Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Her dress was grey satin. She liked satin. She liked the feel of it on her skin. The neckline plunged deeply, caught itself, flattened and then reached down to the floor. It was only held together at the waist and any movement revealed a long leg up to the thigh. She wore silver slippers and I guessed - correctly as it turned out nothing else.

  She kissed me lightly on the cheek. "How like you to be exactly on time."

  Taking my arm she led me into a large room, graciously furnished to serve as combined sitting and dining room. A huge alcove at one end revealed the bedroom.

  "Downstairs belongs to Father," she explained. "But up here's all mine."

  I sat on a sofa and watched her pour me a drink. "Why is it so like me to be punctual?" I asked. "And how did you know I drank scotch?"

  She laughed, low in the throat, a muted chuckle of amusement. "You're hardly unpredictable, Sam Harris. Or do you think you are? Tall, fair and mysterious - is that how you see yourself?" She handed me my glass, smiling radiantly.

  "I'm not sure I see myself at all," I raised the glass. "Happy birthday."

  "It is, isn't it?" She said curiously. "I've prepared Chinese by the way - I hope you like it."

  "That's fine." I looked round the room, vaguely puzzled. "Where are the others? Am I the first?"

  She seemed surprised. "What others? There's only you and me. Do you mind?"

  "No - I don't mind. But I thought you said a party -"

  "We're having it. Relax. Enjoy yourself." She sat beside me and the dress opened obligingly to reveal the perfect cup of her breasts to the nipples.

  "But -"

  She giggled. "You see! Predictable. What would you have said had I asked you to dinner? Just like that. The first time we met. Either you'd have wriggled out of it entirely, or you would have insisted on taking me out to dinner." Her smile seemed even more radiant and she sat close enough for me to feel her heart beat. "Isn't that right?"

  "Well, I suppose -"

  "There's no suppose. That's exactly what would have happened. And I much prefer this - don't you?"

  "This is fine."

  "You'd have taken me to one of your clubs where we would have been interrupted every five minutes by people you know. Then we would have had the business of waiters taking orders -" she stopped long enough to pull a face. "Sorry - attending to our requests - and we'd never have a moment to ourselves all evening. This is much better."

  "This is fine," I said again, like a stuck record.

  "Question," she said. "How did I know Sam Harris would be on time? Answer - because dynamic businessmen are always on time. How did I know Sam Harris drank scotch? Because it's turned six o'clock and English businessmen always drink scotch in the evenings." Again the vivid smile. "You see, quite simple."

  "I'm flattered by the dynamic bit."

  "Why? That's what the papers call you, isn't it?"

  "Newspapers print a load of rubbish."

  "Not about you. You are dynamic. My father says so."

  I felt the vague stir of an idea. "Is this anything to do with your father? I mean - this quiet evening - drinks by candlelight -"

  "Good God, no" she laughed. "Did he put me up to it, you mean? For some business reason? How Machiavellian." She shook her head, still laughing. "No, he's half way to Derbyshire by now”

  I laughed with her. "It's absurd of course."

  "Positively. If he as much as saw me in this frock he'd have a fit. Bellow at me to put some clothes on or something."

  "Well it is a bit -"

  "Revealing? Because you can see my tits?" Then as a horrified afterthought. "You do like tits, don't you?"

  "Very much."

  "Thank God for that. Not all men do you know."

  "No?"

  She shook her head, then said, "Have another drink before I fix dinner."

  Dinner was superb. Whatever her faults, Kay was a brilliant cook. I was to find out later that she could do anything - soufflés, crepes suzettes, vichyssoise - anything and everything. We drank sake with the meal and as the evening passed, the talk became more personal. It always did with Kay.

  "Why aren't you married?" She asked at one stage.

  "Oh, I don't know. I've been too busy I suppose. Besides I've never wanted to get married."

  "And you always do what you want?"

  "Don't most people?" I remembered our conversation at Ascot.

  "Didn't we cover this earlier?"

  "You expressed your views on it."

  "Which you don't share?"

  "Certainly not." She poured the last of the wine into my glass. "You mustn't dismiss something because it comes easily to you. You are dynamic, and positive, so you do do exactly as you want. But most people don't. They lack that kind of courage."

  It was all very flattering. I asked, "And what kind of courage do you have?"

  She grinned, "Oh, yours of course - but a lot more of it."

  I laughed and conceded the point. But it must be easy to be dynamic and positive if you are born as rich and as vivacious as she was.

  "But seriously," she said, "you ought to get married."

  "What on earth for?"

  "You're a man in a hurry, Sam. A winner. And you need a wife for the next steps. And a house - with your wife presiding over dinner parties - guiding the conversation, impressing, persuading, cajoling. An elegant background to impress the fat cats - prove you're here to stay, not a flash in the pan."

  I wondered how much of this had been gleaned from her father. Edgar Hardman was a blue-blooded old bastard, but he was also the shrewdest businessman I knew. And he was my chairman. I asked: "Is that what people say about me?"

  She grinned. "People say you're screwing every chorus girl in London. They're jealous as hell but it's not helping your, reputation."

  "I like screwing."

  "Doesn't everyone? But none of the positions in the Karma Sutra stimulate the mental processes."

  "So I should settle down? Buy a pipe and carpet slippers? Get a dog?"

  "Not all on the same day. But I still want you to get married."

  "And you always get what you want?"

  She smiled her simply radiant smile and leant across to kiss me lightly on the lips. "That's already been established. Shall we take our drinks across to the fire?"

  After that the talk became steadily more intimate and of course we ended up in bed, where I discovered that cooking was Kay's second most polished accomplishment. I awoke at around six the following morning to the realisation that, once again, she was moving gently in my arms.

  "By the way," I murmured, holding her off for a moment. "Just how old were you yesterday?"

  She took ages to reply, but eventually she said: "Twenty-two years, four months and seventeen days."

  "Funny kind of birthday."

  "I thought it was lovely," she nibbled my ear. "Besides, some things should be celebrated more than once a year."

  And they were. We "celebrated" every night for the next three weeks - every night and most mornings and some afternoons. I was younger then - and a good deal fitter - but it never occurred to me that there was anything abnormal about Kay's sexual appetite. She was the earthiest, most inventive, most demanding sexual partner I've ever encountered - but that wasn't a complaint. I was too busy. enjoying her, and anyway - as she said - "none of the positions in the Karma Sutra stimulate the mental processes."

  Three weeks after we met she went to Antibes where her father maintained a yacht. I was invited to join their party for a month's cruising along the Mediterranean coast, but I was too busy to go. Anyway, I've always had this thing about London - so much happens there that I'm afraid to leave in case I miss something. Kay was furious and we had a hell of a row about it.

  "Dammit, Sam!" She stormed. "You're not indispensable. The business won't collapse because you take a few days off."

  "A month is not a few days."

  "Then, come for a fortnight! Come for a week! Placate your bloody working class moralit
y that way."

  "I'd just get bored, honestly. I'd put a damper on things for everybody. I don't want to come."

  "And Sam Harris always gets what he wants?"

  "It's not a matter of -"

  "It damn well is! Of course it is. What else is it a matter of? Well, I always get what I want too!"

  The argument ended in tears and we went to bed to make up. But I never went to Antibes with her. Something warned me not to go. It was important to establish some priorities at the outset. For weeks the chemistry had been working between us and even then I think I knew we would end up together. It wasn't just the sex, though that was part of it, but she was different from any girl I had ever known. Outrageous at times, but generous, funny and provocative at others.

  I missed her when she went to Antibes, even more than I thought. But I filled the hours by working hard and the weeks slipped by. She came back a day ahead of the rest of the party, catching a flight from Nice and arriving back at Heathrow early one afternoon. She telephoned the night before to ask me to meet her. She looked tanned and vibrant and more alive than ever.

  "How are you?" I asked after we had kissed hello.

  "Numb."

  I blinked in bewilderment. Then she said: "Not all over you crazy bastard. Just the top of my legs. You'll have to prise me open with a can opener."

  I sent Tom back to town with the car and Kay and I took a cab to The Glades, which is a motel ten minutes from Heathrow. She hammered on the glass to the cabby. "Can't you go faster? Can't you see I'm going to have a baby?" He broke his neck looking at her trim figure: "You don't look it. Shall I go straight to a hospital?" Kay shook her head, "No, I'm having the real thing - not artificial insemination." And by the time he worked that out we were there.

  We married five months later. I bought Rex Place and while Kay and I honeymooned in the Bahamas, Jack and Maria furnished it for us.

  We were very happy to begin with - ecstatically so during the early months. I was busy at Apex, negotiating to open some provincial clubs, while Kay was looking for 'our place in the country'. The mews cottage suited me but Kay wanted something larger — something grand - somewhere she could entertain, give weekend parties, dance on the lawn in the summer, crowd a log fire in the winter. Eventually she found Ashley Grange, not far from Oxford.

  "But when am I going to be here?" I asked, when we drove down to see it.

  She stroked my neck. "It's only an hour down the motorway. Less if you hurry. And I'll be waiting for you."

  It was an impressive house, or at least it had been. When I first saw it the slate roof needed replacing and that was just for starters. It had stood empty for two years and been used as a girls' school before that. Not for twenty years had it been used as a private residence - people just don't live in houses like that any more.

  Kay said, "We are not people. We're special. You're a tycoon, Sam - for Heaven's sake act like one!"

  The house cost a hundred and seventy thousand as it stood, or fell, which seemed much more likely. But that did include sixty acres of farmland. Jack came down when the builders were fixing it up. We looked across the gardens to the fields beyond and a line of elms on the skyline. "How much is yours?" he asked.

  "Far as the eye can see." I did my Texan accent for him.

  "What are you planning to do? Make hay?"

  Kay did with my money. She spent two hundred thousand doing it up and another eighty furnishing it. It looked very grand when she finished, but then so does half a million in the bank. I funded the operation by selling some Apex stock and running a big mortgage to suit my tax position. At the time I told myself it was all for the best, that I was putting down roots - but I suppose I had fallen for Kay's sales pitch by then - the tycoon bit, and living life on the grand scale. Of course Kay was wealthy in her own right Edgar had already divested himself of some of his loot to minimise death duties - but even so I insisted on paying for everything: the doubtful benefit of a working class upbringing I think.

  Kay planned the first party even before the builders finished. I remember asking who was to be invited. "Winners," she said simply. "People like you. Don't worry, darling - you'll love them."

  And so the pattern was established. Anyone who made headlines came to Ashley Grange. Tennis players, racing drivers, pop singers, actors - the whole circus beat its way down the M4 to our place. It was open house to everyone - when they were winning. If they lost, or had had notices, or took a fall in the ratings - their names were quietly removed from the invitation lists. It wasn't as cold-blooded as it sounds. Kay was very upset about some of them. She pulled strings behind the scenes where she could and if someone was really down she even sent money through indirect channels.

  "Maybe you'd help more by inviting him down here again?" I suggested once, about a television actor who had been resting six months. "Give him a chance to meet people, make contact -"

  "Darling, we're not an employment exchange! You don't understand. You're a winner. You can't afford to be associated with losers - it's that simple."

  After Kay 'opened' Ashley Grange, which is more or less what it amounted to, the early hours of most mornings found me driving down the motorway to Oxford. But after about a year it became too much - especially when I'd had a few drinks, and drinking was a business necessity in a job like mine. I had a chauffeur of course but I used him during the day and to have another seemed too pretentious for words, so I scrubbed round it and arranged for Kay to spend two nights a week at Rex Place to save me the drive. But as time passed people were always staying at Ashley Grange and it was increasingly difficult for her to get up to town - so I grew accustomed to spending a couple of nights a week alone in Rex Place.

  I was too busy to ask if I was happy. What is happiness anyway? I was building Apex into the biggest company of its kind in Europe, and that was immensely satisfying. My working day was a long one but I enjoyed every minute of it. And as for life with Kay, well, we adapted. My absences for two or three nights a week bothered her at. first, but after about eighteen months she accepted it. Nothing else changed, as far as I could see. When we were together our love-making was as explosive as ever. If our acts of union ever lacked tenderness they never lacked passion. We owned each other's bodies, no intimate part was left unexplored, no privacy was tolerated, no holding back permitted. We made love like animals, groaning and panting, and urging each other on until our exhausted, abused bodies were satiated and glutted. I used to think we made love that way because we had so little time to ourselves, but I was wrong. The real reason was Kay's provocative sensuality. It filled my nostrils, guided my hands, led my eyes, plucked at every nerve in my body. My body would harden just at the sight of her. Even thinking about her has the same effect. If she came through the door now it would be the same - even after what happened.

  But it was true about us having little time to ourselves. Dinner at Ashley Grange was rarely for less than ten, and most of them would be house guests. Kay arranged their comings and goings without reference to me. They did their best to amuse me when I was at home, but they were her friends, not mine. Their allegiance was to her. It showed itself in little ways. They were more comfortable with her, they shared 'in' jokes which rarely seemed funny to me, even when explained. Kay teased me by saying that responsibility was making me middle-aged before my time - and I believed her for a while.

  I remember going home once. It was a Friday evening and Kay was giving a special dinner party, so I had promised to be early. As it happened it was an easier day than most and I left the West End before the rush hour, arriving at Ashley Grange at about five thirty. Four strangers were using the tennis court and screams of excitement came from the swimming pool. I parked the Rolls next to half a dozen other cars and crunched across the drive and into the house. Kay was in the drawing room, pouring a drink for a dark haired Frenchman.

  "Hi, Winner," she kissed me and turned to make the introductions. "Come and meet Marcelle."

  That was when I met M
arcelle Faberge for the very first time. He was tanned and athletic looking, dressed in casual clothes decorated with a lot of personal jewellery. A song writer with a hit in the charts - already very well off according to Kay, who could make me feel quite poor at times.

  "Marcelle can't stay for the party," she pouted. "I've spent the afternoon trying to change his mind, but he insists on leaving in half an hour's time."

  The Frenchman murmured something about an early morning recording session in Hamburg and having to be at Heathrow for a seven o'clock flight. I said it was a shame, and we chatted for a while until his taxi arrived. His case was already packed in the hall and we went to the door to say our goodbyes.

  He kissed her hand. "Kay, what can I say about the past two days? It's been an experience to treasure. One day I'll write a song about it."

  After he had gone I finished my drink and then went up to change for the evening. Kay joined me in the shower.

  "What about your guests?" I asked after she had kissed me properly.

  "Fuck the guests," she said, and for the very first time I wondered if she did. Something in the Frenchman's manner had raised a doubt in my mind. A glitter of triumph in his eyes, a dismissive, almost contemptuous handshake when he said goodbye to me. But the doubt faded as Kay soaped my body. Then, with our limbs still damp, we fell upon the bed to consume each other with our usual hungry thoroughness. Except this time I held back, at least for the first few moments. Part of me stood aside and looked down at her lovely white body, watched it writhe under my touch, watched and looked with a voyeur's searching eye. Looked for marks - scratches - bites. Looked and found nothing. Then the blood pounded my temples, my body ached and throbbed under her fingers and everything was forgotten - as it always was with Kay.

  The bell should have startled me. Instead it sounded far enough away to belong to somebody else - in another room, another house, another world. I was lost in my memories, until the shrill, persistent ringing snagged at my consciousness. I thought it was the door at first and it took a few seconds to realise it was the telephone. When I answered Lucia said, "Have we still got a date tonight?"