As she walked along the corridor, Victoria held her head high, but in reality she was struggling to hold back the tears. Bloody Justin, he always managed to remind her just what a waste of space she was. She should never have done it. She should never have slept with George. It was a cheap trick that underlined just how worthless she was. Anyone could get a man by using their body.
She wanted George to want her for herself. For everything they shared in common – their hopes and dreams and ambitions. This week at The Rocks had convinced Victoria just how much they belonged together. If she hadn’t been such a selfish, vain, introspective monster, it would be her name at the top of the invitation she’d designed that morning. But now she’d really blown it. By bringing sex into the equation, she’d scuppered all her chances of getting George back. She knew him well enough to know he’d be cursing his weakness. That rather than being drawn towards her, she’d only succeeded in pushing him away.
And, anyway, as long as Lisa was around, why on earth would he want her? Lisa was gorgeous. Lisa was worthy. Lisa was absolutely everything she wasn’t and never could be, no matter how hard she tried.
Later that evening, George was lying next to Lisa, listening to her talking but not really hearing the words.
‘I really feel on top of everything now,’ she was saying. ‘I must say there was a moment when I started to panic, but everything’s fallen into place. I’m even getting used to having Victoria around – I have to admit she has some really great ideas.’
‘Mmm,’ replied George non-committally. He couldn’t even say her name, in case some ghastly confession came spilling out.
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Lisa, stroking his forehead.
‘It’s… hard work,’ George replied. ‘Oiling the decking. I’ve found muscles I didn’t know I had.’
‘Perhaps you need a massage.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ mumbled George, feigning exhaustion. ‘But I think I might just go to sleep.’ He was terrified Lisa might find some sort of evidence; some trace of Victoria on his skin. A bit like the Turin shroud. Even though he’d scrubbed himself nearly raw with Japanese washing grains in the shower. Besides, he’d have to give it at least twenty-four hours before he slept with Lisa. He’d never actually had carnal knowledge of two women in one day.
As Lisa curled an arm round him, he tried to relax, but his mind was racing. He was pretty certain Victoria wouldn’t say anything about what had happened. It had been a moment of madness, something they had to get out of the way. A quick trip down memory lane to prove they didn’t need each other. A kind of carnal closure. That was it, George reassured himself. It had been a farewell fuck. Nothing more, nothing less.
He just hoped Victoria saw it the same way.
14
Bruno didn’t think he had ever felt so depressed.
Today was his mother’s birthday. And even though the sun was shining, bouncing off the water, with a light breeze to ruffle the hair, he would have preferred relentless rain, because the day’s perfection made a mockery of the way he was feeling.
Joanie was sitting on her sofa, the rose-pink cashmere sweater he’d bought her clutched in her lap. He’d bought it because it was pretty and soft and luxurious, and he hoped it would prompt her to wear it, even if only out of politeness. He couldn’t bear the shapeless grey cardigan and tracksuit trousers she seemed to wear indefinitely. He felt sure it couldn’t be the same outfit she wore day in and day out, but it certainly seemed so. Bruno didn’t believe in anything as flaky as colour therapy, but he felt strongly that her mood would never lift while she wore such dowdy clothes.
Choosing the card had proved horrendously difficult. He’d avoided anything that referred to ‘mother’ or ‘son’. And anything sickly and sentimental – all those flowery poems wishing happiness would ring hollow. All he wanted was a card saying happy birthday that wasn’t vulgar and didn’t depict some scene that would rub salt into her wound. Even flowers seemed reminiscent of funeral wreaths. In the end he’d bought one of the Grand Canal in Venice – it was completely irrelevant to anything in her life and couldn’t possibly remind her of Joe.
Joe had been good at birthdays. Joe had always deliberately bought her the biggest, most tasteless card he could find, and it had always made her smile. The last card he’d bought her, just before he died, had been padded and musical, playing ‘My Favourite Things’ when it opened. His mother had left it on the kitchen dresser ever since. Bruno had picked it up one day to find that the tune had given up the ghost, even though Joe’s signature was still inside, and it had made him feel incredibly desolate. He’d wanted to prise the card open, take out its workings, replace the tiny battery so that his mother could hear the tune again. It was, after all, one of the few tangible reminders that Joe had ever thought about anyone but himself. But the card was made in China, it wasn’t designed to have its battery replaced. Bruno had put it back on the dresser feeling more powerless than ever to do anything to alleviate his mother’s grief.
Today, Bruno had been absolutely determined to get Joanie out of the house. He’d booked a table for lunch at the Admiral Hotel on the estuary just outside Bamford. It wasn’t his sort of place, but they had a terrace where you could look out over the water, an excellent carvery and an infamous pudding trolley with cream-laden trifles and gateaux.
‘Come on, Mum,’ he was urging her now. ‘I’ve booked us a table on the terrace. It’s a beautiful day.’
But she shook her head.
‘I’ve got one of my headaches,’ she replied. ‘I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it. It would be a waste.’
For a split second Bruno felt a surge of anger. Why wouldn’t she let him try to make her happy? He was sure if he could persuade her out, she might enjoy it. Even if it was only for a nanosecond. He looked at her as she folded up the wrapping paper from his present neatly, smoothing it out with her fingers. Did there come a point where guilt became a habit? he wondered. An indulgence? Should he shout? Should he force her?
No, he thought. Look what had happened last time he’d been overbearing.
‘Fine,’ he said wearily, getting to his feet.
She smiled up at him, her blue eyes watery.
‘Thank you for the jumper. It’s lovely.’
Then bloody wear it! he wanted to shout, suddenly knowing it was going to be shoved in a drawer.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied wearily, dutifully, and walked out of the house.
‘Less than two weeks today!’ said Lisa, looking at the calendar. ‘I can’t believe it. Will we pull it off, do you think?’
‘You don’t have to worry about the party,’ Victoria assured her. ‘I do this kind of thing in my sleep.’
‘It’s my worst nightmare. I hate giving parties.’
‘Just stick to getting the hotel ready. That would be the real crisis – if all the guests turned up and there was still a skip in the drive and decorators everywhere.’
‘We’re right on track,’ Lisa assured her. ‘They’re doing the carpets on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday as well if they overrun, which they will because the stairs are fiddly. Then the furniture arrives on Thursday. Which leaves us another whole week to fiddle about, hang the curtains, put up pictures, train up the staff…’ She trailed off, looking panicky. ‘Oh God…’
‘Trust me. It’ll be fine.’
George came in with the post. It never arrived until gone midday, another aspect of Devon life which took some getting used to. Sometimes the postman didn’t wander up till gone two, if he’d been waylaid at the Mariscombe Arms.
‘Bills, bills and more bills.’ He chucked most of the letters on the desk and picked up a large A4 envelope. ‘I expect these are the proofs for the brochures.’
Victoria hovered over him as he slid his finger carefully under the flap.
‘I can’t wait! I hope they’ve done a good job.’
He pulled the contents out carefully.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said George
.
‘Oops,’ said Victoria, backing away.
‘What is it?’ asked Lisa. ‘Have they made a mistake?’
‘Have a look.’ George dropped the contents on his desk in distaste.
It was a sheaf of colour photographs. Of Lisa. Lisa with her top off, smiling invitingly for the camera, in nothing but a pair of bikini bottoms. Lisa cavorting in a pair of high heels, licking an ice cream. Lisa bending over to pick up a beach ball, her rear stuck up in the air. Her hair was longer, almost to her waist, and she was about ten years younger. But it was undeniably her.
As Lisa looked at the photos, her face drained of any colour. Then she grabbed the envelope, shook it open, then tore it apart, looking for a clue as to who could have sent them.
‘You kept that quiet,’ said George accusingly.
‘They weren’t a secret,’ she insisted. ‘I’d have told you if I thought it was important. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about them.’
‘You’d forgotten that you’d posed naked?’
‘Topless.’
‘Topless. Sorry.’ His voice dripped sarcasm.
‘There is a difference.’
‘Oh, is there? Well, sorry, but I’m not up on the finer points of pornography.’
‘This isn’t porn!’ Lisa’s eyes flashed with fury. ‘This is the sort of thing that’s in national newspapers every day. It’s perfectly acceptable.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion, surely?’
Lisa squared up to him.
‘I’m not ashamed.’
‘Then why haven’t you ever mentioned it?’
‘I don’t know! It was a long time ago. It was what I had to do at the time.’
‘Take your clothes off for money? Very nice, I’m sure.’
Lisa’s voice was trembling. ‘I was seventeen. All I had going for me was my looks. I’d failed my exams, because my mother had just died. I had to stand on my own two feet and this was the quickest way of doing it.’
George looked at the photos again with distaste, unswayed by her defence.
‘It’s not the first thing most seventeen-year-olds think of.’
Lisa looked as if she had been slapped.
‘I didn’t have the benefit of a private education,’ she spat back. ‘I didn’t get the chance to go to university. I couldn’t become an architect or a bloody lawyer.’
‘Not everyone who leaves school at sixteen ends up taking their clothes off for money.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if it offends you.’
‘You could at least have done me the courtesy of telling me.’
‘Like you told me you were married?’
Lisa kept her voice light, but her barb hit its target.
‘That’s entirely different,’ George snapped.
‘How is it different?’
‘It just is.’
‘For Christ’s sake, George. Back off.’
The two of them turned to stare at Victoria. In the heat of the moment they had almost forgotten she was there.
‘The question isn’t whether Lisa was right to do this. Or whether she should have told George. The question is, who sent them?’
There was a deathly silence. Lisa finally spoke.
‘I wonder?’ she said sarcastically and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
*
Victoria caught up with Lisa just as she was about to go out of the front door.
‘Lisa!’
Lisa just looked at her, her face expressionless.
‘I know what you’re thinking. But it wasn’t me who sent those photos. I promise you.’ Victoria screwed up her face, looking genuinely worried. ‘I don’t want George back. I did him far too much damage the first time around. Irreparable damage. And I think you’ve been fantastic for him.’
She put out a hand to touch Lisa’s arm.
‘He always wanted something more when I was with him. He hated his work. But he was too busy wasting his time on me to spend any time realizing his own ambitions. Lucky for him someone came along who wasn’t so self-obsessed. You’ve let him realize his dream.’
‘Just a pity about my murky past,’ said Lisa bitterly.
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said. I think he was just a bit shocked. He is a bit of a prude, George.’ Victoria gave a low, throaty laugh. ‘I think the photos are fantastic. Trust me, if I’d got the tits for it, that’s what I’d be doing now.’
Lisa just about managed a smile. She realized that Victoria was doing her absolute very best to be genuinely nice, something she probably didn’t do very often.
‘You wouldn’t want to do it, if you didn’t have to,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘But thanks.’
‘Come on,’ said Victoria, putting a conciliatory hand on Lisa’s arm. ‘I think you two should talk about this. Don’t let somebody’s petty prank spoil what you’ve got.’
‘No.’ Lisa was firm. ‘I think I’d like to be on my own, if you don’t mind.’
She wasn’t going to cry in front of Victoria, no matter how nice she was being. She slipped out of the door, down through the garden, and scrambled down the rocky path to the beach, remembering with a bitter irony the first time she and George had climbed down it. It seemed a lifetime ago.
In which case, the photos must have been done two lifetimes ago. As Lisa trudged along the beach, all the memories came flooding back. That hideous, horrible frightened feeling, of being all alone, of having to make her own way in the world. Of thinking that if this was what she had to do, then she’d do it. She’d only been seventeen. OK, so that wasn’t a scandal in itself, but it hadn’t been an easy decision to make. And she’d had no one to confide in. No one she could weigh up the moral issues with. Never had she wanted her mother more. But then, if her mother had been there, she wouldn’t have found herself in that situation.
She’d seen an advert in the paper, asking for models to come and audition at a local hotel. She decided to go, just for a laugh, though she didn’t hold out much hope. She’d worn a pair of jeans, a low-cut top and boots, her hair loose. Everyone else had been done up to the nines, in tight dresses and high heels and full make-up. The queues were endless. Lisa had been about to leave, convinced she would get nowhere. As she went to push open the door of the function room, a hand had grabbed her arm.
‘I hope you’re not going anywhere, sweetheart?’ a swarthy man in an Italian suit had asked, his white teeth glinting.
That was her first brush with Tony Lavazza. He’d whisked her upstairs immediately. Fast-tracked her, he called it, to a suite where the shortlisted candidates were sitting round drinking white wine and soda while they were scrutinized by Tony and his associates. In the end, only Lisa and another girl called Candy had been signed up.
Her assignments had been straight to start with. Some modelling, some promo work, often quite dull and dreary. She did some knitting patterns and a jodhpur catalogue. Lots and lots of exhibitions. Then came the offer of some glamour work. Which by then Lisa knew meant topless. Tony kept insisting it was just a bit of fun.
‘It’s not like I’m asking you to do girl on girl. Or screw donkeys. It’s seaside postcard stuff. Saucy. Think Carry On. Or Benny Hill.’
Neither of these examples meant anything to Lisa. But the substantial fee they were offering did. And in the end, it was the money that convinced her. She could earn as much in one session as she did in a month. You couldn’t argue with that. Her teeth had chattered on the first shoot. Not with cold, but with fear. She had been racked with nerves. In the end, the photographer had forced a few glasses of Pernod and blackcurrant down her. Funnily enough, it had worked. Her qualms dissipated and before long she actually got caught up in the spirit of the shoot. Everyone had been delighted with the results, and there and then Lisa decided it was just mind over matter. She didn’t need to get drunk. It would be far better if she kept her head and found her own way of relaxing. That way no one could ever take advantage of her.
So after th
at, it was easy. The photographers were usually a laugh, and because she was good at her job it was a fairly painless process. Certainly easier than standing on your feet all day handing out leaflets. Although it was rather an irony calling it glamour work, because glamorous it was not – there was never anywhere proper to change, she usually ended up doing her own hair and make-up in the toilet mirror and she had to remember to bring a sandwich if she wanted lunch. She never knew where the photographs were destined – catalogues and calendars and magazines – but she didn’t care because she was earning.
Meanwhile, she saved furiously. At the end of three years, she had enough for a deposit on her first flat. When she was quite certain she was secure, that even if she had to take a job as a secretary she would still be able to afford her mortgage, she told Tony no more topless. He was hopping, of course. But he couldn’t do without her. She was incredibly popular. And she had the sort of looks, the sort of body that meant it didn’t really matter if she was clothed. She almost looked more inviting with her kit on. So he’d agreed. And as the years passed by, she became more and more choosy about her assignments, until it was her calling the shots.
But somehow, her past had caught up with her.
As she walked, Lisa realized that the azure blue sky was clouding over. The weather on the coast could change in an instant. Blue skies could become black, and black blue. A heavy mist could roll across the beach in seconds. A bit like life, really, she thought moodily. Everything had been sunny that morning. She had been full of excitement that they were only two weeks away from their launch. But now she felt filled with gloom.
Who had sent the photographs? And why? Of course, the prime suspect was Victoria. But Lisa was certain that her protestation of innocence earlier was quite genuine. She could tell when someone was trying to cover something up: the girls she had worked with over the years were adept at fibs and equivocations; the mistresses of deception. She would have been able to see straight through Victoria if she had been lying.
Maybe it was a set-up? Maybe it was George? Perhaps George, too cowardly to dump her, was deliberately sabotaging their relationship in order to bring about a break-up that would leave him with clean hands? And allow him to get back with the real love of his life?
Love on the Rocks Page 30