‘Sorry for disturbing you,’ she stuttered, dimly aware of how oddly formal she sounded.
‘Nonsense, come and sit down. There’s a warm glass of some potent brew if you want it. This is Jessica, by the way. She’s a stylist, lots of celebrity clients. Maybe you two should talk about Milford.’
‘I don’t think tonight’s the night for business,’ she smiled, trying to stop the tremor in her voice. ‘I just wanted to say that I was thinking about going. Apparently there’s a coach going back to the hotel in about ten minutes.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ll come then,’ said Rob. Emma was quick enough to catch the glance between Rob and Jessica that made it clear neither wanted the party to end.
‘No, no, you stay,’ said Emma. ‘It’s not even midnight, you don’t want to miss a quarter of a million pounds worth of pyrotechnics.’
‘There is another bus at one,’ said Jessica helpfully, touching Rob softly on the leg. Rob and Emma looked at each other, the second’s silent pause seeming to drag on and on, before Emma conceded she had no claim over Rob that evening – or any evening.
‘You stay and have fun,’ said Emma, forcing an encouraging smile. She turned and walked away from the scene as quickly as possible, hoping and praying that she would hear Rob’s footsteps behind her. But they never came and two minutes later she was sitting at the back of the bus, completely alone.
Cassandra stood in the shadows watching the country and western hoedown with amused disdain. She wasn’t sure whose idea a Wild West party had been, especially as all Laura’s friends came from the super-poised fashion set, but at least the macho banker crowd seemed to be having a good time whooping and swinging their partners.
‘Not joining in?’
She looked up to see Max holding two glasses of wine, his handsome, craggy features accentuated by the dim tawny light from the bonfire. She had known he would come. When they had sat next to one another at lunch, the chemistry between them had been instant although she hoped not obvious; it wasn’t exactly good form to be seen openly flirting with the groom-to-be. However, she had taken particular attention with her appearance at the party and studiously avoided Max to see if he would come and look for her.
Some men are so predictable,
she thought, smiling to herself.
‘I don’t dance,’ said Cassandra.
‘Oh, I’m sure you do,’ smiled Max. ‘Although I suspect the do-si-do isn’t quite your thing.’
‘Not yours either?’ she said, looking into his deep blue eyes.
‘Hey, I’m only the groom,’ he said. ‘I don’t have anything to do with actually planning the wedding, all I have to do is turn up.’
‘Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be with your fiancée?’
‘Actually, no,’ he said with a small smile. ‘In fact I’m not supposed to see her at all.’
‘Ah yes, that’s right. Whatever happened to having the stag do the night before the wedding?’
Max laughed. It was throaty and deep and Cassandra felt it in her stomach.
‘It’s a safety net, isn’t it? Now if your bollocks get shaved, you have time to grow them back again in time for your wedding night. We went to a gun club in Prague, firing ex-Commie Kalashnikovs: every young boy’s dream.’
Cassandra shivered. There was a rough edge to him; he hid it well underneath the Savile Row suits, but there was something raw about Max Carlton, something that had her off-balance. Cassandra was used to going home with the most powerful or the most handsome in the room. In a party full of multi-millionaires, landed gentry and male models, Max Carlton was neither. And yet, she had a desire for him she hadn’t felt in years.
‘Well, here’s to the dying hours of freedom,’ said Max, raising his glass.
‘You’d better make them count.’
‘Got any suggestions that don’t include cowboys and nachos?’
Their eyes locked and he moved a little closer to her, his arm brushing hers. If either of them thought about the morality of what they were about to do on the eve of Max and Laura’s wedding, they didn’t voice it.
‘I have some Cristal in my room,’ said Cassandra quietly. ‘I’m in the gardener’s cottage.’
‘It’s the best offer I’ve had all day,’ he replied with a grin.
‘I’ll meet you there in a few minutes?’
Cassandra nodded and walked away from the party.
The cottage was five hundred metres from the main party and hidden by a wing of the house. There was no one to see Cassandra
slipping in through the front door and slowly closing the curtains, shutting out the lights of the bonfire. Picking up a beautifully wrapped oblong box, a wedding gift from the
Rive
office to Laura, she ripped off the paper. She could replace it. No one bothered to look at their wedding presents until after they got back from honeymoon anyway.
A few moments later there was a knock. She opened the box and took out the Cristal, tearing off the yellow Cellophane as she walked to the door.
‘Now this is much more civilized,’ smiled Max, taking the bottle from her.
‘What’s the bet there are no champagne flutes,’ said Cassandra walking into the tiny farmhouse kitchen. As she reached up to open a cupboard, she felt him behind her, the whole length of his body pressing against hers. At first he kissed her so lightly on the nape of her neck, she could feel his breath on her skin, then she turned her head until his lips were on hers.
‘Max, we shouldn’t,’ she whispered, not meaning a word of it.
‘Why not? This is my stag night, remember,’ he mumbled as his lips brushed along her neck.
‘Well, I don’t want to disappoint you,’ she whispered, her skin starting to prickle with need. She felt his hands grip her hips and turn her around.
‘I’ve been thinking about you since the second I saw you,’ he growled, lifting a finger up to her cheek.
‘And what have you been thinking?’ she asked with a wicked look on her face.
‘I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to taste your cunt.’
Cassandra gasped. She had never felt such a sweet, violent intensity of lust.
‘Don’t just think it,’ moaned Cassandra,
‘do
it!’
Then his fingers were unzipping her dress, the featherweight fabric sliding to the floor. He rolled his hands down her slim hips so her chocolate lace thong slid down in one movement.
He lifted her onto the kitchen table, spreading her legs wide and pushing the lace cup of her bra back, his lips descending on her beige nipple, which ripened in his mouth. With her head thrown back in ecstasy, she felt him slowly trace a wet line down over her firm, flat stomach until he reached her thin damp strip of hair.
Lifting her legs in the air, he pushed his tongue into her, withdrawing to blow on her clitoris, before burrowing once again for slow rhythmic laps of her swollen nub.
‘Now! We have to do it, now!’ she whispered throatily. He uncurled himself, reached into his pocket for a condom, and after fumbling with the buttons of his trousers, pushed them urgently to the floor. He wrapped his firm hands behind her buttocks, and pulled her to the very edge of the table. She felt his thick cock,
that thick, sweet cock so wasted on poor little Laura
inch into her, then stop, letting her feel it inside her, filling her. Then he began to move, sliding all the way out then in, quickening both the pace and intensity of his thrusts. As she began to pant, he pulled her legs even wider, plunging so deep that she screamed out with desire. She pulled him closer, grabbing at his hair as she felt the sweet swell of orgasm gathering at her centre before igniting into such a sweet, violent, explosion the background noise of the party faded into nothing and all she could see, taste, feel and hear was Max. He pulled out of her and buried his head in the curve of her neck. They were silent for a few moments before she raised her head and spoke.
‘We’ve just been very, very naughty.’
Max laughed, his breath still coming in pants.
‘Don’t worry, it was just sex. Just incredible fucking sex,’ he said cupping her chin in his hands, pulling her close, the sweat from Cassandra’s skin dampening his T-shirt. She nodded, but as they lay there, entwined on the kitchen table, the fireworks began popping and banging around them and they both knew it was something much more powerful indeed.
‘Are you sure you want me there?’ said Johnny, changing into his fourth outfit. The previous three lay discarded on the thick carpet of his bedroom.
‘Well, are you sure you want to come?’ teased Stella as she watched him dress. ‘I know that the whole meeting the parents thing is a bit scary, especially after, you know, we’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks.’
‘Scary?’ he asked, finally settling on a navy polo shirt and cream trousers. ‘I think I can cope with an evil stepmother,’ he looked up and grinned. ‘Well, as long as you’re not a bunny boiler who just wants to get me introduced to Daddy so he can give us his blessings.’
Stella’s heart did a belly-flop. No, she wasn’t thinking of marriage quite yet, but it was hard to believe that their relationship had come so far so quickly. It had all been such a whirl; they hardly seemed to have been apart in the three weeks since their first date, helped in part by Johnny’s break between projects. Not due to start rehearsals for his next film until the end of June, and with promo work for
This Country of Ours
out of the way, he’d spent his time shuttling between Chilcot and Notting Hill. And the more she saw him, the more Stella was falling for him.
And who could blame me?
she thought, watching him slip on his loafers. Yes, he was sexy and gorgeous, but Johnny was also dynamic, rich and generous, plus he had a worldliness and sophistication far beyond his years. Stella would only admit to herself that she liked him very much but what scared her,
thrilled her,
was that it could easily develop into something more intense.
‘Chessie isn’t exactly evil,’ said Stella grudgingly. ‘It’s nothing to do with what she’s like. It’s how my father is around her.’
Christopher Chase’s wives had long been the fly in the ointment in her own relationship with her father. With the exception of her mother, his partners had treated him terribly; two had left him for richer, more impressive men, while Stella was convinced Chessie was only sticking around for what little money her father had left. What frustrated Stella madly was that Christopher couldn’t or wouldn’t see it, even when they left him for a wealthier model. And if Stella breathed a word against any of them, he refused to speak to her for months. Stella was left with the choice of being honest and estranged or frustrated and impotent as she watched these women suck the life out of her father.
‘Well, just say the word if you want me to beat her away with a broomstick,’ said Johnny, jumping over and planting a kiss on Stella’s neck. ‘By the way, you look gorgeous.’
‘Do I look OK?’ she blushed. In an apple-green sundress and silver sandals she looked like a sixties Biba model. Johnny grabbed the keys to the Porsche.
‘Aright then, let’s go slay the dragon!’ he chuckled.
‘I’m so glad you’re coming,’ smiled Stella, taking his hand.
‘Are you kidding?’ he laughed. ‘I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
Christopher and Chessie had wanted to meet at China Tang, the glamorous, decadent-looking restaurant in the basement of the Dorchester which, Stella suspected, was Chessie’s suggestion rather than her father’s. The maitre d’ spent a great deal of time fussing round them, which Stella had found was par for the course whenever she was out with Johnny. Sometimes, like today, the attention was welcome but at other times it was unwanted and intrusive. She didn’t mind when he was stopped for autographs, but increasingly women would touch his bum or demand a kiss, as if he was somehow fair game just because they had seen him in
Heat
magazine. They had a drink in the lovely Art-Deco bar and then went to their table. They were alone for a few minutes before Christopher and Chessie arrived. Stella found that she was unaccountably nervous, worrying not only about how her father would behave, but even more about how
she
would behave in front of him. She so wanted to make a good impression on Johnny, but Stella knew
that her father’s ambivalent attitude towards her was her Achilles heel. She knew how he was: wrapped up in his own little world and seemingly disinterested in everything else, including his daughter, but each time it hurt, each time it opened up fresh wounds and Stella would often find herself overreacting to the smallest comment or imagined slight. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if she didn’t constantly worry about him, but she did. She couldn’t help it; she loved her father despite everything. When he finally did arrive, shuffling in bent over a cane, Stella was shocked. She hadn’t seen her father for two years and was taken aback by how stooped he had become. His fingers were now so badly knotted with arthritis that Stella audibly gasped. Chessie on the other hand looked radiant in a fitted scarlet dress that showcased a pair of magnificent breasts, noticeably more magnificent than when Stella had last seen her. Chessie was ten years older than Stella which made her 36 and she was at the height of her beauty. She had long chestnut hair, the colour and glossiness of a red setter, the upright posture of a dancer, and the slight uptilt of her nose suggested she was surveying all around her with disdain. A former life model, she had met Christopher when she had sat for him for a series of sculptural nudes, shortly after his third wife Sandrine had run off with a New York art dealer. Six months after their first meeting Christopher and Chessie were married in a quiet ceremony attended by only two witnesses whom they barely knew. What surprised Stella was that it had only taken them six months. Chessie of course no longer modelled yet seemed to be frustrated living in Christopher’s beloved Trencarrow, a large farm on the outskirts of St Ives. She had thus persuaded him to buy a flat in London’s Connaught Square and seemed to Stella to spend more time in Tatler’s party pages than in Cornwall. Stella had an idea how it was all going to end up but she’d daren’t voice those fears to her father.
‘It’s good to have you back, darling,’ said Christopher, taking the seat opposite Stella. She smiled politely, but inside she smarted at the words; she’d been in the country three months and this was the first time he’d been to see her. Despite her hectic workload she had tried to arrange to go down to Trencarrow but her father and Chessie were always away on some trip. The last time she suggested it, Chessie’s mother was down from Derbyshire, which apparently made a visit from Stella impossible. Stella took a deep breath and bit her tongue.
Come on, Stella, don’t kick off so soon,
she thought,
aware she was perhaps reading far too much into her father’s perfectly pleasant comment.
‘This is my friend Johnny Brinton,’ said Stella. At the mention of his name, Chessie instantly became more animated. ‘Not
the
Johnny Brinton?’ she asked, touching his hand. ‘I came to see
Death of a Salesman
at the Old Vic, I thought you were wonderful. I had no idea you were a friend of Stella’s.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he replied and went on to tell her about the great reviews for
This Country of Ours.
Stella sat back and watched the familiar pattern. Chessie was a model of politeness and charm to Johnny, whilst barely acknowledging Stella’s presence. She was willing for Johnny to hate her as much as she did but apparently he too was caught under the spell. They talked a little about Johnny’s forthcoming film project, the latest goings-on at Milford and the current exhibition at St Ives Tate Gallery. Her father barely spoke and only picked at his food.
‘How’s your mother?’ said Christopher finally, looking halfheartedly at the dessert menu.
‘I saw her just before I left LA,’ said Stella. ‘She’s well. She has two shops now in San Francisco.’
‘Grocery stores, aren’t they?’
‘Health food,’ said Stella, gritting her teeth at the lack of interest he showed in his former wife.
‘Well I’m so pleased you’re back over in England and working for Saul’s old company. My goodness, Emma impressed me.’
Stella smiled. ‘She’s very good.’
‘Yes, Chessie’s youngest sister Amy is doing terribly well too. She’s an architect, and she’s just been taken on by Norman Foster’s firm.’
Stella found herself getting upset again as Christopher told them about Amy’s sky-rocketing architectural career; he barely mentioned her own achievements at Milford.
‘Anyway, we have some wonderful news,’ said Christopher after the waitress appeared with some green tea. Stella looked up sceptically.
‘Chessie is pregnant,’ he said, beaming. ‘It’s very early days. Chessie didn’t want to tell anybody til twelve weeks but we had to tell someone.’
Johnny reached across the table and put his hand over Chessie’s.
‘I’m so happy for you both. Mr Chase, that really is wonderful news.’
‘Well, it is at my age,’ he chuckled. ‘It turns out I can still do something after all.’
‘Yes, congratulations to you both,’ smiled Stella, willing herself to be happy.
‘Me, a mother,’ laughed Chessie. ‘I guess we’d better get the mini-breaks in while I still look good in a bikini.’
‘Well, make sure you’re around the third week in September,’ said Stella. ‘It’s the Milford launch party, during London Fashion Week.’
‘It’s my birthday then,’ said Chessie mournfully.
‘What? All week?’ said Stella, unable to hold it in.
‘We were planning on going away,’ replied Christopher with a note of reproach.
‘You have a lot of holidays,’ said Stella trying to sound light-hearted.
‘I’m just enjoying my retirement,’ said Christopher. ‘And with the baby on the way, I think we need a bit of fun while we still can.’
‘But you will try and come?’ pressed Stella.
‘We’ll certainly try,’ smiled her father.
Chessie’s slim white hand went proprietorially over her husband’s.
‘Or maybe we can pop down to the shop next time we’re in London,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything I fancy do you do family rates on the handbags?’
Stella managed to remain composed while Christopher paid the bill. He looked forgetful as he searched every pocket trying to find his wallet and Stella felt a simultaneous pang of sadness and anger.
‘We’re staying at the hotel tonight,’ he said when they’d finally paid up.
‘Why don’t you stay in the Bayswater flat?’ asked Stella. ‘I thought that’s what it was there for.’
‘I don’t come up to London very often,’ said her father, seeming to ignore the disapproval in her voice. ‘Chessie wanted it to be a treat.’
‘Of course,’ said Stella thinly, trying hard to keep the smile on her face. They all rose and Christopher kissed his daughter on the cheek. They moved into the hotel lobby, where Stella and Johnny congratulated them once again on the news about the baby and they turned away to go to their room. Suddenly Stella felt herself
well up with tears she could no longer contain. She covered her face and sobbed into her hands.
‘Stella! What the hell’s the matter?’ asked Johnny, looking around to make sure no one was watching them.
‘Nothing.’
‘Of course there’s something the matter. Tell me.’
He pulled her into a quiet corner of the lobby, sitting her down on a chair.
‘It’s just… Why do we bother meeting up? He hasn’t got more than a passing interest in my life, but anything that comes out of Chessie’s mouth he considers of life and death importance.’
‘Come on baby, you’re being dramatic’
‘No, every time I see him, I hope that things have changed,’ she said determined to get it all off her chest. ‘He’s not a bad man but he’s so wrapped up in her. I think my presence only reminds him about a past, a life he wants to forget.’
‘Stel, she’s his wife. You are his daughter but you barely see each other so, honestly, it’s not surprising you don’t have the closest relationship.’
He pulled her into a tight hug and she enjoyed smelling the cotton of his shirt and the smell of lime cologne.
‘Well then, I’m going to try harder,’ she said using the back of her hand to wipe away her tears. The unexpected news that he had another child on the way kicked in some strange competitiveness she didn’t understand.
‘Come on. Should we go for a drink?’ said Johnny briskly.
‘I just want to go home,’ she said sadly.
As they stepped out onto Park Lane, she noticed a photographer loitering on the pavement in front of them. ‘Oh shit, not now,’ she moaned, but it was too late.
The paparazzo had already advanced towards her, pointing a lens only feet away from her face.
‘Look, just piss off!’ she shouted angrily waving her arm in front of her, slapping the camera back into the photographer’s face. Startled, he lost his footing and his camera rattled to the ground.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he shouted, picking it up and chasing the two of them down the road, the motor drive of his camera whirling until they jumped into a taxi and sped off into the night. All in all, it hadn’t quite been the game of happy families Stella had hoped.