Wicked Pleasures (102 page)

‘Still? I thought you were coming back yesterday.’

‘I was. But Grandpa’s had another heart attack. Oh, only minor, I’ve seen him since, but he’s in hospital. Grandma’s distraught. I have to stay. And there are some nasty things going on. Really nasty.’

‘What sort of nasty? Charlotte, I told you I can’t talk now. I – shit, hang on a minute.’

The shares had suddenly dropped. He watched them for a minute or two, saw them go down another point, then went back to the phone.

‘Ring me tonight, will you? Or later? Or can I call you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘call me. As soon as you can. I’m at East 80th Street.’

The shares had dropped some more. Max hesitated, then made a decision. They might drop further, but he couldn’t be sure. He called the broker offering them and clinched the deal, then sat back, savouring the familiar heady sensation that was half physical, half mental. It was true, Jake was right, this game was sometimes better than sex.

He picked up the phone again.

When he had finished listening to Charlotte it was lunchtime; he told Jake he was going for a beer and went for a walk. The City was busy, the streets jammed, people rushing about looking important. He walked slowly, thinking; down Fenchurch Street, along Lombard Street, past the Cornhill, and along to Threadneedle Street and the Bank of England. Nobody who lived their lives in the Square Mile could help but be physically affected by the place, the strange contrast of the wild pace of day-to-day business, and the shadowy, narrow streets, the tall formal buildings, the sense of history, of time gone, measured not just in years but money, greed, profit, loss, success, failure. He stopped opposite the back of the old Stock Exchange and went into Throgmortons, down the faded grandeur of the stairs into the bar, and ordered a beer. It was full of market makers and journalists, shouting, telling dirty jokes, boasting about the morning’s trades and stories; Max stood pretending to read the
Financial Times
and hoped no one would recognize him. They didn’t. He didn’t usually drink at lunchtime, but he felt confused, disoriented, not himself. He decided he was hungry and went into the Long Room, further down still, and sat at one of the absurdly long rows of tables, like some subterranean city itself, ordered steak and kidney pie, and tried to work out how he felt about what Charlotte had told him. He certainly wasn’t sure how he felt about Fred III’s offer. It was what he had wanted so much a year ago; now he was settled, doing well, had friends, Dick Morton thought well of him. Did he really want to move? He’d have to start all over again, Miss Bossy-boots would be queening it over him, he’d have to endure the suspicion, resentment, all over again. Was it worth it?

Then he thought of the possible ultimate prize, of being a partner at Praegers, part of the family, and decided maybe it was. The sky really would be the limit there. Fred hadn’t promised that, Charlotte had said, but she had also said she knew he had meant it. He had made inquiries about Max, had heard
he was good. ‘It certainly isn’t because you’re family and he thinks he ought to, rather the reverse. But he does hate to think of you at Mortons, doing well, making money. Anyway, he says he’ll top whatever they pay you. You’d be in London, of course. At first anyway. I wish you would, Max. It would help. Strengthen my position.’

Well he certainly wasn’t going to say yes Grandpa, thank you Grandpa, I can’t wait Grandpa. He’d think about it.

That stuff about Freddy was really intriguing. Scary in a way. If Charlotte had got it right, she could lose her place in the sun. And on the board. All the more reason for him to go in with her, join forces. It was all very cloak and dagger: more like fiction than fact. But it made sense. Freddy had always hated Charlotte, she had said he was insanely jealous of her, and with Baby no longer there the bank was vulnerable. He could see that. And if Fred was going to snuff it – God. What a nightmare.

Charlotte had sounded extremely cheerful, for someone under duress. She said Gabe Hoffman had been very helpful, and then gone a bit girly. Maybe they’d finally got it together. He’d always thought they should. He’d thought Hoffman a good egg. A lot better than that ghastly Foster. How could Charlotte have got mixed up with someone like that, Max wondered, pushing his pie crust round his plate. What a naïve creature she must be. Well, she still seemed like a head girl to him with that brisk bossy voice of hers; not sexy to his way of thinking, but obviously to some. Maybe schoolgirls were one of Jeremy Foster’s things. Anyway, that was hardly the point. Charlotte had said she would be back in a week or so, and she hoped he’d have made up his mind by then. She said Freddy was threatening to come to the London office with this Drew person, and she’d like to have Max there.

There was of course the problem of Gemma. She wasn’t going to like the idea of his leaving Mortons. She enjoyed the fact that he worked for her father; it gave her further control over him. Sometimes Max felt that their whole relationship was just another adornment to Gemma, something to deck herself out in, to show off. She loved everything about being his girlfriend, about being half of a trendy, quasi showbiz and yet archetypically smart, socially acceptable couple. She liked the way they had an entree not just to the chic world of fashion, the creative haute monde, moving in the same circles as Jerry Hall, Yasmin Le Bon, the Geldofs, the David Baileys, rock and pop stars, fashion editors and writers, but also to the rock-solid, blue-chip world of the English aristocracy. She found herself written up in features, sought after for quotes about herself and Max in magazines like
The Face
and
Arena
, and
You
and
ES
, as well as starring with him in the society pages of
Tatler
and
Harpers
, at parties and balls and point-to-points. It all suited and excited her; there seemed no limit to where they might not go, find themselves, and she was charmed by it.

Gemma was first upset, then furious when Max broke the news. Tears welled up in her great brown eyes, and then when she had stopped being tearful, she turned on him.

‘How could you? After all Daddy’s done for you. Really, Max!’

‘Gemma darling, he hasn’t been paying me for nothing. Yes, he gave me a start. It’s been great. But I’ve done well there. I haven’t been a liability. Rather the reverse. Made him some money, even. And now I want – well I think I want – to make out on my own.’

‘On your own! Oh sure. In your grandfather’s bank. With your sister holding your hand. I think it’s pathetic. I really do.’

‘OK,’ he said easily, ‘I’m pathetic.’

He suddenly fancied her rather fiercely. He often did when she was being particularly stormy. ‘Look, darling, I’ll think about it, OK? Now can I take you home, please, and pleasure you for a bit.’

‘No,’ said Gemma crossly. ‘You can’t. Not unless you promise – oh Max, stop it. Don’t.’

He had his hand up her skirt; smoothing over her thighs, her slender, silky, glorious thighs. He moved a little further, feeling for the edge of her stockings, Gemma always wore stockings and very frilly suspender belts. She was that sort of girl. Max forgot about the bank, forgot about everything. He had to get her home.

‘Come on, darling. Let’s go.’

‘But – oh, well, maybe. We can talk about it in the car.’

She gave him a sulky smile. Max found it rather hard to walk out of the restaurant, his erection was so strong.

‘Shit,’ he said, as they drove along, ‘I just remembered. I don’t have my door key. Tommy has it. I’ll have to pick it up on the way. He’s at Angie’s.’

‘Oh Max, no. Can’t we go to my place?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I have to go home. Early start tomorrow. It won’t take a minute.’

They had stopped at some traffic lights; his hands were in her panties, fingering tenderly at her pubic hair. She was deliciously wet. ‘God, you’re gorgeous,’ he said.

‘Oh – well, all right,’ said Gemma. She was very responsive to flattery.

‘Max!’ said Angie, giggling gently, as she opened the door. ‘How lovely.’ She was very drunk and very obviously stoned. ‘Come along in. We’re drinking tequila. And having just a tiny smoke.’

‘I won’t come in,’ said Max, grinning at her. ‘What happened to the bridge game?’

‘Oh, it finished. Please do come in. I have a present for Gemma for her birthday. And I’d like it anyway.’ She was looking gorgeous: tousled and flushed, her green eyes very large and bright, moving over his face, up and down his body. ‘Please, Max!’ She leant forward and kissed him briefly; she smelt heady, hot, exciting. Max hesitated. ‘Well –’

‘Oh darling, please. Come on.’ She called over his shoulder down the steps at Gemma sitting in the car. ‘Gemma, come along in. Have a quick drink. I have a birthday present for you.’

‘I really don’t think we can, thank you,’ said Gemma slightly frostily. ‘We have to get home.’

Max suddenly felt irritated. Unfriendly little bitch. Here was Angie being generous and thoughtful and Gemma couldn’t have the courtesy to say thank you.

‘We’ll come in,’ he said. ‘Gemma, come on. Just ten minutes.’

‘I really think we should get back.’

‘Oh, don’t be dreary,’ said Max irritably. ‘I know what’s on your mind, but it’ll be even better after some of Tommy’s hash, it’s the most fantastic stuff. He absolutely refuses to tell me where he gets it.’

‘Come on in then,’ said Angie rather loudly, ‘only don’t make a noise and wake the nanny.’

‘Angie, my darling, the nanny’s out,’ said Tommy patiently. He had appeared behind her in the doorway. ‘You said goodbye to her yourself. Told her not to come back, in fact.’

‘I didn’t!’

‘You did.’

‘Oh well. Come on, you two.’

Max waited for Gemma and then walked into the house and up the stairs to the drawing room. Angie was giggling on the sofa.

‘What did she say, the nanny, when I told her not to come back?’

‘She just laughed,’ said Tommy. ‘I could really fancy that girl. Fantastic tits.’

‘Oh, that’s what Baby used to say,’ said Angie, and burst into tears.

Tommy promptly started cuddling her; Max poured her another tequila and sat down and cuddled the other side; Gemma stood looking at once sulky and embarrassed.

Angie stopped as suddenly as she had started, pushed them both away and smiled radiantly round.

‘Let’s play strip snap,’ she said.

‘What on earth is strip snap?’ said Tommy.

‘Like snap, only instead of giving up your cards, that is, as well as giving them up, you take something off.’

‘I like it,’ said Max. He felt a new sexual excitement now, more sensuous, less predictable than the one he had felt in the restaurant. ‘Tommy, are you going to make me one of those reefers of yours, or do I have to do it myself ? Gemma, do you want one, darling?’

‘I – I think really we should go,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m tired.’

‘Nonsense. This will revitalize you. You’ll be telling me you have a headache next.’

‘I do,’ said Gemma, ‘actually.’

‘I have some wonderful pills,’ said Angie, jumping up.

‘No really, don’t bother,’ said Gemma. ‘I don’t like taking pills. Mummy and I see a homoeopath. That’s so much better for you.’

‘Oh God,’ said Max, turning away from her. ‘Come on, folks, let’s get on with this game.’

‘I won’t play if you don’t mind,’ said Gemma awkwardly. ‘I’ll just read or something.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a pain in the arse,’ said Max. ‘Of course you must play.’

‘Max, I don’t want to.’

‘Well, Gemma, I want you to.’

She looked startled at the coldness in his voice; Angie and Tommy exchanged glances.

‘I’ll deal,’ said Tommy quickly. ‘Let Gemma do what she likes, Max. It’s her birthday.’

Half an hour and two more tequilas later, Angie was down to a black lace teddy, Max was wearing his boxer shorts –‘Lovely silk, darling,’ said Angie, stroking them appreciatively – and Tommy was almost fully dressed. Gemma was rather determinedly playing solitaire.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Angie, standing up. ‘I’m going to fix us all a sandwich. Anyone want anything else?’

‘I don’t even want a sandwich,’ said Max, his eyes moving over her rather intently, ‘I want another tequila. Quickly. And then maybe another game. Angie, do you still have the old roulette wheel?’

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Angie, moving over to him, stroking his hair gently, ‘what a keen little gamesman you are. Like father like son, eh Tommy? I bet you know where the old roulette wheel is.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Tommy.

And then they all realized, with a swiftness that froze them into sobriety, what they had said; and they all looked at Gemma, their eyes full of horror, like three naughty children.

‘Of course he’s not my father.’ Max was sitting in the small drawing room in Pond Place, looking rather sick. He had left with Gemma rather hurriedly, leaving Tommy to help Angie tidy up, as he put it. ‘Does he look like my father?’

‘Yes he does.’

‘Well so does Alexander. I mean Dad.’

‘Not as much as Tommy does.’

‘Oh for God’s sake. Now you really are scraping the barrel. It’s pathetic. Honestly, Gemma, I don’t know how you can read so much into a bit of drunken mickey taking. You’re more of a child than I thought.’

‘Max, I really am not that stupid. And it all makes perfect sense. Suddenly.’

‘Oh balls. What does?’

‘Your devotion to Tommy. Your funny relationship.’

‘Oh Gemma, you’re crazy. It’s you who’s talking nonsense now. It’s too absurd. Do you honestly think that some American guy could be my father? I’m Alexander Caterham’s son and heir. You ask him. He’ll tell you.’

‘I might,’ said Gemma. ‘I just might.’

‘Well go ahead,’ said Max lightly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to reassure you.’

‘Well who is Tommy then? What’s the bond between you?’

‘He was an old friend of my mother’s. Who was American, as you may care
to remember. He was down on his luck and we get on well, and – well, that was it really.’

‘But why do you live with him? In this –’she looked about her –‘this funny little house?’

‘Why shouldn’t I live here? It’s a very desirable neighbourhood.’ He spoke lightly, trying to defuse the tension.