Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  A striking woman with a sharp bob glided across the room.

  ‘You must be Charlotte,’ she gushed. ‘I’m Catkin. Let me introduce you to the rest of the suspects . . .’

  Penny stood awkwardly by the fireplace, furious with herself for feeling so out of place. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t a perfectly attractive, intelligent woman with something to say for herself. She’d spent years mingling with consultants and eminent surgeons and specialists who were far more talented and gifted in their own fields than any of this lot, for heaven’s sake, and she’d always managed to hold her own. But she felt rather tongue-tied. There was a smug arrogance to these media types. She could almost see their eyes glazing over when they realised she was a mere mortal. Even their wives had perfected the rather dismissive smile, the disinterested nod, and what the hell did they do with their lives? Bugger all, as far as she could make out. Just spent the vast amounts of money their smarmy husbands made, judging by their tans and their jewellery. Trophy wives, both of them. Small-boned, doe-eyed and dim. Martin Galt made her flesh creep. Jonathan Elder wasn’t so bad, but incredibly pompous - pseudo-intellectual, and for no good reason, for as far as she could make out he published kiss-and-tell celebrity memoirs, which were hardly edifying. But then, that was where the money was.

  Add to this was the stress of being in the same room as Sebastian. He always made her feel light-headed, weak-kneed, dry-mouthed. Her brain turned to mush and her words came out all wrong. And a moment ago, Catkin had given her a small, patronising and knowing smile from across the room, as if to say she knew exactly what Penny was feeling, and that she should join the queue. After all, who wouldn’t find him irresistible?

  Thankfully, the little gay florist - Foz, Boz? - was coming over to her now. He and his boyfriend had been bounding round the garden, admiring the box hedging and the mossy statuary, imagining it in the summer months when the herbaceous borders would be pulsating with colour. She managed to engage the pair of them in conversation, actually made them laugh with her descriptions of some of her patients and their complaints. At least they had the manners to pretend they were interested, even if they weren’t.

  And then Sebastian came back into the room with his arm around Charlotte, and she felt quite sick with jealousy. She could feel herself turn green. It was the worst feeling in the world. Why was he so intimate with her, when they had only met briefly? He was introducing her to the others, laughing, his hand touching her waist as he ushered her into the group, and she seemed completely at home. Confident. Even though Penny was sure she had never met any of these people before. How did Charlotte manage to be so sparkly and radiant? Both Jonathan and Martin had perked up visibly at her arrival, and were gawping at her cleavage. Penny wished she had worn something more inspiring than a round-neck leopard-skin cardi and black denim miniskirt.

  Shit. Sebastian was coming over to her now, with a bottle of champagne, to top up her glass. She felt panic. Frozen to the spot. She had no idea what to say or do.

  ‘Hey, Pen, relax. No one’s going to eat you. Drink up, there’s a good girl.’

  She held out her glass and realised her hand was shaking. Only slightly. But Sebastian clocked it, and curled his fingers around her hand to steady it as he poured. She felt his warmth, and she felt herself melt.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed to stammer, and he looked into her eyes. She blushed scarlet, couldn’t meet his gaze. Could he read in them what she had done the night before? she wondered.

  The vibrator had arrived in the post on Thursday morning, just before she left for work. She’d snatched it off the doormat before either of the children could see, and thrust it into her dressing-table drawer, where it lay for the next two days. Though she could see it in her mind’s eye all the while, distracting her while she worked. Would she ever have the nerve to use it? More to the point, would she ever have the opportunity?

  Serendipitously, on Saturday both children announced they were going on sleepovers and wouldn’t be back till Sunday night, which had the dual convenience of allowing her time to experiment and meant she wouldn’t feel guilty about going out for Sunday lunch. Once the house was empty, she felt slightly self-conscious. She moved around doing her chores, stacking the dishwasher, loading the washing machine, until she could no longer put off the fact that she had a hot date with her new mechanical friend.

  Once she had accepted it, she felt incredibly self-aware. Her body felt alive as she prepared herself, as if her blood was slightly nearer the surface than usual. She had a long, relaxing bath, pouring a generous dollop of Champneys bath oil under the tap, and lighting several scented candles. She was going to be her own lover, but she had to get herself in the mood. She slipped on a silk kaftan she had bought from the market in Bamford. The emerald green suited her colouring, and the feather-light fabric caressed her skin as it slid down over her limbs.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. She’d moved the candles from the bathroom to the bedroom, and the light they gave off was soft and flattering. She was quite pleased with what she saw. Her legs were long and still brown from a summer spent in shorts, her breasts were small but firm and she could see the outline of her erect nipples under the silk. She turned her back to the mirror then looked at herself over her shoulder, giving herself a little moue of a kiss. Not bad, Penny Silver, she thought.

  For a moment, she felt sad. She longed for a lover to appear in the reflection behind her, to slide his arms around her waist, then nuzzle her neck. Then lift her up and carry her to the bed. But he wasn’t going to appear. She only had herself for company tonight. Well, herself and her new best friend. She wasn’t going to let her mood spoil their first encounter.

  She held her purchase in her hand. It was smooth, and slightly heavier than she’d expected. She twisted the base that activated the vibrations, and it buzzed into life. She ran it over the palm of her hand, enjoying the gentle, tickling sensation. The noise was negligible, the most discreet of hums, for which she was grateful. She didn’t want to go waking up the house with her night-time shenanigans. She started by running it over her body, getting used to the feeling. The unfamiliar attention made her purr with pleasure and she began to relax.

  She spread her legs and watched herself in the mirror as she rubbed in a little body lotion - the leaflet had recommended lubrication, but she was surprised to find herself already quite wet. Anticipation, it seemed, was a powerful aphrodisiac. She slid the vibrator tentatively between her legs. She manoeuvred it gently, over her labia, her clitoris, finally dipping it inside her. It was like coming alive inside, a deep but subtle renascence. Flickers of intensity shot through her loins. She could feel it in her very fingertips. Then suddenly, an incredible explosion that she could hardly bear but never wanted to end, a sweetness that devoured her from the inside. It made her cry out with surprise and pleasure, and she thanked God she hadn’t risked her adventure with the children at home.

  Christ, she thought, looking at the little implement with awe. Who the hell needed men? She fell back onto the pillow, laughing, and drifted off into a delicious, much-needed slumber.

  Hours later she’d woken with an immense sense of loss. She looked at the vibrator sitting innocently on her bedside table. It might have given her the most explosive, mind-blowing experience, but what wouldn’t she give to be simply lying in the arms of someone who wanted to be with her? Never mind post-coital tristesse. Post-masturbation tristesse was enough to make you want to slit your throat.

  Now, as Catkin announced lunch was ready, Penny took a large gulp of champagne to blot out the memory of the night before and hopefully give her a little Dutch courage. She wondered about feigning a sudden illness and taking flight, so she didn’t have to face the ordeal of lunch, but the lure of two more hours looking at Sebastian won out. Just to breathe the same air he was breathing was enough.

  Catkin managed to corner Sebastian before they went into the dining room.

  ‘Sebastian,’ she pleaded, ‘please tr
y to talk to Jonathan at lunch. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d got a contract upstairs in his suitcase. He’s desperate to sign you.’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ Sebastian’s eyes were cold. ‘I’m not writing a bloody book. I’m not selling my family, my friends or my secrets down the river. Why don’t you understand?’

  ‘Why don’t you understand?’ she hissed back. ‘We’re talking high six figures here. And unless you’ve got any better ideas - like maybe doing some fucking work - we’re going to have to start selling off your precious family silver.’

  Sebastian gave a shrug. ‘Or you could just spread your legs for Martin Galt.’

  Catkin gave a gasp. ‘I would never do that.’

  ‘No?’ Sebastian gave a smile and swayed slightly. Catkin realised he had drunk more than she thought. ‘You thought about it. I could see it in your eyes.’

  ‘No, I didn’t—’

  ‘It’s funny. I’m the one who gets all the bad press. But actually, my morals are quite high, in comparison to yours.’

  He ambled off, through the hallway and into the dining room, where she could hear him mingling with the other guests as they took their seats. Catkin stood for a moment, stung. Why was it so hard? They should be having a wonderful time. They were both young, gifted and beautiful, with the world at their feet. So why were they at each other’s throats all the time?

  Charlotte felt increasingly awkward during what was the most delicious meal she had eaten for days. Crispy pork, roast parsnips and potatoes, carrots tossed in fennel seeds and petits pois à la francaises, served with homemade apple sauce and rich, dark gravy. She felt slightly self-conscious at being the only woman who seemed to be enjoying her food. The two wives were open about avoiding fat and carbohydrates, and just had a sliver of meat and restrained portions of vegetables. Catkin and Penny both toyed with theirs, but made up for it by drinking copious amounts of the delicious wine that Nikita kept pouring.

  Boz and Lee, bless them, kept the conversation flowing with wicked anecdotes and topical jokes. Sebastian sat darkly at the foot of the table, drinking steadily, pointedly ignoring Jonathan Elder’s wife on his left and repeatedly whispering in Penny’s ear on his right. At one point Charlotte saw Catkin remonstrate with Nikita, clearly telling her not to fill Sebastian’s glass up so often, but he responded by standing up and fetching the bottle himself. You could have cut the tension between them with the carving knife that sat on the platter bearing the positively medieval leg of pork.

  Over apple crumble and Devon clotted cream, Charlotte found herself the object of conversation, as Boz began to ask her about her job. She was hesitant, and supplied only half-truths. To admit to her past clients, many of whom were wealthy and well known, might mean revealing her own identity. Not that she was a celebrity designer, but someone might deduce she’d been working for Breathtaking Designs, and a link might be made from there. She didn’t want to leave any trail. So she played her work down, made out that her clients were less illustrious than they really were.

  And all the while Catkin observed her shrewdly, eventually leaning forward with eyes that glittered.

  ‘So, Charlotte,’ she said, ‘how would you like to come and redecorate Withybrook Hall? I think it’s long overdue.’

  At the end of the table Sebastian banged his glass down. Catkin smiled sweetly.

  ‘I know Sebastian disagrees. And maybe swags and tails will come back in if we wait long enough. But really - it’s all a bit Howards’ Way, don’t you think? What would you do in here?’

  ‘Well,’ said Charlotte carefully. ‘It all depends on what you wanted. I usually work to a brief.’

  ‘Say you were given free rein?’ demanded Catkin. ‘How would you give it the kiss of life?’

  Charlotte swallowed. She felt as if she was betraying Sebastian somehow. ‘I’d keep it really simple. High-gloss acid yellow walls, maybe? And lots of black framed pictures. Sort of Giverny with a twist.’

  Catkin looked around the room, trying to imagine the transformation.

  ‘I think you should come and give us some ideas,’ she enthused warmly.

  Sebastian pushed his chair back from the table. ‘This is my family home,’ he said stiffly. ‘I don’t want it messed about with.’

  He stalked out of the room and everyone looked at each other.

  ‘Think you’ve touched a raw nerve there,’ observed Martin.

  Catkin sighed. ‘There’s retro,’ she said. ‘And then there’s hideous.’

  Charlotte looked down at her plate, feeling guilty that she had effectively been the start of the argument.

  ‘Maybe you can talk Sebastian round?’ said Catkin. ‘He seems to have taken to you.’

  Charlotte didn’t know quite what to say.

  There was absolutely no denying that a commission like this would be a life-saver. As well as being a high-profile, dream job. If she wanted to re-establish herself, it would be an impressive start to her portfolio. But it was clear Sebastian wanted nothing to do with it, and her loyalty at the moment was to him. He’d befriended her, invited her to lunch, made her welcome in his home. She couldn’t just ride roughshod over his finer feelings. And although the house was crying out for a make-over, and her mouth watered at the prospect of being allowed a free rein, she had her principles. So she smiled politely.

  ‘I’m up to my eyes trying to finish my current project,’ she replied. ‘But perhaps after that . . .’

  ‘Have you ever considered a career in television?’ Martin intervened smoothly. ‘Maybe you should come and do a screen test and throw some ideas around? There must be something new we could do with interior decorating that doesn’t involve men with double-barrelled names and flouncy sleeves.’

  Catkin felt like plunging the cheese knife into his heart. He was deliberately goading her, she felt sure of it. Next he’d be offering Penny Silver a slot as a celebrity doctor.

  But Charlotte turned to him with the sweetest of smiles.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m very camera shy. And I love what I do. So there’d be no point.’

  ‘Everyone,’ objected Martin, ‘wants to be famous.’

  ‘Actually, no. They don’t.’ Charlotte corrected him. ‘It doesn’t interest me in the least, I can assure you.’

  She could feel her cheeks redden. Any minute now someone might start grilling her even more closely, and she didn’t feel up to any sort of interrogation. Luckily at that moment, Nikita came in with a tray of tiny silver espresso cups and a plate full of dusted chocolate truffles, and so the attention was turned away from her.

  Narrow escape, thought Charlotte. Narrow escape.

  At the other end of the table, Penny felt sour. No one had offered her a bloody screen test. She wished she had the nerve to go and find Sebastian and console him. Slide her arm around his shoulders and murmur a few words of solace. He had been whispering in her ear conspiratorially throughout lunch, bitchy but witty remarks about the other guests, and Penny had felt her insides turn to syrup at his proximity. But now his mood had blackened, she no longer felt like his partner in crime. One thing was certain: his wife was a nightmare. A self-serving control freak. What the hell was he doing with her? He was a free spirit, a mischievous, puckish creature who needed the lightest of reins to keep him on track, not an overbearing harridan cracking the whip.

  ‘OK, everybody. Make-over time.’

  Everyone’s head swivelled. Sebastian was standing in the doorway, grinning. He was holding a selection of paint pots in each hand.

  ‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we?’

  No one breathed a word as he sauntered over and stood in front of the main wall with its outdated self-striped paper.

  Catkin clutched the table. She knew there was no point in remonstrating with Sebastian when he was like this. He was like a child. Any attention and he simply behaved even worse. The best tactic was to ignore him.

  The gentleman in Jonathan Elder started to
rise to his feet to stop him, but then thought better of it. Why stop a bad boy in the middle of behaving badly? This could be history in the making.

  Martin Galt sat back in his chair with a smirk. He was going to enjoy this.

  And so everyone at the table watched in horrified disbelief as Sebastian took each can of paint and sloshed it against the wall. Arcs of colour shot through the air, hitting their target with a satisfying splat.

  After a few moments, he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork with satisfaction.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Nobody quite dared reply.

  Sebastian tipped his head to one side and nodded approvingly.