Amelia had quite understood and after making arrangements to meet up when they returned from Cannes, Margaret was left to unpack her south of France attire and re-pack for a long stay in London. She left the next day, kissing the children and Charles swiftly and almost jumping into the Rolls for Hardy to drive her to Leeds Railway Station to catch the London train.
Collecting the keys to Canleigh House from the letting agents the next day she let herself into the imposing building and spent hours making notes of exactly what needed doing and then set about finding people to do her bidding. Most of the house was still quite presentable apart from decorating but the kitchen and bathrooms were quite outdated and unsuitable for modern tenants. She found an excellent firm who could carry out the work, at what seemed an exorbitant price but worth it for the finished result. An interior designer was also contacted to get cracking with the decorating and furnishings. The bills flooded in but she casually posted them off to Charles for settlement. No matter what he said he could afford it and she was really not sure when she had last enjoyed herself so much. She would dearly have liked to move in permanently. It would be wonderful to have complete privacy and although Amelia’s Bloomsbury flat was great for assignations, it wasn’t hers. The longer the work took in Canleigh House the more she became positive it would be much more suited for her than for tenants and became pretty determined that somehow, she would get Charles to agree. She didn’t have to have a huge staff, just a cook and a cleaner would do, who wouldn’t need to live in or be around in the evenings, providing her with hours when there would be no disturbance or intrusion and she could do as she pleased. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea and the more the renovations took on her style.
She enjoyed a few mild flirtations with the workmen but mainly kept out of their way, embarking on wanton spending sprees in the new boutiques springing up in the main shopping areas of London, loving the new fashions, especially the short skirts favoured by Mary Quant. Margaret had lovely long, shapely legs and it was a joy to be able to show them off, watching men gaping as she strolled along the busy streets. The wolf whistles she attracted gave her a real thrill.
Once it was known the beautiful fun-loving Duchess was in town more or less on a permanent basis and contemplating residing at the awesome family residence, which many would dearly like to explore, the invitations arrived at a dizzy speed, mostly from those with whom she only had a vague acquaintance. It became a mad social whirl with trips to the theatre, dinners, weddings, balls and hair-raising parties.
With all this activity, it was vitally necessary to keep up one’s appearance so Margaret sought out and found a glorious new beauty salon in Kensington High Street named Pampered People, run by a fascinating, ambitious, and focused woman, Katherine Parfitt. A day in her salon enjoying a vast array of treatments and then relaxing for hours afterwards on the luxurious loungers, listening to soothing music and being waited on by pretty girls in sparkling white uniforms was a wonderful way to while away at least a couple of days a week, and kept her looking radiant and at her best at all times.
Margaret made the acquaintance of Katherine when she was taking advantage of her own salon one afternoon, relaxing on a nearby lounger.
“It’s terribly important to become a client in this business,” Katherine had explained as they sipped on lemon water. “I like to know exactly how they feel so I can adjust any problems or niggles immediately. I want my ladies to have the best experience possible and walk out of here, or any of my other salons, with their minds and bodies completely relaxed and rejuvenated so they not only return but tell their friends too. I eventually want to expand out of London, all over the country in fact and indeed, maybe Paris or New York,” she smiled enthusiastically, unable to believe her luck at having a real live Duchess listening to her. Katherine was determined not to let Margaret, with her favourable connections, slip away and never be seen again. This was a golden opportunity to get to know her better.
“I’m having a gathering tomorrow evening to celebrate three years of Pampered People being in existence and would love it if you could join us, Your Grace. We have one or two well-known celebrities along with Lady Annabelle Scott and Lady Felicity Campbell gracing us with their presence too. It should be a delightful evening when I intend to unveil my plans for the forthcoming expansion of the business.”
“I should be delighted,” purred Margaret. She had nothing planned and an evening with the amusing and somewhat risqué Lady Annabelle would be something to look forward to. They had met once at one of Amelia’s dinner parties and Margaret had been quite surprised to learn from Amelia that Lady Annabelle wasn’t quite such a lady as she appeared. Margaret guessed Katherine couldn’t possibly know of Annabelle’s’ exploits because if she did, she wouldn’t be so keen to entertain her. However, Margaret reasoned, Annabelle was very beautiful and knew an enormous amount of people so could bring a lot of business to Katherine.
The event was to change Margaret’s life forever. Hair up in a French pleat, carefully applied make-up, with glittering emerald and diamond earrings, necklace and bracelet complementing the dark green satin mini-dress she chose to wear, she was more than satisfied with her appearance. Twirling in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors running the full length of one wall recently installed in the master bedroom at Canleigh House, she was delighted to see how young, vibrant and healthy she still looked even after bearing three, no four, children.
Half an hour later, glass of champagne in her hand, she was chatting amiably to her hostess who couldn’t wait to introduce her to other prominent guests. The evening was uneventful and even the daring Lady Annabelle was quiet and restrained. There was no-one else who intrigued Margaret enough to want to exchange small talk with for long and she began to look forward to the moment she could make her excuses, return to Canleigh House and remove the gold stilettos which were beginning to hurt her feet. Had she been wearing a long gown she could have taken them off and no-one would have known but in the mini-dress, there was nothing for it but to suffer.
Then, with a bang of the front door, like a refreshing whirlwind, the young and gorgeous looking Simon Parfitt entered the room, a wide tantalising grin on his handsome face. He was wearing a white t-shirt and Levi jeans, his bare feet encased in navy sandals. Katherine was not amused by his casual attire and even more flippant attitude on such an important evening but maintaining her poise she introduced him calmly to the guests he didn’t know, Margaret being one of them.
As soon as Simon’s hand took hers and she looked up into his fabulous green eyes, she was smitten. His large, warm hand enveloped hers and his welcoming smile would remain in her memory forever. Her feet suddenly didn’t hurt anymore, the event was miraculously one of the best she had ever attended and there was absolutely no way she wanted to return to Canleigh House.
Forced to talk to other guests who vied for her attention, her legs like jelly and her tummy doing somersaults with desire, Margaret kept her distance after the first introduction, watching Simon’s every move out of the corner of her eye, fully aware he was doing the same to her. The magnetic pull was strong. No man had made her feel like this before and she knew it wouldn’t be long before they were indulging in rampant sex. She could hardly breathe, just thinking about it, and trying to answer the questions thrown at her by all the sycophants desperate to ingratiate themselves, was far harder than normal.
Just after midnight, guests prepared to leave and as Margaret shook Katherine’s hand and thanked her, Simon moved through the throng and managed to position himself so he could walk her outside to where the chauffeur was waiting with the Daimler.
“It’s such a beautiful evening, Your Grace, and one that I don’t wish to end just yet. I love to stroll by the river at the time of night and I don’t suppose you would like to accompany me,” he asked, gesticulating at the nearby Thames, water glistening from the lights of pleasure craft and on the walkways running beside it. The evening was warm and
the idea was very inviting but Margaret, although desperate to be with him, encircled in those strong, bronzed arms, with his lips on hers, knew others, including his mother, were watching and she had to maintain discretion at all costs.
She smiled up at him. “Unfortunately not, Simon. I have a headache and really must get home.”
“Are you sure you don’t need someone to come with you, bathe your fevered brow, all that sort of thing,” he asked, his eyes boring into hers and keeping his voice so low she could hardly hear him.
Margaret didn’t answer and turned toward the chauffeur who was holding open the car door for her. She eased elegantly onto the back seat, well aware Simon’s eyes were fixed on her stunning legs.
“Thank you so much, Simon, but I think I can manage this evening. It was lovely to meet you,” she said tremulously, knowing he was as conscious as she of the sexual tension between them.
As the car pulled away, she waved to Katherine who was saying goodbye to other guests and nodded to Simon who was standing back with his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a knowing smile on his face.
Margaret was totally besotted and was intrigued, cross, and frustrated when he made no move to contact her in the coming days. She paid more visits to Pampered People and managed, with careful questioning, to ascertain from staff and Katherine herself, the type of venue Simon frequented and how he spent his time and who he was friendly with. Gradually she managed to edge her way into his life; always on the fringes, smiling sweetly, laughing gaily but never, never allowing him to think she was easy game. It lasted for a couple of weeks, this game of cat and mouse, although exactly who was the cat and who was the mouse was an interesting question.
Knowing Simon and his friends frequented Franco’s, a nightclub in Soho, which was fast becoming the place where anyone who was anyone wanted to be seen, and Lady Annabelle often accompanied them, Margaret contacted her and asked if she could join them on their next visit.
“Oh, darling,” Lady Annabelle cooed, “we would be delighted! It's great fun. One never knows who one is going to meet … and then, of course, there are the extras.”
“Extras?” Margaret had asked, unable to think what Annabelle meant.
“You know, darling. The delicious white powder. Gives one a simply wonderful evening. A real lift. Don’t tell me you haven’t tried it!”
“Actually, no,” replied Margaret thoughtfully. She had known and seen people take it but had never dared dabble herself.
“Simon will get us some,” said Annabelle knowingly. “If it’s your first time he will look after you.”
As it happened, nothing was mentioned about drugs. Margaret was not sure if it was because she was a member of the party and he didn’t dare but was glad, as although she was willing to have a good time, that road wasn’t for her.
Franco’s had turned out to be a great venue. The dance floor was packed; the music loud, raunchy and wild. Beautiful lights of all colours crossed and re-crossed the room and it’s heaving occupants and the fragrance of so many expensive perfumes and after-shaves mixed with marijuana sent the senses reeling. Everyone dressed in the latest trendy fashion with short skirts, long hair and beads in abundance were out to enjoy themselves to the full and Margaret, as hot as everyone else, drank glass after glass of water in order that she could savour every moment of it, especially dancing with Simon. He monopolised her, never leaving her side, dancing dance after dance, fast and slow. The slow ones were the best; her head nestled into his chest, his hands slowly moving up and down her spine and neck but although he tried to kiss her, Margaret with all the willpower she could muster, managed to avoid such contact. It was too public. She wanted him fully in private and wanted more than anything to get him back to Canleigh House … but not yet … she wanted to keep him dangling just a little longer.
An hour before the club was to close, she slipped a note to Annabelle to say she was leaving, pretended she was popping to the ladies to freshen up, and managed to sneak out and take a taxi home.
He had rung her within minutes of her entering the mansion.
“Your Grace! How could you leave me in such a state of flux? My arms are missing you. My heart is missing you … and as for the lower part of my body … well, I won’t tell you how that is reacting.”
Margaret had nearly melted there and then but she was sober and could think clearly.
“I am so sorry you are having such a reaction to my absence Simon but I am very tired this evening and have important engagements early in the morning. I am sure we will meet again soon.”
“Oh yes, Your Grace. How about making that very soon? I could always come over for an hour or two. Make sure you are really relaxed.”
Margaret’s heart skipped a beat but she was resolute. She wanted to savour him wanting her for a very long time and the longer she kept her distance, the better it would be when they finally got together.
“I can manage perfectly well on my own. Goodnight Simon.”
She had replaced her telephone receiver before he could answer her, smiled and virtually skipped up to bed where she spent a restless night imagining what it was going to be like when she did eventually get him into bed, although it was going to be a while longer before she found out.
Then, early the very next morning, came the phone call from Charles, furiously demanding she return to Yorkshire. Apparently, the tabloids were having a field day, with more and more photographs of her appearing almost daily. Questions were being raised as to why Margaret spent so long away from Yorkshire without Charles. What exactly was she up to? Was their marriage on the rocks? Was there another man? Margaret had to return to Canleigh and that was that.
* * *
Margaret twirled her wedding ring as the train began to slow on its approach into London. Charles was going to be even more furious when he discovered she had left Canleigh after insisting she spend the whole summer at Canleigh and Blairness. God forbid! She couldn’t do it, not now that Simon had called. She knew she was heading for disaster but she would deal with that when it came. For now, all she could think about was Simon. He made her feel so alive, vibrant and so very excited and she was going to see him tonight. She hugged herself with delight as the suburbs of London began to take precedence over the towns and countryside through which they had passed. It wouldn’t be long now and she would be back at Canleigh House and able to get herself ready for what she was sure was going to be one of the most thrilling nights of her life.
Half an hour later and Margaret was out of the train at noisy, bustling Kings Cross and heading towards the nearest taxi rank. She sighed with pleasure as she walked through the throngs of people, feeling alive again after the deadness of Canleigh. This was her kind of life. She was thrilled to be back in the drama and excitement of 1960’s London and had no intention of leaving it this time until she had done what she came to do … and Charles would have to lump it.
“Canleigh House, Mayfair,” she ordered, hopping into the first available black cab. The driver placed her case in the boot and as he threaded the car into the busy traffic outside the station Margaret sat forward eagerly in her seat to gaze at the scene before her. Her London. Her world. She had only been away a short while but had missed it all so badly; the bustle, the buzz, just being part of a dynamic city.
The traffic was crawling. Vespa scooters suddenly appeared from nowhere and surrounded the taxi, both male and female riders with short hair, flared jeans and either tight fitting short jackets or navy-blue reefer coats. Margaret hoped they weren’t being followed by the ‘Rockers’ with long hair and clad in full leather gear on their heavy, noisy motorbikes. So far this year there had been a lot of trouble between the two groups all over the country and she didn’t fancy being caught up in one of their pitched battles.
The scooters whizzed deftly in between the cars and sped away. The taxi turned into Oxford Street with its department stores incredibly busy at this time of the day with people dashing in and out, many carrying an a
rray of brightly coloured carrier bags bearing the names of famous stores announcing their presence in this grand metropolis. Posters and banners adorned bill-boards advertising forthcoming events in the coming days and weeks. Margaret noticed one for the Beatles’ film, ‘A Hard Day’s Night’. As much as she would have liked to see it, she wouldn’t attempt to, unable to bear the thought of being in the midst of a crowd of screaming girls. She had attended a Rolling Stones concert not so long ago and even though she was really turned on by Mick Jagger gyrating on stage, the yelling and catcalling from the audience gave her a real headache and she decided she would just enjoy the music on the radio or buy their records in future.
The taxi negotiated the streets of Mayfair and then Canleigh House, looking grand with its Georgian facade of honey-coloured stone, highly polished oak door and gleaming sash windows, came into view. Margaret had seen a letter from the agents on Charles’ desk only a couple of days ago, indicating they would commence looking for a new tenant next week. It would be a tremendous wrench to have to give it up and she would have to make the few days of perfect privacy that were left to her really worthwhile.
The driver hopped out to take her case out of the boot of the cab; she paid him and then walked up the steps, unlocked the door and stepped into the coolness of the hall with its highly polished Italian tiles. She pulled off her sandals and made her way down the winding stairs to the left, holding onto the black wrought iron handrail. Before leaving Canleigh she had made a quick phone call to the woman who she had employed to clean the house and in accordance with her instructions the humming refrigerator was stocked with fresh salad vegetables and milk. Two bottles of Bollinger lay side by side. Margaret touched one and smiled. It was deliciously cold and just waiting to be opened.
She went upstairs to the lavish master bedroom with its four-poster bed draped in gold brocade. Walking barefoot across the deep gold carpet to the dressing room, she opened the glass-fronted wardrobes edged in gilt and wondered what to wear for her forthcoming assignation. Clothes were taken into the bedroom and flung on the bed; black velvets, red chiffon, white satin; all too refined for the bash that evening. Finally, she picked a scarlet halter-neck cotton dress; simple, short and sexy, with no need to wear a bra. She would look stunning in it with her dark hair and plenty of gold jewellery. It would also be easy to remove!
Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) Page 8