Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘OK, I’ll give your love to everyone,’ and after a pause: ‘Mmm, me too.’ Catching sight of Janna’s anguished face she added, ‘Do you want a word with Janna?’ who shook her head frantically. ‘OK, thanks for ringing, enjoy your evening.’ She handed the cordless back to Bertie. ‘Hengist isn’t coming, what a pity. He’s staying near Tintern Abbey doing some research.’

  ‘“Why, uncle, ’tis a shame”,’ murmured Anatole.

  ‘Bloody isn’t,’ murmured back Cosmo. ‘When the cat goes arty, the mice begin to party.’

  ‘Where’s Tintin Abbey?’ asked the Hon. Jack. ‘I always liked Tintin.’

  ‘Have a drink,’ said Cosmo, handing Janna a huge glass of fruit cup.

  How even more amusing to seduce Miss Curtis, who didn’t dwarf him and who was looking unusually tempting. Now that really would crucify Master Alvaston.

  Fucking Hengist! Paris, also watching Janna, was aware of a dimmer switch turning off the glow in her face. If only he could comfort her.

  The sun at thirty degrees was reddening the castle walls; a short shower of rain had scattered pink rose petals over the grass. Delphinium and campanula rose in blue and violet spires. A most heavenly smell of roasting duck mingled with the sweet, heady scent of lime blossom and philadelphus. Vicky and Gloria, succumbing to laced fruit cup and Anatole’s deep-voiced blandishments, were getting noisy and sillier.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry,’ whispered Janna, ‘I’ve got an absolutely blinding headache – a migraine actually. They come on suddenly, I can’t see out of one eye.’

  ‘I had one on the opening night of Romeo and Juliet,’ cried Vicky, ‘it was all I could do to stagger in. Poor you. Gloria and I’ll hold the fort – or rather the castle.’

  Everyone was very solicitous.

  ‘Go and lie down, miss, come back when you feel better.’

  ‘Shall I bring you some iced water?’

  Janna could see secret relief in many faces. Without her, joy would be truly unconfined. Paris insisted on accompanying her back to her room.

  Let me stay, he wanted to beg. I’ll lie down beside you and stroke your forehead as you did mine yesterday.

  ‘Too much sun,’ mumbled Janna.

  ‘Do you need a doctor?’

  ‘I’m fine. You go and have fun. I’ll probably join you again in half an hour.’

  ‘Sure you’re OK?’

  The intensity in his face alarmed her. She shouldn’t have led him on yesterday. She’d only just managed to shut the door on him and bolt it when the tears poured forth. She was overwhelmed with despair at not seeing Hengist and shock that she could no longer conceal the fact she was hopelessly in love with him.

  But what the hell was she playing at? Hengist was a married man, no doubt as faithful and constant to sweet Sally as the Atkinson blanket into which she was sobbing. He was also out of her league. She’d tried to cross the class barriers and found, as the Little Mermaid had when she tried to walk on shore, that she was treading on knives.

  Then an imperious knock on the door sent her through the roof. It must be Paris back again. She should never have kissed him, but he’d looked so adorable. The knock became a tantivy. Nervously she opened the door a centimetre, but found the shadowy landing was deserted – perhaps it was the Gafellyn ghost.

  The banging had become more insistent, coming from the far side of the room. Padding over the flagstones, she found a bottle-green wool curtain and behind it a rounded Norman door, buckling on its hinges. Oh God, was it Joan or raffish Bertie?

  Someone was declaiming the Porter’s speech in a strong Welsh accent. ‘“Knock, knock, knock . . .”’

  Janna opened this second door an inch, breathed in lemon aftershave and almost fainted as the door was thrust open, nearly concussing her. In the dim light she slowly made out a faded Prussian-blue shirt, a sunburnt throat, and eyes, slittier with laughter than the Chinese Warriors. It was Hengist. Ducking his head, he powered his way into the room and pulled her into his arms.

  ‘I thought you were staying near Tintern Abbey.’

  ‘I was, but I couldn’t bear the thought of all those aching joys being past. I suddenly wanted a dizzy rapture.’

  ‘I thought you fancied Vicky,’ sobbed Janna.

  She was so small in her bare feet, Hengist had to pull her chin upwards in order to smile down into her reproachful, bewildered, tearful, mascara-stained face.

  ‘Dear God,’ he said, ‘from the beginning you’ve been the one I wanted, the object of my desire.’ And when he drew her against him, he was like a great, warm, solid wall; where his shirt was unbuttoned, she felt the burning heat of his body and was shaken by the relentless pounding of his heart.

  Then his beautiful, wilful mouth swooped down on hers and she no longer doubted his passion as he kissed her on and on, his big hands closing round her small waist, then moving upwards to caress her high bouncy breasts, then moving down to cup her equally bouncy bottom. Finally, gasping for breath, he buried his face in her clean, silky curls.

  ‘You utterly gorgeous child. Christ, I’ve fought this.’ Then, laughing half ruefully: ‘This is an awfully big adventure weekend.’

  Janna escaped and paced round the room, heart battling with her head.

  ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘By a secret passage. It comes out on the edge of the woods. Bertie and I were at school together; I used to stay in the holidays. I can get into every room in this castle.’

  ‘And probably did,’ snapped Janna, raging with insecurity, frightened her legs wouldn’t hold her any more. ‘I cannot believe this.’

  ‘You soon will.’ Hengist swiftly unzipped her speckled dress, unhooked her bra, then, gathering her up, dropped her on the blue and silver patchwork quilt.

  ‘We can’t,’ stammered Janna. ‘Sally? The party? How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I tried to ring you but your mobile was switched off. Bertie said you’d sloped off with a headache. You have the sweetest body, look at those adorable boobs.’

  Lying down beside her, he swept back her hair, kissed her forehead and little snub nose, then her lips again, then her nipples, slowly, luxuriously, sensuously. The hand creeping lazily between her legs was so sure.

  ‘Down comes the drawbridge,’ he murmured, pulling off her knickers.

  In turn he smelt so clean and healthy, and his face was so smooth and newly shaven – Janna was so used to beards and grating stubble – his glorious broad-shouldered body so powerful, his hair so springy yet silky. As he stroked and fingered her, leaving her quivering with longing, he made no attempt to undress himself.

  ‘I really like Sally,’ muttered Janna.

  ‘Hush. Sally’s my problem.’

  As he drew her into a fairy-tale world inside the star-spangled blue curtains, any principle fled. Through the narrow window, she could see Venus, a glittering silver medal pinned on the deepening blue breast of the night.

  ‘You do want this, darling?’ Hengist’s hand was roving further afield.

  ‘Oh please, yes,’ Janna gasped. ‘I’m stunned, that’s all. I didn’t realize it was an option. I haven’t slept with anyone since Stew.’

  ‘I should hope not – you were saving yourself for me.’

  ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘We must exchange best practice,’ murmured Hengist, spitting on his fingers, finding her clitoris, caressing so gently and expertly.

  ‘I’ll give you best practice,’ cried a fired-up Janna.

  Wriggling out of his embrace, she took over, shoving Hengist back on the bed. Removing his loafers, kissing his bare feet, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt, kissing the dark brown tuft of chest hair, she licked his nipples and his belly button as she undid his belt and unzipped and removed his trousers. For a moment his red check boxer shorts were pegged by a splendidly excited cock, then he eased free and was divinely naked beneath her.

  Clambering over his body like a squirrel, she kissed, caressed, sucked and licked unti
l he was moaning in delight.

  ‘For a head, Miss Curtis, you give exquisite head. Aaah . . .’ Reaching down, he grabbed her waist and, pulling her up the bed, plunged his splendid rock-hard penis up inside her, which she had no problem accepting in full because she was so bubbling over with excitement.

  ‘Aaah,’ groaned Hengist again as her muscles gripped and released him, squeezing and coaxing, ‘like the Bourbons, you’ve forgotten nothing. I’m going to be so selfish, darling, I cannot hold out a second longer, you’ll have to catch the next bus. Oh, my Christ,’ he shouted, ‘here comes the drop goal,’ and exploded inside her.

  For an age it seemed, they lay giggling and in shared ecstasy.

  ‘Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, “he comes”,’ sighed Hengist. ‘Oh my darling. That was even better than scoring at Twickenham.’

  As he turned to kiss her, she was made happier by the intense happiness on his face.

  ‘Now, I’m going to make you come lots,’ he whispered. And he did.

  Time stopped – fantastic, mind-blowing sex blotting out everything.

  Under a weeping willow, whose leaves caressed her far more tenderly, Pearl was seduced by Cosmo, a coupling as brutal and perfunctory as Janna’s had been ecstatic.

  Retreating into the castle to wash, Pearl reflected it was a shame Cosmo had used a condom or she might have fallen pregnant and qualified for a free flat. At least Cosmo had said he loved her. She hoped Jade wouldn’t be angry her wraparound cardigan had been torn.

  54

  After a glorious dinner, the plates had been stacked and everyone had drifted into the garden to dance under the stars, to snog in the bushes and, because it was such a hot, muggy night, to strip off and leap into the pool. Vicky and Gloria were far too drunk and giggly to worry that it was too soon after dinner to swim.

  The scent of philadelphus and lime flower grew headier; more moths dived like kamikaze pilots into the lights round the pool; Jack and Kylie had retreated to the shrubbery; Lando and Junior were playing croquet, trying to hit each other’s ankles.

  Bertie, who’d gone off to see his mistress, had no intention of returning before dawn.

  Paris, wearing just shorts, lay on the grass, admiring the stars; Venus was setting. Above him, the constellation Hercules, arms outstretched, mighty thighs apart, wrestled with his labours. Paris was worried about Janna; she’d been gone three hours. He decided to check her room.

  He would have liked to clean his teeth, but someone had nicked his toothbrush. Returning to the dining room, he grabbed and bit into a Granny Smith, poured Janna a glass of orange juice loaded with ice, and set out. Normally at this hour, he’d be confined to his room at Oaktree Court, and he luxuriated in the cold dew beneath his feet and the night air warm on his bare shoulders.

  Gradually the screams and shouts round the pool receded. In the moat below, the water-lily leaves gleamed like armour; to the right loomed the castle. Janna’s lights were turned off; she must be asleep. O, that he were the pillow beneath her head.

  Then he froze as a man appeared at her window, naked to the waist with a magnificent chest and heroic head thrown back, smiling triumphantly and stretching his arms in ecstasy. Not Hercules down from the skies – but Hengist. Then he turned and was engulfed once more in the darkness of the room.

  Paris slumped against the castle, body drenched in sweat, heart crashing, ice frantically clattering against the glass in his hand. The whore, the slag! How could she? Women complained of headaches when they didn’t want sex – and she’d kissed him first yesterday and not gone into a flurry of outrage, but had parted her lips when he’d kissed her back.

  Paris gave a howl and hurled the glass against the wall. Bagley and Larks – ‘a plague on both your houses’. In a daze, he staggered back into the castle, heading for the bar. Grabbing a bottle of vodka, he filled a half-pint glass, splashed bitter lemon on the top and downed it in one, then downed a second, spluttering:

  ‘The bitch, the slag.’

  Picking up a patterned orange Chinese vase cringing in an alcove, he hurled it against a big gilt mirror, splintering them both. A Tang dog flew out of the window. Gathering up a mahogany side table, Paris hurled it at the bar, smashing glasses, bottles, then swept more glasses on to the floor.

  ‘Fucking slag.’

  A bamboo plant had taken off, crashing down on to the keys of the piano, as Rocky wandered in, his mad bull’s face crimson, his red curls askew, a bottle of Grand Marnier in his hand.

  ‘What yer doing, man?’

  ‘Wrecking this pervy nob’s castle.’

  ‘Right,’ yelled Rocky, picking up a large flower arrangement and hurling it against a tallboy. Then he ran into the dining room and started on the debris of duck carcasses and bowls of potatoes and raspberries stacked on the sideboard. There was a sickening crunch as a pile of Rockingham plates fell to the floor. Like Duncan’s blood, summer pudding was soon dripping down the pale blue Chinese wallpaper.

  Outside, the music was too loud and the dancers and swimmers having too much fun to notice. Someone had found a big yellow ball and Lando and Junior were playing water polo.

  Telling herself that first sex with a guy was never very good, still sore from Cosmo’s cavalier seeing-to, Pearl wandered back to the party, pausing in horror to see her new boyfriend ferociously snogging Vicky Fairchild, his hand unzipping her flamingo-pink dress.

  Going over, Pearl tapped him on the shoulder:

  ‘D’you mind?’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Cosmo, with such venom that Pearl shrank away, looking desperately round for someone to tell, but everyone was snogging or swimming.

  Running down a grassy path, she bumped into a reeling, half-dressed Jade, who asked:

  ‘Where in hell’s Paris?’

  ‘Dunno. Cosmo’s a fucking bastard.’

  Jade stopped, swaying in her tracks, smiling cruelly.

  ‘What have you and Cosmo been a-doing of? He just texted me.’ Jade unearthed her mobile from her bra and held it out.

  ‘Mission acc-come-plished pearls a slag’, read Pearl and gave a shriek of rage. ‘The bastard. He said he loved me, that I was the biggest fing in his life.’

  ‘You might have been five seconds before he shagged you. Cosmo doesn’t let grass grow under his feet, only in window boxes.’

  Next moment, Pearl heard the distinctive double beat of a message on her own mobile and read: ‘Sorry its over cosmo’.

  ‘Wot dyou mean’, texted back Pearl.

  ‘Thanks for terrific sex shame youve just become my X’, came back the reply.

  ‘Bstrd how am I supposed to handle this’, Pearl replied.

  ‘Ask joan for alka seltzer. now fuck off’, texted Cosmo.

  Leaving the castle ransacked, Paris found everyone skinny-dipping in the pool. He felt like Actaeon spying on Diana and her nymphs.

  A naked Vicky, whose hair had come down, was giggling hysterically and pretending to swim away from Cosmo, who’d just returned from texting. Yanking her back by her hair, Cosmo’s hands closed over her breasts.

  Very drunk, Paris laboriously undid his belt and stepped out of his shorts. The Bagley Babes, frolicking like Rhine Maidens, gasped as he paused, sleek, white and beautiful. Actaeon had become a moon-blanched Endymion. The only flaw was the tattoo of the Eiffel Tower on his shoulder.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Amber.

  Letting go of Vicky, leaving her dog-paddling frantically in the deep end, Cosmo scrambled out of the pool, grabbed his camera from his jeans and took a roll of film.

  Paris, a glass of neat vodka in his hand, stood gazing into the pool in despair and loathing, then wandered off. After two attempts, a naked Jade managed to struggle out of the pool and ran after him.

  ‘Paris, make love to me,’ she called out.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘How come you’re so mean to me?’

  ‘Because you’re a bitch.’

  When Jade slapped his face, Paris s
lapped her back, then, grabbing her arm, pulled her behind the changing rooms into the shrubbery. He shoved her on the grass and fell on top of her, yelling in pain as her hand clamped around his sunburnt neck, pulling him down to kiss her. Her lovely sleek body writhed beneath his. Her eyes were glazed with lust and booze, Pearl’s so carefully applied make-up streaked by water. The coupling, like Cosmo and Pearl’s, was violent, fierce, messy and meaningless. The moment it was over, Paris pulled out and walked off.

  Bumping into his friend, Pearl, who sobbed hysterically that Cosmo had dumped her by text and told the entire party, he could only say: ‘You shouldn’t go with trash: sorry, I wish I cared.’

  Five minutes later, Pearl stumbled over Jade, passed out on the grass, puked-up raspberries and cream gleaming like blood in the moonlight. Jade was so far gone, she didn’t even stir when Pearl produced a kitchen knife and sawed off her twelve-inch plait, threaded with flowers. Then Pearl attacked her own wrist, gasping at the pain and joy of release.

  Amber, wet from the pool, caught up with Paris.

  ‘What goings on, Mr Alvaston.’

  So Paris pulled her into his arms and shut up her patrician babble by kissing her. He didn’t care any more.

  ‘I like you,’ he told Amber.

  ‘And I like you.’

  It was like being serviced by a unicorn, Amber reflected hazily, or a statue half come to life. Paris’s face was dead, devoid of any tenderness. At one moment he called her ‘Janna’, at another his features seemed about to disintegrate in tears, then set like stone again.

  ‘Oh Christ, oh Christ.’

  It was not, as you might say, satisfactory. At least he said ‘thank you’ as he got to his feet and wandered off.

  If he found Milly, thought Paris, he could chalk up a Bagley Babe hat-trick, as Feral had always wanted to do. God, he missed Feral; only Feral would have understood his agony. Then he heard the sound of sobbing. It was Xavier, slumped on a bench, head in his hands, an empty bottle of rum beside him.