Pleasure Island
Anna-Lou Weatherley
For Mum and Lisa
Acknowledgments
I wrote Pleasure Island during a personally difficult time in my life and it saved me in a way; it’s for this reason it will always be a special book to me and why I’m proud of it.
I would like to thank my lovely editor at Bookouture, Claire Bord, for doing such an amazing job on the cover and for all her helpful comments, suggestions, guidance, belief and support – and to all the Bookouture family, Oliver Rhodes and the wonderful and prolific Kim Nash for all her help and hard work with publicity – proud to be part of such a great team.
Thanks also to my agent, Madeleine Milburn and Cara Simpson at the Madeleine Milburn agency.
Big love to my boys, Louie and Felix (mummy promises to write a book about you soon!) and to my amazing and supportive friends, LM, Sue Traveller (a keeper!), Kelly, Susie Rabbit, Andie, Michelle and Kringe in the ‘Dam, and my new friend Erica - love you all. Also thanks to LDB.
In particular I would like to thank my beautiful sister, Lisa, who has been here for me in so many ways, her love and kindness is testament to the wonderful, strong woman she is. Ditto my amazing mum; I would not have got through the last year without your love, help and support and all your wise words. So, Mum and Sis, this one’s yours.
‘Pleasure and pain, though directly opposite are contrived to be constant companions.’ Pierre Charron.
Prologue
A hush instantly befell the room as Martin McKenzie made his entrance, his very presence enough to ensure it.
‘Gentlemen ... and lady –’ he spoke addressing them in a low, authoritative tone that could easily be mistaken for menacing ‘– so glad you could all make it, especially given our respective hectic schedules.’
Eight pairs of unfamiliar eyes watched him intently as he made his way across the non-descript room: plain, blue carpet; a large, oval meeting desk; and nine matching swivel chairs. An oscillating fan lightly churned and squeaked above them, the unforgiving strip-lighting making the faces of his eight guests appear slightly harsher than they usually might. Nine bottles of Evian water with accompanying glasses sat in the centre of the table. There were no other points of reference – no art on the bare walls, no soft furnishings – just a plain, cheap-looking white plastic blind covering the modestly sized window.
None of the eight guests had any idea where they were, or indeed exactly how they had got thereIt had been an operation of the highest subterfuge; picked up in darkness and flown in via private jet from an unspecified location, then collected by unmarked cars with blacked-out windows where they had been taken to another undisclosed destination. That was all they knew – all they were allowed to know.
‘You’ll forgive me for the lack of finesse,’ McKenzie said, gesturing around him with what appeared to be genuine apology, ‘but as we have all agreed, the less we know the less there will be to remember.’
The room remained silent save for the fan.
‘Let me be perfectly clear on what that means exactly.’ McKenzie pulled his trousers up from the knee as he finally took a seat at the head of the table, a slightly effeminate gesture that belied his large frame and foreboding presence.
McKenzie had worn the same suit for twenty five years without exception; bespoke made, Italian, black wool crepe, single-breasted, three buttons which he matched with a collection of coloured, plain, cotton shirts, in this instance, white. Aside from having little sartorial truck, McKenzie had more important things to be concerned with than fashion, despite the fact that the world’s most prominent and successful designers were clamouring to dress him and thus put themselves on the map.
By default however, the suits – he owned at least one hundred, all of them identical – had become something of a trademark themselves, making him an unlikely fashion icon in the process, an idea that both amused and bemused him simultaneously.
The silence in the room was deafening but McKenzie was in no rush to amend it, savouring every moment of power it afforded him. Finally, a thought broke the surface of his mind and he held it there for a split second before addressing the group.
‘We are all aware of the purpose of today’s meeting,’ he began, beginning to take in the faces of the strangers in front of him. Not that they meant anything to him; he had zero interest in what these people looked like and would never see them again after today. Like most evil, this meeting was simply a necessary one.
‘There shall be no reference to what is spoken about in this room today to anyone else other than who is present; of this we must all be clear.’
The response came in a varied sequence of nods and low muttered agreement, which seemed to satisfy him.
‘Good. First on the agenda ...’ McKenzie shuffled a collection of marked A4 envelopes in his large, thick fingers, passing them to the woman – the only woman – on his left to distribute, which she duly obliged.
The woman interested him the most, and had done so from the beginning. She had been quite proactive, a key-player in getting the ball rolling for this little ‘enterprise’ of his. He glanced at her quickly, his astute eyes absorbing everything about her from her neat shiny brunette bob to her smart, navy, fitted skirt suit, the slightest hint of cleavage flesh, a flash of her lace underwear beneath. She was young, British by account of her accent, and in her 30s, though he suspected her slightly hardened features gave the impression of a more advancing age.
The rest of the Super Eight, as he referred to them, were as he suspected: a Japanese man; two Americans; a Frenchman; a German; and two Englishmen – all largely fat, balding and bespectacled, not forgetting rich, though financially he easily usurped them all put together ten times over.
McKenzie was the seventh wealthiest man in the world, his personal fortune outnumbering royalty, governments, oligarchs, Saudi princes and shipping magnates across the globe.
The undisputed ‘King of Media’, he had been widely credited for the birth of reality television and talent shows and had put some of the world’s biggest superstars on the map. ‘Making ordinary people extraordinary’ was how he liked to put it – not to mention making himself beyond rich in the process.
The public had a fascination with him, ensuring he was both revered and reviled in equal measures, his unashamed epicurean lifestyle becoming something of an obsession to the press. McKenzie accepted this with good grace, however. He understood the game only too well; after all, he had practically created it.
‘Second on the agenda ...’ McKenzie cleared his throat. It had been a little on the tight side ever since the face-lift, leaving not only his skin taught, but his eyelids too. The surgeon had assured him this was temporary but six months down the line there had been little improvement. His wife, Elaine, had been complaining that it was creeping her out at night, him sleeping with his eyes half open. Her discomfort contrarily amused him, enough for him to be tardy in seeking some sort of correction.
‘All guests have confirmed, as you can see. The plane leaves next week, as per the script.’ McKenzie looked up. ‘I trust we are all on the same page, yes?’
The sound of copy paper shuffling filled the small room.
‘Let me continue … please help yourself to Evian,’ he nodded in the direction of the bottles on the table. As yet no one had touched them but following his comment a few tentative hands came forward. He noticed the woman’s didn’t.
‘The pilot and crew have all been briefed ... and the casting for the staff completed. Please, read the script at your leisure, we’ve plenty of time for any questions at the end.’
At that point, a small grey-haired woman with a beehive hairstyle entered the room suddenly and unannounced. She was carrying a
tray of pastries, apricot, Pain au chocolat, croissants and Danish rolls.
‘Ah –’ he said as he beckoned her forward,‘– everyone, this is my wife, Elaine. Say hello, darling.’
‘Your wife?’ the woman expressed a degree of surprise, more than she’d have liked to.
While it was public knowledge that McKenzie had been married to the same woman for twenty-seven years, her identity had remained fiercely guarded. In all their years of marriage Martin and Elaine McKenzie had never been publically photographed together, a deliberate ploy that was all part of McKenzie’s carefully constructed enigmatic persona; a wife people knew existed whose face they had rarely, if ever, seen.
The media had often suggested that she didn’t actually exist at all and that McKenzie had simply concocted her in a bid to appear mysterious, which was half true. It had become something of an urban myth that anyone who managed to get a shot of them together was in line for one hell of a payday – £10million if legend was to be believed.
Elaine McKenzie was something of a surprise in the flesh, perhaps even a shock. Far from being the glamorous wife of one of the world’s richest men, she was a dour-looking, wizened little thing, dressed as she was in a black trouser suit and white shirt – almost identical to that of her husband’s – and her face, while obviously worked upon, was pinched and expressionless, her thin lips forming a grim line. She was diminutive; five foot one at best, and seemed to disappear further still in her husband’s presence.
Elaine smiled in silent acknowledgement, though it did not reach her grey watery eyes as she carefully placed the selection of pastries down onto the table and left the room as abruptly as she’d entered.
‘Was it wise, allowing your wife to be able to identify us?’ the Japanese man spoke in a nasal accent.
The guests looked over at him, then at each other.
McKenzie allowed a small smile to creep across his doughy lips.
‘I could ask you the same question in reverse,’ he responded, his tone suggesting there was no need for further discussion. The Japanese man was duly silenced.
It was the woman’s turn to speak. ‘Act five,’ she said in a clipped British accent. ‘I think there needs to be more ... more tension ...’
McKenzie unscrewed a bottle of Evian and discarded the lid onto the table, taking a large, audible swig before deciding to address her. The woman held his gaze, seemingly unperturbed by his thinly veiled psychological games; after all, she played them too. She knew who McKenzie was: a despotic power-freak of the misogynistic kind, the worst kind. She had caught his fleeting glance upon arrival and had read a thousand assumptions into it. But she was the client here, she was paying him for the privilege of being part of this experiment and if she had questions she would damn well ask them.
‘You would like it re-written?’ He glanced at her smiling, turning his head slowly, his eyes following a few seconds later.
‘Well,’ she replied, unsmiling, ‘I feel it could use a little more ... drama ... more action ... more ...’
‘... more what? Sex? Blood? Violence? More suffering?’ he held her in his gaze intently for a moment, his dark eyes almost black, burning through her small, fragile looking skull. ‘Ah, I see,’ he said, with an understanding nod, ‘suffering.’
The woman’s eyebrow lightly twitched, her eyes glassy as marbles.
‘And the rest of you?’ McKenzie swiftly abandoned her gaze.
The Frenchman spoke. ‘The guests ... they are an obscure collection, no?’
I assure you I have been meticulous about my selection,’ McKenzie interjected.
This was partly true; McKenzie had hand-selected the guests himself, though he was not about to disclose his reasons just yet and spoil all the fun. All would be revealed in good time.
A balding gentleman wearing a shabby, brown, V-necked pullover coughed by way of announcing himself.
‘And they have signed the disclaimer?’
He sounded nervous though McKenzie knew this not to be so. He recognised the man’s voice, had spoken to him many times over the years thanks to their ‘shared interests’, and despite his lack of sartorial finesse, McKenzie knew him to be one of the most pernicious, and financially secure, of the Super Eight Club.
‘There can be no comeback, McKenzie, none whatsoever, because I think we all know – and forgive me if I speak for everyone around this table – what the outcome for all of us would be if there was. We’re playing with people’s lives here.’
McKenzie had expected this, yet the challenge made him want to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze it until he turned blue.
‘Every eventuality has been accounted for on Pleasure Island,’ he responded evenly. ‘There won’t be any “comeback” as you put it. Rest assured you have my word on this.’
‘Yes, but –’
McKenzie cut him off gently but abruptly. ‘In all the years we’ve being doing business have I ever failed you?’
One of the Americans, bald, fat, ill-fitting shiny suit, unadvisedly cut in. ‘The man has a right to ask.’
McKenzie felt his blood pressure rise but tempered it with steady breathing.
‘Indeed he does,’ he agreed disingenuously.
‘This is serious stuff, McKenzie. I mean, looking at it in the cold light of day it’s ... well, it’s ...’
The room focussed on the American and he suddenly felt very self-conscious.
As the newest member of the club he was still wet behind the ears but now he felt way out of his depth and it was giving him the freakin’ shits. Jesus, fucking Christ, who were these people? He’d only joined for a bit of fun, though arguably it was not your average interpretation of the word.
McKenzie wholly objected to being questioned and equally being referred to by his surname. It was basic bad manners. And he detested bad manners. He made a mental note of this and allowed it to pass. For now.
‘It’s a-a-ambitious to say the least,’ the American stammered, wishing his mouth would engage with his brain.
‘Ah yes, ambition!’ McKenzie stood abruptly, arms outstretched, a preacher addressing his flock. ‘The last infirmity of noble minds!’
The American was struck by an urgent need to leave the room. This was too real for him. Way too freakin’ fucked up, man. Admittedly he enjoyed the fantasy from the comfort of his own home, but this ... this really was going to the next level and, as a relative novice, was not something he felt entirely comfortable with or ready for.
‘Does the gentleman have a problem?’ McKenzie enquired with a wry smile that seemed so genuine it was sinister. ‘Does the gentleman not trust me?’
The American shook his head, tiny cold beads of sweat prickling his temples. Jesus, it was hot in here.
McKenzie didn’t wait for an answer.
‘Any more questions?’ his eyes swept the table like laser beams. ‘Good, in which case, gentlemen – and lady –’ he glanced fleetingly in the woman’s direction ‘let the games commence.’
The woman began to clap and a couple of the others followed suit.
‘All business transactions must be paid in full before commencement commences, then the rest is pay-per-view as discussed,’ McKenzie instructed, the mention of money causing his tone to switch into cold, hard business. ‘This fee will cover all expenses as stated on the agreement, the breakdown of which can be perused on page eight of the document before you. And of course, it buys you the right to change the script at any given point, in fact, I actively encourage this – all input will be considered as previously discussed.’
‘All?’ The woman raised a thin, black brow.
McKenzie turned to her, and felt the heat of her from where she sat, her fragrance lightly reaching his nostrils.
‘All,’ he said, matching her smirk with his own. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘if everyone is happy?’
The men in the room exchanged brief looks at one another, each in the hope that the other would instantly forget their faces.
The men began to stand but the woman stayed seated, watching as they made their solemn leave one by one until it was just herself and McKenzie in the room.
As the door closed behind the final guest, the woman stood to face him, unfazed by his imposing bulk. McKenzie stared into her eyes, catching a flicker of recognition in them as he undid the zipper on his trousers. Kindred spirits.
‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, madam,’ he said as she silently dropped to her knees and looked up at him, her red lips parting slightly, dark eyes ablaze. He saw his own reflection in them and smiled as she reached inside his trousers and took him in her red manicured hand.
‘The pleasure, sir,’ she said, as she bared her teeth and let out a small primeval growl, ‘is all mine.’
1
The sound of the post hitting the doormat caused Angelika Deyton to momentarily look up from her newspaper.
‘What time are you due in court?’ she asked her husband, watching as he made himself busy with their new Gusto coffee maker, his gown flapping as he attempted to make sense of it.
‘You should know,’ he immediately retorted, growing impatient with the machine, ‘you lot seem to think you know everything about this case.’
She ignored the comment and reached for another piece of French toast.
‘You need to fill the water up to the marker level. And it would probably help if you plugged it in first.’ She flashed him a little smile, one he translated as a smirk.
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