Sleeping Cruelty (8 page)

When he got up for a pee, he saw his reflection in the full-length mirror. He was in appalling shape: his eyes were puffy and dark-ringed, his face was pasty. William had never been
handsome, but he had believed he was attractive, particularly since his success. He laughed bitterly to himself. Who would want him now? The depression returned. He had never been in love, had never felt passion the way Maynard had. He had wanted sex and been willing to pay for it, but he had never experienced ecstasy. Now, he thirsted for love.

He walked back into his darkened bedroom and threw on some clothes. First he called his office to say that he would be away for some time. Then he instructed his valet to pack a suitcase with evening suits and casual wear. He asked Michael to arrange for his jet to be fuelled and made ready to depart from Heathrow’s private airfield.

‘What destination shall I tell the pilot, sir?’ Michael asked.

‘Nice.’

‘Will you need your apartment prepared?’

‘No, I’ll be at the Hôtel Negresco. Book me a suite.’

‘Would you like me to arrange meetings?’

‘No, this is not business. I need . . .’ he gave the ghost of a smile ‘. . . need some space, as they say. I’m taking a break.’ He gave another wan smile. ‘Taking a break from my life, Michael. No more questions.’

The flight to Nice was comfortable, and the drive to the hotel uneventful. On arrival he didn’t unpack but telephoned the villa in Grimaud. Justin Chalmers’s villa. Part of him denied what he was doing, but the other part knew perfectly well: he was going to find water in the desert. He believed that here he would find solace for his lost soul.

A woman answered. ‘Countess Lubrinsky speaking.’

‘Sir William Benedict,’ he said. ‘A friend of Justin Chalmers. I’m going to be in Grimaud at the weekend . . .’

‘Really?’ crooned the Countess. ‘Then you must join us. We are having a small dinner party.’

‘I’d be delighted, thank you. If your plans change, I’ll be at the Negresco.’

‘I look forward to meeting you.’

The phone went dead and he replaced the receiver on the cradle. He had no idea what he was doing. It was the beginning of an adventure. He liked the sound of Countess Lubrinsky’s voice, but he really wanted to meet whoever had accompanied Chalmers to meetings with Maynard. Was this countess the beautiful woman to whom he had referred in the diary?

He thought again of how Maynard had described him, and his lips tightened. A buffoon! His whole body flushed with indignation. Was that what they all felt, how they all saw him? God Almighty, he wanted to get back at Maynard – at them all – and he would start with Justin Chalmers. That was why he had come to France. It was because he needed space to think, to make plans for how he would take his revenge. He would pay back
every one
of the bastards. No one was ever going to call him a buffoon again.

Chapter Five

T
he Countess Lubrinsky tied her silk sarong tighter round her slim waist, and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the telephone table. She ran her fingers through her thick auburn hair, the curls in ringlets around her neck. She had long tapering fingers with short, unvarnished nails, and wore no jewellery apart from a gold ankle bracelet. At forty years old, Sylvina was proud of her figure, and her sculpted face was without a wrinkle. Her slanting green cat-like eyes, fine straight nose and high wide cheekbones gave her the look of a mystic. She lit a cigarette and, turning to the right, caught Sharee’s reflection behind her. ‘Hello, darling, have you had your swim?’

‘No, just about to. Who was that?’

‘Some friend of Justin’s. I invited him to dinner.’

‘Oh, God, why do you always invite every stray he gives our phone number to?’

‘Because I presumed he’d arranged it.’

‘Well, don’t presume. Ring the bastard up and ask.’

‘Don’t start. It’s just for dinner, and I’ve left a message on his mobile.’

Sharee, blonde and fair-skinned, was twenty-four. She had a fuller figure than Sylvina, slightly plump around her bottom and thighs, with full, perfectly shaped breasts. Sylvina stared at her,
took a long drag on her cigarette and blew out a perfect smoke ring. It coiled around Sharee’s right nipple.

‘You smoke too much, Sylvina.’

‘I know. Keep still. Let me see if I can circle the left one too.’ She sucked at her Gitane, held her breath and pursed her lips. The smoke ring floated in the air and Sharee wafted it away, strolling out on to the patio.

She leaned against the balustrade and, one hand shading her eyes, watched the butterflies in the garden. Sylvina, not knowing their correct names, had called the various species after Parisian couturiers: the blue was Dior, a deep black, brown and orange one Schiaparelli, a remarkable multicoloured one Versace, and a rather dull moth type she found amusing to nickname Chanel.

‘Penny for them, sweetie,’ Sylvina said now, pouring herself a Dubonnet.

‘I was looking for a Gaultier,’ Sharee said, and turned back to the garden.

‘Did Justin use all those trees he cut down to build the bridges?’

‘No idea, darling,’ Sylvina said, flopping on to a teak sunlounger. Its cushions were hot from the sun, and she yelped.

‘You should open the parasols,’ Sharee said, and started towards the curved narrow staircase that ran round the outside of the house like a spiral of small white marble pillars. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ she said, and Sylvina watched her climb upwards to the rooftop pool.

‘I love you,’ she called out.

‘I should hope you do,’ came back the reply.

Dinner was to take place in a vast room with floor-to-ceiling windows draped in white muslin, lit by hundreds of candles. The huge table had a gold swan as a base, its wings balancing a slab of green-tinted glass. A vase of wild flowers, ferns and lilies sat on a large side table giving off a sweet and heady perfume.
Sylvina, wearing a white robe, moved around the table placing name-cards in gold butterflies. Satisfied that the table was perfect, she moved to the ornate stone hearth and lit the fire. She would have to turn up the air-conditioning because it was a very warm night, but the fire was such a focal point that it was a shame not to light it.

It was a stunningly beautiful room, every item chosen with great care. The heavy oak floor had been shipped in from England. It had once been in a castle but now looked as if it had always belonged here. The carved oak doors had been brought from a temple in Indonesia. Content, Sylvina walked upstairs to find Sharee.

She found her soaking in the bath, bubbles up to her chin, a towel wrapped around her hair and wearing an eye-mask. ‘You should get out, sweetheart – you’ll be wrinkled like a prune if you stay in any longer.’ Sylvina sat on the edge of the bath. ‘I called Justin again,’ she said.

‘And?’

‘He wasn’t there, and nobody seems to know where he is. But I have a feeling he might turn up, the way he does!’

‘Will she be with him?’ Sharee tossed the towel from her hair, and sat up in the bath.

‘How should I know?’ Sylvina snapped.

‘Don’t get ratty, I was only asking. She’s so difficult. I mean, I can take him on his own but when they’re together it’s just awful. They’re like . . .’ She frowned, pursing her lips in an attempt to find the right description, but none came. And, anyway, Sylvina had walked out.

Alone in her room, Sylvina chose a cerise Valentino tunic, tight-fitting with a split to her thigh and a mandarin collar. Her high-heeled sandals, which made her almost six feet tall, had been dyed to match. She coiled her hair into a pleat and placed a fresh freesia on either side of her head. Lastly she clipped on a pair of sparkling diamond drop earrings that had belonged to her grandmother.

Sharee came in wearing an ice blue, figure-hugging dress with T-bone straps.

‘You look cute,’ said Sylvina. ‘Are you going to put on some make-up?’

‘No. If I look and feel terrible, maybe I won’t eat.’

Sylvina laughed and wrapped her arms around Sharee. ‘I love you the way you are. I wouldn’t want you to lose an ounce.’

‘I look like shit.’

‘You don’t, honestly.’

‘Yes, I do. I wish you’d help me buy some decent things,’ Sharee muttered, checking her appearance in a long carved wooden mirror.

‘When I have the funds, darling, you’ll have whatever you want.’

‘Yes, I know. But in the meantime you look a million dollars and I look like some cheap hooker.’

Sylvina closed the wardrobe then bent to pick up the various shoes and sandals lying about on the floor. ‘God, you’re so untidy. Don’t you ever put things away?’

In fury, Sharee bent down and started gathering up shoes. When she had an armful she went on to the balcony and threw them over the rail. ‘Happy now?’ She turned, but Sylvina had left the room and Sharee felt foolish. She followed Sylvina out to the patio.

Sylvina passed her a glass of champagne. Sharee’s mood was beginning to irritate her. There wasn’t anyone special arriving, thank goodness, because actually Sharee did look cheap. Sylvina checked her watch: the guests were due in under an hour. She always liked to be ready in good time, and went in search of the housekeeper, Marta, to check that all was as it should be. Marta, who lived at the villa full-time, had hired two local boys as waiters. The chef was tutting round the various tureens and dishes laid out on the large wooden kitchen table. When she was satisfied that everything was on schedule Sylvina had a quiet word with Marta about Sharee’s shoes, then returned to the patio.

The grounds were floodlit, spotlights carefully placed round the fountain to make the spray look like shooting stars.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Sharee was happier now, reclining on the chaise, sipping champagne. She asked again who they were expecting, even though Sylvina had told her numerous times.

‘Baron and Baroness von Garten, Meryl Delaware, Count Frederick Capri and his guest Princess Constantina with her guest the actor Terence Hampton, and the unknown Sir William Benedict.’ Sylvina was a regular in the cheap French and English gossip magazines. She no longer even bothered to read them. However, now that she was broke, she tried to maintain some exposure so that the invitations kept pouring in. It was only at social functions that she was offered these house-sitting jobs. Sylvina’s relationship with Sharee was not public knowledge and she was keen to keep her sexual proclivities quiet. Luckily, so was Sharee, who entertained hopes of becoming an actress and knew how things like that could damage your chances – unless of course you were famous enough for it not to matter.

William sat back in the hired Mercedes. Mercifully the driver had not spoken a word since he had opened the door for him to get in. He looked down at his linen suit and wondered whether it was the right thing to have worn – linen creased so badly. He switched on the lights to examine his trousers, then worried that his shirt was too formal for the suit. By the time the car pulled up outside the gates he was sweating with nerves. He felt hot, badly dressed and wished he had not pushed himself on Countess Lubrinsky. And what if they didn’t speak English? But of course she did – he had spoken to her on the telephone. Should he have brought champagne or flowers? It was too late to do anything about that now. He’d have Michael send an arrangement the following day.

‘
Magnifique
,’ said the driver.

William leaned forward and looked out at the gardens. What a beautiful place! From the road there had been no indication of
what lay hidden behind the trees. A crescent of vehicles was parked in the wide horseshoe drive to the right of the villa’s front door, two Rolls Royces, a Porsche and a Citroën. The driver parked the Mercedes beside the Citroën, stepped out and opened William’s door. He stood to one side deferentially as William gave a nod of thanks, and made his way to the porch. Flowers in large white tubs were placed either side of the white steps, and the pillars were draped with pink blossom. William was about to ring the bell when the door opened and Marta, in a black dress and white apron, stood before him, smiling. ‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Please do come in.’

William walked past her into the hall as she closed the door quietly behind him.

‘Who may I say it is, please?’ Marta asked sweetly.

‘Sir William Benedict,’ he said gruffly.

She handed him a glass of champagne from a tray held by a young waiter, then ushered him into the drawing room where the smell of perfume mingled with lilies, Havana cigars and incense which made his head spin. Immediately he wished the ground would open and swallow him. The male guests were all wearing black or white tuxedos and the women, as far as he could see, long evening dresses.

‘Sir William Benedict,’ Marta announced.

The stunning woman in a cerise dress who approached him with a wide welcoming smile was the Countess. She introduced herself as Sylvina and said, ‘How very kind of you to join us.’ William saw immediately that she had recognized him from the magazines and glanced round the room. He spotted the horrified expressions on the faces of the Baron and Baroness von Garten.

‘It’s the ghastly parvenu who was going to buy one of the factories.’ The Baroness’s stage whisper to her husband echoed round the room. The Baron’s lawyers had ceased all negotiations as soon as the scandal had become public. He had not wanted his family name tarnished by association with misdemeanour, particularly one with homosexual undertones.

William’s smile froze on his lips. The Baron had cost him a lot of money by withdrawing from their deal. Worse still, he had sold instead to William’s strongest competitor. It was not just a financial slap in the face, he had also lost out on a vast potential European market. He had not yet found another suitable site and, more infuriatingly still, the rival company that had bought the factory had made offers to the staff William had earmarked for positions and interviewed in Germany. The Baron and Baroness now turned their backs on him. If he compiled a list of people to take a swipe at, these two stuck-up sons-of-bitches would be close to the top.

Sylvina had noticed William’s embarrassment and now linked her arm through his and guided him towards the other guests. ‘I am sure you know Meryl Delaware?’ she purred.

William felt his belly turn over. It was bad enough to have the von Gartens cut him dead, but now he was faced with this fat, painted bitch with her gossip-tuned ears. Meryl, dressed in black lace with too many fake diamonds around her neck, turned to face him. Her red mouth dropped open in shock. Then she forced a brittle smile. Meryl Delaware had written one of the most unsavoury articles about him and Maynard for one of the glossy magazines. In it she had hinted that Sir William had appeared very close to his protégé, and had illustrated it with a photograph of William leaning forward to talk to Maynard. As with many other photographs, it had been doctored to exclude the other members of the party to make it look as if the two had been having an intimate, candlelit dinner. ‘How do you do?’ she said, before turning back to face the wall.

The atmosphere changed swiftly from sophisticated elegance to the deep silence of unease. Everyone but Sharee was fully aware of who William was and unsure how to react.

Sylvina gestured to Marta to refill her champagne glass, and told her to adjust the place settings. Sir William should sit next to her with Terence Hampton on his other side. Terence was a social ‘actor’: you could put him next to anyone and the
conversation would never dry up, as long as it revolved principally around himself.

As the guests were ushered towards the dining room, Sylvina fell into step beside William. Suddenly the von Gartens were standing in front of her. As though William was not there, the Baroness announced, ‘I’m afraid it is inappropriate for us to dine here, after all.’

Nothing like this had ever happened to Sylvina. ‘I’m sorry, Baroness. Are you feeling unwell?’ she said. ‘Please do stay, dinner is served.’

‘Maybe if someone was asked to leave . . .’ said the Baron, eyeing William.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sylvina. ‘Sir William is my own personal guest.’

William was appalled. He shifted from foot to foot and stammered, ‘It’s all right, I’ll go.’

Sylvina gripped his arm. ‘No way, baby.’

She was still smiling as the Baron and Baroness huffed and puffed their way out of the door. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I have seated you beside me, so we can get to know each other.’

William murmured that he could think of nothing he would like more. He felt even better when she patted the sleeve of his jacket. ‘This is from the new Armani collection, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ he said, flushing deeply.

‘I thought so, and so much more comfortable in this heat than a dinner-jacket.’ She whispered, ‘No smell of mothballs.’

He caught her warmth and her wonderful, genuine smile, and began to feel more confident.

‘I’m sorry about that little unpleasantness earlier.’ She leaned right into him and added, ‘The Baron is no paragon of virtue and neither is his wife. How odd that they should show such bad manners.’