat. But it was going to be all right. Stacey was there, her husband was too, so it really was going to be all right.

  ‘Anna?’ Stacey’s voice came quizzically down the line. ‘How was the recital?’

  Anna’s breath was short, but she could make herself sound calm. ‘Good. Yes, it was very good,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad. Did Robert make it in time?’

  Anna’s grip tightened on his hand. ‘Um, no. Not quite,’ she answered.

  ‘Oh, what a shame. I know he was looking forward to it. I hope the girls weren’t too disappointed.’