Midnight Girls

by Lulu Taylor

  They spent long minutes sucking and teasing each other, drawing out the pleasure, making their nerves taut and responsive to every touch. She ran a fingernail around the sensitive area behind his balls and then up to the tight hole of his bum, which made him quiver and moan. As he took the whole of her clitoris into his mouth, sweeping his tongue around it, sweetly and deftly, he pushed a finger up inside her, then two, moving them hard, though all she wanted was for him to go faster and harder, and she lifted her hips to meet his hand.

  She gasped, taking her mouth away from his cock, feeling it hot and hard against her cheek. The next moment, he’d turned round, pushed her thighs apart and was plunging down, ramming it into her. She spread herself as open as she could, revelling in the feeling of his penis hard in her depths. They fucked fast for several minutes before he pulled out of her. She turned round and raised herself up on all fours so that he could re-enter her, this time from behind. He knelt there, one arm round her belly, his fingers deep in her bush, twiddling with her maddened clit, while he stroked his cock in and out, forcing a gasp from her every time he hit home, ramming the head of his prick against her womb.

  When she could bear the excitement no longer, she pulled free, turned round and lay back for him to enter her from the front again. Now he knew what she wanted, grinding his pubic bone against her, pushing her ever closer to her climax as he thrust in and out.

  ‘Oh, Xander,’ she cried, digging her nails into his back as the waves of pleasure began to radiate out from her hot and swollen pussy. ‘Oh, Xander …’

  ‘Come on, come for me,’ he murmured, thrusting harder.

  She began to cry out as the orgasm possessed her, racked her with shudders of pleasure and then gushed out of her. Just as her cries subsided, his began, and he bucked and arched on top of her as he climaxed deep inside, spurting out his own orgasm to meet hers.

  Then they collapsed together, panting and laughing.

  ‘Better than a stupid old orgy any day,’ Imogen said with a giggle, wrapping her arms around him.

  ‘Fuck, yes,’ Xander said. He kissed her.

  She yawned. ‘I’m so tired now.’ She smiled at him and sighed happily. ‘In a good way.’

  ‘Come on, then. There’s a lovely cosy bed upstairs just for us. Let’s snuggle up there and go to sleep.’ He kissed her again. ‘Thank you, Imogen.’

  ‘What for?’ she asked, luxuriating in her post-coital bliss.

  ‘For everything.’

  *

  When she woke up, it was just after dawn and the bedroom was cold and grey. She was alone in the bed.

  ‘Xander?’ she asked, sitting up and looking about. They had sneaked through the dining room with its mass of writhing bodies and found this room the night before. They had fallen asleep wrapped in each other’s arms but now Imogen was on her own. She got out of bed, feeling woozy with her nascent hangover, and pulled on her dress. Outside the sky was a translucent pale blue and the golden morning sunshine burned down. The garden was deserted but some abandoned clothes showed that fun had recently been had there. She blinked against the light, deciding to go barefoot rather than wear her heels.

  She padded out of the room, went down the hall and knocked at the bathroom door. ‘Xander? Are you in there?’ There was no answer, so she opened the door. It was empty.

  She went on down the hall, calling softly for Xander. No one was stirring. The whole house had an exhausted air, blown out by the frantic scenes of the night before.

  Imogen went down the huge staircase. Perhaps Xander had gone to the kitchen to get a drink. She certainly needed some water: her mouth was fluffy and dry and she craved cool liquid. Would she be able to find the kitchen? It must be towards the back of the house.

  She set off down a long, picture-lined corridor and began to recognise it from the night before. She passed the door to the ballroom, and then came to the door to the library, paused and opened it.

  Inside the room smelt stale and smoky. Someone had enjoyed a cigar in here at some point in the last few hours. The sword lay abandoned on the floor, surrounded by bottles and their severed tops. The silver tureen was full of tepid water and the crystal caviar bowl upturned in a pile of dirty slush. Everything seemed drained and empty.

  She was about to leave when she noticed that, in the gloom at the far end of the room, someone sat hunched over a desk, asleep, a dark green rug draped over their shoulders. She began to move towards the figure. In front of it, the surface of the desk was covered in paraphernalia: a spoon, a syringe, needles, swabs, tin foil, a pair of scissors, some tubing and a pipe. Bags and wraps with traces of powder lay scattered about.

  She approached quietly although she was sure they wouldn’t wake. The whole house felt as though it was under Sleeping Beauty’s spell, with everyone in it slumbering deeply.

  As she drew closer, she realised it was a man, and that some soft dark blond hair was emerging from the top of the rug.

  ‘Xander?’ She plucked off the rug.

  He sat slumped forward, his cheek resting on the desk top. She knew at once that something was dreadfully wrong. His face was grey and the muscles beneath his skin didn’t seem right, as though they’d slipped. Dark red blood had streamed from his nose and mouth on to the desk, though the flow had stopped and was now thick and sticky. No warmth came from him.

  ‘Xander! Xander, wake up!’ she called frantically, shaking him as hard as he could. He was cool to her touch. ‘Xander, can you hear me? Talk to me! Wake up! Please, Xander, please … wake up, wake up, wake up …’

  Then she began to cry, horrible, broken, harsh sobs, because she knew that he would never wake up.

  Chapter 46

  Lake Como

  January 2009

  ROMILY LOVED BREAKFASTING on the terrace, even in the winter. It was a sun trap, and it only took a little sunshine to make it into a warm bower where she could look out at the massy mountains opposite and the gleaming blue jewel of Lake Como beneath.

  She was sipping her coffee as she read a book when the maid came out and said, ‘Marco to see you, madame.’

  ‘Thank you, Gina. Send him out.’

  The maid nodded and stepped back into the house. A moment later, the curly-headed Marco appeared, looking uncharacteristically bashful and clutching his battered white cotton hat in his hand.

  ‘Good morning, Marco.’ Romily smiled at him and gestured for him to take a seat opposite her. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you all the same,’ he said, sitting down.

  ‘You look very strange out of that boat and off the water,’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t been in the house before.’ He looked about. ‘It’s very grand here. I’m not used to it. I’m more at home on the lake, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Well, I won’t keep you away from it for long. I just wanted to tell you that we are having a staff change soon.’

  ‘Yes?’ Marco frowned anxiously.

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t mean you. Carlo is leaving us for a while. I’ve got a new bodyguard coming. His name is Rocco – he’s Carlo’s cousin and comes highly recommended. I’m sure you’ll like him. He’s arriving this afternoon and will come down and introduce himself to you. He’s going to be with Carlo for a few days while he learns the ropes and our security routines. I wanted to let you know.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, signora.’ Marco still looked worried, his knee jiggling.

  Romily laughed. ‘You’d better go. You clearly don’t like my house!’

  He looked stricken. ‘Oh, no, your house is very nice …’

  ‘I know, I know. You want to get back. That’s fine. I’ll see you later, Marco. I want to go to Como this afternoon to do some shopping.’

  He got up, clearly relieved to be on his way. ‘Ciao, signora. Till then.’

  She sipped her coffee and watched him go: a lithe figure in jeans and a fleecey top, his skin tanned dark brown from his outside life despite the season. He was just a boy bu
t in a man’s body – and a rather fabulous one at that. Romily couldn’t help appreciating his broad shoulders and long back. In the summer he often went shirtless and she had idly wondered what it would be like to feel that smooth skin under her hands … perhaps to urge that back on as it bucked on top of her.

  After all, it had been a long time.

  No, Romily. Don’t go there. It’s not time for that quite yet. She sighed. But I’m still so young! Too young to live like a nun, that’s for sure.

  The maid came out with the usual selection of the day’s papers from across the world. She turned first to the British papers, which she always enjoyed reading the most. Some political issue took up the front page of the Daily Telegraph so she turned it idly. The second page had a big photograph taking up almost half: it showed a handsome, smiling young man who looked vaguely familiar to her.

  EARL’S SON IN MYSTERIOUS OVERDOSE DEATH read the headline, and underneath: ‘Suicide ruled out in tragic death of Hon. Alexander McCorquodale’.

  Romily gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. That’s Xander! She read on quickly. The article reported that he had been found dead the morning after a raucous house party:

  … where evidence of illegal drug taking and free-ranging sexual behaviour was rife. The body of Mr McCorquodale was discovered by his friend, Miss Imogen Heath, who called the emergency services immediately. Nothing further could be done, however, and he was reported dead on arrival at the hospital. A post-mortem examination found 10 ml. of cocaine in his body – just 1 ml. is enough to bring on a heart attack. At the inquest, Miss Heath said that she could think of no reason why Mr McCorquodale would want to kill himself, but that he had expressed dissatisfaction with the direction of his life. She said that he had seemed eager for a fresh start and not in a suicidal frame of mind. Other witnesses expressed the same opinion. The coroner said that he accepted suicide was not a factor in this case, and recorded a verdict of death by non-dependent abuse of drugs. Mr Piers Twistleton, owner of Thurston House where the death occurred, is currently under investigation for the possession and supply of Class A drugs and is helping police with their enquiries.

  Romily dropped the paper, blinking as she absorbed the news. Imogen found his body? How extraordinary. What were they doing together? She was caught between conflicting emotions: on the one hand, she was desperately sad that Xander had died. Poor Allegra – what must she be feeling? She loved him so much. No matter what she did to me, I wouldn’t wish that on her, or anyone. And, on the other hand, she was curious to know more. What exactly were the circumstances of Xander’s death, and why had Imogen been with him?

  She picked up her cup absent-mindedly and took another sip of coffee. Well, Allegra always was recklessly destructive, and it seemed her brother had been too. The whole McCorquodale clan was tainted with poison, and now Imogen was caught up in their vileness. The poor girl – what she must have been through. Romily couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, even if she had chosen to take Allegra’s side.

  She got up and went through the cool terracotta-floored sitting room to her private study. Sitting at her desk, she picked up the telephone receiver and pressed a speed-dial button. It connected her at once, and the ringing tone was answered within a couple of seconds.

  ‘Hello,’ Romily said. ‘I’ve just read the paper. About McCorquodale’s death.’

  She listened to the person on the other end of the line.

  ‘Well, I want to know exactly what happened,’ she said. ‘Can you organise that? I’d like a report on exactly what took place – and I mean the truth, do you understand?’

  She nodded, apparently satisfied with the reply. ‘Good. Yes, everything here is fine. I’m watching your progress with a great deal of pleasure. It’s all very impressive. I’m looking forward to further updates.’

  A moment later she put the receiver down and sat back in her chair. Then she fired up her desktop computer. She would see what she could find online, she decided.

  Poor Xander. What an end. He had everything, and yet … it just wasn’t enough.

  Chapter 47

  Scotland

  XANDER’S FUNERAL TOOK place the week after the inquest.

  Allegra couldn’t remember much about the first week or two after he died. She had been relaxing at home on a sunny Sunday morning, looking forward to some calm, quiet hours away from the Soho building site. Every day was taken up with the minutiae of the build and the design, the problems and snags they had to cope with, and the management of a large team of workmen. The club had to be absolutely right, she knew that. If she’d learned anything from David it was that the pursuit of perfection was everything. She refused to compromise on anything when it came to her vision and that meant her workers simultaneously detested and respected her. She was sure they were cursing her behind her back when she insisted on a light fitting being moved two inches to the left or a wall being repainted for the third time. But who cared about being liked? The club was more important than that.

  It was strange how many problems they were running into. Neighbours had unexpectedly objected to their licence application, planning had come down hard on them, even the first building contractor she’d hired had suddenly pulled out of the job which meant she’d had to tackle a long and difficult search for another. Nothing went smoothly. Every day the whole project felt as if it was threatened with total failure.

  Then the phone call came.

  Imogen had been half hysterical. At first Allegra couldn’t understand what she was saying. When she realised it was all about Xander and that he was in a Northampton hospital, she knew she had to get there right away. Picking up her keys on the way out, she realised that her hands were shaking violently and her mind racing with panic. Oh, fuck, I can’t drive. I mustn’t. Her hands were trembling almost too hard for her to dial the number on her phone, but all she could think of was to call Adam. He’d been her right hand man now for weeks. She’d grown to trust him and to make the most of his confident, can-do attitude.

  ‘Allegra, what can I do for you?’ he asked, not sounding at all surprised to hear from her on a Sunday morning.

  ‘Are you busy?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Can you drive me to Northamptonshire? I have to get there right away. My brother’s in hospital. I think it could be serious.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ he said, grasping the situation at once. She had told him some of her concerns about Xander before now – somehow it was easier to talk about her brother’s problems than her own. She could confide her fears over Xander’s drug use but said nothing of her own, or the lonely searches for anonymous sex, or the nightmares that still plagued her. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll call you back in two minutes.’

  She paced about the flat, desperate to be doing something. Should she call her parents? Miranda? David? But she knew nothing about her brother’s condition beyond what Imogen had stuttered out: Xander in a coma, taken to hospital. What could she tell them? She would only worry them all. She would wait until she knew more and could calm their fears.

  Her phone buzzed and she picked it up.

  ‘I’m coming to get you,’ Adam said. ‘Then we’re taking my friend Ben’s helicopter. He’s a qualified pilot. He’s meeting us at his helipad in the City. Keep calm. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  Adam must have driven very fast because he was with her in about fifteen minutes, despite the distance from his North London home to Marylebone.

  ‘I was lucky with the lights,’ he said smoothly. ‘Let’s go.’

  Within the hour, they were soaring above London and heading out over the countryside.

  In normal circumstances she would have enjoyed the flight and the beauty of the landscape beneath them. As it was, she could only watch the fields and towns disappear and silently urge the little aircraft on.

  Adam sat beside her, casual in his jeans and T-shirt, deftly using his iPhone to make all the arrangements, locating a place to land near the hospital and arranging permis
sion, while Ben sat at the controls, guiding them towards Northampton.

  When she arrived at the hospital, the first person she saw was Imogen, wearing a black cocktail dress and high heels with Xander’s dinner jacket over the top. She looked distraught, her hair unkempt and last night’s smudged make-up on her face. ‘They won’t tell me anything!’ she stammered. ‘They’re waiting for you!’

  She should have known at once from Imogen’s face that she already knew the truth. She should have known from the way they ushered her into a private room, with solemn eyes and no sense of haste, but somehow she didn’t. All she wanted was to get Xander out of here and home.

  That’s it. He has to go into rehab. We can’t take any more of this. It’s too serious now. We’ll take him back to Scotland, take him home. We’ll make him better, we’ve got to …

  But it was all too late for that. They told her he was dead. He had died sometime during the previous night of a suspected overdose. There had been nothing they could do for him.

  She had been floored by shock. No, not Xander! He can’t be dead. It must be a mistake. How can Xander be dead?

  They’d made a terrible mix-up, she was sure of it, and any minute she’d see him, smiling his lopsided smile and saying, ‘Sorry to give you such a fright. I’ve been an idiot again.’ But then they took her to identify the body, and there was no mistake.

  She looked down into his face, pale and still, the dark blue eyes she knew so well closed, and knew he was no longer there: it was serene but empty, a shell that looked like Xander. Whatever it was that was him had gone. She said nothing but a wail began in her head: My brother … my Xander … where are you? Where have you gone? Why, Xander, why?

  She couldn’t believe she would never see his smile or hear his voice again.