The Diamond Ring

by Primula Bond

  I have no idea whether I’ve just managed to offend one of the most influential people in this city, but right now I’m past caring. The last sequence flickers on to the wall in front of me. It’s the most powerful of them all and the one I’ve been dreading. There’s the empty bed, the empty room. Except for a woman on all fours, on the floor.

  ‘This is an absolute travesty!’ Mrs Weinmeyer pulls me back to her. ‘Sugar, you have to believe me! This display is nothing to do with us. We had no idea—’

  I shake my head and stare instead at poor Crystal. The permanent installation, Gustav called her, when I was so shocked to see her taking part. Her jet-black hair is pinned up in its usual severe knot. She’s wearing a high-necked white blouse and even a string of pearls round her neck. She grips the edges of the bed with long claw-like fingers, and lifts her bottom.

  I need Gustav here. Now.

  When I saw this film the first time, it turned me on. I’m getting wet now, despite my disgust and fury. What the hell is happening to me? When he saw how I responded to the punishment being meted out to his erstwhile guests, or rather Margot’s clients, Gustav described me as an exotic flower, ready to open. And we went home, and he whipped me, and everything bad came flooding out of me.

  Crystal continues looking into the camera, her face white as a mask, her eyes black holes. This was shot more than six years ago, yet she looks exactly the same. Only her red mouth, with its strange little smile and snaky tongue, shows any kind of animation.

  Another figure steps into the shot. Dressed entirely in black leather, including a cat mask. Dominatrix gear, black leather, studded collar. The figure is holding a thin black switch, like a riding crop, with a bunch of fine leather tassels dangling off it.

  In real life the room is filling with scandalised yet fascinated guests. Mrs Weinmeyer leaves me, darts about trying to explain the montage to her guests, then comes back to me, speaking at me, but I can’t hear her. I’m too horrified to speak, or move.

  On the film, Crystal spreads her arms and legs in a star shape. The black-clad creature plants its high-heeled boots on either side of Crystal. Her bottom and thighs glow in the dead lighting of the interior. Then the creature lifts its arm. All I – we – can hear is the whip, slicing the air as it comes down on Crystal’s buttocks. The stroke rings out like a cruel gunshot and Crystal’s flesh quivers under the blow.

  Sweat springs along my spine, under my arms, under my hair, as I watch.

  ‘Don’t you move, Crystal, or you get double.’

  The dominatrix’s voice hisses out of the film. She leans down and strokes Crystal’s butt cheek, where a livid red stripe has come up. She strokes as if she is preparing a rare steak, but then steps back and swipes the whip down a second time, squarely on the second cheek.

  I squeeze my legs together as the dampness pricks up down there, too. I try to resist the urge to feel the fire of punishment on my own skin, to beg someone to liberate me. I don’t need that any more. But on the screen Crystal flicks her head as her bottom jerks involuntarily, and I understand every single response.

  Again the frail flesh quivers under the blow, and again there is a tantalising glimpse of her sex as she bounces off the floor. The dominatrix kicks at the back of Crystal’s knees so that she rises higher, thrusting up her bottom, decorated now with three pink stripes. The whip strokes Crystal’s bottom almost tenderly. Yes, it would be tender as well as cruel. Sweet, as well as sour.

  The whip swipes down once more. The blows have raised her flesh into weals. One hand has come up brazenly between Crystal’s legs and she is touching herself, moaning as she waits for her mistress to strike her, her face tilted heavenwards as she sways, one long white finger pushing in.

  I can feel heat spreading through me, the thrust of the finger’s invasion, as the film fades. Then the loop begins again. The start of the party, the laughing faces, the sumptuous beds—

  ‘You have to believe me, sugar. I have no idea how this film got here. We bought it at the auction but we haven’t even collected it from the shipping company yet, let alone set it up to play in here, and we definitely have not superimposed it on your Venetian study.’

  Mrs Weinmeyer’s face swims in front of me yet again. I realise my eyes are full of tears. Her lips are moving, her blue eyes wide with alarm.

  ‘I thought you were my friend, Mrs Weinmeyer.’ I let her keep hold of me now, mostly so I won’t shake too visibly. ‘You promised.’

  ‘And I meant it. This is a terrible mistake. Someone has swapped the reels and we need to stop this one immediately and find yours. Someone is in very deep shit. Let’s just try to look calm and dignified for our guests, yes, while we sort this out? Time for the main event. Let’s lead everyone through to the next room to see our family portraits.’ She tries to fix a pink smile on to her face, but it’s sinking down on one side as if she’s had some kind of seizure. ‘You’re the guest of honour, Serena. Everyone’s waiting.’

  I still don’t move. Many eyes are on me, people who are eager to see my work. There’s a weight of good-natured expectation in the room. I can’t let them think this film is my creation.

  ‘Where is Gustav?’

  Mrs Weinmeyer’s fingers flutter up to the pearl choker around her neck. ‘He’s with Ernst and the Robinsons, in the study. Best they stay there, for the moment.’

  The volume of murmuring and footsteps increases in the room around us. I know I should show some manners and acknowledge these well-wishers and potential clients. But I can’t.

  ‘Please can you get him here? Now.’

  She tries to look dismayed, but the Botox won’t let her. She gestures at one of the waitresses then tries to steer me through the next doorway. ‘And so. It’s time to shine the lights on your lovely sexy portraits.’

  I take her spindly wrists in my fists and pull her close to me so that I can still focus on her and no one else. I’ve got to be careful here. Very, very careful.

  ‘I can’t just ignore this,’ I say very quietly. ‘You know how I feel about Baker Street. What they did there, what they filmed, has nothing to do with my vision. However sexy it is, however voyeuristic, I don’t want it connected in any way with what I have done for you. This is a total professional embarrassment. And on a personal level—’

  ‘Do please take another drink, ladies and gentlemen! I’ll be with you in a moment!’ Mrs Weinmeyer smiles round at her guests then wriggles away from me as the butler bustles in. She snatches a bulky remote control off the silver tray he has produced. ‘Sugar, no one will think any the worse of you. We’ll fill them with vintage champagne while we get your Venetian montage on again and move them through to the final room. I’ll get Ernst out here to restore order. After he’s finished throttling the technician.’

  She punches clumsily at the buttons on the remote and aims it at the walls. At last the film freezes and we both close our eyes with relief.

  ‘Such an exquisite work of art, though, isn’t it, Ingrid? I’m so proud of it.’

  Another voice cuts through the whispering around me.

  ‘I thought I was switching the thing off!’ Mrs Weinmeyer bashes the remote against her mouth. We both swivel round. ‘What’s going on?’

  Just to the left of me Margot appears, projected on to the wall and superimposed over the film. Behind her, the freeze-frame captures the moment when the dominatrix’s black leather leg is kicking Crystal’s legs open.

  Margot’s black eyes are more catlike than before. The upward tilt at the corners makes her look permanently satisfied, as does the wide red smile. I can only see her top half. She’s wearing a tight white sheath dress, but the deathly pallor I noticed at her apartment the other night is dusted expertly with blush for the benefit of the cameras.

  ‘How did she get in there? This is like one of those Big Brother propaganda films!’ Mrs Weinmeyer drops the remote and the batteries rattle out over the polished parquet. ‘What does she want?’

  Margot’s black hair
falls in a thick sideways sweep over the side of her face that was concealed before, but she looks plumper in the cheeks. Amazing what lies a camera can tell. I steadfastly refuse to touch up my images in post-production, but whoever did her make-up for this has made her look less cadaverous. Smug. Like the cat that’s got, or is about to get, the cream.

  The other guests glance from screened Margot to real me. Like unruly children they ignore Mrs Weinmeyer’s surprisingly nimble efforts to wave everyone through to the final drawing room like a sheepdog.

  ‘Where’s my invitation, Ingrid?’

  Gustav’s ex-wife takes a step nearer whatever or whoever is filming her so her face is in close-up. Mrs Weinmeyer’s eyes go circular with shock.

  ‘You didn’t invite me to this cosy little private view, just like you left me off the guest list to your Venetian ball. But I gatecrashed anyway.’

  There’s a weird fizzing pause as if Margot is actually waiting for us to reply through Skype or a satellite. As if she can really see us and hear us.

  ‘You know what happens in fairy tales when people are left out? Revenge. I’m here to inform New York’s high society that Serena Folkes is an upstart. Her pieces are cheap snaps compared to the power unfolding in my film. Are the great and the good all gathered? Very good. So, hello, lords, ladies and gentlemen! You’re transfixed, aren’t you? The film you have just seen is not just a beautifully choreographed orgy. It’s a testament to my marriage. We were never apart, you know. He wouldn’t leave me alone. Always watching, touching, sketching. Gustav even features in this film. If you rewind you’ll find him in the scenes where the woman is being done like a doggy by two guys. He was too shy to show his face, bless him. But it wasn’t his face we were after!’

  I press the diamond ring tightly into my finger until it hurts. Mrs Weinmeyer hurries towards the doorway with her arms out like a traffic policeman, but her guests are flowing around her as if she’s a leaf in a stream.

  ‘So here I am in your house anyway, Ingrid, enshrined with my husband.’ Margot smiles, biting the tip of her tongue. ‘I let Gustav keep that footage, against my better judgement. Anything to keep him happy. He must have enjoyed this constant reminder of our time together. But I still share the copyright. He needed my permission when it came to selling it at the auction.’

  My permission. I sway slightly and reach behind me for something to lean on. There is nothing there. Just empty space.

  ‘You communicated – you and Gustav have spoken in the last few months?’

  ‘She’s not real, Serena! She’s a display. That’s all. We can switch her off.’ Mrs Weinmeyer picks up the remote and clumsily tries to stuff the batteries back into it. ‘And that’s not how we acquired the film. Will someone please go and get Ernst?’

  There is nothing in this room to cover the image of Margot, which has gone still. Maybe it’s finished. I try to push through the guests back towards the hall to find Gustav, but Mrs Weinmeyer catches me and steers me backwards towards the drawing room door where the final part of the exhibition is still in darkness, waiting to be unveiled.

  ‘The butler is sorting this catastrophe. Margot Levi has ruined our expensive investment. But that doesn’t matter now. I think we’ve managed to freeze it. Come, Serena. Let’s distract everyone. Give them what they’ve come to see!’

  My ankle tips slightly in the high shoes, but I start reluctantly to follow her.

  ‘You can erase films, burn letters, deface photographs. But I’m locked away in here.’ Margot starts again. She is tapping her black eyebrow. ‘You may be in his bed, but I live in his head. And you’ll never evict me.’

  As she elongates the word ‘evict’, I look again at the tapping finger, manicured with flawless black nail varnish. The knuckles are gnarled and the veins are ropey under the papery skin. That clever theatrical foundation on her face has a translucent glow to it, intended to cover every wrinkle and blemish.

  I break away from Mrs Weinmeyer and sure enough I can see that trying to break through the blanket of panstick on Margot’s skin there are uneven bumps and dips. Like the surface of the moon.

  ‘I’ll wipe that pretty smile off your face one day, Serena. Because I was paid handsomely for my permission, I can tell you. Everything Gustav asks of me he must pay for.’

  Every lady who lunches and her wealthy walker is swirling round us now, laughing openly behind their champagne glasses, glancing round the walls, at me, at Margot. My urchin’s fingers are itching to do some damage. I so wish she was real. If I didn’t have to be on my best behaviour tonight I would lift her slight frame and hurl her through the window just like I used to hurl heavy rocks over the cliffs when I was a child, watching them splash and sink into the grey waves.

  ‘Come away.’ Mrs Weinmeyer finds her voice. ‘This is your moment, Serena. Everyone is gathered.’

  I’ve snapped the stem of my delicate flute and Dom Perignon is fizzing over my fingers.

  ‘There are other ways of winning, Serena.’ Mrs Weinmeyer detaches herself from her guests and pinches my arm, hard, above the elbow to turn us away from the film. ‘Take a leaf from my bible. Never lose a shred of dignity, even when your worst enemy appears.’

  ‘So, how did I do?’ I hang my head, watching the champagne dripping to the floor.

  ‘Brilliantly. I’m proud of you, and I’m deeply sorry. You must understand Ernst and I had absolutely no idea – I’ll do whatever I can to make this right.’ Mrs Weinmeyer winds her arm round my waist and pulls me close. ‘But Margot Levi is back in town, sugar, whether we like it or not.’

  Gustav rushes in at last, the men all gesticulating and questioning.

  I beckon him over. This is my night. Not Margot’s.

  But he senses it before he sees it. He’s tensing, like a hunter.

  Or the hunted.

  In some control room somewhere in the Weinmeyer mansion, someone has finally frozen the film. Margot’s face is huge on the wall. As we all stare, a black hole appears in the middle of her face, spreading outwards, wavery and black, obliterating her like a burn, and then there is blankness. The screen reverts to being a mushroom-painted wall.

  We all wait, dreading Margot’s reappearance, but when the butler makes an OK signal to Mr and Mrs Weinmeyer, I let go of my hostess, steady myself and pull Gustav through to the final drawing room. Before the Weinmeyer portraits are finally illuminated, I rest my head briefly on his shoulder, smile sweetly up at him for the benefit of the crowd and press my mouth against his ear.

  ‘Since I’ve known you, Gustav. Since we’ve been in New York. Have you ever spoken to Margot about the Baker Street sale?’

  The still simmering hatred in Gustav’s eyes, even as he pulls me close, holds a dire warning for us all.

  Don’t ever be the cause of that look. Because the daggers in his eyes will kill you.

  ‘That woman took everything, including my brother, and kept on taking. I bought her out of all the properties in the divorce settlement except the one here in New York. I took Baker Street and the house in Lugano, and in return I expected her to take care of Pierre. Look how that turned out. So no. From the day she walked out until the night you and I went to that downtown apartment, I have not exchanged a single word with her. All sales are dealt with entirely by the agents.’

  I allow myself to relax a little. Gustav’s eyes are calm again. I have to trust him.

  I am called forward by Mrs Weinmeyer to flick the switch and illuminate the series of erotic photographs I took of her and her husband in the New Year. Talk about being thrown in the deep end. It was my second commission in New York and I was instructed to capture our hostess ensconced in their basement bordello of bliss, ecstatically riding our host.

  As one by one the portraits are illuminated, there is a mingled sigh of shock and appreciation from the audience. Everyone shifts forward to examine their writhing, naked hosts a little more closely.

  Mr and Mrs Weinmeyer stand close in their Siamese-cat pose, and as one th
ey nod at me.

  I nod back, and an understanding passes between us. They have to make amends. They must use their considerable influence to make this debacle, and Margot Levi, go away.

  And they can start by taking me down to their basement and entertaining me until I lose the ability to think. I made them a promise, months ago, but they will be doing me a favour tonight, not the other way around.

  Giving them my body for the night may be the only way to drum Margot Levi out of my head.

  ‘She’s nearly ready for you, Ingrid!’

  Ingrid finishes fluffing up her hair in the mirror and stands up. She looks softer and younger with her pale yellow hair falling round her face There’s just a touch of lipstick to bring colour to her face. She is wearing a powder-blue short negligee and her slim white body is totally naked, and totally waxed, beneath.

  She tiptoes across the thick carpet. She takes my arms and stretches them across the bed so that my stomach is pressed down, my head supported by the mound of pillows. Then she clips my wrists into the fluffy handcuffs attached to the hook in the wall.

  ‘Perfect. Keep her bound. Oh, look, Ingrid. Such a lovely bottom. That’s what they call their asses in the UK, you know. Bottoms.’ The strong male hands run over me. I am totally naked and, now that they’ve tied me down, I’m totally helpless.

  I close my eyes. It’s so late. The guests didn’t want to leave, there were so many comments and questions, and then the Weinmeyers and Gustav had to talk me down. Now I’m so tired. I’m tired of being charming and sociable on the outside, and being eaten up by anger and worry on the inside. The fighting spirit that kicked in at the Sapphix Bar has taken root and, like Jack’s beanstalk, the tentacles have grown that little bit more this evening.

  I love Gustav with all my being, but I hate him, too, because his association with Margot has infected me now.