The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) (19 page)

We stare at each other for a moment. We are both holding our knives and forks in the air like spears, the food not quite reaching our lips.

I gulp. ‘God, this really is too much information.’

She jabs her steak at me before popping it into her mouth. ‘He used to hear her moaning in Gustav’s bed and it drove him up the wall with frustration.’

My sweet salmon hash threatens to find its way back up my throat. She might as well have stabbed me with her knife and fork. Cold sweat prickles under my hair. ‘Stick to the night in question. Please.’

‘Yes, your honour. So now the tables have turned, she’s the damsel in distress, crying and sobbing on his bed, tearing off her shirt, terrified of big bad Gustav, and Pierre goes to comfort her, and she pulls him down on top, and Pierre’s burning for her because just the sight of her in the doorway, her long bare legs, everything sweaty and ripped and dishevelled, has turned him on and she wastes no time, she’s got his trousers off, the story about how he got those burns on his skin comes later, when they’ve finished, so her hand is wrapped round him, she’s wriggling about on top of him like an eel and bingo!’ She slaps her hand down on the table, making the cutlery rattle and our earwigging neighbours spill their drinks. ‘She’s banging him senseless.’

‘Bingo!’ I repeat faintly. My mouth has dropped open. It seems that half the diner is now listening in, but perhaps that’s just my heightened sensitivity. I try to cough, but my throat is blocked. ‘Pierre fell for the oldest trick in the book. Ever heard of Delilah?’

Polly stabs another piece of steak with her fork, and a little blood runs out of it. She lifts it up in front of her mouth and studies it. Her eyes are chips of blue glass arrowing at me.

‘He was shagging his brother’s wife. Graphic enough for you?’ she hisses quietly. We all, me, the guys at the next table, the waitress bringing their check, we all watch Polly as she pops the steak into her mouth, the flexing of the muscles in her jaw as she chews. ‘And the
coup de grâce
is your Gustav, walking in on them. The rest you know.’

I smash the remains of the salmon hash on my plate. Our new beers arrive, droplets of condensation running down their smooth glass sides. I lift the glass and lick moisture off the side.

‘The only good thing is it’s all out in the open now.’

Polly wipes a chip round the bloody gravy on her plate. As she nibbles it she notices our audience at the next table, who are very quietly counting out dollar bills. She turns and realises they’re all listening to her. She frowns for a moment. The old Polly would have started flirting outrageously.

‘Serena, there’s nothing good about any of this. Everything’s trashed. Pierre and I were only together a bit longer than you and Gustav, but things were going great. We were even talking about moving in together.’

‘So soon? Polly, stop torturing yourself! You can’t blame Gustav or me. You can’t pin this all on Margot, either. Pierre’s acting of his own accord now. She’s history!’

‘I know. Deep down I know that. I’ve spent all afternoon lashing out at you, all of you, but I’m not being totally honest. Pierre was already acting weird before we all collided in the gallery in London. Before any mention of Margot.’ Polly slumps down in her seat, turning her glass so roughly that the beer spills on to the table. ‘Truth is, I can’t face up to the real reason he doesn’t want me any more.’

Her eyes are hard and fixed on me, filled with tears. The tallest of the guys at the next table slips her his business card. She picks it up without glancing at him and he stumbles out awkwardly after his mates. Once she would have called out something witty.

‘There’s something else?’

‘Some
one
else. He was getting the odd text and phone call in December around the time we met you in the gallery. He started being off with me on occasion, then being really apologetic, all passionate and loving, but around Christmas it got manic. Calls and texts at all hours. When we were having dinner. The cinema. The middle of the night. You can’t have missed his phone going off when we were at your pad? He kept telling me it was work, you know, the time difference with the West Coast or Europe. But it’s as if we were being watched. As if she knew exactly what he was doing and she wanted him to stop it.’

‘She? Oh, God, you’re scaring me now, Polly.’

Polly wipes her napkin across her mouth, several times, rubbing harder, harder, as if she’s trying to rub the lipstick off. Rub the blood out of her lips.

‘Not Margot. I told you. Someone else. I guess now I’m out of the way he’s at liberty to answer these calls. But whenever I was present he never spoke. Just listened. Then he’d get all hyper, get rough with me. Apologetic. The usual cycle. Rena, I’m certain he’s got another woman.’

I lean across the table, take her hands and crush them in mine. I am wrestling with pity for her and relief that we have finally dropped the subject of Margot. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Not me. You, Serena.’ She tangles her fingers with mine. ‘I want you to speak to him for me.’

‘Who? Gustav?’

‘No. I want you to speak to Pierre. You had your heads together thick as thieves the other night at your place. He likes you. He said so when we left, and it wasn’t just to please me. You’re the one person he seems to respect at the moment.’

I try to keep my gaze calm, even while my face is heating up. Pierre said as much to Gustav, too. I try to ignore the unexpected tingle of pleasure this flattery gives me. ‘Well, I’ve got a commission coming up at the Club Crème, then, as it happens, we’re meeting him to discuss some proposal he has for me. But I’m not sure that’s the appropriate time to probe him …’

‘That will be the perfect time! I need you to do this, Rena.’ Polly pulls me towards her across the table so that we are nose to nose. ‘I want you to help me get him back.’

Gustav and I are staring at each other across the vast space of the apartment, the afternoon light blinding my tired eyes.

‘I came. I saw. I conquered. And I came out nearly a hundred grand richer.’

I’m drunk, and it shows. It’s only teatime, but it’s all the fine wines they plied me with at the Club Crème. And I’m also drunk on my success.

‘You excelled yourself today, Serena. Really. I’m proud of you. You got all the shots those Robinson boys wanted, which incidentally will be resurrected for blackmail one day if they ever run for Senate, but you know the club director asked to acquire copies? For the first time in the club’s history he’s thinking of replacing those antiquated oil paintings of founder members with photographs of the new generation. And they are going to be
your
photographs!’

Gustav undoes his bow tie and lets the black tails dangle onto the snow-white pleats of his dress shirt. He is moving very slowly and deliberately, and his eyes are glittering dangerously. Even through my alcohol haze I sense that a second commentary is undercutting his quiet words.

‘Well, you’re not my agent and manager and benefactor and patron for nothing!’ I give a little snigger, which turns into a hiccup. ‘You are the man who made this all possible!’

‘Don’t you forget it. We are a team. Inextricably linked. That piece of paper still exists, you know.’

I frown woozily. ‘Why are you bringing that up?’

I hear the echo of Pierre’s voice, in this very room on New Year’s Eve.
He got you locked into some confidentiality clause?

‘Just … your success is my success. There is not one without the other. I’m not merely your shadow, Folkes. I have big plans in the pipeline.’ His voice is a quiet hiss, but I’m too drunk to process that at the time. ‘So let’s not do anything to blow this partnership. Or your career.’

‘Why you being all grim and scary, Gustav?’

He takes a breath, irons out the lines in his face. Waves his hand carelessly in the air and goes to flick on the kettle. ‘Sorry. Don’t mean to rain on your parade.’

‘Let’s talk some more about the Club Crème. Did you know it’s a rule that members are masked when they are up to no good to protect their identities? Which must be pretty much all the time! It made my job easier, actually, but it was like watching a lot of marionettes. And those barmaids, when they revealed themselves as strippers. The poor bridegroom!’ I am burbling now but I don’t care. ‘They left his tackle in such a state that Princess Emilia might get out of her wedding night after all!’

I try to look carefree and confident but the hiccup spoils the effect. I giggle and turn to follow him into the kitchen for a glass of water.

‘Those barmaids were professional sex workers, Serena. But you are not, which is why I have to punish you for what happened when everyone adjourned to the private smoking den afterwards.’

I stop by the big white counter, fold my arms to hug the burgundy velvet of my cocktail dress. Now we get to it. What’s really bothering him. Fear rushes up from my feet in a cold wave, and I have to flatten my hand out on the wall to steady myself.

‘Thank God it was almost totally dark in there, even though it was broad daylight outside. It’s like being a hobbit, or a mole. But I still don’t know why you’re being so grouchy. You’ve said I’m allowed adventures and experiments, so long as you are there.’ I toss my head, relish the thick tickle as my hair drops slowly out of the pins and trails down my bare spine. ‘I’ve not stepped over any lines.’

Gustav’s black hair falls over his eyes as he shakes coffee into the cafetière. His teeth bite down into his lower lip. ‘I know I said that. And I meant it.’

‘Why didn’t you stop me if it was upsetting you? Actually, I thought it might turn you on. You’re giving me mixed messages, Gustav.’ I persist. ‘Oh, sod this. I need to take a nap.’

‘You had them eating out of your hand, Serena. I couldn’t spoil your moment.’ Gustav hesitates, then produces the silver chain. He twists it round his knuckles like a cowboy winding in a lasso. ‘I would never go back on my word. In any case, protesting would have made me look a jealous fool as well as going against the ethos of the club. To be honest, I’m confused myself. Which is a first. I can’t say I enjoyed watching you cavorting in front of a bunch of drooling strangers. But it did turn me on, because you were sexy as hell.’

‘I’ve hurt you, Gustav, and I’m sorry.’ I bow my head, feel the blush rising, heating my cheeks. ‘I’m a very naughty girl.’

‘And? What else is going on in that beautiful head of yours?’ Gustav stops a few feet away from me, the silver chain drawn taut between his hands. ‘Are you plotting some other wickedness? Because it seems that, no matter how wicked you are, I want you all the more.’

I smile up at him, but I can’t bring myself to admit what’s bothering me about those so-called strangers. One in particular. I hold my wrists out so he can tie them with the silver chain, and I say the first thing that comes to my head. ‘You know, I might have gone further if you hadn’t been there to save me. Do your worst to me, Gustav. I deserve it.’

His dark face finally relaxes, and he comes towards me, the glitter of lust in his eyes. I shiver with excitement, but also a tiny nag of dread.

Because it’s true that most of the men in that smoking den were strangers. But there was one man I think I recognised.

I behaved badly today, no question. But it felt good, too. I worked hard on the Robinson brothers’ commission, and then I got drunk, because everything was crowding in on me. Polly’s request for my help. Gustav’s troublesome brother. Gustav’s bloody ex-wife.

What I did was, I danced, dirtily, for a bunch of members at the Club Crème. If I hadn’t danced, I would have let one or more of them have me. Gustav was there, and maybe he would have stepped in, but I wasn’t dancing just for him. I think the devil was driving me.

We had all adjourned to the tartan-decorated smoking den, me, the Robinson brothers, the groom, and various stags, for some ‘after’ photographs. Gustav went to speak to the director about the photographs he wanted to buy and I was left alone with several horny men. Anything could happen. They sat about the smoking den on sofas, chairs and window seats, and two of them had come to lean against the mantelpiece on either side of me. One was the groom, the other had thick blond curls, and they were still masked from their earlier shenanigans.

We were all exhausted, even though it was a dark, wintry mid-afternoon. The high-class strip show and audience participation in the bar just now had made my viewfinder steam up. The stunning six-foot females stripping off their barmaid uniforms to reveal nothing but leopard-spot body paint and sequins had given us a very slow, very detailed introduction to full-on lesbian sex, and I had produced a fantastic series of arty photographs. They were jungle animals prowling through a sophisticated city bar. Jungle animals devouring sophisticated city boys.

Accompanied by a low, throbbing bass beat they had mimed a story about five girlfriends with the dynamic of a ringleader, followers and shy hanger-on. They started off admiring, teasing and flirting with each other before kissing experimentally. The ringleader picked the two she fancied the most, lying back on the bar while they serviced her with tongues and teeth on her nipples, fingers between her legs, leaving the other two to vie for her attention with their own increasingly raunchy dance on the sidelines.

When one of these two produced a couple of huge white dildos and tested them with an explosively sexy dance that ended with them using the toys on each other, and then the shy one, all inhibitions shed, started to edge with her dildo towards the boss girl’s open legs, the effect on the men was exactly as intended. The stags pushed forward the feebly protesting groom and the two Robinson brothers, yanked their trousers down and guffawed uproariously when the girls compared their erections with the now glistening dildos, apparently found them wanting, and turned their backs to use the dildos on each other again.

The men – all mouth, no trousers – thought they were off the hook but the girls then became the leopards they were painted as and took a man each, so acrobatically that the other girls were ‘forced’ to abandon their display and join in.