"Tomorrow, eh? We'll talk about it." I slid between the sheets and hoped that was the end of it.
"That bloody office," she said softly, but I could hear the bitterness. "Those damn clubs. They're all you think about-"
"It won't last forever-"
"Oh come on! How much longer-are you going to say that? It's all I've heard for months. Well, maybe forever means different things to us? Everything else does - so why not that?"
"That's crazy," I turned over and drew her towards me, "we'll soon be back to normal, you'll see."
I held her close and kissed her. She resisted for a moment, but finally gave in. It was the best way of stopping an argument I knew. God knows I'd used it often enough. After that she lay there, stroking my face, watching me. I smiled and closed my eyes. Christ I was tired! Neither of us wanted a row - not really - that was_the__ good thing about it - but there were things she wanted to say.
"Sam, is it worth it? Why not sell out now?"
Something gave me strength to answer. A spark of temper maybe. Not temper with her, but with the situation,, with them, frustration with things in general. "Because the bastards are pushing me, that's why. God dammit, why the hell should I? All the plans for Apex, the projections for next year, the things we could do in Europe-"
"We? Since when was I included?"
"You know what I mean. Look, we'll talk in the morning. I promise-"
"Are you going up to town?"
I took a deep breath. "No, not tomorrow."
"Not even tomorrow night?"
"No," I agreed wearily, "not even tomorrow night."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She let me sleep. I would have slept the clock round had she not woken me. As it was she left me until noon before appearing with some breakfast. She put the tray on a bedside table and went to the windows to open the curtains. The strong light of a summer's day painted the room yellow. Holiday sounds floated up from the garden - the phut of tennis balls intermingled with an occasional shout - 'good shot' - your point' - that kind of thing. And I felt rested and strong again, for the first time in days.
I blinked in the sunlight and looked at Kay. Her face was freshly made-up and her expression showed none of the petulance of the night before. Instead her eyes flashed with a hint of the old devilment, and when she looked at me her smile was as sunny as the day. She wore a frothy lemon negligee which opened invitingly as she plumped my pillow. I put a hand to her breast.
She kissed my cheek. "All the comforts of home, darling. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten."
I tried to slip an arm round her waist but she ducked away. "Eat your breakfast - I don't want your strength failing at a critical moment."
She sat on the bed watching me, her legs tucked under her, one shoulder almost bare as the negligee slipped down slightly. I was hungry for food, hungry for her - God, suddenly I just felt so much better! We talked as I ate, and I prayed that the phone would remain silent. That no crisis in the West End would demand my attention, that I could have twenty-four hours peace and quiet - a chance to recharge my batteries and to mend my fences with Kay. Then my heart sank at the thought of a houseful of guests.
"Who's staying at the moment?"
"The usual crowd - nobody terribly amusing," she shrugged, and the negligee slid another inch, revealing the plump curve of one breast to the nipple.
"So what's the programme?" I tried to sound enthusiastic, but amusing Kay's friends was a chore as far as I was concerned.
"Any programme they like. Mrs Jones will feed them, and there's all the booze they can drink in the drawing room. They've got the run of the house - let them amuse themselves for once." She smiled at the empty tray, "I'll get you some more if you like?"
"No, that was fine, but we ought to-"
"Winner, don't fuss," she removed the tray to a table, "I've already told them about your condition. They all understand-"
"My condition?"
She slipped free of the negligee and stood at the foot of the bed, flicking her hair loose, both hands rising to the nape of her neck, her breasts rounded, pink tipped, nipples hard and erect. Sunlight washed over her body, whitening tiny blonde hairs and adding a soft glow to her silhouette. The inside of one thigh turned dusty pink with shadow as she pulled back the bed covers, and when she moved the light dipped across the flat plane of her stomach, then lost itself in the golden curls of pubic hair.
"My condition?" I reminded her as we reached for each other.
She giggled. "That you'd love to go down to see them - but with me impaled between your legs you'd have trouble walking."
Neither of us walked far that day. We made love and talked, and talked and made love. Outside the sun moved across the sky and lengthened the shadows, but inside we lived in a rosy glow. The pity was I had no way of knowing that we would never spend so much time together again. Yet the clues were there, if I had listened. God knows we tried to reach each other. Each tried to explain priorities, needs, requirements for living. Each tried to convince the other without hurting. And when language failed our bodies took over. She clung to me. "Oh Christ, Sam, that's so good. Sam - do you know how long it's been?"
"Too long."
"Four weeks for God's sake! I can't last that long. I really can't. You don't understand, darling, you really don't. It's like being a diabetic or something - I end up gasping for it - Sam, I need it-"
"I know ... I know-"
"Oh Sam, that feels so good. Oh God! Harder, Sam...harder
In between we rested and slept, laughed and talked. Her moods changed like quicksilver, so that one minute's laughter would dissolve into tears at the next. But there were other moments when we just talked about what was happening to us.
"Kay, I've got to sort this thing out at Apex. It won't take much longer. I'm beating it now-"
"Charlie Weston doesn't think so. He says it's beating you."
"He talks a load of rubbish. Anyway, how do you know?"
"He was over here the other day. Said he was passing, so he called to take me out to lunch."
"Kind of him," I said drily.
She giggled. "We all went. Brooksy and Marcelle - and Annie Crawford was down for the day so she came too. We went to the Fisherman and had quite a party."
The Fisherman was a hotel on the river near Didcot. Lew Douglas owned it. It was a watering place for the smart set, weekends in the summer, longer if the weather was good.
"Quite a party," I said bitterly, "listening to Charlie shoot his mouth off."
"Oh Sam, no," she put both hands to my face and kissed me.
"Darling, it wasn't like that. Don't be angry - don't spoil today for us."
"So what did Charlie say?"
"Nothing. At least in front of the others. But when we were leaving he took me aside. Winner, he's worried about you. Truly he is. He says we should sell out now. We'll all get a good price and you wouldn't have to work so hard-"
"Damn Charlie Weston," I went hot with temper. I felt betrayed, angry, hurt that they should talk behind my back.
"Winner - no! I said it wasn't like that. Of course I listened - but then I told him - you run Apex, not me. If that's good enough for the shareholders and the rest of the board, it ought to be good enough for him."
She kissed me and traced patterns over my body with her fingertips. I relaxed, reassured of her loyalty and ashamed of my earlier doubts. Then she moved closer and her hands reached down for me. "But it won't be long now, will it, Sam? No more months like the last one? Or the one before and the one before that? Promise me Sam - promise."
"Soon. I'll promise soon. Another few weeks - then things will get back to normal."
"No, Sam, not a. few weeks, please no." Small-voiced, like a child, with a hint of tears again. Then her hands and body moved more urgently, as if the gift of physical pleasure would convince me, clinch the argument for her. And moments later her body was locked under mine, her back arching upwards, her nails raking
my back. "Oh, Sam - that's good - so very good. Never stop, Sam never stop winning."
Even that was a clue - that business about never stop winning. Getting laid - getting laid by a 'winner' - summed up at least some of Kay's demands on life. An analyst might have explained it. Her need to belong to 'a winner'. Her need for the world to pay homage to her as 'Winner's Woman'. It made her extra special, forced people to acknowledge her uniqueness. Maybe it stemmed from growing up without a mother, worshipping a dominant father basking in his success, enjoying the reflected glory - it was all there, had I realised it. But it took me two years in Brixton to work it out - and I had lost everything by then.
Needless to say, the troubles at Apex were not resolved within a few weeks - or even a few months. The battle seemed to rage forever. I fought desperately. I was facing ruin, and if the unthinkable happened - if Apex collapsed - Edgar might be ruined as well. That weighed with me as much as anything. He and I had become very close. Like soldiers in the trenches. He always supported me, whatever I did. I think I only ever had two real friends in the whole of my life - Jack was one of course, but the other was Edgar Hardman.
There came a stage when I would have sold out - just to cut our losses - but Corrao never appeared again, and no other party showed even the slightest interest in acquiring Apex Holdings. I put out a few feelers - had meetings with a couple of restaurant groups, testing the possibility of a merger - but the response was cold and discouraging. Too many people knew something odd was happening at Apex - and that was enough to frighten them off. And so the fight went on. I continued to work round the clock, grabbing sleep when I could at Rex Place, rarely getting home to Ashley Grange, and as the weeks passed so the rift grew between Kay and I. I think we both tried to avoid it. Our explosive rows were punctuated by some pretty torrid bouts of love-making, and we managed the occasional half-civilised conversation - but it became more and more obvious that we were drifting apart. As if we were being drawn down separate paths, not of our choosing perhaps but we seemed powerless to prevent it.
When Kay put on 'the party of the year' at Ashley Grange, the papers were full of it. And full of speculation about my absence. But she and I had argued bitterly two days before, so I sulked in my tent at Rex Place and let her get on with it. Others took my place. Half London was there, or so it seemed - and it felt that way when I got the bill. And after the party she started to hit the town a bit. Perhaps the novelty of being a grand hostess had finally worn off, or perhaps Ashley Grange was becoming claustrophobic. But whatever the reason Kay began to accept invitations back - to this party - or that opening - so that within a short while she became one of the leading lights of the celebrity circuit.
Some of the 'celebrities' worried me. That French songwriter, Marcelle Faberge, was always hanging around, along with a couple of acolytes - Archie Brooks, a black American, and a Corsican called Pipo Martinez. Faberge, Brooks and Martinez. They had collaborated in writing a musical which was enough the rage then to make them instantly newsworthy wherever they went. And where they went, Kay went too. That's what threw me. It was always the four of them. No other woman ever accompanied them, there was never the slightest suggestion of couples - and Kay seemed equally fond of each of them, so I suppose I stopped worrying. I rationalised it. After all, Kay couldn't spend the whole of her life cooped up at Ashley Grange. She had to go out - and if she went out, she had to have an escort - and three escorts seemed safer than one. So I put up with it - but I never liked it.
One night they came to the casino on Park Lane. They had been to the opening of a new show, then onto a party afterwards, and they were all a bit high. I was at The Point of View when they arrived, but I was sent for an hour later - when the trouble started. Faberge was a gambler. We knew that. Not that he gambled at our clubs often, but we had our spies around the place and made it our business to know every gambler in town. Anyway, that night his luck was out. He lost a few hundred at baccarat and the other two fared little better - and when their cash ran out they asked to change a cheque - for five thousand pounds. Cashing cheques is a tricky matter for people in my business. Gambling debts are not recoverable at law. Giving credit is forbidden under the terms of the Gaming Act, and cashing cheques is frowned upon. But despite that we did both for people we trusted. Of course Paul Hammand my man running the club - knew who they were, partly because of their reputations and partly because Kay was with them - so he cashed the cheque. After which they gambled like drunken sailors and lost the lot within an hour. Then they went back to Paul for more.
Paul had sent for me by then, but as I was still en route he had to make the decision. He was a good operator and his technique was invariably successful. "Gentlemen," he beamed, "it's just not your night. Lady Luck is riding against you - why not leave it until tomorrow?"
"Are you refusing us?" Faberge asked bluntly.
"I know when to look after my friends," Paul said smoothly, "you'll wake up in the morning and thank me."
"I'll thank you for more chips and less chat."
Paul smiled at him, parrying the insult like a fighter riding a punch. "I've just had an idea," he said, "why not come again tomorrow night? Be my guests for dinner - then your luck might change and-"
"We wanna play tonight," Martinez whined like a sulky child, hopping from foot to foot at the prospect of a scene.
I learned afterwards that Kay had watched these goings on with amusement, but had taken no part - until that moment. "Give them their chips, Paul," she said quietly as she joined them. She stood barely as high as Paul's shoulder but there was no doubting her air of authority. When Kay asked, it was a command.
Paul lied smoothly. "It's beyond my limit. Only Mr Harris can sanction-"
"That's not true, Paul," she said coldly, "anyway, what goes for Winner goes for me too. These people came here with me. You're embarrassing me in front of my friends."
"Not just them," Paul murmured, glancing around the gaming salon. Various people had stopped playing and were drifting closer, sensing scandal. Paul made another despairing effort. "Come and have a drink in the bar. Knock off for a while. Maybe the cards will run your way after a break."
"We don't wanna break," Martinez said querulously, "we wanna gamble, man-"
Kay interrupted, "Put the chips to my account," she said crisply. "I want ten thousand pounds worth immediately. Stop this silly nonsense, Paul, and let the boys get back to their game."
Paul squirmed with embarrassment. No member of the staff was allowed to play, let alone take credit. No member of the staff, or the management, or even their families. Which included me - and certainly Kay. Paul took her elbow to steer her away towards the office - aware of the curious looks and the rising buzz of conversation. He tried to turn it into a joke by laughing loudly and using his free hand to slap Martinez on the back.
Kay tore herself away, "Are you refusing me as well?"
"Please-" Paul began, but Faberge swung him round angrily. "The lady asked for some chips," he hissed into Paul's face. "We came here to gamble, not to stand round gabbing all night. You do like she says or I'll start believing what I've heard about this place."
Paul went white as a sheet. "And just what have you heard about this place?" he asked softly. His face should have been warning enough. Casino managers are smooth as silk as a rule. Paul was bristling like a dog.
Faberge mimicked him in a high falsetto voice. " 'And just what have you heard about this place?' Sam Harris is a crook. The tables are rigged. Apex is on the rocks ..."
I had arrived by this time. It took a moment to get rid of my coat and to spot Kay amid the crowd of people gathering in the salon. I heard Faberge's shrill comments - I saw Paul bump into him - then Paul's shoulders hunched as the punch went in. Nobody saw the actual punch. All they saw was the look of concern on Paul's face as he held Faberge upright. Faberge went green at the gills and gasped for breath, then Paul got him pointed in the direction of the office.
Nobody saw the punch, b
ut Kay guessed. "Bastard," she hissed at Paul. Then she arranged Faberge's arm across her shoulders and took some of the weight of his sagging body. "Marcelle, are you all right? Darling-"
"He'll be fine in a minute, Kay. He needs a breath of fresh air, that's all. Don't crowd him too much."
She jumped at the sound of my voice, and again as I touched her arm. Jumped, as if she was afraid of me. Brooks and Martinez were edging away, but by this time three of Paul's people were shepherding the entire party across to the office. One of them murmured "heart attack" which added authenticity to the look of concern on Paul's face - and a moment later we were mercifully out of the salon and into the office.
Martinez realised what had happened because he thrust a finger under Paul's nose. "Jesus! You hit him, man. Out there, in front of all those people-"
Paul dropped Faberge like a sack of potatoes and sank his fist so far into Martinez's midriff that it almost came out the other side. Martinez buckled as he clutched himself. Paul turned an enquiring glance at Brooks, but the negro pretended to be busy helping Faberge into a chair. I grabbed Kay's arm and hurried her into the next room, closing the door after us.
She was white and frightened. "What's happening to my friends?"
I was blazing angry. "Forget your bloody friends. What's happening to your husband?"
"You're asking me?" she demanded, pointing to herself, trembling like a leaf. Her voice shrilled, "Why ask me? I don't have a husband. I have an empty bed. I have phone calls. I have spare suits in the closets. That's what I have - not a husband, a man, not someone who shares, who cares. He's in the papers more often than in my bed, so don't ask me. I just read about him, same as everyone else-"
"At least you know where I am. You know I'm working."
"Working! I know you're at the clubs. And clubs have hostesses don't they? You did all right before. So don't hand me that lonely little Winner bit-"
"That's bloody ridiculous and you know it. You're being hysterical."
"Hysterical! That's rich from you. If anyone's hysterical it's Sam Harris. Strutting round his kingdom like a Little Caesar. Like Nero! Proving what for God's sake? That you can save it? Well you can't. It's going, collapsing, falling down, breaking up. Everyone knows it but you. And you'll sacrifice everything to prove them wrong, won't you? Your name, money, us, me-"
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 52