‘I can’t understand what you see in that father and daughter act,’ Bianca responded, picking up the ball he had thrown to her.
‘It’s so unlike you to take against people the way you’ve taken against Burt and Sarah.’
‘Should I like them just because they’re the Duke of Marlborough and Lady Sarah Spencer-Churchill?’
‘No. You should like them because they’re genuine characters and great fun.’
‘Thank you. Dinner at Blenheim Palace is not my idea of fun.’
‘You know, Bianca, if it weren’t for your parentage, I’d swear you were anti-British. I can’t think of one British person you like…aside from your father, of course.’
‘Maybe I am anti-British. Maybe I find them stuffy and pretentious and not sympatico the way I find North Americans, Latin Americans, and Europeans.’
‘Well, if you can’t enjoy this evening, I promise you’ll enjoy tomorrow.’
The following day, September 24, was Antonia’s birthday. It would prove to be a day that showed Ferdie at his very best and went someway towards illustrating to Bianca why Ferdie would still have been a man worth having, even if he were penniless.
Six months before, Ferdie had come up with the idea of organizing a special matinée performance of Hair, the hit musical of the time, to celebrate his stepdaughter’s birthday. Without saying a word to either mother or daughter, he had cleared his plan with the Mother Superior of St Mary’s Ascot, then had his London Executive Assistant book the cast and theatre and to lay on luxury coaches for all the girls at the school. The afternoon of Antonia’s birthday, Bianca arrived at the theatre with Ferdie expecting to see only Antonia. Instead, she saw all the students of St Mary’s Ascot, who had been bussed up from Ascot to London, each bus with its own stewardess offering the girls a selection of soft drinks and refreshments.
At the theatre, the girls were presented with an array of sweets and snacks, including cotton candy, hot dogs flown over from Nathan’s on Coney Island, hamburgers flown in from Ferdie’s favourite diner on Third Avenue between 84th and 85th Streets in New York, plus corned beef sandwiches, bagels, cream cheese and lox from London’s East End, where there were still delicatessens and restaurants in what had once been the old Jewish Quarter.
At twenty-five minutes past two the first bell sounded. The guests made their way to their seats, and each was given a special souvenir programme commemorating the event. Then the show itself began at two-thirty.
In the interval, everyone was once more offered whatever they wanted from what was, to English schoolgirls, a staggering choice of sweets, snacks and drinks.
After the performance, they were all bused to Claridge’s, where Ferdie had booked the ballroom for them to be served the most sumptuous tea any of the girls had ever had, save those royally-connected girls who were used to having tea with Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother at Clarence House.
At six-thirty, Ferdie stood up and, clinking his teacup to silence his chattering guests, thanked them for coming to celebrate Antonia’s birthday. ‘I regret that all good things must come to an end,’ he said, an audible hum of disappointment echoing throughout the ballroom as the girls groaned at the end of a fantastic day, ‘but we’ve enjoyed having you, and I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves as much as we have.’
Antonia, who was sitting at the head table with her mother, stepfather and nine of her favourite school friends, got up. All the other girls rose at this cue, while Ferdie crossed over to his stepdaughter, hugged her and said: ‘Well, my little treasure, do you think your friends enjoyed your birthday treat?’
‘Oh, Uncle Ferdie, what you’ve done today is the most marvellous thing in the whole of my life…’
‘It really was, darling,’ Bianca interjected, touching Ferdie’s elbow fleetingly. ‘Thank you on Antonia’s behalf.’
Antonia pecked Ferdie on the cheek before turning to brush cheeks with her mother, whose firm rule was that no lip should ever touch her face in social kissing. Antonia then turned back to her friends, whom Bianca and Ferdie could overhear saying how ‘cool’ they were and how lucky Antonia was to have such parents. The girls trooped out, like all well-regulated school children, in an orderly if noisy fashion, while Ferdie beamed with delight at the success his idea had been. When the last of the girls had left, he turned to Bianca and asked smilingly, ‘Well, my little petal, are you ready to wend your way back to the Dorchester?’
‘Yes, darling,’ she said, and at that moment, Bianca came closer to loving him than she ever had before or ever would again.
Chapter Eleven
Bianca broke off from kissing Philippe. She reached over to the Louis XVI bedside table and removed the lid of the small silver pot that she always kept in readiness whenever she and Philippe were about to make love. ‘My magic potion,’ she called it, and there was indeed something miraculous about the effect.
As Philippe’s erect penis stood upright, swaying from side to side, its proud owner lay back and anticipated the pleasures that awaited him.
Bianca decorously dipped the tip of her index finger in the unguent and removed a tiny amount, rubbing it against the tip of her thumb. ‘Are you ready for our favourite pleasure?’ she said.
‘As always,’ Philippe panted, his instrument of delight pulsating.
With her thumb, Bianca touched the back of his penis where the head meets the shaft and spread a thin film of Xylocaine Jelly around the circumference, easing the unguent up onto the head, which secreted a clear liquid of desire.
Taking time to let the anaesthetic work, she slithered on top of Philippe, still lying prone of the bed, and kissed him voraciously. He responded in kind. Fortunately for Bianca, the one thing her lover no longer needed was lessons in kissing. This activity had become a sensual experience in itself. Even without coitus it was always gratifying, but now that she had devised the way for prolonging their sexual union, kissing was - as it was meant to be - the harbinger of greater satisfactions to come.
Bianca waited until she was sure the Xylocaine had taken effect before sliding down Philippe’s body, her mouth kissing him on the chest, belly, groin and testicles as she worked her way downwards, till her lips encircled the shaft of his penis. Then using her teeth, she gently nibbled it. He moaned with pleasure.
‘I think my Philippe deserves a little kiss,’ she said girlishly, taking care to avoid contact with the Xylocaine as she inserted the very tip of his penis between her lips, her tongue darting around it.
‘There’s no one else like you,’ he groaned, as she took in his entire manhood, her lips and tongue playing with the base of his shaft.
Bianca was nevertheless practised in the art of never overdoing a good thing. Therefore, when she judged that he was reaching the point of no return, she paused, mounted him and, using the head of his penis as a stimulant, made herself fully ready to accommodate him.
After making love, Bianca and Philippe lay intertwined together, spent and satisfied.
Ever since resuming their affair, Bianca and Philippe had devised a post-coital ritual that was completely different from the way they used to behave when she was still married to Bernardo. In those days, Philippe had always wanted to lie back with Bianca in his arms for what he termed a ‘Jewish siesta’, but she had always curtailed those moments. In truth, she had not wanted the intimacy such affection created, but now that Philippe had taken Bernardo’s place in her mind and in her heart, she relished these moments as much as he always had. She therefore seldom got out of bed until a good half an hour had elapsed, during which time they cuddled, talked, dozed or just rested in one another’s arms.
On this occasion, they fell asleep for over an hour, Bianca only awakening when Philippe started to stroke her arm and to kiss her hair.
Looking at her watch, she sprang up immediately.
‘Goddamn it!’ she exclaimed, ‘I was due at the hairdresser ten minutes ago. I need a manicure and a pedicure, and my hair has to be done for this evening.’
‘You
have a quick shower here,’ said Philippe, knowing how fastidious Bianca was about her appearance. ‘I’ll use one of the other showers.’
‘Thank you, darling. You know how I hate to go out smelling of sex. It’s soooo tacky,’ she said, stylishly emphasizing the word ‘so’ in the same way Magdalena did.
Philippe watched admiringly as Bianca raced into the bathroom. She was in remarkably good condition for a woman of her age, not to mention a mother of three children who did no exercise aside from the occasional game of tennis or leisurely foray into the swimming pool or sea.
He felt his desire for her return. ‘I can never get enough of her,’ he reflected, willing the blood away from his penis. He then ambled through his bedroom and into the passage that ran the full length of the house he had bought so that he and Bianca could have privacy when meeting. He crossed into the bathroom opposite to take a shower.
By the time he was finished, she was already dressed and ready to go.
‘See you at nine tonight,’ she said, kissing him gently on the lips.
He started to kiss her properly.
‘Don’t be greedy,’ she said in a joking, mock-scolding tone. ‘You’ll make me late.’
Breaking away, she tore down the stairs, heading for her car, which was parked in the porte-cochère. Once there, she flung open the door, threw herself in, pushed the key in the ignition, turned the engine of the Mercedes Benz over, jammed her foot on the accelerator as she headed at speed towards the hairdresser, grateful that Philippe was as protective of her privacy as she was. The result was that, in a country where there were no secrets, owing to the constant presence of servants, she was the one woman who had the confidence of knowing that her affair was known to no one but her lover, because Philippe always gave his servants time off when they had an assignation.
On this most crucial of days, Bianca arrived at the hairdresser flustered. This was the fourth time in less than a month that she had been late. Such unpunctuality would once have been unusual for her, but in the last year, her timekeeping had become erratic. Sometimes, the old Bianca arrived as punctually and as serenely as she used to. Other times, such as now, she was almost frenzied. ‘I’m trying to do too much,’ she said by way of apology to her hairdresser. ‘Honouring all my commitments is making my life a nightmare.’
‘It’s all right, Señora,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You know you can do no wrong as far as I’m concerned.’
Never had anyone uttered truer words. Bianca was, without a doubt, his favourite client, and not only because she never tipped less than one hundred dollars in US currency but also because she was always so approachable, so kind, so considerate, so human. In the past, when she had always been on time, she was perfect, but now her unpunctuality made her seem more accessible. ‘Poor Mrs Piedraplata,’ he thought, not for the first time, ‘having such difficulty coping with all the demands made upon her now that she’s become so rich.’ Never once did it occur to him that she might have a lover.
Of course, there was no question of someone as important as Mrs Ferdie Piedraplata being kept waiting, and as soon as she and Jorge, the hairdresser, had greeted one another, he turned her over to his assistant to wash her hair. Then it was back to him for a blow dry and a comb-out, while the manicurist did her fingernails and toenails.
Thanks to the level of care that she received, Bianca’s schedule was almost back on track by the time she was ready to depart. ‘I need to use the phone,’ she said.
‘If you want privacy, come into the back room.’
‘No. That won’t be necessary. The receptionist’s phone will do. But first, be a dear and fish out my wallet,’ she said, handing him her handbag. ‘If I do it, I’ll be sure to smudge my nails. Take your usual tip plus whatever this comes to.’
While her faithful hairdresser dug around in her Hermes bag in search of her wallet, Bianca dialled a telephone number with a pencil she picked up off the receptionist’s desk.
‘May I please speak to Luis?’ she said before replying, ‘Tell him it’s Señora Piedraplata.’
‘She must be under a lot of pressure,’ the hairdresser observed, while Bianca tapped her sandaled right foot impatiently. ‘It’s not like her to be so impatient.’
‘I’m coming by in ten minutes,’ she said mysteriously. ‘Please see that everything is ready and waiting for me to collect.’
Another pause.
‘It’s ready?’ she said, as if repeating what the other person had told her with seeming pleasure. ‘Good. Please have one of your men waiting outside to load everything straight into the back of the car. I’m in a rush. Thank you, Luis.’
‘The things one has to do to keep people happy,’ Bianca said upon hanging up, more to herself than to anyone else, but loud enough for her hairdresser to think she was speaking to him.
With that, she stretched out her hands, took her handbag from him and headed for the door. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ she said, which he knew meant she was not sure what her movements would be before the next appointment.
Bianca ran to her car, jumped in and drove off like a maniac, headed in the direction of Le Français en Mexico, the capital’s finest French restaurant and renowned throughout Latin America for the excellence of its cuisine. When she pulled up in front of the restaurant, one of the kitchen staff was standing outside the front door of the converted villa. Beside him were piles of boxes. Bianca screeched to a halt, jumped out and, without even waiting for the waiter to open the car trunk as she customarily did, opened it herself.
‘Please pack the things so that nothing spills,’ she commanded. While the waiter was loading up the car, Bianca stood beside him, hurrying him on by beating time with her fingers.
By pure chance, as she was standing there, clearly visible from the road, Ferdie’s chauffeur was driving him past the restaurant from an afternoon meeting to his office. ‘Ah, there’s…’ Ferdie started to say then, thinking better of it, stopped.
‘Sir?’ the driver said, looking into the rear-view mirror to see what it was that his boss wanted.
‘Nothing. It’s nothing,’ Ferdie replied, trusting his instincts. Duarte the driver was, after all, Bianca’s man. He had once been her houseboy and now was Ferdie’s driver. Indeed, one of the first things Bianca had done, upon returning from honeymoon, was to employ the three servants who had been members of her staff prior to her new marriage. In those early days, while the glow of the marriage was still fresh, she had even convinced Ferdie to enrol Duarte in driving school and pension off his old chauffeur, Mario, saying that it was inhumane to have such an old man still working. When Ferdie had pointed out that Mario wanted to work, she had considerately retorted that his great age was risking Ferdie’s life and her own as well as the lives of the children, especially Manolito, who was still a toddler. Thinking how considerate Bianca was, and how insensitive it was of him not to have thought that Mario was most likely only hiding his true feelings through a misguided sense of self-protection, Ferdie had pensioned him.
Next to go was Elvira the cook, who had been working with the Piedraplata family since Manny had been alive. She had stayed on to work for Ferdie after his first marriage. Having vacated the family home so that Ferdie’s new wife could be absolute mistress of her own home, Anna Piedraplata had taken Elvira’s assistant to her new home. Ever eager to keep her adored son happy, Anna had stated that she would ‘train her up’ in case anything should happen to Elvira so that Ferdie would be assured of being served food prepared exactly as he liked it. In yet another instance of the thoughtfulness for which she would become so renowned, Bianca suggested to Ferdie that Elvira train her own cook, brought from the Calman to the Piedraplata households, so that she could prepare food exactly the way he liked it and his mother’s old cook could return to the employ of her former mistress.
Despite Bianca’s thoughtfulness, Ferdie had been developing an increasingly strong instinct over the past year that he should not trust anything about her. Although he cou
ld not put his finger on it, he had no doubt that he had picked up on something real, and it was to test this intuition that he ordered Duarte to head for home the moment he saw Bianca standing beside the open car trunk with a uniformed waiter outside Le Français en Mexico.
The unworthy thought had already crossed his mind that Bianca was buying in food and passing it off as her own. In yet another of the many unsolicited displays of dedication to the domestic comforts of her husband that Bianca seemed compelled to display, she had volunteered to cook dinner for their guests that evening. She had suggested quail stuffed with foie gras, followed by chateaubriand with Bérnaise sauce. Ferdie had told her, as he usually did, that there was no need for her to do so. When Bianca pulled her disconsolate face he kissed her on the forehead saying: ‘If it makes you happy playing the housewife, who am I to spoil your fun?’
As Duarte drove past the tree-lined avenues, Ferdie was thinking of the many occasions upon which Bianca had played housewife. Invariably, she followed the same pattern and withdrew for the day, her explanation being that she had to do all the shopping herself because she claimed it was ‘the only way’. ‘Fresh produce makes all the difference to the taste,’ she would argue. ‘Fresh produce and loving preparation.’
Upon her return home with boxes and boxes of produce, she would retreat to the cooking quarters, which were not so much a kitchen as a separate section of the house dedicated to food, with a room full of freezers, a sitting-room and a television room for the cook and kitchen maids to occupy themselves while waiting to cook. Bianca always banned members of the family from coming near those quarters when she was cooking, stating: ‘I can’t concentrate when I’m interrupted.’ From time to time she would emerge and seek out Ferdie for a ‘break’ that never lasted more than five minutes. Even then she was truly a sight to behold: her perfectly coifed hair and perfectly made-up face set off by a crisply ironed apron from Harrods in London, her hands covered in white cotton gloves from Cornelia James, glove-maker to Queen Elizabeth II.
Empress Bianca Page 21