Those Wicked Pleasures (6 page)

It appeared that Jamal’s mother had a box at the opera. A young Spanish-American tenor was making his debut in Rossini and there was a seat to spare. David declined it, since he was due for dinner in the country. Emily of course declined; her excuse, that she too was bound for the country. She would never be seen at a social occasion with Jamal’s mother. That would have automatically made the woman socially acceptable, and in Emily Dean Stanton’s eyes she simply was not. Jamal and his father … well, that was a different thing. One of her relations, Theodore Roosevelt, her mother’s great-uncle Teddy, as President had sent the troops into Morocco over an incident involving a relation of Jamal’s. An American woman and her two children had been kidnapped. Politics, power and blackmail made an admirable connection, especially because there had been a happy
solution to the international incident. America had emerged with honour. Such things were acceptable, they made a social connection – as history, if nothing else. But a married woman, once the Parisian mistress of a Russian archduke, who ran off with an Arab – that, to Emily Dean Stanton, was not history. That was dirty linen.

During discussion of the weekend, it appeared that all the cars going to the country would be full, and David’s plane fully occupied. They realised that Lara, who had planned to go with Sam, had not been taken into account. Now that her plans had changed, transport to the country had become a problem. The train was suggested, and rejected. A car and driver would return for her.

‘Not necessary,’ offered Jamal. ‘Remember, I’m driving out late this evening, and I have room for Lara.’ Jamal gave her one of his most charming smiles and said, ‘I’d be pleased for the company, La,’ using his and the family’s childish nickname for her. ‘And, if you like, I will allow you to practise your most outrageous acts of flirtation on me. Last night, at dinner, you hardly got going.’

Lara, rising to the bait, was quick to say in a sassy retort, ‘If that’s all you have to offer Jamal, I’ll take the train.’ Everyone began to laugh. Jamal and Lara had been playing flirtatious games since she was six years old. He was always teasing her, and claiming that when she was grown up he would elope with her to show her the world.

‘No, you won’t, Lara,’ Emily insisted. ‘You will accept Jamal’s invitation, and be thankful to him for sparing you that tiresome train ride.’

Emily disliked Lara travelling alone on the train. Evenings were the worst. In things like that she was over-protective. And, never having been allowed to travel on
public transport when she had been a girl, she saw no reason why her children should. Emily Dean Stanton was of the Lindbergh kidnapping generation. She remained, even now, as paranoid about kidnapping as all the wealthy society families had become after that episode. Her paranoia served her well. It allowed her to sidestep yet another one of life’s public unpleasantnesses: travelling with the masses. Chauffeur and car were
de rigueur
for Lara most of the time, and always when commuting between Cannonberry Chase and the Manhattan house. It had been that way for all the children until they were adult and able to make their own arrangements. Emily was therefore relieved when Jamal made the gesture. Less so when Jamal’s mother mentioned the box at the opera again, suggesting that Lara accept the empty seat, and that she be allowed to attend a supper-party afterwards. It would be a late night, but more fun than having to wait until midnight for her ride to Oyster Bay.

Emily consented, much relieved that Lara would travel safely with Jamal, and not least because she had not in any case expected Lara at Cannonberry Chase that evening for dinner. Her daughter’s presence would have upset her seating arrangement. Emily never allowed thirteen, or seventeen at her dinner parties. And tonight they were sixteen. So Lara was bound for the opera, and that was the end of it. No one ever opposed Emily’s decisions.

However convenient for Emily, the invitation extended by Chantal Ben El-Raisuli was resented. The Stantons’ box was one of the more coveted seats in the opera house and had been the family box for as long as there had been a Metropolitan Opera House. It was known that Emily and Henry Stanton sat only in their own box at the Met. Had there been such a thing as a royal box and a crowned
head among the patrons, the entire opera world in America would have known where the throne was. Emily actually found Chantal’s invitation pushy. And pushy was another negative in the Emily Dean Stanton book of etiquette. It ranked even lower than a social gaffe.

Everyone in the house seemed to be on the move, making ready to leave for the country. Emily and Elizabeth, the last to depart, remained only to check Lara’s appearance, and for Emily to give a directive: ‘Jamal is a good friend to the family. But a degree of respectful aloofness towards the mother – essential, Lara.’

Lara, peeved to be made to dress hours before she was to go out, merely to pass muster before the two women, detached herself from their fussing. The two women could not agree about the wide, emerald green satin sash around Lara’s waist. They sanctioned everything else. Lara’s evening attire was a shocking-pink silk taffeta blouse with voluminous short puffed sleeves and a moderately low oval neckline. It showed off her lovely young shoulders and slender, graceful neck. Elegant and feminine, yet not in the least provocative, was their verdict. Provocation would emanate from within that night, but that lay beyond even Emily’s sharp eye. The cobalt blue taffeta skirt made the evening outfit both sophisticated and youthful, a rare achievement. Its combination of colours seemed stunningly pretty and right for a young woman to wear for any grand evening out. At last Emily gave in and sided with Elizabeth. The emerald green sash was indeed right, a stroke of genius. Monsieur St Laurent was an artist, Emily decided.

With an inward sigh of relief, Lara thought, thank God for that. Earlier, when the two women had first arrived in her room, she had done a twirl for their inspection.
She had been so pleased with herself for the way she looked, only to have her confidence momentarily shaken by their beady eyes and quibbling. Emily had removed the pearl-and-diamond choker from Lara’s neck, saying, ‘No, dear. Last night, for a private evening, but in public – well, I think not. A low profile, no jewels. Especially when one is first coming out. You must wear your own charm as if it were a jewel. That should suffice.’

Lara detected a changed attitude towards her in her mother and sister. It had happened between yesterday, at the tennis courts, and today, here in her room. In their minds she was no longer a child. They were now treating her as a young adult. Lara accorded due credit to their perceptiveness. She was no longer a child. Willed consent to carnality removes childhood and adolescence at a stroke. Having sex for just a few hours with Sam did much more than end what she felt as her overprized virginity. More even than ease her sexual frustrations. It allowed her to open up as a woman. She felt free of that stifling state of not being one thing or another, free of the anxiety of adolescence. She felt able to go forward and explore her own self, her sexuality, be her own person. Explore without guilt or embarrassment her natural erotic needs. It was as if life were beginning for her, really beginning. Like Eve in the garden, until then, she had had only inklings of how divine freedom and being a woman could be.

Lara had to swallow a smile when she thought how appalled her mother and sister would be if they knew their pet had been fucking madly for hours with Sam before daylight. That she had actually found a way to be happy without them pulling the strings. Was that mean? Well, maybe so, but it was satisfying. How devastated they would be to know that she had yielded her virginity without a wedding band, without their permission. Even
worse, how shocked they would be to know how much she enjoyed the experience.

A note of annoyance in Elizabeth’s voice curtailed Lara’s musings. ‘We are terribly late. The car has been waiting for an hour. We must leave
now
. But you do look very pretty, my dear. And you are a lucky girl to have such a handsome man as Jamal to take you out this evening. But remember what Mother said – a little distance, a degree of aloofness, can be protective. Chantal Ben El-Raisuli is not one of us.’

Her sister kissed her on the cheek and told her, ‘Everyone will wonder who you are. You will be the new fresh face, and that’s exciting. You must tell me all about it in the morning.’ And the two women were gone.

Lara looked in the mirror. They were right, she looked very pretty and very grown-up, and much the young lady she was expected to look. And they had, after all, done their best for her. Whatever that was. It had certainly told her nothing about sex and love or how to behave in a predatory world. Her brothers had been doing that for her all her life. No wonder she loved them so much.

It was five o’clock. Jamal wasn’t picking her up until seven. Ravenous, she went down to the kitchen. Cook thought she looked wonderful. While Cherry, the maid, laid a place at the table for her, and Cook prepared an omelette, she tied on one of Cook’s great white aprons loosely, so as not to crush her dress. The rest of the staff drifted into the kitchen to see Lara. She had grown up with these people. They had loved, cared for and spoiled her since she was a child. They were her second family, just as they had been for the other Stanton children. If nothing else, it was their whole-hearted recognition of how pretty and grown-up she looked that gave her the confidence she needed to go out with Jamal instead of her lover Sam.

She hardly knew where to put herself. There must be no wrinkling of her gown, no messing the blush of make-up or the mass of blonde-blonde hair dressed by her mother’s clever maid, Whizzy. She had hardly given Jamal and the evening a thought. They had been reserved for herself and Sam, for being in love, and totally one with another human being. And musing on her bad luck that the day had not worked out for them as they had so carefully planned it the night before, and how the world had already intruded on their romance.

Lara wandered through the reception rooms, turning on lights, and in the drawing room found a place for herself. She would give herself a concert. Like a magnificent diamond, there were many facets to this young girl’s character and accomplishments. She sparkled with potential. And, though young in years, she brought an innate maturity to what she pursued. Music had been a cherished pleasure for her since a child. Trained in the classics, she was undoubtedly capable of making a music career for herself. Popular music was to her easy and amusing, pure fun. Like Henry, she had only to hear a song once and she could entertain with it for the rest of her life. There were two Steinway concert-grand pianos, lying like two lovers in the curve of their cases, lids raised, where Henry and she, or David or Max, would play marvellous medleys for hours on end to amuse family and friends. She sat down and, with skirts duly arranged, began to play.

Jamal stood for a considerable time at the entrance to the drawing room listening with Higgins, one of the butlers, to Gershwin, Cole Porter and Jerome Kern. He had heard her play like that dozens of times: it had always entertained and amused him. But tonight, watching her, listening to the songs in that grand and attractive drawing room, it was as if he was seeing her and hearing the music for the first time.

And in a way it was. He had never been in that room, so famed for its beauty and its treasures, when it had not had other people in it. When it had not been filled with interesting conversation and powerful men of the world. Never had he been alone in it with Lara.

A hundred feet long by fifty feet wide, two storeys high, with its vast Oriel window facing the garden, its four massive marble fireplaces alight, its priceless furniture, exquisite objets d’art, its Greco-Roman antiquities, Impressionist paintings – Gauguins, Renoirs, Monets, four select Van Goghs – it was awe-inspiring. The draperies blossomed in a fall of thirty feet from the ceiling – luscious red silk damask, trimmed in a wide band of egg yolk yellow, and lined in black and white silk taffeta stripes. They were elaborately festooned and tied back with huge silk tassels. The silk had a papery, lacklustre look to it, a certain elegant patina that comes with age – in this case, several hundred years. They were relics from France in the years when Madame de Pompadour reigned as the doyenne of chic in Louis’ court. Brought home in pieces by one of the Stantons, the Manhattan town house’s drawing room had been designed in the late-nineteenth century to accommodate them.

The room was alluring. The grand salon of a New York palace? A country house? Softened by the intimate disposition of the furniture, the muted lamp-light filtering through ivory silk shades, the many bowls of tulips, daffodils, roses and bearded iris, all grown in the hothouses of Cannonberry Chase to keep the room always filled with spring flowers. The proliferation of pictures in silver frames supplied images of the family and those otherwise near-invisible power-brokers, rarely mentioned and scarcely seen outside their own elite circle.

Jamal loved this room. He had grown up with David and David’s cousins here. He took it for granted as much
as the Stantons did. They called it the ‘big room’, and it embodied that severe case of parsimony that Emily was famous for and that added an even greater chic. It had a worn look, bordering on threadbare – notably the chairs and carpets. A look that would later be made famous by several English antique dealers-cum-decorators. Her parsimony had let in a patina inseparable from class in a section of society that doesn’t care to be new or extravagant, that eschews labels and glitz. Grand, worn, and used for their own pleasure, not show.

Within the atmosphere of this room Lara was giving herself a concert while she waited for Jamal.

He had heard her play like it in all the Stanton houses: here, at Cannonberry Chase, the villa in Cap d’Antibes, and Palm Beach. Those very private houses where the family lived discreetly, to which strangers yearned to be known to have been invited. The present enchantment lay in being there alone with Lara, the young heiress to this private world and fascinating kingdom.