Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  Paris, who’d been stalking her like a deer-hunter for days, never revealing his presence, had watched her setting out with that dancer’s strut, feet in flat pumps turned out. She was the one everyone wanted: how satisfying to snatch the prize – particularly from Cosmo.

  As she reached Badger’s Retreat, where smaller trees were protected by larger ones, leaves were still falling. Laughing, shrieking, dark hair escaping, Bianca bounded about trying to catch them like some rite of autumn. Swinging round to catch a red, wild cherry leaf, Bianca caught sight of Paris.

  Smiling, she showed no fear.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Every time you catch a leaf, it gives you a happy day.’ Reaching out, grabbing a dark brown ash frond, she thrust it into his breast pocket. ‘Seven leaves. That’ll give you a happy week.’

  Paris just stared with those light, utterly focused eyes, exciting and unnerving her, lean jaw moving as he chewed gum.

  ‘My father fell in love with my mother when he saw her racing around catching happy days for him.’ Bianca snatched a falling yellow hazel leaf and shoved it in his side pocket. ‘Daddy kept all the leaves, but felt he was too old and wicked for Mummy. He’d had billions of women before her, like you’ve had’ – she peeped up at Paris from under a thicket of black lashes – ‘but Mummy persisted and they’ve been happy for almost eighteen years – at least they would be if she hadn’t taken this stupid job and Daddy wasn’t taking this stupid GCSE. So stupid of Feral to say I was out of his league.’

  She kicked a red spotted toadstool, did a pas de chat and fell into Paris’s arms. Glancing down he saw the despair in her eyes.

  ‘I’m not out of your league, am I?’

  ‘Totally’ – Paris spat out his chewing gum – ‘but I don’t care.’

  Once he’d kissed her, she was lost. Scrabbling to remove his school tie, tugging at the short end, she nearly throttled him.

  ‘Lemme do it.’ Paris yanked off his own, then hers, then unbuttoned her shirt, pulling her down on a dry, crackling bed of yellow sycamore leaves, black-spotted like leopard skin.

  Like both Feral and her father, he had laid so many girls – in the open air, in parks at dusk or on banks in the gardens of care homes – but none as delicately desirable as Bianca as she beamed up at him in ecstasy, her face the same soft shiny umber as the ash frond she had given him.

  As he peeled off her tights and knickers, he could smell her body, already hot and excited from dancing and even more so from him.

  ‘D’you really want it?’

  ‘Oh yes, definitely yes.’

  Her tiny clitoris was hard as a ball bearing; below lay a buttery sticky cavern, measureless to man and terrifyingly narrow.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘You won’t, you won’t.’ Then as Paris produced a condom, ‘We don’t need that, my period’s due tomorrow.’

  ‘Better be safe.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to be sorry.’ Unzipping his trousers, she released a cock hard and white as ivory.

  ‘Why isn’t it green like one of Mrs Sweetie’s courgettes?’

  Paris gave a gasp of laughter. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Please, please go on,’ begged Bianca, writhing against his lovingly stroking hand as it travelled down her belly, up the insides of her thighs, sliding into her pubes, fingering, stroking, slowly bringing her to ecstasy. ‘Oh pleeeeese.’

  For a second his cock buckled at the entrance, then straightened.

  ‘Ouch, ouch,’ cried Bianca, ‘oh bloody ouch.’

  Blokes were supposed to recite something boring to stop themselves coming. Paris had been learning the Latin verb vastare, to lay waste, but he only reached the future perfect third person singular when Bianca’s sleekness and tightness overcame him; three more stabs and it was over.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he muttered.

  ‘Thought you didn’t do “sorry”.’

  Paris slowly opened his eyes to find her laughing up at him.

  ‘I was dying to lose it. Goodbye, virginity.’

  Paris wriggled free, falling back on the leaves, ashamed of having come so quickly.

  ‘I’ll do it properly next time.’ A year ago he’d have said ‘proper’.

  ‘When did you get that tattoo?’ said Bianca, fingering the Eiffel Tower on his shoulder.

  ‘When I was ten. Saved up my pocket money for a year, sneaked out of the home. Once it was done, nothing they could do.’

  Bianca leant up on her elbow, pushing the straight blond hair out of those pale unblinking eyes. ‘Do I look like a mature woman of experience?’

  ‘You look beautiful.’

  But as the light filtering through the remaining leaves fell on her warm brown skin, her thick dark lashes (such a lovely contrast to her white teeth and the whites of her eyes), Paris was suddenly and agonizingly reminded of Feral, whose great love he had just stolen.

  Sitting up, Bianca examined herself.

  ‘I don’t seem to be bleeding much. Dora reckons she’s ridden such a lot she hasn’t got a hymen any more.’ Bianca giggled, then squeaked, ‘Oh my God, Dora!’

  ‘What about her?’ Paris dried Bianca with a handful of leaves.

  ‘She loves you so much.’

  ‘Well, I don’t love her. I like her when she’s outrageous and funny, but when she hangs around like a kicked spaniel, she does my head in. I don’t need a dog, I’ve got Northcliffe . . .’

  He could see the athletics team pounding towards the all-weather track.

  ‘Will your dad horsewhip me?’

  ‘He mustn’t know.’ Bianca looked aghast. ‘I don’t want anyone to know – not Feral. Although he probably wouldn’t give a stuff. I’ve just slept with the best-looking guy in the school, and I don’t want Jade or Amber scratching my eyes out, or Dora ringing the News of the World.’

  ‘Or Cosmo challenging me to a duel,’ agreed Paris, tugging on his trousers and buckling the leather belt Dora had given him. ‘“Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love.”’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Some poem.’

  ‘You’ll have to help me with my homework, now Dora won’t – well, may not want to any more.’

  Dora, Bianca reflected, had listened and listened when she’d been miserable about Feral and her mother and boarding. Dora had helped her endlessly with homework, acting out poems so Bianca would remember them. Last week it was one called ‘Death the Leveller’, and Dora had thrown her riding hat and Bianca’s baseball cap down the Boudicca’s stairs to illustrate:

  Sceptre and crown

  Must tumble down,

  And in the dust be equal made.

  ‘I feel a pig. What an extraordinary tree’ – Bianca patted the trunk – ‘all writhing together like dancers.’

  ‘Hengist calls it the Family Tree,’ said Paris. ‘Look, he, Sally and Oriana have carved their initials on the bark, symbolizing a family clinging together against winter and tempest,’ he added bitterly. ‘Oriana’s supposed to be coming home for Christmas, so Emlyn will be happy again.’

  ‘Talking of families,’ said Bianca, testing the water, ‘I was going to ring Mummy and ask if I could go back to being a day girl.’

  ‘Don’t!’ snarled Paris, taking her face between his hands, for a second betraying his need for her. ‘Just don’t.’

  ‘I’m not going to.’ Bianca flung her arms round his neck, kissing him, until her heart was beating louder than the pounding footsteps of the athletics team.

  ‘You’re my boyfriend now, aren’t you, but above all, we mustn’t hurt Dora.’

  95

  Christmas approached. The erection of Stancombe’s Science Emporium seemed to be taking for ever. General Bagley and Denmark, their view of the Long Walk impeded, rose out of a sea of mud. Dulcie spent a lot of time with the builders, who brought her a little wheelbarrow so she could help them. Progress, however, was repeatedly held up by the Lower Fourth doing moonies at
the builders from the fire escape.

  ‘Rubble, rubble, toil and trouble,’ sighed Hengist.

  Poppet Bruce, who was pregnant again, said there was no way she would curtsey to the Queen if she opened the emporium.

  ‘I wish Rupert wasn’t taking this GCSE,’ grumbled Jupiter. ‘He’s always working and he’s getting even more left wing than Mrs Bruce.’

  ‘He’s so seriously stuck into Macbeth,’ warned Hengist, ‘he’ll knife you in your bed and take over the Tory Party.’

  Nothing could dim Hengist’s high spirits. The end of term was nigh and so was his darling Oriana, who was due to arrive at Bagley in time for Christmas and stay at least a week.

  Janna’s end of term had been a great success, with trips to the pantomime and a carol service at the cathedral, where Kylie Rose had sung ‘Mary’s Boy Child’. On the last day, the food technology candidates helped cook a glorious Christmas lunch, ending up with more carols, mulled wine, mince pies and every boy in the school trying to manoeuvre Taggie under the mistletoe hanging in reception.

  Driving home through the twilight, seeing a fuzzy newish moon like a little pilot light, Janna turned on the car radio to find a voice of exceptional beauty singing ‘See Amid the Winter Snow’ and burst into tears. She’d thrown herself so wholeheartedly into Larks High, she hadn’t given herself time to mourn the loss of Larks Comp or of Hengist, or even her sweet mother, whom she always missed most at Christmas. It was probably exhaustion and still not having a man in her life and wild jealousy of Oriana, because Hengist and Emlyn were so excited about her return.

  Among her post on the doormat, however, was a letter from Sally. ‘Darling Janna, If you’re not busy we’d simply love you to join us for Christmas dinner. Oriana’s home and we need some bright attractive young to amuse her. Black tie for the chaps so do dress up. So hope you can make it. Love, Sally’.

  Hardly pausing to open a tin for Partner, Janna shot next door to find Lily making fudge and salted almonds.

  ‘Sally B-T’s asked me to Christmas dinner.’

  ‘Well, that’s very nice, you must go.’

  ‘But I was coming to you.’

  ‘Never mind, you can come on Boxing Day. It’ll be fascinating for you to meet Oriana.’

  Relieved to see Janna, who’d been very near the edge recently, looking ecstatic, no doubt at the prospect of seeing Hengist again, Lily was too kind to say she and Christian had already refused Sally’s invitation to Christmas dinner because they didn’t want to desert Janna and Feral.

  ‘Sally said dress up.’ Janna glanced at herself in Lily’s kitchen mirror, hardly able to see her reflection for photographs of General slotted into the frame. At least her fringe covered her eyebrows now, and Rowan had had a whip-round and the staff had bought her a day of pampering at the local health spa. What could she wear to win Hengist back? But she mustn’t think like that, it was so kind of Sally to ask her.

  ‘Naughty Dora’s given me a Christmas hamper full of pâté, plum cake and some lovely red,’ announced Lily. ‘Shall we have a glass now? The end-of-term party was fun, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Lovely. Amazing how the Golden Oldies have mellowed; Skunk’s so loyal to Larks High he even snogged Basket in the store cupboard.’

  ‘The nicest sight was Xav dancing with Aysha,’ said Lily, who was rootling around for a corkscrew, ‘so happy, both of them. You’ll never guess what Christian has got Feral for Christmas: two tickets for an Arsenal match.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Janna, who wasn’t listening. ‘Do you really think I should go?’

  ‘You will anyway,’ said Lily.

  Sally had in fact invited Janna because, a week before Christmas, Oriana had rung and dropped the bombshell that she’d be bringing her producer Charlie Delgado with her for Christmas.

  Sally couldn’t help being thrilled as she asked Alison Cox, their housekeeper, to make up the bed in the spare room. She’d always known that Emlyn wasn’t the answer for Oriana – too chippy and the wrong class; things like that grated in the end. Emlyn also seemed to have been seeing a bit of Janna recently, so with any luck he wouldn’t be too upset about Charlie Delgado.

  What a shame Christian and Lily couldn’t join them. Christian, she knew, was anxious to have Oriana as a guest on Buffers and was longing to hear about the war in Iraq. It was a tragedy too that Artie Deverell couldn’t make it. Artie and Oriana loved each other, and he had such a wonderfully emollient effect on both her and Emlyn and could discourse on any subject. But Artie and Theo had decided they needed some sun and taken off to Greece together. Nor could Ian and Patience, who had both daughters staying, make it, so in the end it would be a cosy family party: Janna and Emlyn, Charlie and Oriana, herself and Hengist.

  Sally went to the present drawer and found Charlie some cufflinks, English Fern aftershave (which was liked even by men who regarded scent as sissy), David Hawkley’s lovely translation of Catullus in paperback, and a jokey yellow silk tie decorated with pink elephants from Elaine.

  Sally had been feeling tired, what with all the presents and parties to organize and over a thousand cards now slotted into the drawing-room books in a huge patchwork of glitter and colour, but the prospect of Charlie Delgado had given her a second wind. Not that she was a snob, but Oriana Delgado had a nice ring to it. Although, knowing Oriana, she’d keep her maiden name.

  Emlyn, who’d been told in a very casual way that Oriana was bringing some workmate, was getting increasingly twitchy and poured his heart out to Artie on the eve of his and Theo’s trip.

  ‘I don’t know what she feels any more. She’s always been a workaholic, but in the old days she always found time for me and we had fun together. Now I see her on TV growing harder and more glittering. She never answers my emails and puts herself out of communication – as though she and her mobile are both switched off. I’m sure she’s got someone else.’

  ‘Only Mungo and the desire to compensate for his death. If he’d lived, she could have shown how much in everything she excelled him. What’s she like in bed?’

  ‘Like playing Rachmaninov Three on a soundless piano. Pouring out love and emotion to no effect somehow. I teach lovesick schoolboys; I don’t want to act like one.’

  ‘Sorry to desert you, dear boy, but Theo needs to get away – he wants to see Attica.’

  ‘For a last time?’

  ‘Probably. Poor Paris. He loves Theo and Theo’s so desperate not to abandon him. When are you going to Wales?’

  ‘Tomorrow and driving back on Christmas Day.’

  On Christmas morning it started to snow, just a few flakes drifting down; by five o’clock it had settled, but Hengist couldn’t. He was playing Charpentier’s Oratorio de Noël, which had reached the jolly jiggy tune of the shepherds on their way to the stable. The house looked ravishing, filled with crimson roses, flame-red amaryllis and white candles everywhere. Holly and pine branches were banked in corners. The whole house smelled divinely of jasmine, pine, orange zest, beeswax and the heady sweet scent of Sally’s indoor hyacinths, waxy white and pink flowers rising out of their mossy earth. In the hall, the blond head of the fairy on the top of the Christmas tree touched the vaulted ceiling.

  Hengist and Sally had opened their presents earlier. They had so many, and they didn’t want to embarrass Charlie Delgado who would have so few. So many of the cards had congratulated Hengist on his wonderful reporting of the World Cup. He still had a dark tan and had not come down to earth. He had managed to get a signed photograph of Jonny Wilkinson for Dora.

  He had already received ten copies of Martin Johnson’s autobiography and five copies of Lynne Truss’s book on punctuation and a digital camera, on which he had just photographed Elaine in an emerald-green paper hat watching a squirrel raiding the bird table, whose roof was already covered with snow three inches thick.

  Newspapers kept ringing up for his reaction to Saddam’s arrest – pity, strangely – and for his New Year’s resolution. To get stuck into his biography of Thom
as and Matthew Arnold, vowed Hengist.

  Sally had given him an 1867 first edition of Matthew’s poems, which included ‘Dover Beach’, ‘Rugby Chapel’ and ‘Thyrsis’. ‘Ah, love, let us be true To one another!’ read Hengist. ‘And we are here as on a darkling plain . . . where ignorant armies clash by night.’

  Sally should have been washing her hair but, ever conscientious, was scrabbling round in old address books to reply to a card from a cook who had left ten years ago. Hengist was therefore delighted to welcome Dora, who’d turned up to waitress, and gave her a glass of champagne.

  Dora then told him about lunch at Randal’s. ‘Dicky got drunk, kept mistaking Randal’s furry cushions for cats and apologizing to them. Mummy and Randal are now at home, offering most surprisingly to dogsit. Probably because they want a good bonk.’

  After taking a frantically over-excited, capering Elaine for a run in the snow and failing to teach her to catch snowballs, Dora retreated to the kitchen to help Mrs Cox. She had great hopes of tonight. Oriana was a huge star since Iraq. Several newspapers were interested in any titbit about her. Dora couldn’t believe her luck when Mrs Cox, who had never really warmed to Oriana and who was utterly devoted to Emlyn, let slip in her indignation that Oriana was rolling up with a new man.

  Concentrating on washing up saucepans, Dora didn’t reveal how fascinated she was, particularly when Sally breezed in, wet hair in a towel, to check the goose was browning and to remind Coxie that the roast potatoes in their goose dripping should go in at seven-thirty.

  ‘That smoked salmon pâté is delicious, Mrs B-T.’

  ‘I’m glad, Dora. There’s plenty of food in the fridge if you’re hungry,’ suggested Sally, noticing that the parsnip purée and the bread sauce, as well as the salmon pâté, were pitted with Dora’s finger marks.

  To distract her, Dora said she’d dropped in on Patience and Ian on the way. ‘Dulcie’s so sweet, she asked me if I was going cattle singing.’

  ‘I’d like a grandchild just like Dulcie,’ said Sally.