Those Wicked Pleasures (45 page)

‘I have to vet two paintings at the Getty Museum some time this week. The fax arrived this morning. It’s really important I be there. And I am not leaving you behind.’

She stayed in the bath till he returned with the telephone. ‘Don’t chicken out on me, Lara. This is important to our future.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh,
shit! The time-change. You can’t call now, it’s five in the morning on the East Coast. That fucks things up.’

Lara hoped that she was hiding her relief. She really wanted to solve her dilemma before she brought the children into it. But she could hardly explain that to Charles. Especially since, with every gesture he made towards a future with her, Lara fell that little bit more in love with him, and her
angoisse
over telling him about herself and Evan grew greater.

‘No, it doesn’t. It just changes things. You and I will fly to LA. You can get your work done, and we can send for them. Their nanny can fly out with them.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

He seemed content with that idea. Then he told her to hurry. As he was leaving the bathroom, he said, ‘Trousers.’

‘Trousers?’

‘Wear trousers. You do have some in your case?’

He watched her struggle into the honey-coloured, polished leather pants that fitted her like a second skin. She walked around the room bare-breasted, brushing her hair. She knew very well how sexy she looked that way, in tight pants and nothing else. Jamal used to say it was because she had the raunchiest tits of any woman he had ever known. That it had all to do with the bruised, dark-plum colour of her nipples against the creamy-white skin, the shape and heft of them above such a narrow waist.

He picked up the polo shirt she had laid out to wear, and walking up to her, told her as he helped her into it, ‘Very sexy, and don’t you know it!’

He was on to her, and she liked that. He was enjoying her: she liked that even more. Now he held out the matching leather jacket. She called it the most elegant biker’s jacket in the world. She slipped her arms into the
Saint Laurent creation. He zipped it up. It fitted snugly and displayed her at her raunchiest in clothes. It finished at the waist, and Charles gave it a tug, resisting an urge to slap her hard on her bottom. He had the feeling she was the kind of woman who would have slapped him back for doing it. Rum things, women.

‘You look sensational.’ He contented himself with running his hands over her body and between her legs. Teasingly he placed her hand over the fly of his tight blue jeans, and directed it so that it rubbed his swelling penis. ‘Sadly there’s no time. But I’ll get you later.’

She tilted her head back and gave him that seductive, wicked little laugh of hers. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘We’re having breakfast out. I have to make one stop, then we’ll eat at a little place I know that you’ll love. Come on, I’m late and we have to go. You may not believe this, but I am working and you’re coming with me.’

‘The packing?’

‘Nothing to pack. It’s all arranged. The maids have instructions and our luggage will be waiting for us at the airport.’ Seizing her hand, he rushed her from the room.

Outside, in front of the Hassler, the doorman and several people were standing around the machine. He watched Lara’s face. A smile broke across it. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘You had better believe it. You are not the only one mad about Harleys.’

The motor-bike gleamed in the sunlight. It was a perfect Roman morning in spring-time. They were going to ride through Rome on his Harley Davidson. She walked around the bike. She had a similar model back home. ‘I’m itching to drive it.’

‘No, not in the city. I know the streets better, and how to handle the mad Roman drivers. I can make better time
here in town. Once we’re on the outskirts of the city, you can take over.’

He mounted the bike, kicked the starter and the machine burst into life. Lara slung her leg over the bike to ride pillion. She delighted in the feel of the bike under her. They took off through the heart of Rome, to see it as she had never seen it before. It felt good to be on the bike. And he felt terrific to hold on to.

Their first stop was a museum, where the guard let them pass into the courtyard on the bike. A second guard seemed to know Charles and agreed to watch the Harley. Arm in arm, they entered the building. He introduced her to two men and then she stood aside while they spoke. They kept calling him
Dottore
. She listened to a fierce debate about how to restore, or indeed whether to risk restoring, a magnificent Caravaggio, the only painting on the wall of the handsome room. On permanent loan from the Vatican, it seemed to have become the focus of a problem that centred on the museum itself. From what she could understand, the deciding factor was Charles Valentine’s opinion. Lara was impressed. And then quite suddenly all the waving of arms and shouting, the thumping on the table and flipping through photographs and stacks of letters, was over. Lots of handshakes and smiles, kisses on cheeks. Everyone was relieved a decision had finally been taken. Just an hour after their arrival, they were back on the bike.

They stopped for breakfast on the Piazza Navona where Charles left the bike in the protection of three boys, Roman toughies. And they sat in the sun and ate fresh hot bread, butter and cheese, and delicious prosciutto and melon. There was hot black coffee and then irresistibly crisp fresh-fried doughnuts, Italian-style. Then they mounted the bike and rode away from Rome.

He took her down the Appian Way, to a pine-covered
hill overlooking Rome. It offered her a view of the city she would never forget. In the country they stopped in a strange wood, a forest of mingled pines and cypresses and wild flowers. There they lay among fallen pine needles and talked.

The children were on his mind. He wanted to know all about them. She had no problem about that: she adored her children. No topic was more welcome. He was quick to understand that, although she loved Bonnie no less than Karim, the boy had a charm that she found irresistible. That giving him up to Jamal for six months of the year was still a very hard thing for her to do. He asked no questions about her former husbands, and she volunteered nothing.

They dozed off in the sun. Just short cat-naps. He looked like an Adonis asleep in the wood. How many hearts had he broken before he found her and fell in love? She hurt for all those women because she knew that he had found in her everything he had ever wanted, and she was where he wanted to be. And being there was sublime. She had already removed her jacket. Now she pulled off her polo shirt, and leaned against the trunk of a tree where she was certain to be the first thing he would see when he awakened. She waited for her lover to open his eyes.

And she was the first thing he saw. Her silvery-blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight. The sensuous green eyes smiling at him. He leaned on his side, resting on his elbow to enjoy her. Finally he crawled over to her and unzipped the leather pants. They lay among the pine-needles with one of nature’s stronger perfumes luring them towards carnal lust. He took his time. He eased himself slowly into her and took her in a long crescendo of sexual release. They had climaxed together, and it had been somehow more special for them. She wanted to keep him
alive inside her always, and he was intent upon her not losing a drop of his seed. She hardly moved. She felt emotionally exhausted by their intercourse. It was he who raised her just enough from where she lay to pull her pants up and tenderly zip her into them. Then he buttoned his Levis and, taking her by the hands, raised her from the ground and held her in his arms, crushing her breasts against him. He caressed her back with his hands. ‘I love you, Lara. The best times of our life are about to begin.’

He handed her the polo shirt, and she pulled it on. He drew some stray pine-needles from her hair, and rearranged it. Then he watched her repair her make-up till she looked perfect. They mounted the bike, and she slipped her arms around his waist and clung to him as they bumped their way through the wood on to the dirt road and towards the rendezvous with his friends.

Lara felt wildly young, reckless and free. She tightened her grip around him and revelled in the idea that she held his youth and love inside her. She was happy and very much in love, certainly as much as he was.

She liked his friends, and they were generous and showed her a welcoming warmth. The host-couple lived in a sixteenth-century palazzo, chock-full of marvellous things and embellished with a fine collection of Italian Renaissance paintings. Thirty people sat down to luncheon, to be amply fed and waited upon, perhaps overly wined.

And Lara saw yet another side of her lover. He was the most structured-unstructured man she had ever had an affair with. He changed his plans with a laid-back ease, and took her along with it. They never made Concorde. Instead they flew to London, just for one night. How, when, where had the plans changed? She had no idea. She had seen and heard nothing. But somehow he had
been contacted at the luncheon party, and had arranged to be at the National Gallery in London the next morning.

After that meeting they did make Concorde, to Washington, and dashed for the connection for LA. Lara found Charles Sebastian Valentine dizzyingly exciting to be with. Not only because she was in love, or because he was a handsome young stud as well as an intellectual with the life-style of a jet set playboy. Or because of how impressive he was, dressed in his three-piece grey Savile Row suit matched by the perfect Turnbull & Asser shirt and tie, making monumental artistic decisions for those without the knowhow or courage to do it themselves. He had stature and an authority she had not seen. She watched him exercise it over his slightly awed peers.

While he was waiting in the VIP lounge to board the plane, his broker and a lawyer appeared. He held one of those high-flier executive meetings calculated to impress even a confirmed anti-corporationist. Was this her very own lover? She marvelled at the agile mind, the ease with which he assessed a deal. For a moment she let herself believe he was and had everything. Every quality she might seek in a man. And how could she live with him, make a life that was whole and above-board, without confessing to him her years with his father? That dilemma still hung over their future.

The house in Malibu was his. He had bought it when he was playing the wealthy young beach-bum. Or so he told her. He loved the house and the place. He talked about his plans to teach Karim to ride the surf; Bonnie, too, if she wished. Lara spoke to the children every day in long, amusing conversations. Finally she arranged for them to fly out to be with them.

His friends in LA were young and like him: exciting, creative, professional high-fliers. They were fun and interesting. And he had been right – her age didn’t
matter. She didn’t feel the older woman with them. She felt, in fact, as young as they were.

On the third morning they were in the Malibu beach-house, there was breakfast on the balcony overlooking the Pacific: Kiwi fruit and strawberries, pineapple and cherries, black coffee, and wholemeal rolls drenched in butter and honey. Just a few people dotted the dazzling white sand. The stretch of multi-million-dollar houses built beside the sandy beach was bathed in California sunshine. Charles was saying how much he looked forward to the arrival of the children. What fun they would have. He was happy that in two days’ time they would be here.

It was just a little thing but it triggered something in Lara. A reminder that, beneath the surface of her happiness, she still had a past which was dogging her. She still had not come to terms with it.

There was an innocent enough start. She had said to him, ‘I like your friends here in LA. They’re a bit California-crazy, but great fun. I did notice a girl, Mandy. I think she’s still in love with you.’

His answer had been, ‘She’s one of the things we don’t have to tell each other about. She was firmly there once, but now it’s in the past. Remember, we don’t have to play true confessions with each other. Boring, unimportant. Who gives a shit about what’s gone by? The past and its mistakes. All those bleeding hearts – whether they were mine, yours, or someone else’s who once mattered. Looking back is silly – and dangerous.’

He went to her and kissed her on the lips, stroking her hair. He lowered his head to lick the cleavage between her breasts. ‘I’ll be back before four. Have a good day,’ he said, mocking the false bonhomie with an Americanism that he loathed. She walked him to the grey Ferarri. He climbed in and she waved him off. As soon
as he was out of sight tears filled her eyes. She had been grateful to have stemmed the flow that threatened earlier.

When he awoke the next morning, she was gone. She had run away. She did leave a note. A horrid lie. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you. It was a wonderful fling, a holiday romance I will never forget. Forgive me.’ She left the Medici ring on top of the note, the note on top of the pillow next to his.

She knew he would be devastated by what she had said and done. She knew that it had been a dreadful thing to walk out on him like that. But she couldn’t help herself. She had had a chance for happiness, but her past was robbing her of it. And she seemed unable to stop looking back. That was how she fell into the abyss.

Cannonberry Chase, Karim, Bonnie … they were all there for her, but nothing seemed the same. Their love could not replace what she had had with Charles. How could this have happened, that fate should have dealt this final blow to her happiness? But if she thought that she could run away from Charles so easily, she was mistaken. Although she was putting on a brave front for herself, every day without him was agony.

Chapter 30

Emily was sitting on the south lawn when Lara came in from her afternoon ride. The scene was like something from a family portrait: her mother’s large straw hat and pretty summer frock; the tea table dressed in a crisp, yellow silk organza embroidered cloth, rippling in the warm summer’s breeze; the silver gleaming on the table, the white porcelain sparkling in the sunlight. On a perfect green lawn, with Cannonberry Chase looming in the background.

Emily was alone and that was unusual. As Lara approached her mother she realised that of late Emily had begun to show her years. Although she still had the looks and chic she was so famous for, still held New York high society in a tight grip, time was not on her side. Lara had really taken notice for the first time two nights before. Henry and Emily, after the three had dined together, announced to her that they had made over the deeds of Cannonberry Chase to Lara, effective upon the death of either one of them. She had as yet not quite recovered from such an accolade. It was an unexpected expression of the family’s love and respect for her, a struggle hard won. She knew that such a gesture acknowledged her as the future matriarch not only of her beloved Cannonberry Chase, but of the family. Unsolicited rewards she had never set her cap for or dreamed of receiving. Lara knew what that must have cost Emily. Cannonberry Chase had
been her life’s work, her greatest love – and Lara her least favourite child. She wondered if Emily had been happy with her life, something she would never dream of asking.

Emily offered her daughter tea.

‘This is unusual, your having tea alone, Mother.’

‘Hardly alone. Your father has had his tea and has gone for a sail. Sam was here with Bonnie, but they have gone off somewhere. And I have shooed everyone else away.’

‘Shall I stay or leave?’

‘Stay. We can have one of those chats you and I never have.’

‘About anything special?’

Emily ignored the question. ‘Lara, are you contemplating another marriage?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because it seems to me that you were never happier than when you were married to Sam. I think for all your adventurous spirit, you like the institution of marriage.’

‘That’s true.’

‘In that we are alike.’

That was probably the only similarity Emily had ever drawn between them. Something was amiss. Unused to any show of closeness from her mother, this conversation rather embarrassed Lara.

‘I never asked then what went wrong there, and I certainly do not want to know now. But what I do know is that Sam is still waiting in the wings, wanting to marry you again. Are you going to accept?’

‘I have been seriously thinking about it of late.’

‘Not your best choice, I think.’

‘Oh? There was a time when you thought he was.’

‘That was then, this is now. He did, after all, let us down.’

The same unrelenting, unforgiving, Emily Dean Stanton speaks, thought Lara.

‘No. I would choose the young man I had tea with, who left this.’

Emily removed from her purse the Catherine de Medici ring. The shock of seeing it again struck an emotional chord so strong as to make Lara feel quite queasy for a moment. Emily reached for her daughter’s hand and, raising it, slid the ring on her finger.

‘Just a little too loose, I think. But not dangerously so. Quite a handsome ring. Yes, Charles Sebastian Valentine would be my choice. But I think you must do something about him quite quickly, Lara. He is very angry with you. He called you a liar, actually.’

‘Charles, here? Where is he?’

‘Gone. He came out of desperation. But, having chased across the country after you, he thought the ring could speak for him. Quite a clever move, I think.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Only that he would never chase after you again. If you want him, you will have to go to him. I suggest you get your skates on, Lara. That young man has real character, and strength of will. And he is very much in love.’

‘I can’t believe we are having this conversation.’

The two women fell silent for some minutes. Emily poured more tea. She raised Lara’s hand again, stroked her fingers and ran her thumb over the carved ruby. Quite choked with emotion, Lara asked, ‘What did you tell him, Mother?’

‘What would you have had me tell him, Lara? That you returned from Italy and came back home to Cannonberry Chase, where you live a life of mild unhappiness? That you are prepared to settle for that for the rest of your life? Is that what you would have had me tell him?’

Lara slid slowly from the chair on to her knees next to her mother. She placed her head in Emily’s lap and wept. Emily hesitantly placed her hand on Lara’s head and stroked her hair. ‘Angel’s hair. Lovely hair. Like spun sugar. Christmas-tree angel’s hair.’

Emily handed her daughter a handkerchief. Wiping a tear from Lara’s cheek, she said, ‘This time round, let’s have a grand, proper, white wedding, here at Cannonberry Chase. You never did have one of those.’

The airport was a few miles from Perugia. Lara put the plane down in a perfect landing. She got through the arrival formalities with less commotion than she had expected. Her mind was filled with nothing except getting to Charles as quickly as possible. She had made up her mind, and nothing could stop her now. Or so she thought.

At Mercatello, population about one hundred souls, she guessed, since it boasted a barber and a coffee shop, the taxi broke down. She checked her map, and tried her feet. The walk to the summit of Monte Vibiano looked none too serious a climb. It was after all a small mountain. When repaired, the taxi and its contents would follow. She had not counted on the heat of the sun, nor her anxiety. Nor on the fact that Monte Vibiano was the end of the road, literally. Beyond that there was nothing but a dirt track. So she began her climb up the winding road.

Her anxiety was caused by no more than wanting to be sure she had chosen the fastest route to Charles. Lara knew when she left Emily at the tea-table in the sun what she must do. That it was too late to create another stopgap relationship with Sam or Jamal. Or any other man for that matter. She was returning to Charles because to have left him had been a destructive act that might
have ruined both their lives. She would do what she had to for them to stay together.

Monte Vibiano was hardly a village, nor even a hamlet. A magnificent Tuscan villa of stone stood behind walls and lofty ornate iron gates that creaked open slowly into a courtyard. A few small houses overlooked the other Tuscan hills. The paved road ended there and beyond was nothing but an empty landscape with a dirt track running through it to another steep climb. Daunted by the idea that she might get lost, Lara gave in and from the villa called Charles.

‘
Pronto
.’

She had to close her eyes and take a deep breath to compose herself. It was the first time she had heard his voice since she left him.

‘Charles, it’s Lara.’ The line seemed to crackle and spit. He sounded a million miles away. ‘Charles,’ she shouted again into the telephone. He spoke, at last.

‘Where are you?’

‘Monte Vibiano. Will you come and get me?’

‘You’ve come the wrong side of the mountain.’

‘Will you come and get me?’ she shouted again into the telephone.

‘If you start walking now, you should be here before sunset. Just follow the track. You will come to the cypress wood. Beyond that are the olive groves. From there, just keep walking and looking up and you will see de Fontefresca. I will be here in the house waiting for you.’

‘The least you can do is meet me halfway.’

‘You walked out, you walk back in, Lara, all the way.’

She was stunned by his harshness but she knew just how cruel she had been, how much she must have hurt him. She had coffee with the owner of the villa, a hospitable and charming man who knew Charles. She made certain arrangements with him, so that he then
drove her as far up the track as he could without a four-wheel drive. From there she followed the track.

She had seen magnificent views, a landscape that defied description. She had seen the odd shack and old lady dressed in black. One such woman gave her a bowl of cool fresh goat’s milk. The sun was at its lowest in the sky before it dropped into a glorious sunset. She was making her final approach to the palazzo. Hot and tired from her long climb, she stopped, putting up a hand to shade her eyes. She looked up through the olive trees into the sun just dropping behind the elegant palazzo above. It was then that she saw him running down the mountain, weaving his way through the trees to her. She started running as fast as she could and they rushed into each other’s arms.

‘I thought I would die without you,’ he told her and kissed her with urgent passion.

‘I did die a little without you. I felt only half alive from the moment I walked out on you.’ They kissed again.

He pushed her gently away and asked her, ‘How do I know you won’t do this to me again? How do I know you are here to stay?’

She stepped aside. She had heard the faint sound of singing before he had. She pointed down through the gnarled olive trees to Bonnie and Karim and their nanny, and Coral and Nancy. And then, slipping her arms beneath his shirt and around him, and caressing his flesh with adoring hands, she told him: ‘Because I brought the family with me.’