The Perfect Retreat (10 page)

Willow listened. ‘It sounds amazing.’

‘Yes, it will be,’ said Harold, certain in his own genius. ‘If I can find a house.’

‘You don’t have a location?’ asked Willow, her heart sinking. Finding a location could take months, and she needed to start work as soon as possible.

‘Well everything seems to be done up nowadays. They’re all bloody B&Bs and awful hotels. There are very few original homes left that haven’t had the National Trust attack them yet,’ he said, turning his nose up in distaste.

Middlemist House popped into Willow’s head, and before she knew what she was doing she spoke. ‘I know a house I think would be perfect.’

‘Really?’ asked Harold, leaning forward. ‘Tell me more.’

‘That’s nice,’ said the brunette as she lay on a mattress on the floor. Her large breasts were being kneaded gently. She spread her legs for the third time in the last six hours. Ivo entered her and they started to move together in rhythm. Just as they were about to come together, there was a loud knocking at the door to the bedroom.

‘Ivo, mate, I need that fifty quid you borrowed.’

‘I don’t have it mate,’ called Ivo as he kept fucking the brunette.

She started to moan and then she came with a cry, and Ivo, so turned on by the urgency of her orgasm, felt himself reach orgasm too. ‘I’ll have it tomorrow!’ he cried in the midst of his throes of ecstasy.

‘Fuck Ivo. You said that last week,’ said Henry, his host, whose spare bedroom he was staying in. Well more like squatting in. Since his lover Tatiana had moved on to a new toy boy, Ivo had been unceremoniously dumped without anything but the clothes she had bought him and his Patek Philippe watch.

He had been staying at Henry’s, an old school friend, but he was wearing his welcome a bit thin and he was flat out of cash. He could have rung his mother but then he knew that the information would go back to his father, whom he despised, so instead he grinned and bore it.

Nothing really got Ivo down. He was decidedly chipper about any setback, figuring it would all work out in the end. Things usually did for him. Look at me now, he thought, in bed with the hottest pop star in London right now. She was an Australian soap star who had made it big with a shitty single and spectacular breasts that made her popular with men’s magazines and websites.

Maybe she would take him in, he figured, even just for the sex. They had met at a party the previous night given by some Eliza Wimple-Jones woman for her PR clients. The news of Tatiana and Ivo’s separation hadn’t yet hit the gossip wires. He had figured he might as well get the free booze and finger food while he could.

The pop star was lonely and he was charming, and soon he had her drunk and on her back, which is where he liked his women.

Now in the cold light of mid-morning, Ivo sat with his back against the wall and lit one of her cigarettes. ‘What shall we do now?’ he asked sexily, his dark hair flopping over one eye.

‘I have an audition to go to,’ she said in her broad Australian drawl.

‘An audition?’ asked Ivo, his perfectly formed ears pricking up.

‘Yep, I’ve been taking acting lessons. I’m gonna be an actor,’ she said proudly.

Not with that fucking accent, he thought, but he smiled indulgently at her.

She smiled back at him. She was so pretty. He thought for a moment; she could take care of his cash and his cock for a while.

‘Need a hand remembering your lines?’ he offered.

‘There were no lines to learn. I just have to meet the director and have a chat. Will you come with me? I’m so nervous.’

‘Sure.’ He had nothing better to do – and she might buy him breakfast, he calculated, listening to his rumbling stomach. The only thing he had eaten yesterday was a few sandwiches at the party, and he had drunk copious amounts of champagne.

She got out of bed and stretched. Her figure was amazing, he thought. Sexy and round, but without a trace of fat. He felt a stirring in his groin again.

‘Come back to bed,’ he said huskily.

‘Nope, sorry. Don’t want to be late,’ she said and pulled on the clothes she had worn the night before. ‘I’m gonna dash home and change first. You coming?’

Ivo stood up, his hard-on on display. ‘You sure?’ he asked, looking at his magnificent dick.

She paused, and then thought of her career. Despite w
hat people thought, she
was very ambitious. She knew this audition was a big chance for her. ‘Save it for ’ron,’ she said.

‘Who’s Ron?’ he asked, aghast. Did she have a boyfriend called Ron who she wanted a threesome with? He only did threesomes with women, he thought, remembering Tatiana and her sister.

‘Later on,’ she laughed. ‘It’s an Aussie saying.’

‘Right,’ he said, and pulled on his jeans and an old white t-shirt. Padding into Henry’s room, he looked around and found Henry’s Paul Smith blazer. Admiring himself in the mirror, he noticed that the t-shirt had a stain on it, so he grabbed a scarf of Henry’s girlfriend’s, a paisley shawl thing, and slung it around his neck. Pulling on his Converse, he waited by the door. ‘Come on then Ron,’ he called, laughing at his own convenient joke – he couldn’t remember her name in his champagne fog.

Leaving the house, they took a cab to her flat. Ivo waited while she quickly showered and changed into jeans and a tight sequined singlet. Teamed with gladiator heels and a yellow Bottega Veneta bag, she looked the very image of a Eurotrash heiress.

‘You like?’ she said, spinning around for him.

‘Very much,’ he said, thinking she looked overdressed for daytime. ‘What’s the role?’

‘I have no idea. The director is very private and brilliant my agent says. It’s not a big role but it could lead to other things, help people to see me as more than a pop star,’ she said.

Lose the heels, the sequins and the feather earrings and that would be a start, he thought, but he said nothing. ‘Where you meeting him then?’ he asked as he held the door open for her.

‘At an art gallery,’ she said, pulling out her small diary. She opened it to today’s date. ‘The V&A? Is that a hospital?’

Ivo stifled a laugh. ‘No, it’s the Victoria and Albert Museum. A funny place for an audition,’ he said as he hailed a taxi.

‘Well, film people are very creative you know,’ she said importantly.

‘Apparently,’ he said drolly, and they took the cab to the V&A.

Inside they waited in the foyer. A small man walked towards them. ‘Jodi?’ he asked politely.

Jodi! That was her name, Ivo reminded himself.

‘Hi,’ Jodi replied enthusiastically.

‘I’m Harold Gaumont,’ the small gentleman said.

‘This is my friend Ivo,’ said Jodi. ‘I said he could come along.’

Ivo stretched out his hand. ‘Lovely to meet you, Mr Gaumont. I can make myself scarce if you’d like.’

Harold looked at the beautiful boy in front of him in the pink paisley scarf that reeked of good breeding and sex. ‘No, it’s fine. I thought we would take a turn in my favourite
collection
and have a little chat.’

Jodi and Ivo followed Harold, who seemed to know his way about the gallery with no problems and greeted the security guards by name.

‘Have you been here before, Ivo?’ he asked as they walked together, Jodi’s heels making a loud clacking noise on the parquet floor.

‘Yes, I have spent quite a lot of time here actually,’ said Ivo, thinking back to his days at university.

‘I find it calming.’ Harold said. ‘All this artistic brilliance in one space. It is quite heartening.’ Ivo smiled at the man in the velvet slippers. Harold drew in a sharp breath. Ivo was truly beautiful, almost like a painting.

‘You spend much time in galleries, Jodi?’ asked Ivo, trying to draw Jodi into the conversation, aware it was her audition after all and unnerved by the looks the man was giving him. Perhaps he was gay. It wasn’t the first time he had been hit on by older men.

‘Me? Galleries? Not really. I had to go to a few for school and that, but I prefer the movies.’ She smiled at Harold, proud of her answer.

‘Tell me, my dear, can you do an English accent?’ he asked.

‘Too right I can,’ she said, launching into her best Eliza Doolittle. ‘I ’ave a brill voice coach.’

Harold stood with his eyes raised in surprise. ‘Wonderful. Any other type of English accent?’

‘Well I can do Received Pronunciation as well,’ she said. ‘I am very proud to meet you ’arold,’ she said, slipping between RP and Cockney and sounding like Maggie Thatcher doing a guest appearance on
EastEnders
.

‘Well done,’ said Ivo encouragingly. If he was going to find his next meal ticket then she needed to get this gig. She smiled at him and adjusted her breasts in the strained singlet.

The three walked in silence towards the paintings. It was early and the gallery had almost no one in it. ‘Do you know this painting?’ Harold asked Ivo.

‘I do. It’s a Baxter.
The Day Before Marriage
,’ said Ivo without having to read the note next to the painting.

‘Tell me about it,’ said Harold.

‘She’s about to be married. She’s wearing traditional Victorian love jewellery, common in those days, as was mourning jewellery. She’s holding a letter in her hand, perhaps a billet-doux from her husband to be. She’s well dressed and elegant, which shows she’s perhaps from the upper class. The emotion is in the letter in this painting. It shows the power of love letters and their effect on women.’

‘Have you ever received a love letter, my dear?’ asked Harold to Jodi.

‘Not really a letter, but I did get a nice email from a boyfriend once. That was nice,’ she said, smiling at Harold.

‘Ah,’ he said, and turned away.

‘What about this one?’ Harold asked Ivo.

‘It’s a George Middlemist, of his wife Clementina. She’s in a garden surrounded by clementine trees creating an arbour over her. The yellow roses suggest joy.’ Ivo looked closely at the woman in the painting. Her black hair was pulled up into a loose bun, and her dark eyes peered back at him. ‘The basket of fruit next to her suggests she’s responsible for the abundance in the garden, like Ceres the Goddess of the Harvest, and her hair and dress, which was not ornate for those days, imply this is casual, that it’s even a folly for her to be playing the role of a rural woman.’

Harold smiled and looked closely at the painting. ‘You’re right. How do you know so much about art then?’

‘I read art history at university,’ he said, leaving out the part where he got expelled for dealing coke and ecstasy to his fellow students, something the esteemed university had been quick to cover up.

‘What do you do now?’

‘Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that,’ said Ivo vaguely as he watched Jodi take a call on her pink mobile on the other side of the room.

‘Have you ever tried acting?’ asked Harold.

‘Only at school and a bit at university,’ admitted Ivo.

‘Not for you then?’ asked Harold.

‘Well let’s just say my father didn’t approve, and while he paid the bills I did what he asked,’ said Ivo, thinking back.

‘And does he still pay the bills?’ asked Harold.

‘No, no. We haven’t spoken in two years,’ said Ivo, scuffing the floor back and forth with his foot.

‘Well, how about you come and do a little reading with me, and let’s see if you still have it?’ asked Harold.

Before Ivo could answer, Jodi came clumping over in her heels. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, smiling brightly, ‘I’ve been offered a film in LA. A big new action movie with Michael Jackson’s son Blanket. It’s gonna be huge. I have to take it. You get it don’tcha?’

‘Naturally,’ said Harold. ‘If the blanket calls then you must attend.’ He smiled at the girl with the feathery earrings.

‘I’ve gotta go to my agent’s now. I’m sorry Ivo. I’ll call you from LA, OK?’ she said as she rushed out the door. Ivo waved at her as she left, knowing she never would. She didn’t even have his number.

Harold watched her leave. ‘Who’s Blanket again?’ he asked, savouring the name as though it had a taste.

‘Michael Jackson’s son,’ said Ivo seriously.

‘I don’t need to know any more. Americans and their names! Blanket indeed,’ mumbled Harold. ‘Now Ivo, let’s get a script and try you out, OK? I have a feeling you might be better than you think.’

Ivo hoped he was right now that his meal ticket had given him up for a blanket. He smiled at Harold. ‘Alright, I guess I have nothing to lose,’ he said, shrugging his
shoulders
.

Taking a cab to Harold’s apartment, Ivo sat nervously waiting for Harold to return to the room with a script. There were pictures everywhere and books too. He stood up and looked at the many photographs of women on the
mantelpiece
. ‘Those are my wives,’ said Harold as he came into the room with a few sheaves of paper.

‘All of them?’ asked Ivo, breathing an internal sigh of relief that Harold hadn’t returned in lipstick and stockings, like one older gentleman had done to him a few months before.

‘All of them. And now they are all happily married to other men. I’m not very good at relationships.’ The petite man sat down in the huge red leather armchair, which threatened to swallow him. Ivo silently agreed with him; relationships weren’t exactly his forte either. A quick fuck or being kept were more his style.

‘Here, read these through and then we’ll have a go. OK?’ said Harold, handing him a script.

Ivo read it over quickly and looked up at Harold. ‘Victorian? Occultism?’ he asked.

‘Good pickup,’ said Harold. He had only given Ivo a few pages of the script but he had chosen ones that referred to the occult group.

Harold started to read and Ivo said his lines. His accent, his timing and his look were perfect. Harold felt himself start to relax; his intuition was right. He had only seen the Australian actress because her agent had pushed him to at least meet with her. What an enormous stroke of luck that she had brought her one-night stand with her, he thought.

‘I think you’ll do nicely, Ivo,’ said Harold, taking off his glasses.