Beauty (25 page)

The doorbell rang.

‘I know I can trust you not to make a scene,’ Penelope Johnson said.

Edward reluctantly got up and moved to the side.

‘Monsieur Philippe Leclerc,’ the butler said.

Monsieur, my ass. He’s about as French as a burger and fries. Probably born here
.

Philippe entered the room, beaming, in his elegant suit, with a Louis Vuitton luggage set being received by the servants in the hall behind him.

‘Penelope.
Chérie
. What a happy day.’ He drew close and kissed her softly, on both cheeks. ‘And the wonderful
Edouard
.
Salut
. I am so happy you could join us on this special evening.’

‘I believe you’re joining
us
, Mr Leclerc.’

Penny shot a look of daggers at him.

‘
Bienvenue
,’ Edward said.

‘How charming! He speaks French. You have certainly raised a wonderful young man, Penelope. I look forward to getting to know you, Edward, as we live together now.’

‘Isn’t this wonderful!’ Penny said. She looked eagerly at Edward. ‘Aren’t you two going to be such friends?’

‘Ah! God! Not so rough! Angel! Angel!’ shrieked the girl.

Edward looked down at her, splayed and tied over the table. Her buttocks were red – lacerated with the whip.
Angel
was her safe word.

He lashed her again. And again. The rage was thick in him. She was a hooker, undocumented; he could have her deported. His fury was all that counted. His fury at Dina, at his mother.

Strike.

Scream.

She was sobbing, begging. ‘No more! No more! Please, I’ll do anything. Anything …’

‘You’ll do anything, anyway,’ he snarled, and hit her.

The girl moaned, then her head lolled as she fainted.

Edward Johnson unbuttoned his fly, and started to rape her.

The feeling subsided a bit, after that. It worked every time. But it always came back. He liked it, liked giving money-hungry sluts what they deserved. He would dress, drop a few hundred on the bed and leave.

Some men in the scene were dumb. They stuck with the same girls and the same places. They got caught – lawyers, police, lawsuits, names in the papers.

Edward bounced around – fake names, new clubs, paying only in cash. He went to motels, not the women’s apartments. No cameras. They were hookers and they got money, enough for some quack to stitch them up.

Tonight, though, as he showered in his room in the hotel across the street, he already knew it wasn’t enough. He wanted control, real control. Philippe Leclerc was sitting in his house, drinking his father’s wine, fucking his mother, and all without a cent to his name.

The guy was dead meat. And he meant that literally.

‘I think you should consider a prescription,’ Dr Summers said.

Edward stared at him. ‘What for? I’m not ill.’

‘For anxiety. I’d like to put you on a course of Klonopin.’

Edward rolled his eyes. ‘Please. Sedative pills? Do I look frightened?’

Yes
, Dr Summers thought.
Very
.

‘Edward, you have many issues to work through. They go back beyond your fling with the waitress, beyond the divorce. Your early behaviours with women . . . You have esteem issues, anger issues. This runs deeper than you know. I feel strongly that you need calm to begin the work.’

‘I am calm, doctor. I’m just worried for my mother.’

‘You’re not sleeping, Edward. You’re erratic.’

He sat on the couch, head bowed. ‘OK, doctor, you can give me the prescription. Thank you.’

Always important to keep them happy. What the fuck did this guy know? Edward’s mother insisted on this therapy, when she was the one who was insane.

Edward went to a pharmacy to fill the prescription. Who knew? It might come in useful. He wasn’t sleeping, but then sleep was overrated. Besides, he had other ideas for those pills.

‘Faustina?’ His secretary was waiting in the little office space, sitting there, reading a magazine. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Oh, sorry, Edward; we haven’t had any calls . . .’

She blinked; her boss hadn’t darkened the door for days. Wasn’t she supposed to sit here and be decorative?

‘First of all, you call me
sir
. I’m the boss.’

‘OK . . . sir.’

‘Second of all, get me some real-estate brokers. I want to see apartments – between one and two million. And mortgage brokers, too.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then get me a call sheet of all my mother’s financial advisers. I want to check something.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And lastly, get Cabot Associates on the phone.’

The older woman blinked. What had got into Edward Johnson?

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, nervously.

This was a good job, where she mostly did nothing. She didn’t want to lose it.

Edward went into his office and slammed the door, and Faustina picked up the phone. Better get dialling.

That shrink was right about one thing, Edward thought. He
was
angry. He was so angry, the rage was now cascading from his heart into a whirlpool of hate. His father. His friends. Dina Kane. His mother. He had
rescued
his mother, and now she treated him like this, moving him aside for some penniless Frenchman.

He hated her stupidity. He could hear them laughing on Park Avenue.

At first, Edward had been lazy . . . He’d only wanted the money and an easy life.

But now he wanted revenge. And it was going to require some work.

He thought about the girl, blubbering and moaning as he lashed her exposed buttocks, slammed into her unconscious, warm body. God, that felt good; the control felt good. It was a long time since Edward Johnson felt good.

He was going to take back what belonged to him – not his wastrel quitter of a father; not Philippe; not his treacherous mother, who valued a smooth tongue and a fake compliment over her own son – him. Edward. His mind drifted to his picture, his perfect-future picture. Edward Johnson on the lawn of his Hamptons beach house, kissing his wife goodbye as he headed off to a tennis tournament. He wore tennis whites and a Rolex. She was in cut slacks and a little cashmere sweater – a blonde in pearls. There was a dog and a maid. His friends were waiting for him. His company was back in the city. Everything was perfect. He was respected, admired . . .

Not like today.

They had forced him into this, forced him into the hookers, the drugs, the showdown with some French chancer. They’d taken away his position, everything he was. Time to put it back.

‘Yes, Mr Johnson, of course I can show you some wonderful properties. Even in that lower price range, there are gems out there.’

Edward swallowed his annoyance. ‘I want a perfect, single-bedroom apartment. With views.’

‘What a pity you didn’t come to us a week ago. I have a client who just sold her place overlooking the East River for one and a half. Real bachelor pad. She made a ton on it. She’s that girl who founded the Meadow cream; you heard of her?’

He started. ‘Dina Kane?’

‘Oh, you know her?’

‘I’ve just heard of the cream.’

‘That’s her. Great eye for real estate. She’s buying someplace else. Anyway, we’ll find you something.’

‘I want to live on the West Side.’ Close to his mother’s house. ‘Has the Kane property closed?’

‘Not yet, but it is in contract.’

‘I’d like to see it, just to take in her design ideas.’

‘Sure. We can set that up for you.’

He ate a sandwich at his desk while the calls continued.

‘I don’t really know if I should discuss this with you, Mr Johnson.’

‘Mr Traynor, you have to discuss it with me. My mother gave me power of attorney.’

‘There have been changes just recently. Your family holding company, Johnson Columbus, has made moves to dispose of some of its stock and invest in properties.’

Edward sat bolt upright, although he already knew the answer to his next question.

‘Properties? Where, exactly?’

‘Paris.’

‘Who authorised this?’

‘Mrs Johnson did, last week. It’s all quite proper. She came in with her fiancé, Monsieur Leclerc. Of course, you know he will be on the board of the company very shortly.’

Edward hesitated just a fraction. ‘Yes, of course, I realise that. It’s a family company, after all.’

When he hung up, he felt almost joyful. Good things were about to happen.

The last meeting of the afternoon came in at five p.m.

‘Faustina, you can go home.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Edward didn’t want anybody listening in to this one.

Olivia Broadwell sat before him, rake thin, her hair mouse-brown and natural. She had clear skin and light eyes; no make-up of any kind. She sat there in her Burberry mackintosh, not bothering to take it off, like she had somewhere else to be, and Edward knew he’d found his salvation.

‘What’s the job?’ she said.

‘Dina Kane. I want to know everything about her. Where she lives; who she’s fucking; what she earns; the content of her bank account; the car she drives; her friends – if she has any; family – their addresses. Any vulnerabilities, business and personal. Medical conditions.’

‘We work within the law,’ she said, with a face that implied the opposite. ‘We provide data. We never reveal to clients how we obtained that data.’

‘I understand. I don’t want the firm having any record of this transaction. Declare the income, but I prefer to pay cash.’

‘Fine by us.’ The rat-like girl smiled, flashing white teeth. Cabot operated on the very edge of the law. They weren’t like any of the other white-collar spy firms. They were highly effective, very dirty. Not many lawsuits, either. Rumour was they had files on cops and judges in the city – files three inches thick.

Mostly, targets never knew they were investigated. He heard some bad bastards worked for Cabot. And that’s exactly who he wanted to hire.

‘How fast can you get me what I need?’ Johnson said.

‘Fee is three hundred k. Is she a cop? Military or intelligence?’

‘She’s a fucking beautician,’ Johnson said, laughing. ‘A girl.’

‘Then you can get everything in a week’s time. And I do mean everything.’

He smiled a rich, deep, smile, the warmth running through him like he’d just stepped into a hot tub.

‘How would you like the money?’ Edward asked. ‘Hundred-dollar bills?’

He stopped off at a florist’s before he went home. Roses and lilies: his mother’s favourites.

‘Oh, Mr Edward,’ said one of the maids. ‘She’s waiting for you in the garden, sir.’

Penelope was indeed out there, wrapped in one of her silver fox coats – one that his father had given her. A fresh burst of pain wrapped itself around Edward’s heart. Once his father and mother had been here together, and that vicious little bitch, Dina Kane, had destroyed them. Whatever happened now, it was Kane’s fault.

‘Oh, Edward! I’m so glad you came.’

He offered her the flowers, kissing her on both cheeks. The acrid scent of cheap aftershave hung about her. Edward’s fingers curled into a fist.

‘I’ve got some wonderful news, darling. Philippe proposed! He said he can’t live without me.’

She turned to him and extended her left hand. On it, in the place of his father’s giant emerald-cut diamond, was a small ruby, surrounded by seed pearls.

‘It was his mother’s. They love coloured stones in Europe . . . Oh, darling, I’m so happy. Philippe said he doesn’t care about money; he just wants us to be together. We’re going to honeymoon in Paris . . . Paris!’

‘Mother . . . you hardly know Philippe. If he really loved you, he wouldn’t ask you yet . . .’

‘Edward, no.’ She clutched the flowers, furiously. ‘I’ve been dating Philippe quietly ever since I stopped drinking. You don’t know everything about my life, darling. Now I must insist you don’t spoil today for me, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.’

Edward swallowed the bile in his throat. He was angry at himself for even trying. Didn’t he know better?

‘Of course. You understand it’s my role to protect you, Mother. Philippe might be just the man for you.’ He forced a smile. ‘I do think Paris is a wonderful idea. You can get away for the spring . . .’

‘Oh, yes. I can’t wait to leave New York.’ She clung to Edward’s sleeve, almost desperately. ‘And you’ll give him a chance?’

He’s had his chance
.

‘Absolutely, I will.’

‘We’re going to buy a place together, in fact. Philippe thinks it’s a tremendous time to invest in Europe. You can trust bricks and mortar, whereas these stocks give us both a headache.’

‘Paris has some wonderful properties.’ Edward smiled. ‘I can see you both on the left bank.’

‘Darling, I’m so relieved you’re going to be
reasonable
. He wants to see you, you know. He’s waiting in the library . . .’ She dropped her voice, conspiratorially. ‘I think he’s going to ask your permission. He wants to do everything the right way, just to please me.’

‘Well, so he should, Momma. Don’t worry, I’ll give him my blessing.’ He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

The servants had laid a fire in the library, the way his father used to do. It was maybe his single favourite thing about the house. A crackling log fire, old books: it gave the place that air of British refinement.

And now there was this bastard of a Frenchman standing in front of it, warming his ass. He saw Edward come in, and smiled warily.

‘Edouard! I take it you’ve heard the happy news?’

‘I have.’ He frowned a little. Roll over too fast and the little weasel would get suspicious. ‘Mother tells me you want my permission.’

‘Her father is dead, so . . .’ Philippe shrugged. ‘This is the old-fashioned way, and if it would make your mother happy I ask.’

‘Why don’t we sit down?’ Edward suggested.

Philippe settled into the old high-backed burgundy chair and Edward took the green leather armchair opposite it. The fire danced in the grate. How easy it would be to take up a poker and smash his head in, once, twice.

‘You know, Philippe, I need to be sure you have Mother’s interests at heart. It seems like a very early marriage, and she is a rich woman.’