Killer Queens (22 page)

Belinda couldn’t move. Inside her, the baby stirred, stretched its limbs, began to react to its mother’s extreme emotional distress. But every muscle of Belinda’s body was locked in place as she watched her husband’s hips jerk even more wildly, his hand reach out for something beside him – something he was lifting, throwing around his neck in a loop.

Is that a tie? How weird— Oliver’s just put a tie round his neck, and he’s grabbing it with his hand, pulling it tight – oh God, it’s like he’s strangling himself!

With a jolt, Belinda suddenly flashed back to the only sounds she had ever heard from Oliver during sex: a series of stifled little grunts, almost as if he were choking, which started up when – she had learned through experience – he was on the verge of coming. She had been shocked at first, sensing that those noises were wrong in some way; but they either had sex at night, in the dark, or somewhere there was no chance of her ever being able to see his reflection behind her. The one time she had lifted her head, asked if he was okay, he had quickly pushed her nape down again, indicating that he wanted her to lie prone. And he hadn’t been choking, clearly, because he had come, and then collapsed on her afterwards for a few brief lovely moments, so she had learnt to ignore those occasional sounds, not wanting to put him off.

But that’s what he was doing, behind me. When he was making those noises. He was putting a tie round his neck, strangling himself, pulling it with one hand, making his eyes pop out a bit, his face go red – oh my God, my God, what’s
wrong
with him, why is he
doing
this—

‘Oh fuck yeah! I’m fucking coming, Your
fucking
Royal Highness!’

Simon’s own bum heaved, and a long-drawn-out wail of pleasure indicated that he had spunked all over the silk coverlet; he lay there, his body spasming, as Oliver, above him, heaved a loud grunt that was horribly familiar to Belinda, tugged even harder on the tie, spluttered for air, and shot his own load inside his footman lover.

Belinda’s entire body was as hot as fire – apart from her skull, which felt as if the bones were an icy clamp digging into its delicate contents. A terrible shooting pain exploded inside her womb; her entire lower body was burning up in agony. Water gushed from her, splatting over her pretty slippers, over the tartan carpet, water that felt as if it were sizzling as it flooded down her legs. She screamed, the hand clutching the door lintel weakening, losing its grip as she collapsed over herself, crumpling to the carpet. That alerted Simon, who was more conscious than his self-asphyxiated master.

‘Sir!
Sir!
’ he yelled frantically, his eyes bulging as much as the Prince’s, writhing out from under Oliver. The latter’s cock slid out from Simon’s arse, still red and swollen. ‘Sir, it’s the Princess!’

‘What?’ Oliver blinked hard, put a hand up to massage his throat, took a long, painful breath and then another, turned slowly to look where Simon was pointing as he simultaneously raced to struggle back into his uniform.

‘Oh,
fuck
!’ he said. ‘What the hell is she doing in here? What the
fuck
was the silly bitch
thinking
?’

Those words were not quite the last thing Belinda remembered of that awful night. That was Oliver bending over her, a dressing gown dragged on over his naked body, a wild, savage look in his eyes as he hissed warningly:

‘You just came in here and tripped on the carpet, okay? Nothing happened! You didn’t see anything! Nothing fucking happened! You keep your mouth shut and don’t say a word! Understand?’

And then a stream of people poured into the room, summoned by a screaming Simon; they were bending over Belinda, trying to lift her, as someone cried:

‘The baby’s coming! The baby’s coming early!’ and a pain so intense hit her between the legs that she mercifully blacked out as the first, vicious contraction clamped around her uterus.

Present day

‘It’s so beautiful!’ Lori exclaimed, looking around the suite of the spa hotel in amazement. She still hadn’t got used to living like a princess, she realized ruefully: she was always gasping at luxuries that everyone around her took entirely for granted. And Kristin’s reaction instantly emphasized that point.

‘If you like Sixties architecture, I suppose,’ Kristin drawled, pulling her cigarettes out of her Damien Hirst-designed backpack, made for The Row, black shiny leather with coloured capsules made to look like prescription pills stuck all over it. ‘I prefer things a bit more modern. But the view’s stunning, isn’t it?’

Winding her arm through Lori’s, she strolled with her towards the balcony, Attila jumping ahead to slide the floor-to-ceiling glass doors open before the two young women reached them. It was true that the spa hotel had been built at the end of the Sixties, and its style had been revamped to echo that decade, but Lori loved the open brick fireplace, the sheepskin rugs, the transparent tables and the modular beige furniture: somehow the décor managed to be both fun and sexy. Each of the three young woman had a large suite on the penthouse floor with adjoining glass balconies which gave sweeping views over the terraces below, the pool – now closed in the winter season – and the skating rink beyond.

‘I wish Joachim could have come,’ Lori said wistfully, imagining how lovely it would be to share this beautiful space with her fiancé. ‘They’re making him work so hard, it’s such a shame . . .’

‘What, bring your fiancé on a girls’ getaway?’ Katya came up behind them, reaching for one of Kristin’s cigarettes. ‘No way! It’s girls-only for the entire week! We’re just going to pretend these two don’t exist,’ she added, winking at Mihaly and Attila. ‘They’re
certainly
not coming in with us when we get our massages!’

Lori turned to look over the view, the cold clear winter breeze, high up in the Alps, whipping her skin, providing the perfect excuse for any pinkening to her cheeks. In the fortnight she had spent with Mihaly and Attila almost permanently by her side, her attraction to the former had deepened perilously. Joachim was practically never around, while Mihaly – younger, sexier, flirtier – was a constant presence. Mihaly was a million miles away from being anything like good marriage material, and that was what Lori wanted, to settle down: but it was like announcing you were going on a diet only to have someone cover every available surface with Charbonnel et Walker pink champagne truffles.

When we get back to Valtzers on Tuesday, I’m definitely going to tell Joachim I feel really weird about this
, she decided firmly.
Not about Mihaly, obviously. But I barely see anything of my fiancé, we’re not having sex yet, it’s a month to the wedding and I feel really . . . disorie Lori modular beige furniture: somehow the décor managed to be both fun and sexy. Each of the three young woman had a large suite on the penthouse floor with adjoining glass balconies which gave sweeping views over the terraces below, the pool – now closed in the winter season – and the skating rink beyond.