Those Wicked Pleasures (13 page)

‘Marcy is a charming girl, passionate for causes. I like and respect and approve of most of what she supports. But I don’t know that she will appreciate this new ability you have shown to thrust and cut, and get the job done. My advice is, let Harland handle Marcy.’

‘I can’t do that, Dad. It seems much too mean. And I am thrilled that the land is saved. I want to share that with Marcy.’

Lara went for a walk. She was anxious because Marcy had not called and she knew what that meant: Marcy was knocking herself out trying to arrange the march. It was too cruel not to call Marcy and tell her the fantastically good news. Lara broke into a run. In the house she took the stairs two at a time and burst into her bedroom and swooped upon the telephone. Marcy’s line was busy, and busy, and busy. She declared it an emergency and had the operator break into the line.

‘I’ve been trying to get through to you, Marcy.’

‘You’ve changed your mind? You will support the march? I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘Marcy, I have good news. Santos Dupuis Chemical International has pulled out of the deal. You can call off your protest.’

‘Lara, that’s fantastic. When did you hear that? Are you sure?’

‘At about half past twelve, and yes, I am sure. Marcy, we’ve won. There will be no plant built on that land, not ever.’

‘How can you be so sure? The sellers are ruthless, only interested in the buck. How do we know they won’t sell it to someone as bad, or worse?’

Lara was about to tell Marcy, ‘I can guarantee that.’ But Henry’s advice was in her ears. She hesitated, and then she told her former room mate, ‘Marcy, the man who gave me the information is a man called Harland Brent. It seems he purchased the land for an anonymous buyer who intends to keep it as a wild-life and fauna sanctuary. That’s all he would tell me. If you want more information than that, then take this telephone number down and call him. I must go, old girl. Talk to you soon. And see you when you come to New York. Lots of love.’ Lara hung up before Marcy could say another word.

Lara felt both guilty and puzzled about the Marcy-Hawaiahoo affair. She had helped a friend, but without being able to come clean on how she had operated. And she had found herself using the leverage that her family’s wealth granted her. She had gone about it with hardness and decision. There was iron in her soul.

And now she came out of the affair as owner of a small slice of paradise … Her very own paradise. She knew she would never let it go. How Marcy would have hated her possessiveness.

Chapter 9

Samuel Penn Fayne had the family talent for being a nice guy. Faynes had several generations of niceness to look back on. It could have bred weakness and dullness by now, but in Sam it hadn’t. The debs and their mothers thought of him as the Four Hundred’s Robert Redford. And what mother would not cast a line to catch a Robert Redford lookalike with millions and impeccable high society credentials for their daughter? No matter that a fact of life was that Lara Stanton and he had been an item for years, or that it could only end in marriage. It was a merger the families meant to bring off.

Hopes rose and fell among the eligible beauties, depending on whether Sam Fayne was on the scene or off. Off meant that he was travelling to exciting, remote parts of the world with one of the Stanton boys or some other friend. His absence then was more acceptable than when he disappeared into some university: Cairo, Istanbul, Athens, Moscow, as a visiting lecturer. Or, worse, if he was sighted alongside Lara Stanton. The love for ‘the Stanton girl’ that brightened his young eyes was, for the young beauties and their mamas, a disagreeable glare.

The Stanton girl had, until now, left them hope. Not only might she not get to keep Sam Fayne: she might not catch anyone else on the most eligible bachelor list. Had she not, after one prim curtsy at the ball at seventeen,
gone decidedly off the rails? ‘Bohemian!’ snorted the mothers. The daughters dubbed her ‘women’s-libbish, sort of’, ‘liberal maybe’. But no one could really figure her out. Her behaviour was so alien to her contemporaries. She had rarely appeared in society. She had chosen college and travel, horses, sports and friends outside their narrow world – people that no one had ever known or would want to know. She was quite obviously not mesmerised by the eligible catches other society daughters aimed to land. So Lara Stanton had been considered a doubtful runner in the deb-stakes, in spite of her name, wealth and beauty.

But that was then, and this was now. And many a high-society heart not so much fluttered as twitched with anxiety as invitations were handed over and names announced at the threshold of the yellow and ochre oval room. There the Henry Garfield Stantons lined up: the men, big and dynamic, all charm and toothy smiles, each more handsome than the other; the women as regal as they were beautiful. The most powerful family of what was left of the Four Hundred. And in the centre of the receiving line, Lara Victoria Stanton, standing between Henry and Emily. The Stanton rebel who had decided at last to step into their world. They were a picture for posterity, the Stantons in the prime of life, bright and handsome with health, with worlds to conquer.

There were smiles and introductions, and hearts sank. ‘The Stanton girl’ was exactly as they had feared. The looks, the charm, the wealth and a name to open any door with. And she was coming out, seriously out, and to occupy their world.

They would, of course, embrace Lara, accept her in their homes, invite her to their parties, inveigle her into participating in their charitable endeavours for the less fortunate. They had committed themselves to nothing less
the moment they had looked into Emily’s eyes and put in plain sight their enthusiasm for having been invited to this ball.

There was Sam Fayne hovering in the oval room, distracting Lara with meaningful glances and tapping his watch. He felt less anxious about not being with her when she smiled back at him, or when she sent warning signals: a flash of the eyes, an unsubtle gesture of the hand. She would be with him as soon as possible. Or he was spotted in the ballroom, staying close to the entrance so he might catch Lara the moment she passed through the doorway, an antique Lalique champagne
coupe
in his hand, several debs and cloned deb’s-delights such as himself constantly converging upon him.

There were few strangers in the ballroom. No press, no gate-crashers. It was strictly a private affair. Most everyone knew everyone else. There were catchings-up on friendships and delicious exchanges of gossip that spiced the party with cheeriness.

A dozen violinists playing romantic Russian ballads wandered among the two hundred guests, who were bathed in the soft voluptuous light of a thousand tapering ivory candles cradled in crystal chandeliers and wall-sconces. A perfect setting for the prettiest women in their luscious silks and satins, the men in white tie and tails, whose suave presence complemented the festive ambience of the room. All doors to the lantern-lit gardens lay open, and the fifty-odd waiters, in red Hussar-style jackets and white ties, filtering among the guests with magnums of vintage Krug, ensured a steady flow of the chilled wine that warmed the encounters.

At last the receiving-line dissolved, and the family flowed into the ballroom. Sam caught Lara by the arm. The twenty-strong orchestra struck up the first waltz of the evening.

‘You promised. The first dance is mine.’

‘Not quite, Sam. A father’s prerogative.’ And it was Henry who twirled Lara to the centre of the floor.

The guests had been waiting for this moment, the commencement of the ball. Milling around the edges of the room, they watched Lara’s voluminous skirts of ivory silk, each layer fine as a spider’s web, flare to the rhythm of their dancing feet. Not a man in the room could keep his eyes off the bodice of her gown: a provocative off-the-shoulder affair of black and ivory candy-stripe silk taffeta. Less because it clung to her breasts like a second skin and expressed sensuality, than because there was a cheekiness, a teasing quality about the gown, that was mature and seductive, yet innocent and young. Its play of materials: large puffy bows of the same black and white taffeta in tiny checks that contrasted at the shoulder with the stripes of the bodice; and, around the waist, a two-inch-wide belt of tangerine glass bugle beads. Not a woman in the room could take her eyes from Lara’s pearl and diamond earrings, the only jewellery she wore: Henry’s gift to her. Champagne
coupes
were drained and placed on the silver trays, and ladies chosen. Couples drifted out from the fringes of the room to swell the dance.

Sam thought: Lara has never looked lovelier, or happier. There was something different about her now. What was it? He danced close to her, but with mere Emily in his arms. Why resist his impulse? He tapped Henry on the shoulder. With no more than a broad smile he exchanged Emily for the girl he loved and waltzed her away.

‘Marry me?’

Lara began to laugh.

‘We can announce it right now.’

‘You’re serious!’

Now he began to laugh. It had just popped out. He had not intended to ask Lara to marry him. Well, not then and there. ‘Yes, I guess I am. So will you?’

‘No. And what a moment to ask me!’

‘Oh! Should we fuck instead?’

They were all smiles. ‘Now you’re talking. Right here? Now?’ she answered, with just a slight worry that he might accept.

‘Wrong music. But whenever we can slip away from the ball. Just give the signal and we’re off.’

A few seconds later, he said, ‘You didn’t even say “maybe”. Should I be worried?’

‘Why should I say maybe if I meant yes? I would have thought a yes to a fuck was better than a maybe. And why, Sam, should you worry because I want you?’

He smiled down at her and said, ‘You’re being evasive. You know I mean about marrying me.’

‘Oh, Sam. What I should have said was, choose another time.’

‘So I don’t have to abandon hope?’

‘Well, there’s no hope for anyone else.’

There was a look more of hunger than relief in both their faces. They were sexually ravenous for each other. It was difficult for Lara to hide her feelings. The very thought of Sam going down on her, his searching tongue, his raging penis pumping passion and love into her … She blushed, and felt the rush of a light sweet orgasm for him.

He understood at once, and could do nothing about it. What could he do without offending the Stantons and their guests? He felt his own need rising, and was dismayed at how much he wanted her. He quickly danced Lara into the Palm Court, where they greeted some people and accepted a
coupe
of champagne.

They part-quenched their thirst for each other with the
wine. And promptly replaced the empty glasses with fresh ones.

Aware of many eyes on them, he bent forward and whispered in her ear, ‘I love you. I have always loved you, and I want you. I will wait for you.’

She sipped from her glass and then returned a whisper in his ear. ‘Ask me again sometime. I can’t imagine marrying anyone else.’ She squeezed his hand, emptied her glass and drifted away among her guests.

Sam was happy. She would be his one day. He felt secure in his love for Lara. And she was right: to commit himself to her in marriage now was not good timing for either of them. She had some living as a top deb yet to do. And as for himself, he was enjoying his freedom. Bachelorhood suited his lifestyle. Sam was not a man who questioned his actions, or analysed things to death. But for one fleeting moment, he did wonder what had possessed him to spring a proposal of marriage on Lara that way. Was he really interested in settling down? He had several different lives going for him that did not include Lara or marriage to her and all it might entail. They were lives he’d be reluctant to abandon.

He had put it down to love. He had simply never adored any other woman as he did Lara. His being in love with her had overwhelmed him. Knowing that it was mutual only enhanced his feelings for her.
They
were in love, and safe together. They both knew and appreciated that. The unshakeable security it gave them was enough for them to go their separate ways for a few more years. Well, at least, for the remainder of the evening. They were both swept up by the party and other people. They had scarcely another moment together until the following afternoon.

At midnight a buffet supper was served in the Palm Court behind the ballroom. Tables were set up and
draped with white damask cloths, and ivory candles in silver candelabra were festooned with honeysuckle. Full-blown garden roses, summer’s last, spread a romantic glow. People glided in to supper, from the ballroom and the grotto where raging, provocative rock music – Chuck Berry, Eric Clapton and Phil Collins – was being played.

Oysters were proffered from mounds of crushed ice; precarious pyramids of giant prawns. A huge crystal clear ice bowl had frozen flowers embedded in it – baby white roses, ferns and lilacs – and was lined with a thin, golden crust of filo pastry encasing several pounds of golden caviare. There were other choices on the long white marble table. Silver chafing-dishes simmered gently with Lobster Newberg, Rock Cornish game-birds in a cream sauce, chicken livers and tiny green grapes, and wild mushrooms sautéed in a Mouton-Rothschild wine, pampered with the faintest hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. The roasts: lamb, and rib of beef, boned and rolled
en croûte
, and a pair of prettily decorated suckling pigs, with collars of daisies and ripe red apples in their mouths. There were whole poached salmon lying on beds of seaweed. Fresh
foie gras
, and green salads, and Russian salads, and white asparagus served with a vinaigrette dressing, and fresh endive. Tall Baccarat celery glasses offered crunchy stalks, and a huge French rococo silver bowl of
crudités
looked as fresh as a garden. No palate needed to languish untickled.

A squadron of chefs was busy behind the table serving, with waiters to shadow each group of guests and carry for them their Napoleonic dinner plates, see that they were seated and supply their choice of wines. The champagne was Louis Roederer Cristal; there was a Montrachet the gods themselves would have downed; and for claret, Chateau Pétrus of several different vintages.

With a mixed guest list of the young, the middle-aged
and the elderly, the party was elegant and yet still buzzy. Drink rather than drugs was the stimulant. Fear of Emily’s power to ostracise anyone from the exclusive high-society A-list banished any snort of cocaine or puff of grass. No one dared cherish hopes of a long deep drag on a joint. But the WASPs’ drug has always been alcohol, ever acceptable, ever reliable. The party was as high and as much fun as if they had taken drugs. You thought otherwise at your peril on Emily’s territory.

There were flirtations, lots of them, always discreet. Couples wandered between the grotto and the ballroom, in and out of the garden pavilions, all through the house, and in and out of bedrooms, even aboard some of the guests’ boats that had sailed in for the party. And fucking? You assumed so, but it would have been prurient to attempt confirmation.

The hosts had been lucky with the weather. It had held: the night had stayed unusually warm. Dawn arrived with the party if not in full swing then certainly still swinging. It broke slowly. A grey dawn that slid into a pink haze and rose to a soft light the colour of maize. It lit up Cannonberry Chase, and hardly a guest was unaware of the beauty of the day that was dawning. The party seemed to go quiet for a short time while the light spread over the gardens and haloed the people wandering around them. The ladies in their ball gowns, the men in their tails, added a human dimension to the gardens. Never had they looked more romantic, with the colours, the silk and the satins, and the beautiful people.

It was as if dawn had played the last waltz. The party was over. Those couples who remained meandered back into the ballroom in search of their hosts. There Lara and Henry were playing their Jerome Kern and Cole Porter medleys. Three-quarters of the guests were still partying. They stood around the pair of concert grand-pianos
singing, or danced or drifted to the round tables, dressed prettily with crisp, white organza cloths and bowls of full-blown yellow and white roses, that had been set up around the ballroom. Magnificent, period silver coffee pots, creamers and sugar pots, and white and yellow Limoges porcelain plates, cups and saucers, Baccarat goblets of fresh mango juice, sparkled in the sun’s leisurely rise in the sky that spilt light through the open French windows. Chairs of chinoiserie red lacquer encircled the tables where a chef attended each, ready to make omelettes to accompany the sausages and bacon, thin buckwheat pancakes and clear golden maple syrup. Breakfast was greeting the sunshine.