Lovers in Their Fashion (11 page)

‘Yes?’

‘You’re reluctant.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Tell me why?’

Now he sat back, forcing her to release him so that he could look at her face. She hung her head, letting the long hair conceal as much as it could. She looked down, her face pink.

‘It means subjection, Fran.’

‘No, it…’

‘It does. Men do that to women because they can. Because they’re stronger.’

‘No…’

‘Yes. Men do it to women they’ve paid for. Rapists do it. It says, “You’re mine. I own you.” I don’t want to own you. I want us to be…’ He broke off, unsure of the word he wanted. “Lovers” certainly wasn’t it, because he knew and she knew that, long term, that was not what he wanted. “I want us to be equals” would have been more like it, but it sounded so weak, New Man, wimpish. John wasn’t a New Man and didn’t want to pretend otherwise.

Now she did let him see her face. ‘But that’s the point, John,’ she said. ‘Some women might want to be owned.’

He kissed her gently on the lips. ‘I’m sorry.’

She detached herself and lay down. ‘Well, if you don’t want to, you don’t want to. We’re not going to let that lovely stiffy go to waste, though. Are we?’

They did not.

T
he show would take place tomorrow. All the arrangements were made. It is easy to imagine last minute preparations and panics, but there were none. House of Pharaoh under Alice was not a last minute panic sort of place. The arrangements were in hand; the models chosen and briefed; the security as tight as befitted a city that had learned how to deal with bombs and terrorist alerts; the press briefings mailed; the invitations out; the limousines booked; the photographers vetted and their passes issued; the seating plan in place. As to the party afterwards, that was in the hands of the best private caterers in London and the food and wine selection had been carefully approved by David and Alice together.

Of course there was a stream of calls from people who could not understand why an invitation had failed to arrive, but David and Marissa could deal with those. Tactfully or not, as the case (and the level of the supplicant’s importunity) required.

When it was over, Alice would go to dinner with Merrill and Tony and meet the man – this mysterious friend of Tony’s – who Merrill hoped would excite her interest. If Alice were honest she did not believe that anything wonderful in that direction would happen – but at least she would be able to let her hair down and enjoy herself. To relax, ahead of the appalling weekend she tried hard not to let herself think about.

And yet, how could she not? Hanging in her closet were the dreadful peach and black basque and miniscule panties. In still, quiet moments, her mother’s voice came back to haunt her. “…unless you and he have spent a weekend together, as man and wife, with all that entails…” And her own reply. “I will do what I have to do. I will let that man do what he wants to do.”

Did she hesitate, even now? She did not let it show. Were there tears? If so, David and Marissa were never allowed to see them. Alice had made up her mind. This once, to save her mother. And then, never again. Whatever mess her mother’s insanity got her into after this, she would have to find her own way out.

T
he working day ended. She climbed into a cab, went home and took the phone off the hook. She had heard no more from Martin Planer. The half-expected gloating phone calls had not come. She did not want to receive one this evening.

Dinner was a simple pasta dish with walnut bread. Water; no wine. She made coffee and took it onto the terrace. Far below, the busy Thames plied its ceaseless trade. Laughter carried from a balcony outside one of the apartments below. Alice smiled to know that people were happy so close by.

Would the weekend be so dreadful? Yes, it would. She had no idea how John had spent the ten years since their break-up, how many women he had enjoyed, but she knew how many men had found their way into her bed. None.

They had tried. Oh, how they had tried. And some of them had attracted her. Sometimes, saying “No” had been hard.

She knew that her friends, and especially Merrill, had wondered why she had stuck so severely to celibacy. She knew, or at least suspected, that some who were not friends nodded and whispered behind her back. “Closet lesbian.” “Can’t admit to herself what she really is.”

But the fact was that she did know what she really was. Women didn’t do it for her and she had disengaged as gently and as tactfully from those who had put her to the test as she had the men. So what was she? She was a woman who had known a love so great that, if she couldn’t have him, she didn’t really want anyone else. Not enough to let him get that close. Not enough to take off her clothes and embrace his naked body.

Did she believe, in her heart of hearts, that she would ever have John back in her life? Of course not. Did she believe that John clung to her memory as fiercely and as chastely as she did to his? Men weren’t like that. He would have had lots of women and she bore no grudge, did not hold it against him. He was a man and she was a woman and they were different. The difference had once been a matter of great joy to her. If she were honest, it still was.

She drained her coffee, poured a glass of water, showered and went early to bed. It would be a big day tomorrow.

Sleep came quickly, but not untroubled by dreams. They were not happy dreams. She was in bed, trussed up in underwear designed for the pleasure of a man and not a woman. What woman would choose to wear stockings in bed? Or hook them with taut suspenders to a shameless corset? In a darkened room, a man whose face she could not see handled her like a piece of meat. His hands tugged here and there, bringing into the open her breasts, her navel, her…

She woke, if indeed she had ever slept, with a start. This would not do. Tomorrow was a huge day and she must be at her best. That meant sleep.

She pulled on a thin robe and padded to the kitchen. Merrill raved about chamomile tea in these cases and so did others, but for Alice it tasted like a child’s chemistry set. Alice was a hot chocolate woman. In her store cupboards were a large can of
Chocolat Charbonnel
and five jars of Charbonnel & Walker’s unctuous chocolate truffle sauce which she had bought when she learned it was to be discontinued and she would  not be able to buy more. Those, though, were for ordinary occasions. Sometimes, only the real thing will do.

Alice knew the
chocolatiers
and coffee shops of Paris (and Lisbon, and Vienna) the way some people know their local supermarket. She had drunk the bittersweet delight served in
La Charlotte de l’Isle,
the stiff and perfumed offerings on the
Rue d’Assas
and the wonderful hot chocolate of the Café Mozart in Vienna. Breakfast in
Dulcinea
,
dipping freshly baked
melindros
into thick, dark chocolate, could draw her back to Barcelona on the smell alone.
Café Brasileira
in Lisbon was
worth it just to sit outside beneath the golden sun umbrellas.

But the place she loved most was
Angelina
on the
Rue de Rivoli
. It was tired, it was worn, the ageing waiting staff made you wonder that they could stay on their feet at all. There were too many people saying, “Oh, it’s not like Cadbury’s hot chocolate,” or Hershey’s, and “Why don’t they put sugar in their pastries?” The tables were too close together. All of those things were true. And yet. When you had drunk
Angelina’s
hot chocolate, you had drunk the very best.

And they sold it in little packs, to take away and make up at home.

That is what Alice did for herself now. She drank it standing on the terrace. London was quieter now, but not silent. Like New York, like Paris, London was never completely at rest. She had heard Bombay described as “the city that never sleeps.” To Alice’s mind, there were other cities that also fitted that bill.

Smoke drifted from a lower balcony in the still, warm night air. Alice drained her coffee, put the mug in the dishwasher and returned to her bedroom. One thing remained before she could sleep. That one thing was in a drawer beside her bed.

The Bully Boy was long, thick and looked like what it was meant to look like. Alice had realized a long time ago that being celibate could not mean being unfulfilled. She and John had been lovers too long for that. A healthy woman had needs that must be met if she was to remain a healthy woman. The Bully Boy met them without fail. It was in many ways a perfect partner. When she did not need or want it, which was most of the time, it never complained. When she did, it was ready instantly. There were never nights when she wanted to sleep and the Bully Boy didn’t, or when the Bully Boy wanted to sleep and she didn’t. It had no ego, never needed reassurance about its hardness or performance, never complained when you went out without it and stayed away till four in the morning and you never had to cook for it. Dress in a raggy old T-shirt, a negligée of voluptuous expensiveness or nothing at all – the Bully Boy would deliver, no matter what.

Alice put on a full length satin peignoir edged with lace. She placed the Bully Boy close to hand and got into bed. She lay on her back, looking into the dark, waiting for her night visitor.

Minutes passed. Her tummy began to tingle as she sensed him in the room with her. He was approaching the foot of the bed. He was John. He was always John.

The duvet was drawn gently down. With infinite tenderness, the satin and lace confection was drawn up her legs, over her thighs, onto her stomach. Out of her night visitor’s way. Her knees bent. Her thighs parted.

The night visitor entered her.

Afterwards, Alice slept like a baby.

Chapter 17

S
how day. The excitement at House of Pharaoh was intense, and even more so among the invited audience than for the staff. Watching David and Marissa moving so efficiently through the crowd, seeing the enthusiasm with which their work was received, warming to the satisfaction Marco Antonetti showed in his work, Alice felt pride in the team she had built. Show days never went without a hitch. This one did.

At last it was finished. The guests were gone, the favoured among them to prepare for the party that was still two hours away. Alice, David and Marco sat in the Board Room with a bottle of Krug.

‘A success?’ asked Marco.

Alice looked at David. He in turn looked down at the paper before him, though in truth he had no need to check. The figures were burned into his consciousness. ‘Immediate firm orders on the day, eight hundred thousand,’ he said.

Marco let out a low whistle and even Alice looked stunned. ‘That’s almost double the best we’ve ever done,’ she said. ‘We owe it to your brilliant designs, Marco.’

‘Yes,’ Marco said. ‘To my brilliant designs. But also to your equally brilliant presentation,
cara
. What a team we make!’

‘More again in statements of intent,’ said David. ‘We’ll hit two million before the week is out.’

Marco began to laugh. David joined in. Before she knew it, Alice was laughing too. Marissa’s head appeared around the door. ‘It’s good news?’ she asked, though she knew the answer.

‘Marissa,’ said Alice. ‘Bring a glass and join us. It’s your success, too. Marco. I have a dinner invitation for tonight. I know my hostess would be happy to have you join us?’

‘Carissima,
I would love to but I must make my eight o’clock flight to Roma. If I am not in Italy in the morning, there will be cross faces.’

If Alice was disappointed that she would not have Marco there to shield her from her blind date, it did not show.

A
nd then it was time to move on. David would stay behind and oversee the clearing away. Alice’s plan now was: taxi home; shower; dress; another cab to the party. After that, dinner with Merrill, Tony and Tony’s friend. And after
that
there was the weekend and…well, she didn’t need to think about that right now and she wasn’t going to.

But how could she not? Whatever she was doing or thinking about, that black cloud was still there. It was getting closer. A week ago it had been merely a feeling of dread. Now it was physical, a hand clawing at her. She felt as though she might be sick at any moment. And yet, she carried on. Whatever was going on inside, to the people she came in contact with she was still the person she always was.

She got out of the taxi, smiled at Ben and took the elevator to the penthouse. Stepping out of her shoes at the door, she walked across the room to the phone and called Merrill.

‘Fabulous show,’ said Merrill. ‘Are you home?’

‘I’m home. Where are we going for dinner?’

‘Here. My place.’

‘You’re giving us dinner in your apartment? I can come home from the party and not have to go out again? Oh, Merrill, I love you.’

‘Makes sense for me, too, honey. When we push you and your new love out of here, Tony and I can fall straight into bed.’

‘I don’t think he’s going to be my new love, Merrill.’

‘Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I didn’t think Tony was going to be anything long term and look at me now.’

‘Well…I hear what you say. What’s his name, anyway?’

‘Tony. I just told you.’

‘Not Tony’s name. Tony’s friend’s name.’

‘Oh. You know what? I don’t know. John, I think. Does it matter?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. You want to ride to the party with me?’

‘Tony and his friend are coming here first. Can we all ride together?’

‘Together? Well. I guess so. Sure. Why not?’

Why not, indeed?

The cab was booked for seven – crazily early for a party, but Alice was the hostess and wanted to be there to greet the earliest arrivals. She was waiting in the lobby when the elevator doors opened and out walked Merrill and Tony.

And Tony’s friend.

‘Alice!’ cried Merrill. ‘You look spectacular! Is that one of today’s frocks?’ She caught the look on her best friend’s face. ‘Alice? Honey? Are you okay?’ She turned back towards her companions. Tony merely looked puzzled, but John was caught in the same pose as Alice—stopped dead in his tracks. Mouth open. Staring. Merrill looked from the unspeaking Alice to the silent John; and from John to Alice; and from Alice to John. The words of Sherlock Holmes returned to her, almost causing her to giggle. “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.”

‘John,’ she said. ‘What’s your last name?’

J
ohn found the cab ride to the party excruciating. Merrill spoke with a brightness she clearly did not feel. Tony tried to support her. Alice looked utterly stricken. For himself, he could not speak. How recently he would have been delighted to find that Alice was to be his party hostess! How he would have sought ways to rekindle her love! The efforts he would have made to overcome whatever silly thing it was that had prevented her from being his!

But now he knew what that thing had been, and that it had been far from silly. Now he knew that Alice had never loved him, had only pretended to do so, had in fact loved Martin Planer. Alice had betrayed him.

And Alice? What was she thinking? Why, that here was the only man she had ever loved, in the cab with her,
coming to a party with her.
Here was the second chance she did not deserve. She had to take it. If Fate had brought the two of them together again after all this time, Fate meant it to be. She would not refuse her destiny a second time.

And from here, perhaps, would come the strength to deny Martin Planer. How quickly hope comes, and dreams form! If John was in her life again, she would confess all. He could confront Planer with her. She would still go to Honfleur, but with a lover and not a predator. It would be John with whom she would eat the delectable
l’Absinthe
dinner, and John who would undress her afterwards. Their love-making would be tender and bittersweet instead of—let the dreadful word come out—rape. They would consummate their love in the place that had been so dear to them both.

When they spilled out of the cab, John pulled his wallet from his pocket to pay the fare. It was what he always did. Alice placed her hand on his arm. ‘It’s on account, John.’

He pulled brusquely free and put the wallet away. ‘Don’t go,’ he said to the driver. Alice’s face went white.

John turned to Tony. ‘I have something to say to Alice,’ he said. ‘It won’t take long, but it’s private.’

Tony nodded. Without a word he took Merrill by the hand and led her away.

John turned to Alice. He stepped back a single pace. ‘I’ll leave you here,’ he said.

‘But…oh, John. Please. No. Come in with me.’

‘No, Alice. I won’t do that.’

‘Oh, John, John. I was such a fool all those years ago. I wanted you so much. I should have told you the truth and trusted you to love me still. It’s not too late, is it? Not now I’ve found you again. It can’t be too late. Don’t smile at me like that, John. It’s not a nice smile at all.’

‘I’m afraid it is, Alice. Too late, I mean. Too late for you to tell me your little secret of ten years ago.’

‘But…’

‘It’s too late because I already know.’

‘Know? How?’

‘How you must have laughed. You and Planer. He was the one you loved, wasn’t he? You pretended it was me so you could steal what he wanted.’

Alice’s hand went to her mouth. ‘No.
No,
John. It wasn’t
like
that.’

‘I’ve never slapped a woman,’ John said. ‘I’ve always felt contempt for men who would slap women. I could make an exception for you. But you’re not worth it.’ He opened the cab door, slipped into a seat and closed the door firmly. Whatever he said to the driver, Alice didn’t hear. The cab drove off.

Alice stood on the curb and watched it go.

Hesitantly, Merrill approached her. ‘Alice? Honey? Oh, honey!’

Alice’s voice was tiny. ‘Get David for me, Merrill, will you?’

‘Honey, why don’t you come…’

‘Please, Merrill. Get David for me.’

Merrill backed away, spoke to Tony, then came back to her distraught friend. ‘Tony’s gone in to look for him.’

‘Thanks, Merrill.’ She opened her bag and fished through it. ‘I don’t have any tickets with me. But David will take care of you.’

‘You’re not coming in?’

‘I can’t face it. Oh. David. There you are. I’m sorry, petal, I’ve been taken ill. You’ll have to make my excuses to our guests. I can’t face…I just can’t. I’m sorry.’

David put his hand on her arm. ‘Hey. Boss. If you’re ill, you’re ill. What do you want me to do?’

‘Can you get me a cab? Quickly? To take me home? And will you look after Merrill and Tony? Make sure they have a good time?’

‘Of course I…’

‘Alice,’ said Merrill. The point of being here for me wasn’t to meet a bunch of
fashionistas
. It was to spend the evening with you. If you can’t stay, we don’t want to.’

Alice turned to look at her, as if from a long way away, just as David’s hand went up to hail a passing black cab. ‘I’m sorry, Merrill,’ she said.

‘Please, honey. Don’t say you’re sorry.’ The cab made a U-turn and pulled up in front of them. ‘We’re coming back with you. I’m going to deliver you to your own door. I’m going to help you get out of your glad rags and into something you can sleep in.’

‘Thanks, Merrill.’

‘There’s just one condition.’

‘What is it?’

‘When I get you on your own, you have to tell me what happened between you and John.’

W
hat John had said to the cabbie was that he wanted to be dropped at London Bridge station. With any luck, in less than an hour he would be home.

And luck he had. A train for Brighton pulled in less than five minutes after he arrived on the platform. He pulled out his cell phone and called Fran Nolan. She was clearly delighted to hear from him.

‘Are you doing anything this evening?’ he asked.

‘I am now.’

‘I’m just getting on the train from London. I’ll be at Queens Road station in fifty-five minutes.’

‘I’ll be there to meet you.’

L
eaving Tony to make his own way to her apartment, Merrill accompanied Alice to the penthouse.

‘Please don’t fuss, Merrill,’ said Alice.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down. I’m going to run you a bath.’

‘Tony needs you.’

‘I said, don’t be ridiculous.’

Merrill found a jar of bath salts, never opened, and scooped a large handful into the running water. She read the label and then added more, stirring the water with her hand. The most delightful fragrance filled the air. When the bath was filled to luxury level, she went into the sitting room, gathered Alice into her arms and led her into the bathroom. Alice stood while Merrill undressed her.

‘You’re shaking,’ said Merrill.

‘I can’t help it.’

‘There. Get in, please.’

Alice sank gratefully into the water. ‘Okay, mother.’

‘I’d think she’s the last person you’d want to think about.’ She picked up the jar of salts. ‘What
is
this stuff?’

‘That? Oh. A present from a supplier. I’ve never used it.’

‘No, I can see that.’ She read from the label. ‘Dead sea salts, which include vital oils, help to ease tension in the body, leaving it soothed and relaxed. This contains special roses that grow in the holy land and symbolize honesty, purity and holiness.’

‘Honesty! Purity! My God! Tell that to John.’

‘So. John. You ready to tell me about it?’

Alice began to cry. ‘He knows, Merrill.’

‘Knows?’

‘What I did to him. He knows. I was going to tell him, but he already knew.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I was going to tell him.’

‘You said that.’

‘I thought we could…I thought…when I saw that Tony’s friend was John…I thought…it was Fate.’

‘Fate can be cruel.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Fate can be cruel.’

‘Don’t tease me, Merrill. I can’t take teasing right now.’

‘Sorry. So. What are you going to do?’

‘There’s nothing I can do. He thinks I never loved him at all.’

‘He said that?’

‘He thinks I was in love with Martin. He thinks I only took up with him so I could spy. He thinks everything I said when I said I loved him was a lie.’

‘Men! Obtuse or what?’

Q
ueens Road runs from the Brighton railway station down towards the sea, briefly becoming West Street before joining King’s Road which runs along the front in both directions. Fran took John’s hand as they passed under the ornate clock and emerged from the airy nineteenth century glass and ironwork concourse into the workaday canopy and onto the paved sidewalk. This had been a building site on and off for the past four years. The latest plans involved a “One World” green development with the World Wildlife Fund. Very exciting; but John and Fran weren’t thinking about sustainable ecological footprints and environmentally friendly housing. They weren’t saying much, but the looks they gave each other were frankly carnal.

‘Where do you want to eat?’ asked Fran. Receiving no answer, she looked at John. She stopped dead on the sidewalk. ‘What?’

He kissed her on the throat, his hands holding firmly on to the lapels of her coat.

Fran said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a lascivious look on anyone’s face. All I asked was, where do you want to eat?’

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘You should have said,
“What
do you want to eat?”,’ he murmured. He kissed her on the forehead.