by Susan Lewis
‘Oh God!’ His voice was strangled, and he turned his face to the ceiling. ‘I want you so much I can’t control myself. Look at me. Look at what I’m doing to us. It’s because I want you, I want you every minute of the day. Yes, touch me, Madeleine, feel me. Tell me what you’re going to do to him. We’ll make it a game, we’ll make it so that it doesn’t seem true, maybe that way I can stand it. Oh God, tell me you won’t fall in love with him. Tell me I’m not going to lose you.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ she sobbed. ‘I love you. I could never love anyone else. Just tell me what I have to do, what I have to say to him. Is it blackmail? Is that what we’re going to do?’
He closed his eyes as she lifted his penis from his jeans. ‘Don’t say that,’ he groaned. ‘It’s such an ugly word on your lips.’
‘But it’s what we’ll have to do, Paul, in the end. Don’t you see?’
He fell against her, burying his face in her neck. ‘But how?’
‘We can rig up a video camera – I’ve seen it done in films. I don’t have to go all the way, just so long as it looks as if he’s having sex with me. If I can degrade him in some way, even, he’d do anything to stop his wife seeing it, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes, I suppose he would.’ Then taking her face between his hands, he buried his tongue deep inside her mouth. When he let her go, he looked into her eyes and said, ‘We’ll do it your way, Madeleine. Whatever you want, just tell me and I’ll do it.’
By the time Harry Freemande and his wife arrived at the mews house Madeleine had managed to calm Paul down sufficiently for him to be able to go and finish dinner preparations in the kitchen. Occasionally he came back upstairs to watch her and kiss her while she gelled and back-combed her hair into what she called her come-to-bed style. He selected a black leather mini, low-heeled pumps and a semi-transparent top from her wardrobe, then when she’d checked herself from all angles in the mirror, he followed her down to the dining-room and helped her set the table.
Now that she was over the initial shock, the challenge of using her sexuality in the way Paul wanted was beginning to appeal to her. She had never met Harry, but as long as he wasn’t some hideous ogre – and Paul assured her that he wasn’t – then all that concerned her was to prove to Paul how much she loved him – and to stop him from going back to Marian. To prevent that she would do anything, and if ‘anything’ meant going to bed with Harry Freemantle, that was what she would do – not only expertly but willingly. Not for one minute did she consider the possibility of failure because, as Paul pointed out after they’d made love at the top of the stairs, sex was the one thing she excelled at. And when it came to a kinky imagination, he added, she was second to none. To prove him right, she had racked her brains and come up with the idea of getting Harry to tie her to the bed before they had sex; then it would look like rape.
When the doorbell rang at a quarter past eight Paul gave her a quick hug, then waiting a moment while she checked her make-up, he took her hand and led her down the hall to greet their guests. As he opened the door Madeleine braced herself for the sight of a short, balding, red-faced, middle-aged boor, but she very nearly gasped when she saw the suave, darkly handsome features of the actual Harry Freemantle. Her nerves evaporated on the instant and she treated him to one of her most provocative smiles, knowing that this wasn’t going to be difficult at all.
‘Harry, let me introduce you to Madeleine,’ Paul said, and as she took the hand Harry held out, she gently scratched her fingernails across his palm and projected her bewitching smile into the very depths of his black eyes.
‘I thought Paul had told me everything about you,’ she said huskily. ‘But he never mentioned you were so good-looking.’
A smile shot to Harry’s lips, and gently but firmly releasing his hand, he said, ‘Then I had the advantage over you, because I knew exactly how beautiful you were. May I introduce you to my wife, Julia?’
Madeleine smiled at the other woman, and would have turned away again but for the look in Julia’s eyes. It was so openly friendly that Madeleine found herself responding to it by saying, ‘It’s really nice to meet you. I hope the dinner’s going to be all right for you. It should be, Paul’s cooked it. I just did the starter.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,’ Julia answered in a deep, plummy voice.
Once they were in the sitting-room with their drinks, Paul hovered for a while to see what Madeleine would do, and when she sat back on the sofa opposite Harry and crossed her long legs in a way that offered an enticing view of fishnet-clad thigh, he excused himself and went off to the kitchen. He had decided to give Madeleine a completely free rein for the evening. He would do nothing to correct either her language or her table manners, and if she offended Julia, which was highly likely, so be it. All that mattered was that she got through to Harry Freemantle.
Her avocado and prawns was already on the table, so he quickly prepared a dressing for the salad, tossed it, then went back to the sitting-room to tell them dinner was served. They walked through to the dining-room, Madeleine’s face wearing an expression of dazed bewilderment as Julia told her about her job on the Financial Times.
‘Sounds really interesting,’ she said, sitting herself down at the round table and indicating to Harry that he should sit on her right. ‘It’s all about money that paper, isn’t it?’
Julia, not knowing where she was to sit, looked at Paul, who immediately pulled back a chair for her. ‘And business. And news,’ she answered, as she smiled her thanks.
‘I don’t read it,’ Madeleine said. ‘Paul gets it, though, don’t you, Paul? I’m useless where money’s concerned, he has to handle everything – including me.’ She giggled, and gave Harry an eye-fluttering shrug. ‘Do you handle everything in your house, Harry?’ she asked, after a pause.
‘Not everything, no. In fact, if it weren’t for Julia I expect everything would fall to pieces in a matter of days.’ He looked at his wife and Madeleine’s smile froze.
‘Oh, you’re not one of those wives who are good at everything, are you?’ she cried, reaching out to squeeze Julia’s hand. ‘You’ll have to give me some hints. For one thing, I can’t cook. Paul’s brilliant at it. Well, he’s brilliant at everything really, aren’t you, my love?’ She looked across the table at him, hoping to outshine the look of intimacy Harry and Julia had shared a moment before.
‘As I told you earlier,’ Paul answered, ‘there is certainly one thing you excel at.’
Madeleine gave a shriek of laughter. ‘Don’t ask what he’s talking about,’ she told Harry, ‘or he might tell you.’
There was an awkward silence while Julia threw a helpless look towards her husband and Paul reclined in his chair, watching Madeleine.
Madeleine looked at her guests, wondering why they didn’t start eating. Then it hit her. People like them probably said grace before meals, so they were waiting for her, as the hostess, to do it.
Immediately she clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. Paul couldn’t hide his amazement, and almost exploded with laughter as she started to mumble, ‘For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘Shall we start, then?’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ Julia answered, utterly bemused.
Paul waited, and at last, after glancing back and forth several times between Julia and Harry, Madeleine tentatively picked up a spoon.
‘You say you made the starter?’ Julia said, as she followed suit. ‘Did you make the dressing as well?’
‘Oh God, no,’ Madeleine answered. ‘It’s from a bottle.’
Julia laughed. ‘No one I know would ever have admitted to that,’ she explained, when Madeleine gave her a curious look, ‘but strictly between you and me they all use bottled dressing, every last one of them.’
‘Tastes just as good, doesn’t it?’ Madeleine said, warming to Julia.
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘The serviettes!’ Madeleine cried suddenly,
and leaping up from the table she ran out of the room.
Paul looked at his editor, longing to know what was going through his mind.
‘Have you always written, Paul?’ Julia asked him, taking a sip of wine.
‘Always wanted to, but I didn’t get round to doing anything about it until a year or so ago.’
‘I imagine it’s terribly time-consuming.’
‘I was thinking after you left the office earlier,’ Harry put in, ‘that if we were to put our heads together and . . .’
‘Couldn’t find them anywhere,’ Madeleine said, coming back into the room, ‘so I brought some kitchen roll instead. Will that do you?’ And tearing off four pieces, she handed them round the table.
‘I think we’re about to get into a heavy editorial session,’ Julia warned her.
‘What?’ Madeleine looked at Paul.
Paul chuckled. ‘Not at all,’ he said. Knowing that Harry’s mind was soon going to be changed for him, he saw little point in discussing their differences of opinion over the book any further. Not that he expected Madeleine to pull it off that night; there wouldn’t be any point since they didn’t have a camera yet. Nevertheless, editorial debates were very definitely redundant until such time as Madeleine had done her best – or worst, depending on which way you looked at it.
Wading into the silence, Madeleine said, ‘Avocados are really fattening, you know.’
‘So I believe,’ Julia smiled. ‘But you don’t need to worry about your figure, you’re so wonderfully tall and slim.’
‘I have to be a bit careful,’ Madeleine confessed, deciding she really did like this woman, ‘especially with my kind of work. One dimple of cellulite and that’s it!’
‘Do you take any exercise?’ Harry asked.
Madeleine turned and swept her eyes across his face with a smile of such indolent sexual hunger that his jaw ground to a halt and his spoon clanged against the dish in front of him. ‘Depends what you mean by exercise,’ she purred. Then her eyes shot to Paul as he muttered something about checking the duck and darted from the room.
‘Do – do you read at all, Madeleine?’ Harry stammered as she brushed her foot against his shin.
‘I never get the time,’ she murmured. ‘Always too busy taking exercise.’ And she suddenly screeched with laughter.
Julia laughed too, but more at her husband’s discomfort than at Madeleine’s little joke. ‘Don’t you read anything? Not even the magazines you appear in?’ she asked.
‘What, the rude ones, you mean? Yeah, I read them sometimes, but not the others. They’re always going on about cancer or babies or diets or all that feminist stuff. Can’t be doing with all that, can you?’
‘Not really,’ Julia agreed. ‘But Harpers & Queen usually has a few good articles, I . . .’
‘I’m on the cover of that one next month,’ Madeleine interrupted. ‘I’ve got this fantastic hat on, you wait ’til you see it. It’s all lace and fruit with a veil that finishes about here.’ She indicated a spot just above her eyes.
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Julia enthused. ‘I adore hats. I just wish there were more occasions to wear them, don’t you? Have you ever been to Ascot?’
‘No, but I think we’re going this year. My agent’s got a box or something, there’s a whole crowd of us going. You know, models from the agency, photographers, important clients. Tell you what, why don’t you come too?’
Julia looked at Harry. ‘That would be splendid,’ she said, ‘I’m sure we’d love to, wouldn’t we, darling?’
Harry nodded, and as Madeleine’s foot moved further up his leg he looked longingly at the door, hoping for Paul’s return. Julia kept up a flow of friendly feminine chit-chat while Madeleine’s loot slid closer and closer to its target – Harry was on the point of excusing himself when at last Paul came back into the room.
‘OK, I’ll just clear this away,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll bring in the duck. How are you all doing for wine?’ He was looking at Madeleine’s glass and saw with satisfaction that it was empty again. ‘If you take out the dishes, darling, I’ll see to the wine.’ Taking the bottle from the cooler, he started to pour.
‘How do you think I’m doing?’ Madeleine asked him as he followed her into the kitchen.
‘You’re perfect,’ he said, moving behind her and putting his arms round her.
‘He seems a bit dedicated to his wife, though, don’t you think?’
‘Which only goes to prove that you’re getting through to him.’
‘How do you work that one out?’
‘He’s putting on a show for her benefit. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he was on the phone to you first thing in the morning.’ He gave her breasts a quick squeeze, then turned to take the vegetable dishes out of the oven.
‘Ugh! What are those pea pods?’ Madeleine said as he removed the lids.
‘They’re mange touts, my darling, you’ll love them. Now go back in there and keep our guests amused.’
The conversation over the main course was mainly about books and writers, and as Madeleine had only managed to struggle her way through one or two Barbara Cartlands, she was completely at a loss when they started to exchange views on Anita Brookner and some French writer whose name she couldn’t even pronounce. To keep herself amused, she managed to twist her leg round so that she could tickle Harry’s groin with her toes. The first time she did it he choked on one of his pea pods and had to leave the room, but the second and third times he merely continued his conversation with Paul as though there was nothing at all happening under the table. Indeed, as far as Madeleine could tell, very little was happening. There was no parting of the legs to give her foot easier access, and no tell-tale bulge either. Then she realised what the problem was, and threw Julia a look of deep compassion. Poor Harry, he obviously only had a little one.
‘I’ll get the afters,’ she said, when Paul finally put down his knife and fork. ‘It’s fruit salad. You wouldn’t like to help me clear the table, would you, Harry?’
‘Er, yes, of course,’ he said, getting to his feet and this time avoiding Julia’s eyes.
‘Paul’s such a good cook, isn’t he?’ she said as she stacked the plates on the draining board and directed Harry to put the vegetable dishes on the side.
‘Excellent,’ he mumbled.
‘Don’t go yet,’ she said, when he made for the door.
He turned back with an awkward smile and a faint colour deepening his ski-holiday tan.
‘I was wondering what you thought of my top?’ she said, pulling it tight over her breasts. ‘It drives Paul wild.’
‘Yes, yes, I can imagine,’ he stammered.
‘If you like, I’ll show you the pictures of me in Men Only later.’
‘That would be very nice,’ he said, taking a step back as she started to saunter towards him.
‘Of course, you might be very lucky and get to see the real thing,’ she told him. ‘But not tonight, of course.’
‘No, no. Not tonight.’
His hand was shaking as she lifted it and placed it over her left breast. ‘Does that feel good?’ she asked, her mouth very close to his.
‘Er, yes, very nice, but I think I’d better go and fetch what there is left of the duck. Excuse me.’ And he fled.
Shrugging her shoulders, and realising there was little point in taking things any further while his wife was around, Madeleine picked up the bowl of fruit salad and went after him.
When they’d finished their dessert Paul suggested they have brandy and coffee in the sitting-room, and while Madeleine was in the kitchen preparing the coffee, Julia wandered in. ‘Can I help?’ she said.
Madeleine looked round, surprised. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘everything’s under control, as they say.’ She wished she didn’t like Julia so much, it was making things difficult. Still, the whole point was that Julia would never know, so she didn’t have to feel too guilty about it.
‘This is a wonderful kitchen,’ Julia said. ‘In fa
ct, the whole house is wonderful. Do you think I could have a look round?’
‘Of course. Let me take this coffee through and I’ll take you upstairs, show you the bedrooms. We only use one, of course, there’s not much in the others. And I’ll take you out onto the roof garden. You can see all over London from there.’
In the sitting-room Paul and Harry had resumed their literary conversation and barely heard when Madeleine told them she was going to give Julia a guided tour. It was only when he got up to pour more brandy and happened to glance at the clock that Paul realised over half an hour had gone by, and there was still no sign of them returning.
Harry had returned to the subject of Guy de Maupassant and was at present engaged in a lengthy eulogy of the short story ‘Clair de Lune’. Paul handed him another brandy and sat down to listen, but his eyes kept wandering to the door. Julia had had enough time to view every house in the street by now.
Eventually he excused himself and went to search them out. He hunted the bedrooms, the roof garden, the kitchen, the dining-room and finally found them in his study. Madeleine was sitting on his desk, Julia on the chair in front of her. Their abrupt silence as he walked in sapped the geniality from his smile, and to his astonishment he found himself apologising. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but could I have a word, Maddy?’
Madeleine gave Julia a quick look, then followed him into the hall. ‘What’s going on in there?’ he hissed, once she had closed the door.
‘Just girl-talk, you know. We’ll join you in a minute.’
‘Well, hurry up. And when you do, walk around a bit – let him get a good look at your legs. Are you wearing any underwear?’
Madeleine nodded.
The door opened and Julia came out. ‘I was wondering if I might have another drink,’ she said, holding up her empty glass.
Madeleine took it. The two women’s eyes met for an instant, then Julia went back into the study.
‘I’ll get the drink,’ Paul said. ‘You get rid of the underwear.’
When he returned with Julia’s drink he was relieved to find Madeleine wasn’t there, which could only mean that she was doing as he asked. Julia thanked him politely for the brandy, made several admiring remarks about his collection of books, then sat quietly waiting for him to speak. More than a little confused, he told her Madeleine wouldn’t be long, then muttering something about topping up Harry’s glass, he went back to the sitting-room.