by Lulu Taylor
Octavia came in, wondering if she should be wearing vintage rather than a gorgeous shimmering red Lanvin silk dress which she’d dressed down with a grey boyfriend blazer, the sleeves rolled up to show the pale striped lining, and grey mules.
‘There you are,’ said a rough Scottish voice and Roddy appeared out of the murky back corridor of the flat, his eyes somewhat glazed. ‘Thank you very fuckin’ much, Octavia. I ought to deck you, you wee bitch!’
‘Hi, Roddy,’ Octavia said hesitantly, looking at his dilated pupils and the red flush across his cheekbones. She was used to his casual swearing but tonight he looked as though he might mean it. ‘Are you okay?’
The last time she’d seen him he’d been off his head, being carried out of the fashion show after party by a couple of young men who’d been circling him all evening – new friends from the fashion world, no doubt. They’d put him in a taxi, climbed in with him and gone off to God only knew where – perhaps back to that flat in the grotty part of London they’d visited that first day. But Roddy had been in fine form then: ecstatic that the show was over, and that the VIPs had turned up and even stayed behind afterwards to congratulate him and assure him that he had definitely made it. Iseult had declared that tonight a new star had joined the constellations and Roddy had looked as though he believed it. He’d certainly celebrated, pouring gallons of champagne down his throat and hoovering up a plateful of cocaine.
‘I’m fine, darlin’,’ he drawled. ‘Just wanted to say thank you, that’s all. Thank you for totally stealing my limelight! The biggest night of my life and what do the papers say the next day?’ He struck a dramatic attitude, rolled his eyes and put on a fake English accent. ‘“Who is this mysterious beauty arrived from nowhere? Let us tell you about her intriguing past, the scandals, the court cases …”’
‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m sorry, Roddy. It hasn’t really spoilt your big moment, has it?’ Octavia felt a terrible pang of guilt even though there was nothing she could have done about the press coverage. ‘If it’s any consolation, I absolutely hate it. It’s been awful …’
‘Has it, darlin’?’ he cooed. ‘My heart fuckin’ bleeds!’
‘That’s enough, Roddy.’ Iseult appeared in the corridor. ‘Octavia isn’t to blame. If anything, she got you even more attention than you could have expected. You were front-page, my sweet, front-bloody-page. Every time they mentioned Octavia, they mentioned you too.’ She leant forward and kissed Octavia’s cheek. ‘We should be thanking you. Come and have a drink.’
‘I don’t want a fuckin’ drink,’ said Roddy grumpily. ‘I want a bloody blow job. Where’s that boy who was talking to me earlier? He’ll do.’ He stumbled off down the corridor.
Octavia turned and saw Iseult’s stricken expression, but when Iseult noticed that Octavia was staring at her, she instantly recovered herself. ‘You mustn’t mind him. I’ve said it before – he’s a genius and you have to make allowances for that. Now come with me, let’s have a drink together.’
Octavia and Iseult sat in the tiny and, from the looks of it, largely unused kitchen, making themselves vodka cocktails. Iseult smoked while they talked. From the sounds coming out of the sitting room the party was taking off – there was loud music, singing, shouting and whoops of laughter. The strong sweet smell of cannabis came wafting into the kitchen.
‘They live in total madness, these children,’ Iseult said, knotting a piece of lemon peel and dropping it into her glass. ‘Just you be careful, Octavia. Don’t get too caught up in this way of life. Never forget that to live authentically we must be artists – we must work to express ourselves. Constant chemical highs deaden the ability to feel properly, and after that … well, the work won’t come.’
‘Don’t you worry about Roddy then?’ asked Octavia, intrigued. ‘He seems to be very keen on narcotics.’
Iseult looked sad as she shook her head, her sharp auburn bob shaking with it. ‘He’s deadening the pain. We all do that differently. He takes drugs to survive, to give himself a reason to go on, and he cuts himself as well when it all gets too much. You can’t compare Roddy to anyone else, I’m afraid. Except, perhaps, me.’
‘But you said you don’t take drugs?’ Octavia said. She was awed by the older woman’s sophistication and the sense both of her glee in life and the tragic sensitivity that surrounded her.
‘Just the pills to keep my brain chemistry on track. If I don’t take those, I’m liable to be very stupid indeed. Driving cars into walls … that kind of thing.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes! I took out my last car that way. I survived the whole thing, to everyone’s astonishment, though I took a while to heal. Broken hip, cracked spine, lots of bumps and bruises. Still, it helps. Hurting banishes the demons for while.’
Octavia couldn’t believe it. Life to her seemed constantly entrancing and fascinating. How was it possible to feel so bleak and miserable that one wanted to die? Particularly when someone was as talented and unusual and fascinating as Iseult.
She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, darling, your face! Don’t worry, I’m not about to go and jump off Jasmine’s roof! I’ve found Roddy, you see, and he needs me. Together we’re going to conquer the world and stop each other from falling off it. Now, sweetheart, that’s enough of cloistering yourself in here with me. I’ve just seen that scamp Ferdy and he’s clearly got you on his mind …’
In the sitting room the party was getting raunchy, with some of the girls dancing stripped down to their underwear. Two or three were sitting zoned out on the sofa, obviously in a private, drug-induced place. Some boys were playing a drinking game with coins and a bottle of vodka, though one had already passed out nearby. A small group was sitting around the coffee table, cutting out lines of cocaine.
‘Hi, gorgeous.’ Ferdy came up to Octavia and put his arms round her, pressing his body against hers. She felt strange and spacy, though she’d had nothing more powerful than vodka, but even so, the feel of his body against hers aroused her. Just the warmth of his skin coming through his shirt made her feel that unmistakable buzz as lust stirred again. All at once she only wanted his mouth on hers and those big, golden-skinned hands all over her body, and then to be able to marvel again at his cock and where it could take her.
But this isn’t love, is it? she asked herself as they hurried down the corridor to one of Jasmine’s spare rooms. This overwhelming desire to have him touch me and lick me and fuck me … that’s something else. It’s not what Flora feels for Otto. Is that true love?
In the darkness of the bedroom, they began to devour each other, Ferdy’s open lips locking on to hers and his tongue thrust deep in her mouth while he scrabbled to find the zip on her dress.
‘It’s at the side!’ Octavia gasped, as he fumbled at the back, and then he found it and she wriggled out of it.
‘God, your tits,’ he groaned, pulling down her black lace bra and revealing them, pale and pointed with rosy tips. ‘They’re gorgeous.’ He latched on to one of her nipples, grazing it with his teeth and sucking hard until she was erect in his mouth, while he tweaked the other with his fingers. It was an almost unbearable sensation, something between pain and pleasure, but it did its work: Octavia was breathless and desperate to feel him inside her.
‘Are you on the pill yet?’ he murmured as she undid his jeans and pushed them downwards, then grasped the solid column of his cock. It was thick and hot in her hands, smooth and dry and twitching as though it longed to find a home inside her warm, wet pussy.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not yet …’
He reached for his jeans and pulled a condom packet from his pocket. ‘We’ll need this then. Can’t risk it too often, can we?’
They were too impatient to be fucking to bother with much foreplay: Ferdy put the condom on with a practised hand, and a moment later she was lying on her back, opening herself to him, and he was between her parted knees, pushing himself inside her.
‘Fuck, yes,’ he said
as he drove down on her, making her tight passage expand around the girth of his cock.
Octavia moaned as the pleasurable feelings overcame her, and a moment later he was thrusting hard, pushing against her bud with each movement inside her. Every nerve in her responded to it as though she were already primed, ready, almost there …
‘Oh, God, I don’t think I can … I don’t think I can hold it …’ she gasped, astonished at the speed with which everything was happening.
‘Just go with it,’ whispered Ferdy, and covered her mouth with a kiss. She pushed her tongue up into his mouth, wrapped her arms tightly around his back, and gave herself over to the extraordinary, tickling pleasure that radiated from her core. She began to moan again, and then she felt that delightful wave begin to build deep within and an instant later was riding it, unable to resist as the judder of her climax gripped her. As soon as she began to come, she triggered Ferdy who started to buck on top of her as his own orgasm took hold. It seemed to go on for ages, as they pressed together, riding out the peak until the sensations subsided.
‘That’s what I’m talkin’ about!’ he declared as he rolled off her. ‘You were born for fucking, Octavia. I’ve never made any girl come so fast.’
Octavia smiled luxuriously and wriggled with pleasure. Even if it isn’t love … I like it.
31
In the boardroom of Noble’s, the atmosphere was strained and difficult.
At the far end of the polished walnut table, Amanda stared at the results page in front of her. She could follow a basic balance sheet but this one was a bit beyond her, considering she’d never been to business school or done an accounting course. It was a comprehensive overview of Noble’s financial structure, and Amanda knew enough to recognise that it didn’t look at all good. Figures in brackets meant they were losses – and there were brackets everywhere. The final, overall figure was a big fat one, surrounded by those two little marks that meant this was money that was going out, not coming in.
‘I really don’t know how I’m going to present this in any kind of positive way to the markets,’ the chairman was saying bleakly. ‘Our operating loss is almost six million pounds.’
The finance director looked grim-faced. ‘We are certain to see our share price drop even further. We’re going to have to look immediately at what we can do to cut overheads, save money and capitalise. To put it frankly, Graham, we need a cash injection – and fast.’
‘What I don’t understand is how it’s come to this,’ said the chairman. ‘Noble’s has such a fine pedigree, such a wonderful brand. Why aren’t we able to make a profit?’
The chief executive sighed impatiently. ‘Graham, I’ve been telling you for months this was bound to happen. Look at our costs – they’re immense. The payroll alone is huge. The capital expenditure eats into our entire turnover. Then there’s the debt. We’re paying three million a year in interest, just servicing the money we owe the bank! Soon they’re going to want to discuss repayment of that debt, and we’re in no position to pay back anything – we’re not even in a position to restructure the debt. Once they see the state of our figures, we’ll be lucky if they don’t want to call it in immediately and start forcing the sale of our assets.’
Graham Radcliffe looked frightened. ‘We can’t sell anything. Our whole security is based on our assets – the factories, warehouses and this building. Without those, we can’t operate at all.’
Amanda stared down the table at her father and felt sorry for him. He’d never wanted to take on the business, not in this capacity. He’d always been happiest on the shop floor, talking to customers, discussing fabrics and beautiful objects with them. He hadn’t wanted to move into management but his father had forced him into it. Now here he was, presiding over the decline of Noble’s and likely to be the man whose legacy was the final destruction of the grand old place. But they were all desperately trying to save it: after all, the last chief executive and finance director had been given their marching orders only six months earlier, walking away with enormous payoffs that Noble’s could barely afford. Graham Radcliffe had then hired Robert Young to stop the rot and reinvigorate the place.
But while Young might have been a whizz kid in some businesses, he didn’t understand Noble’s at all. He was eager to bring in cash and so was keen to start disposing of copyrights in their famous prints, selling chunks of their business, shutting down their British manufacturing arm and moving the entire operation abroad … perhaps even selling the wholesale fabric business altogether. Each one of these suggestions caused Graham Radcliffe great anguish. Not only did it mean destroying the heart of the business, it meant squandering the only way left to them to restore it: the fabric, the copyright prints, the English spirit of Noble’s, were its truly priceless assets. Once gone, those things could never be regained.
‘We need to look at a ten percent reduction in staff immediately,’ Robert Young was saying. ‘And I mean right away. We’ve got to slash our buying budgets too. There must be a way to stock cheaper goods and still keep our retail prices high.’
Amanda felt anger stirring in her stomach. So this was how it was going to be, was it? I might not be Donald Trump, but I can still see that this is the wrong way for the business to be going. We can’t just turn ourselves into some kind of bargain-basement outfit. We’re in a prime location in London’s luxury centre. It’s madness to cheapen ourselves!
She studied her father’s miserable expression as Robert Young started rapping out orders about how the interim results statement was to be worded, and decided she could bear it no longer. She got to her feet. ‘Would you excuse me, please, Robert?’ she said crisply. ‘If we’re done here, I’ve got an appointment.’
‘What? Oh … yes.’ He gave her a condescending glance. Amanda’s area – women’s fashions and accessories – meant nothing to him. In fact, none of it did. He ought to be in a steel-and-glass building in the city shouting ‘Buy, buy!’ or ‘Sell, sell!’ or whatever the hell they did – those sharks in the banks. Not walking around this building, surrounded by art and beauty and not seeing any of it. Amanda walked out of the boardroom, giving her father a sympathetic look and a smile as she left him to his mauling from Young. Outside she stood still in the blue-carpeted corridor and let out a long sigh.
‘Christ,’ she muttered to herself. ‘What a nightmare.’
She’d taken up her position at Noble’s two years before, and only then because her father had asked her to. Up until that time she was far too interested in pursuing her social life, being lionised by Gerry Harbord and his crowd, and hanging out with the gang of girls she’d met at secretarial college. They weren’t the nicest collection of people, she’d known that, but they’d wanted her to be a part of their group and she was flattered – she’d always been rather a loner before that, but Claudia, Suze and the rest seemed to want her to belong to their rich, Sloaney gang who spent weekends at each other’s country houses or skiing in Verbier. They liked her sharp tongue and amusingly malicious wit, and she’d played up to it. That had got her into trouble more than once – not least at the Templeton House Ball.
She’d been stupid, talking like that about the Beaufort twin. It wasn’t meant seriously, it was just part of the bitchy humour they all used. Except that since she’d been humiliated by Octavia Beaufort, her so-called friends had melted away. Only Suze was still calling her and wanting to meet up at Daphne’s or the Bluebird Café for those endless, inane talks over cappuccinos. Suze could make a discussion about which skiing jacket to buy last three hours and still not came to a decision.
As a result, Amanda had been spending more time at her job and to her surprise, had begun to enjoy it and find in it a refuge from the outside world. Ever since she was a girl, she’d adored the magnificent old shop with its beautiful dark-wood interior and atmosphere redolent of a gracious past. It had been like a second home to her. She used to love coming to work with her father in the school holidays: as a small child, she’d roamed abou
t, having adventures and exploring, making dens in the rug department or seeing how quickly she could climb from the ground floor to the sixth, cross the width of the building and get back down again via the magnificent main staircase. As she grew older, she became bewitched by the beauty of the goods for sale in the shop. Her focus changed to the clothes, sold on the first floor in hushed luxury, by gorgeous sales girls, and to the make-up and fragrance department, taking up a sweetly scented quarter of the ground floor, where she could spend happy hours making up her face, rubbing unguents and creams into her skin or discussing the merits of floral scents against musky ambers with the lady on the perfume counter. She often thought that, if she had to, she could happily live her whole life inside Noble’s, eating in the delightful second-floor tea room, dressing from the clothes department, and sleeping in the great carved four-poster bed on the fifth, which took centre stage in a show bedroom swathed entirely in Noble’s fabric.
Christmas had always been the best time of year here. The days when the holiday windows and their opulent displays were unveiled were the most magical in her memory. She would be taken to the fifth floor, where part of the furniture department was transformed into a sparkling Christmas shop, stuffed with every type of decoration, from plain-coloured baubles to wonderful delicate crystal stars. Sweets and gifts spilled from jars and lined shelves; festive cards and ribbons were piled on tables, and miniature Christmas trees glimmered everywhere. Best of all was the grotto festooned with glittering pretend snow where Father Christmas himself could be found, along with his elf helper and a sackful of presents plus one rather bored photographer.
Even as she grew up, the Christmas shop and the grotto never quite lost their magic for Amanda, although she began to prefer the sparkles to be found in the jewellery room, the candy-cane colours on offer in the make-up department, and the glossy boxes containing the latest Mulberry or Chloé bag, designer dress or beautiful pair of shoes from the third floor.