Imogen started dancing as well. She had the distinct sense that there was another, more exclusive party going on somewhere else in the house: a room where other, naughtier things were going on. Perhaps that was where Xander was. Then, suddenly, the floor cleared and she saw him.
He was in the middle of the dining room, swaying gently despite the fierce beat of the music. He had his arms wrapped round a beautiful girl, tall, coltish on high heels, a river of dark hair flowing down her back, and he was kissing her passionately. Imogen froze, unable to tear her eyes away from them.
‘There you are!’ It was Allegra, her eyes wide and her pupils dilated. She must have taken something. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Around,’ Imogen said. ‘Who’s that with Xander?’ She pointed over and Allegra followed with her gaze.
‘Oh, that’s Temple. His girlfriend,’ Allegra said. ‘Shall we go outside and get some air? It’s so stuffy in here.’
Of course he has a girlfriend
, Imogen thought dully, as she nodded and followed Allegra out of the dining room.
I’m so stupid. Why on earth is he going to fancy me when he can have a girl like that?
Chapter 14
New York
2003
‘HERBIE, KEEP THE
fuckin’ noise down, will ya?’ Mitch pounded on the paper-thin wall. He could hear Herbie and his girlfriend like they were next to him in the bed, with Linda gasping and shrieking as Herbie panted and groaned with the effort of banging her.
I gotta get some decent sleep
, he thought blearily, but now he was awake, he couldn’t fall back into oblivion. The sound of Linda’s ecstatic orgasm gave him a rearing hard on, so he shuffled off a quick one for himself then lay back on his thin futon, trying not to worry about the restaurant.
It’s all right for Herbie. He’s so crazy, no one’s ever gonna make him in charge of shit. But me … they keep giving me more and more to do
.
Mitch had given up on his ambitions years ago, but they still kept coming back to haunt him via the chefs and restaurants where he worked. No matter how hard he played, how many hours he stayed up drinking and smoking, it seemed that his natural talent for cooking made people notice him. And then they realised that he was also good at running a kitchen: his staff liked him (particularly the waitresses, who were always ready to welcome him into their beds) and worked hard for him, and he grasped quickly
and
easily the mechanics of running a business. He knew how to squeeze every bit of value from the food, how to turn valuable scraps and leftovers into delicious – and cheap – daily specials, and how to keep his staff costs low. All of this meant that he could keep the narrow restaurant margins as healthy as possible, and his bosses liked him for it. They were always sorry when he decided to move on, which he did often, usually because Herbie was fired and Mitch, from some inexplicable sense of loyalty, went with him.
Then somehow, after three years of bumming around the New York restaurant scene, he’d got a job in a classy midtown joint called the Greywell Brasserie, where the head chef, Patrice, ruled by terror and the sonic pitch of his screams. He was a crazy guy, a bona fide psychotic Frenchman who yelled and spat during service if things didn’t go his way, threatening his sous chefs with knives if he didn’t like the way they worked. But he cooked like an angel – real, classical French stuff, a world away from the burgers that Mitch had started out flipping, or the fries he’d learned to turn out by the basket full back home. He felt his old enthusiasm, long dormant and kept that way by the shit he still liked to smoke, stir and awaken as he became excited by what Patrice could teach him.
‘You gotta go to France, man,’ the chef would drawl to him as he sucked down another glass full of the rich red wine he loved while they sat in their favourite late-night drinking dive after the restaurant was closed. His accent was a curious mix of French and New York slang. ‘I’m telling you, Mitch, you can’t cook until you’ve learned ze French way. You should go to Paris. I got friends zere, I can get you a place if you want one.’
‘Maybe.’ Mitch took a long toke on his Camel, sucking it in like a diver pulling on his oxygen tube. He puffed out, his knees jerking and his fingers tapping the counter. He still
found
it so hard to come down after seven hours in the kitchen. The whisky helped. He lifted his glass to his mouth and drank.
‘You gotta do it, Mitch! You got talent, eet’s true. But wizzout learning French cuisine …’ Patrice gave a Gallic shrug. ‘You can’t make ze big time.’
‘I don’t have to go to France. I could go to catering school.’
‘Uh-huh.’ The chef laughed derisorily. ‘
Oui
. But you wanna learn to turn out avocado mousse, cut tomatoes into roses and cry when your fucking soufflés sink? Fuck zat sheet! Go to France and get your fucking ’ands dirty, man.’
Mitch stared at him, then shrugged. ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ The truth was, he didn’t want to go anywhere. He liked it in New York just fine, even if he was still sharing dives with Herbie and looking down the barrel of his thirtieth birthday – now only two years away – with no savings and no real idea of what he was going to do with his future. Maybe partying and living the single life would get boring in a while, but he was in no hurry to pack it in just yet.
Once he was up, there was no point in hanging around the apartment with Linda there. The place felt crowded with the three of them so Mitch decided to go for a walk uptown to Central Park, get some clean air in his lungs.
He felt like he was wandering into a strange country as he made his way up the broad sidewalks into the more expensive part of town. Did he really live in the same city as all these people? These were daytimers, who got up at normal hours and went to bed before midnight. Mitch felt grey and unhealthy as he wove his way through the tourists and the office workers, aware that he was looking jaded by his nocturnal, hard-drinking, hard-living lifestyle. He was dazed by the colour and noise of the outside world.
He stared into the shop windows as he passed: impossibly
slender
mannequins modelled the latest fashions.
Who the hell really looks like that?
he wondered, but then he realised that there were girls climbing out of discreetly expensive cars and tottering into the boutiques who were just as slim and unreal-looking as the pretend ones. They had glossy curtains of highlighted hair, immaculate, velvety skin, and whiter-than-white eyes and teeth. Huge handbags in exotic leathers – snake, crocodile, ostrich – hung off their waif-like arms, and they balanced on the kind of shoes that no one who did anything sensible for a living could possibly wear.
Rich bitches
, he thought darkly. He saw plenty of them in the restaurant: sleek little honeys who only ate the meat on their plate, or demanded food off the menu, or simply returned everything untouched.
Dried up harpies
, he told himself.
They’re not real. You don’t get to be that way by eating and drinking and acting like a normal human being
. Then he laughed at himself.
And how much of a normal human being am I?
He walked on, eager for greenness and nature, resolutely turning his back on the Park Avenue princesses. They were nothing more to him than dolls.
But those slender legs and the smooth, golden skin must have stirred something in him because when he got to the restaurant that night, he pulled Willa, his favourite waitress, to their regular meeting place in the dry store and humped her hard up against the wall, while she dug her fingers into his back and rubbed herself against him until they both came fast and hard.
‘Seemed like you needed that, Mitch,’ she said, smiling, as she straightened her clothes afterwards.
He grinned at her. ‘Maybe I did.’
‘You know, we could always make this little arrangement more … permanent, if you like?’ She spoke casually as she put her hand to her hair, making sure it was still neat.
‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head. ‘Believe me, sweetheart, I’m doing you a favour. You don’t want to get mixed up with a dead beat like me. I’m no good for any woman – not in the long term, anyhow. You’ve just had the best of me, and that’s the truth.’
Chapter 15
Paris
2003
THE NOBLEMAN OPPOSITE
dismissed the sommelier with a tiny nod of his head, and then raised his eyebrows and smiled at Romily.
‘Have you tried this?’ he asked, lifting his glass.
She picked up hers and sipped a little of the cold Puligny-Montrachet. ‘Delicious,’ she said.
‘Yes. It has a fine, clean, mineral taste, has it not?’ He smiled again.
He’s so handsome
, Romily thought admiringly,
even if he is old. And he has so much to teach me
. The marquis had grey hair shading into white, and his face, although lined and well-worn, was tanned a youthful golden-brown that made his eyes seem bright under his slightly too-bushy eyebrows. He was turned out in perfect smart dress-down clothes: Ralph Lauren trousers with a knife-edge crease, an Armani shirt, and a blue cashmere jumper slung round his shoulders. On his feet were Gucci loafers. Everything about him was discreetly expensive.
They had met at the Crillon Ball where Romily had made friends with his daughter. The girls had spent a happy afternoon together, preparing for the ball and comparing their ravishing gowns, and in the evening Clothilde had
introduced
Romily to her father. The marquis was charming, sophisticated and polished. He obviously found her delightful company. He had rung the next day and they had met for lunch, and soon they were lunching together most days. She had quickly guessed that he wished to introduce her to the arts of love. Then he had changed an afternoon engagement to an evening one, and she’d known for sure that she was being seduced.
Getting ready for the evening she had been extra careful, showering slowly and making up her face with more attention than usual. She’d gazed into her own brown eyes, thinking with nervous excitement that when she next saw herself like this, she would no longer be a virgin.
Now, facing him over their table in the Brasserie Lipp, she felt daring and ready, eager to be initiated.
He leaned towards her slightly. ‘My dear, I have a question for you. I don’t think it will come as a great surprise.’
‘Yes?’ She blinked innocently but inside she was jubilant.
‘I will come straight to the point: I wish you to become my mistress. You are young, I know, but I’m sure we will have much to enjoy together.’ He sounded as suave and relaxed as though he were simply asking her if she liked vanilla ice cream.
She tried to stay calm and cool. ‘What a very … interesting … invitation. I take it your wife will have no objection?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, no, none at all. She is very happy with her own lover. Several of them, I believe. Neither of us believes in denying the other the pleasures of life. A happy marriage depends on the fulfilment of both. What use is it if we both become bitter and dried up, denied the necessity of making love with whoever it is we are attracted to? No, we have a very civilised arrangement, as do most married couples.’
‘Do they?’ Romily was surprised, but now she considered it, perhaps it was a sensible arrangement, if old people no longer loved each other. It was not something she could imagine for herself, of course. Whoever she married would be the love of her life, her grand passion, and she would never tire of him. ‘Well, that’s good, I suppose.’
‘So, what is your answer, Romily?’
She hovered on the brink and then said, ‘Yes. I think I would like that very much.’
He took her to an exquisite little flat in St-Germain-des-Près, in a honey-coloured stone building shut away from the street behind enormous green doors with great brass lions’ heads on the front.
‘Have you had many mistresses here?’ Romily asked, feeling nervous for the first time. It seemed the place was a shrine to love: antique erotic prints on the walls, small nude sculptures on the cabinets, daybeds, pillows and cushions everywhere.
The marquis smiled. ‘Of course. But I was faithful to each one.’
He went to her and gazed into her eyes. ‘You’re very beautiful, my dear, do you know that? Not simply in your body. As soon as I saw you, I recognised your soul. You may be young, but you have a natural maturity and understanding. I knew at once we would be a perfect fit.’ He bent his head and put his lips to hers. They were cool but then he opened his mouth and the next moment she was tasting his warm mouth, feeling his tongue turning around hers. He tasted male, with a faintly bitter edge.
Perhaps that’s because he’s so old
, she thought, and that was all she was able to think before her body’s reactions became her only concern.
He took her into the tiny boudoir, a room that was almost
all
bed, and slowly removed her clothes, kissing her all the time. Somehow he also managed to strip himself and then they were both naked, her soft ripe body with its small brown-tipped breasts pressed against his rangy lean one, with the grey thatch of hair spreading out over his chest. His erect penis was pressed against her thigh, distracting her with its radiating heat and purposeful hardness.
The marquis meanwhile was interested in nibbling her rose-brown nipples, grazing them with his teeth and sucking them hard, which was making her groin contract with excitement. His fingers were roaming around her pussy, touching and stroking, teasing her unbearably. She could feel that she was wet and swollen, everything in her preparing for the moment when he would enter her.
‘Are you protected, my dear?’ he muttered.
She shook her head, sighing and gasping as his thumb rolled over her bud. It had not occurred to her. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Did this mean they would have to stop?
‘I thought not. That is something you must address. But today is for your pleasure, not mine, so I shall make the sacrifice.’ He rolled over and took a foil packet from the ebony casket by the bed, and a moment later had deftly sheathed his penis in the condom. ‘And now,’ he whispered, ‘I think it is time.’