by Lulu Taylor
The theme of the party was Bacchanalia, and the ballroom had been decorated in vines heavy with lush purple grapes. Gilded Horns of Plenty and lyres peeped through the vine leaves. Everywhere were youths dressed as fauns – bare-chested above, and in hairy goat-skin breeches below, small goatee beards on their handsome chins and pert little horns nestling in their curly hair. The fauns carried pitchers of wine and champagne, moving around the guests and constantly topping up their goblets. Others carried platters of mezze: stuffed vine leaves, goat’s cheese rolled in fresh herbs, miniature skewers of prawns, stuffed olives, pieces of lamb marinaded in honey and spices – a feast fit for Olympian deities. On another table was more conventional food for those who couldn’t live without Beluga caviar, smoked salmon, or quails’ eggs with truffle oil.
Around the edges of the room were beautiful living statues of the gods and goddesses, all semi-naked. There was an exquisite Athena, a tiny stuffed owl perched on her wrist and a shield in her other hand, her full breasts revealed under her draped white robes; a wing-heeled Hermes displayed perfect buttocks and a ribbon of fair hair leading from his navel to his groin. Zeus, Hera, Aphrodite (particularly lovely, with only her flowing dark hair to cover her nakedness) and many others stood about the edges of the room on their marble plinths, tall, proud and unashamed.
‘Hands off Apollo,’ Roddy said, as he kissed Octavia on the cheek. ‘He’s mine! I’ve already bagged him, okay?’ He grinned over at a handsome man on a nearby plinth, with a laurel wreath in his hair and a lyre in his hand. His thick firm thighs were covered in soft brown hair and his groin area bulged promisingly under its tiny loincloth. ‘Don’t tell Didier.’
‘I won’t,’ laughed Octavia. ‘This is amazing!’
‘What else did you expect?’ Roddy’s eyes were already a little lazy with drink. ‘How are you, honey?’
‘I’m fine, fine. I got some good news today. It looks like I’m the new owner of Noble’s.’
‘Hey, fantastic!’ Roddy squeezed her hand, though his eyes were scanning the room. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’
Just then, Didier came up. He gave Octavia a look that could have been a friendly hello but appeared to be chillier. ‘Roddy, you wanna come to the toilet?’
‘Huh? Oh, yeah.’ He smiled at Octavia. ‘Just time for a little pick-me-up. You want some?’
‘No. I’d like some of that champagne, I think.’
‘Okay. Just hail a passing faun.’ Roddy giggled as Didier pulled him away by the hand. ‘See ya later!’
Ethan brought her a goblet of sparkling vintage Cristal. ‘No expense spared,’ he murmured as he gave it to her. ‘Have you seen the naked ice statues?’
Octavia shook her head.
‘Worth a look. One is a little winged Cupid pissing vodka. His mate Psyche has breasts spurting—’
‘Tonic?’ suggested Octavia.
Ethan laughed. ‘Nothing so innocuous. She’s got fuckin’ Napoleon brandy coming out of there!’
‘Painful on the nipples, surely?’
‘Nah. Anaesthetic.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Makes me want to suck on you though. Maybe later …’
Octavia shivered with pleasure.
They were soon lost in a crowd of people, greeting friends and swapping gossip, exchanging yacht details and making plans for more get-togethers, lunches, parties. Occasionally Octavia caught sight of Roddy, who seemed to become more and more manic as the evening progressed. People started dancing on a raised stage at the back of the ballroom – beautiful girls striking poses and writhing while looking pretty wasted, men staring into space and making the odd robotic move.
Roddy stopped by Octavia just long enough to point out an A-list all-action movie star, busy mingling with his wife, and say, ‘See him? Begged me for a blow job. I sucked him off in his limo. Queer as a two-bob note, darling. Don’t tell, though. He sues quicker than you can say “litigious closet gay”.’
It was a little after midnight when Octavia found Iseult. She was wearing a magnificent vintage Schiaparelli ballgown with a floral headpiece of great silken purple flowers, and standing on the balcony puffing away at her cigarette while she chatted to another partygoer. Beyond her was the velvety midnight sea where the lights of yachts twinkled golden in the darkness.
‘Iseult, there you are!’ Octavia went up and kissed her. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, my sweet, fine!’ She returned the kisses and then said to her friend, ‘Would you excuse us, darling? Private moment needed.’
The friend nodded and went off, leaving Octavia and Iseult alone on the balcony. Iseult gave a great sigh. ‘It’s a success, isn’t it? A huge success. He’s a success.’
‘Yes. Aren’t you proud?’
‘Of course. And yet …’ Iseult sighed again, even more heavily, and shook her head, her eyes sad.
‘What is it?’ Octavia had never seen Iseult outwardly depressed. She had always put on a show of high spirits for other people. But there was an unmistakable air of melancholy around her now. Octavia wanted to give her friend a hug, but she had never felt able to be so intimate with Iseult.
There was a pause while the older woman looked thoughtful, then she said, ‘You know I’ve devoted my life to Roddy ever since I discovered him. I don’t think it’s unfair to say that he owes his success to me. Of course it’s his talent that counts, but he would still be slaving away in that Savile Row tailors if I hadn’t spurred him on and put my own reputation on the line to back him. I thought that when he fulfilled his potential, he wouldn’t forget me. When the call came to go to Paris and be the Delphine designer, he would surely take me with him.’ She stopped and took a furious drag on her cigarette, then said in a sharp voice, ‘I don’t have much money, you know that. What I have had, I’ve given to Roddy, and gladly. He could have used his influence to repay me with a job at Delphine. Some kind of position. But he hasn’t. There has been nothing.’
‘Oh, Iseult.’ Octavia took hold of her hand. ‘Have you said anything to him?’
‘Of course not. I’m far too proud. And I don’t want you to say a word either, you must promise me that. I’m not a charity case. It’s the fact that it wasn’t offered that has hurt me so much.’
Octavia felt sorry for her as she wrestled with her pride and an obviously wounded heart. ‘If it’s just money … you know you have a position on the Butterfly board, and I’ll pay you well for that. It’s not charity – I need your expertise.’
Iseult managed a small smile. ‘I know, darling. I treasure you for it. I can’t wait to help you with Noble’s, we’re going to have so much fun.’
There was a raucous shout from inside the ballroom and they looked round to see Roddy prancing wildly on the dance stage, obviously completely wired on drugs.
‘He’s on a roll,’ Iseult remarked. ‘It will be back upstairs to his suite later, and then tomorrow they’re going to fly to Spain to continue the party at some rich kid’s villa.’
‘I know, he invited Ethan and me along, but we’ve got a house party back home.’ Octavia looked anxiously at her friend. ‘You know, you should speak to Roddy if you feel this way. He ought to know.’
‘Perhaps. We shall see. If he ever comes back down to earth, I’ll consider it.’
It was a searingly bright morning. Octavia poured a glass of orange juice and drank it gratefully. She needed the liquid and the vitamins to combat last night’s excess.
She and Ethan had left the hotel just after three to return to the yacht. The party in the ballroom had ended at two, but at least a hundred people had gone up to Roddy’s vast suite to carry on, drinking, taking drugs and – in one of the bedrooms – enjoying an impromptu orgy. It was decadent beyond anything Octavia felt comfortable with – although Ethan had popped into the orgy room just to have a look at what was going on, emerging with a broad smile on his face – so they’d decided to head back.
The yacht was a haven of peace after the wildness of the hotel suite and Octavia had fallen with gre
at relief into bed, far too knackered to think about any sex action although Ethan, turned on by what he’d witnessed in the orgy room, had kissed her neck and pushed himself against her buttocks for a few moments before he fell into a deep sleep as well. Now it was another beautiful, bright day and the stewards had laid the usual sumptuous breakfast on the main deck. Ethan was still snoring below deck. She reached for the bowl of natural yoghurt which she poured over her fruit and then added a sprinkle of toasted oats and a drizzle of maple syrup.
Just then one of the stewards came up, holding one of the ship’s telephones.
‘A call for you, madame,’ he said politely.
‘Oh, thank you. I left my phone in the cabin,’ she said, putting down her spoon and taking the handset. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Octavia, it’s Vicky. I couldn’t get hold of you on your phone.’
‘Sorry, it’s downstairs. How are you?’ She was used to receiving a daily call from Vicky, who did much more work for her now that Flora had gone. They were always co-ordinating dates and times, making sure that all of Octavia’s hair and beauty appointments were in the on-line diary and confirming arrangements for travel. No doubt Vicky wanted to know if they would be requiring the plane that was on stand-by at Nice airport.
‘I’m fine … I just wondered, have you spoken to Flora lately?’
Octavia stood up and went over to the rail of the yacht, looking out over the sparkling sea. It was easier to cope here, far from the familiar surroundings of home, not having to see the closed door to Flora’s empty room. ‘I spoke to her a few weeks ago. It was the usual thing.’ The calls were almost more painful than not hearing from her sister at all. She sounded so strange and cold that it was though the old Flora had died and been replaced by this other person, who wanted to keep Octavia at a distance. This was so painful to contemplate she tried to close her mind and her heart to it, though inside she was utterly bereft.
‘It’s weird,’ Vicky said, sounding puzzled. ‘She’s just cancelled my trip out to see her. Again. That’s the sixth time in a row. This is getting beyond a joke. Has she said anything to you?’
‘No.’ Octavia laughed mirthlessly. ‘Hardly! She doesn’t confide in me any more. I guess that’s what marriage does. What do you think the problem is?’
‘I don’t know,’ Vicky said. ‘But it’s not like her … I know you two fell out before the wedding and you’re both still smarting from it, but this doesn’t feel right.’
Octavia stared into the blue, faintly misty horizon. ‘Okay. Listen, I’m coming back to London the day after tomorrow. We’ll talk about it then and sort something out.’
‘Okay.’ Vicky sounded relieved. ‘I’ll make sure all the arrangements are in place.’
51
Sitting in her office in the London house, Vicky put the phone down and stared at the computer screen.
It was a comfort to talk to Octavia, but she still felt very uneasy. She re-read the email from Flora’s new address: [email protected]. Something wasn’t right, she knew that. She had spoken to her cousin a few times, and each time had thought that Flora wasn’t herself. She didn’t sound ill or unhappy, just … different. Octavia had said something similar, describing it as though Flora wasn’t quite there.
At first, they weren’t surprised not to hear from her. No doubt she was caught up in the excitement of her new home, the bliss of being married, and the fatigue that would undoubtedly set in after the wedding. A day or two went past, and then there were a few emails, telling them how happy she was and that she’d be in touch soon. Then, after a week or so, the phone calls began. The strange thing was that they always came from Flora. They could never reach her directly themselves. Her phone, she said, got no reception in the castle. The only person to answer the landline there was Otto. Sometimes he fetched Flora to the phone, and sometimes he said she was too busy, or asleep, or out.
Vicky knew what Octavia thought. She believed that her sister was still punishing her for their falling out just before the wedding. Vicky didn’t know what it had been about and Octavia hadn’t said, but it must have been serious to come between the sisters like this. Why else would Octavia go all this time without seeing her twin, the other half of herself?
Vicky stood up and stretched. I need fresh air, she thought. When she needed a walk, she would usually go to the Chelsea Physic Garden and stroll among the botanical specimens, soaking up their quiet calm. Today, though, she needed the buzz of other people, so she pulled on a silk cardigan and headed out towards the King’s Road.
It wasn’t just Flora who’d changed, Vicky thought, digging her hands into her pockets as she sauntered along the road. It was a hot August day and the smell of frying tarmac was in the air. Octavia had been transformed in the months since Flora had gone. Now that she was in a relationship with the undeniably sexy Ethan, she’d become a pampered rich girl, living a life that seemed to come straight from the glossy magazines. She was hardly ever at the Chelsea house any more but spent most of her time at Ethan’s in Notting Hill where she had accumulated a whole wardrobe of clothes and everything else she needed. Vicky knew she was avoiding the old house because it felt so empty and lonely without Flora.
When Octavia gets back, we’ll sort this out. I’m prepared to get on a plane and just turn up at that damn castle if I have to.
Vicky walked down the busy street, glancing in shop windows and avoiding the buggies and shopping bags that were in danger of bashing her ankles. Then she saw him.
She stopped dead, her mouth open, staring hard. Was it him? He was standing a few metres away from her on the pavement outside a restaurant, shaking hands with someone, and then he was turning so that she could see him face on. Yes, yes … he was unmistakable.
‘Otto!’ she shouted, and began to move forward.
Had he heard her? She could have sworn he had. His eyes seemed to fix on her for a fraction of a second and Vicky was sure she saw recognition in them. But then he continued turning towards the road and put up his arm to hail a passing taxi.
‘Otto, it’s me!’ Vicky tried to rush towards him but a pushchair was suddenly in her way and she had to step to one side to avoid it, only to find herself in the path of a little old lady with a shopping trolley.
He didn’t appear to hear. The taxi stopped beside him and in a few seconds he was inside it. Just as Vicky got free and came dashing up calling his name, the taxi accelerated away, taking the man inside with it.
She stood on the pavement, panting. Had that really been Otto? It had certainly looked like him, but then … brown-haired businessmen in suits could look rather similar to each other. If it was, though, what the hell was he doing here? Was Flora with him too?
Vicky frowned and turned back to retrace her steps home. There was a mystery here, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.
52
Flora sat in her bedroom, in the window seat. It was her favourite place. From here, she could look out to the forests beyond, and the hazy blue mountain tops on the other side of the river. She couldn’t see the castle itself, with its ramshackle exterior and broken windows, although she knew that was beginning to change. There was scaffolding all over the west side of it, and workmen were beavering away, restoring and replacing the outer stonework and repointing the ancient mortar. The roof on that side was also being meticulously repaired and retiled – apparently water had destroyed several fine pieces of furniture being stored in attics there and it was a matter of urgency for the leaks to be stopped. It was all a matter of urgency. The whole place was falling to pieces.
Flora had known that her own fairy tale was as insubstantial as air the moment Otto had swung his fist into her face on their wedding night, splitting her lip and bruising her face.
‘You arranged those photographers!’ he had hissed at her. ‘You had them there, taking photographs. What were you thinking of?’
‘I didn’t! Otto, please, you have to believe me!’ she’d cried, holding a bloo
d-soaked tissue to her mouth.
But he’d refused to listen to her, and her storm of tears had irritated him so much that eventually he’d marched out, slamming the great oak door behind him. Flora had wept in shock and horror until she’d fallen asleep at last on the four-poster bed. When she’d woken in the morning, it had been a relief to find Otto snoring beside her. It had been the stress of the wedding, she told herself. A blip. Now peace would be restored, and this awful episode would be forgotten, she was sure of it.
She’d got up and found the bathroom down the corridor, a rusting, clanking old room with a giant cast-iron bath and a lavatory with a high cistern and a dangling chain. The water had come out tepid and faintly brown. Flora had never known anything like it.
When she got back to the bedroom Otto had vanished, so she dressed and made her way downstairs. The kindly looking housekeeper from the night before was in the great hall, standing on a chair and dusting one of the arrangements of daggers that hung on the wall.
‘Ach, there you are. Hello, my child. Would you like some Frühstück?’ She climbed off her chair and put down her duster.
‘Yes, please. Is there any coffee?’
‘But of course. Follow me.’ She led Flora out of the great hall and along dark corridors to the kitchen, a large vaulted room at the back of the castle. On a wooden table there were some breakfast dishes and an abandoned plate and cup.
‘Otto’s,’ explained the housekeeper. ‘He has gone out early this morning, hunting. He is mad for hunting. He likes hunting the wild boar best of all, though he also catches foxes, rabbits, game. He has a pack of hounds nearby, a mile or so. On a clear day, with the breeze in the right direction, you will hear them barking.’