Seduce Me Page 14

  I get off the bed and go back into the living room. The door to the studio stays firmly shut. I move to the music system and look through his CD selection. I recognize nothing. I whirl around as soon as I hear the sound of the upstairs door open. He stands for a moment at the top looking down on me.

  ‘That was a lovely piece of music. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, sounding very American. I have come to really like his accent. It is very soft and easy on the ear. He comes down the stairs. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to find something good to listen to. Haven’t you got anything mainstream? Like Justin Timberlake or…?’

  I trail away when he winces and looks at me with an expression I cannot quite make out. He comes towards me, rifles through his collection, picks out a CD, puts it into the player, attaches the headphones, and holds the headphones out to me.

  ‘Close your eyes, and listen, really listen.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This is the song I want played at my funeral.’

  I become still.

  ‘Go on,’ he urges.

  I close my eyes and listen. It starts off with a string instrument and then Indian drums followed by English lyrics. Again and again the words, cannot stay. Despite everything cannot stay. An Indian voice wailing, but beautifully. Aaaaaooooooaaaaaa. There’s no need to say goodbye. Not even to friends or family. All the memories going round, round. The voice so full of longing. Again the beautiful wail. Aaaaaoooooaaaaa. The long road. Cannot stay.

  The song is sad on a level that I don’t often encounter. I remove the headphones. A conversation starts up in my head. This is too deep. He wants it played at his funeral. Where will I be then? There will be no us then. A strange emotion comes into my body. It affects my entire being.

  We look into each other’s eyes and something passes between us, like discovering a secret code. Vann inside Julie? I shrink away from it. Obviously I will be with Jack then. And I feel strong again. I will not recite the poem to him later. That would be walking down the wrong path.

  I look at him. ‘Don’t you have Lady Gaga?’ I ask.

  A veil comes over his face. ‘No.’

  Twenty-four

  Lana is back from her honeymoon. She has invited me to go over to Wardown Towers for tea. The last time I was here was on the eve of Lana’s wedding, I had come with Billie and it was already dark, so I had not paid any attention to my surroundings. Now I am sitting in the back of the Bentley alone. I gaze at my surroundings with interest. A guard and gatehouse heralds the start of a long drive that winds through arable fields ringed with wild flower meadows. After about a mile of driving through the estate we passed the long, high brick-walled kitchen garden. Visible in the distance are formal ponds, clipped yew hedges, summerhouses and beds.

  At the front door a matronly lady in a gray uniform greets me and takes me through a wing of the house I have not been in before to a greenhouse, the largest I have seen. The roof is V-shaped and it is very old. The floor is made of large stone slabs. Abundant palm trees and the grape vines give the impression of a tropical rainforest. It seems cooler in here. The glass ceiling is lofty. From the open door comes the perfume of honeysuckle.

  Lana is wearing an old bottle green sweatshirt and jeans. Her hands are encased in gardening gloves, and she appears to be re-potting a plant. She turns to look at me, and smiles. Even here, standing in an old apron and without a trace of make-up, she looks mind-bogglingly beautiful.

  A strange flash of understanding. I like her. I’ve always liked her.

  ‘What have you been doing to yourself? You look absolutely wonderful,’ she says, her voice ringing with sincerity, and coming forward hugs me.

  ‘Hi. You’ve picked up a tan,’ I say shyly, and hug her back.

  ‘I thought we could have tea here since you love flowers so much.’ She gestures toward a beautifully laid wrought iron table. Anyway, it’s a bit of a mausoleum in there with all the dour paintings and drapes never fully opened in order to protect the artwork.’

  ‘Yeah, I passed a portrait of a stern man with an aristocratic nose and dark, angry eyes. It felt like his eyes were following me around the room.’

  ‘Ah, that must be the founding father of the Barrington dynasty, an astonishingly shrewd and secretive man. Apparently he possessed an unmatched talent for making money. It is said about him that he played with new kings as young misses do with dolls.’

  ‘Oh and what about those two totally eerie stuffed owls?’

  Lana’s mouth turns downwards. ‘Those were pets. They used to belong to some ancestor.’

  My eyes grow huge. ‘Really? That’s what really rich people do. When their pets die they simply stuff them and hang them up as decorations.’

  Lana laughs. ‘They do have some strange customs. Seems that was where the owls loved to perch when they were alive.’

  ‘I passed a photograph of another of Blake’s ancestors in a top hat and tails riding on a giant tortoise.’

  ‘That’s the uncle that went mad,’ Lana explains. ‘He was crazy about animals. He is the one who started the zoo. He once drove to Buckingham Palace in a carriage drawn by zebras.’

  ‘I thought zebras couldn’t be tamed.’

  ‘The zebras were led by a horse,’ explains Lana.

  ‘I can’t believe what we are talking about. Come on, tell me all about your honeymoon. Where did you go? What did you see?’

  Lana laughs. ‘Blake took me to the desert.’

  ‘That’s the great surprise? The desert?’

  ‘Oh, Julie, it was so unbelievably beautiful. We joined an old-fashioned camel train. When it got too hot we traveled in a howdah. It was wonderful. The cameleers were so polite and hospitable. In the day they sing songs; at night they gather around a fire and tell stories.’

  She claps her hands together in front of her.

  ‘Blake knew I always wanted to experience rain in the desert, so he had the clouds over us seeded and that night it rained. It was amazing. Truly. We sat at the mouth of our tent and looked at the rain and then we made love in the rain. It was the most sensuous sex I have ever had.’

  I look at her and think I must get Vann to have sex with me in the rain.

  Something happens outside the greenhouse behind me and Lana is distracted by it. I look over my shoulder and see two peacocks.

  ‘Come on,’ she urges. ‘It looks like they are about to dance.’

  We go outside the glass house and around its side and come upon the peacocks. Lana puts her finger to her lips. We wait a few minutes but she was wrong. Neither spreads its tail. Lana looks at me and shrugs ruefully.

  ‘Oh well,’ she says, and we both turn to go back. As we are walking I have an odd sensation. I turn my head and one of the peacocks has opened his glorious tail. I touch Lana’s arm. We both turn and catch the rare sight of the spectacular creature dancing for his mate. Strangely my hand is still on Lana’s arm. I don’t pull it away. When the dance is over Lana turns her bright eyes on me. ‘That was spectacular, wasn’t it?’

  Unable to speak I nod. We have shared something special. I feel connected to her like I have not with any other human being. The piercing jealousy has dissipated.

  ‘Remember that time those boys were chasing me and throwing stones at me?’

  Lana looks at me strangely. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Why did you come to help me? They could have hurt you.’

  ‘I knew they wouldn’t dare. They were afraid of Jack.’

  I take my hand away. The old hurt is back. How wonderful for her. To be so cherished and loved and protected by my Jack. ‘He looked out for you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He was my brother,’ she says simply.

  He was in love with you, you fool, I want to scream. ‘Let’s have tea,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Yes, let’s. You have to try the chef’s scones. He makes the most delicious scones I have ever had anywhere.’

  We sit at the table and
Lana presses a buzzer.

  ‘Does Blake’s sister live here alone?’

  ‘Yes, for the moment, but she will be moving in with us when we move into our house next week. She’ll only be coming here at the weekends to see her animals.’

  ‘How come there is no information about her on the net?’

  Lana lays her hands flat on the table. Her engagement ring glitters. ‘Apparently that is what these old families do. They hide the relatives that they are ashamed of or might threaten their social standing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Even the Queen’s had two first cousins who were secretly incarcerated in a mental asylum, and Burke’s Peerage declared them both long dead, on the misinformation supplied to them by the family. It was only when a journalist discovered in 1986 that one of the women was buried in a grave marked only by a plastic name tag and a serial number and the other is still alive but forgotten that the story came to light.’

  The food arrives. Cake stands filled with delicate finger sandwiches, scones, cream cakes and tarts. Lana pours the tea. ‘You must try the cucumber sandwiches. Until I came here I had never tasted one. They are exceedingly delicious.’

  I take one and bite into it. Lana is right. The cucumber is very finely sliced. It is light and buttery and scrumptious.

  ‘What happened to Victoria?’

  Lana’s face tightens at the mention of the woman’s name. ‘She has been locked away in a place where the doors have windows.’

  I am shocked. ‘Just because she crashed your wedding reception, emptied a glass of wine on your dress and nearly slapped you?’

  Lana looks directly at me. Her eyes harder than I have ever seen them. ‘She had three razor blades taped to her fingers. She didn’t want to slap me, Julie. She wanted to shred my face, and disfigure me forever.’

  My mouth drops open. ‘Oh my God!’ The thought of what so nearly happened that day.

  ‘Blake looked like he wanted to kill her that night. I thought he was going to do her harm.’

  ‘It was actually her father’s idea. He knew that Blake had become an obsession for her, and if she was not locked away she would do something that would end her in prison. She is being treated with the best that money can buy.’

  ‘Can someone become mad just like that?’

  ‘It seems mental illness runs in her family. Her grandmother suffered a major nervous breakdown and, despite spending many years at a private sanatorium in the care of famous psychiatrists, she never recovered fully. At a grand society dinner party in New York she shocked everyone by eating the roses that were there as table decorations.’

  I meet her eyes. ‘That makes perfect sense. No wonder she was saying all those crazy things about Blake.’

  For the first time since I have known Lana, her eyes become veiled. ‘Yes, her breakdown was very unfortunate.’

  Twenty-five

  As soon as I come into the apartment I know immediately that Vann is not in. The flat seems emptier than normal. I wonder where he is. Perhaps he has popped down to the newsagent. Smith comes towards me and rubs his face against my legs. I pick him up and glance upstairs. Why, the door is slightly ajar. I put Smith back down and go up the stairs.

  I even go so far as to touch the doorknob.

  So desperately do I want to see the painting he has done of me, but my hand falls away. I can’t do that to him. I take a backward step. For the first time in my life I resist my curiosity and refuse to indulge in my propensity to snoop. I run down the stairs and as I get to the bottom stair, Vann opens the front door.

  He stops what he is doing and slowly turns his head in my direction. We stare at each other. Not for the first time there is some unspoken message in his eyes. I feel the breath die in my throat. It is as if we are talking but silently. He is telling me something. I am telling him something. I don’t trust what I am saying to him. There is something wrong. I drop my eyes. Confused. What the hell just happened? I hear him walk towards me.

  ‘Show me your hands,’ he says.

  I hold them out to him. ‘I didn’t look, Bluebeard,’ I joke weakly, but my head is still reeling from that silent exchange.

  He looks me in the eye. ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘There are no marks on your hands.’

  I laugh. ‘Honestly, how do you know I didn’t?’

  ‘It’s in your eyes.’

  I giggle wickedly and start to undo his belt and pants. ‘And I…want a thick and tasty treat.’

  He likes me to do it on my knees, in front of him. I drop to my knees in obedience and rub his member against my cheek. It feels as warm and polished as a glass sculpture that has been sitting in the morning sun. There are not many things more perfect than this. The moment flips to slow motion and we do it right there on the cool wooden floor with Smith watching from not far away. The movement of his fingers inside me is deft, but raw with sensuality. He stares at me while he fucks me.

  ‘How many licks before I touch your soul?’ he whispers.

  I am too far gone to reply.

  Afterward we both lie on our backs panting, staring at the white ceiling. I turn my face towards him. ‘Lana invited us out for dinner.’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘OK. Arrange it with her.’

  ‘I have. Wednesday, next.’

  ‘Blake found me an agent. He saw a couple of my canvasses, thought they were good, and has set up a sixteen piece exhibition for me at the Serpentine.’

  My eyes light up. ‘The Serpentine? Isn’t that a really posh place that only showcases the works of the very best artists?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not a reflection of the quality of my work. More a testament to Blake’s reach.’

  I lie on my stomach and prop myself on my lower arms. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of refusing. So what if Blake’s influence can give you a small leg-up. Everybody needs a break at some time in their lives. If your work is not good enough you’ll fail anyway?’

  ‘No, I’m not going to refuse.’

  He smiles lazily and I dig my chin into his chest. ‘Vann?’

  ‘Mnnnn?’

  ‘Why do you keep your hair long?’

  ‘It’s what hair does naturally: it grows. Shouldn’t you be asking the other men why they cut theirs instead?’

  I pull a face.

  He chuckles. ‘Hair is not what culture leads us to believe, a cosmetic preference. During the Vietnam War special forces in the war department combed the American Indian Reservations to look for young men with outstanding tracking abilities—experts in stealth and survival.

  ‘But once enlisted an amazing thing happened to these men. The talents and skills they had possessed on the Reservations seemed to mysteriously disappear. Recruit after recruit failed to perform as expected. Extensive interviews and testing proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that when the men received their military haircuts, they could no longer ‘sense’ the enemy or ‘read’ subtle signs. When the men were allowed to grow their hair back their ability to ‘sense’ came back. Hair is an extension of the nervous system, a type of antennae.’

  ‘Is that really true?’

  He grins. ‘Maybe?’

  I punch his arm. ‘What do you need tracking skills for anyway?’

  ‘To track sulky-mouthed girls with green eyes.’

  ‘My eyes are not green.’

  ‘You keep saying.’

  ‘Vann?’

  ‘Mnnnn…’

  ‘How come Blake’s brothers didn’t come to the wedding?’

  I feel him still beside. Always this reaction when we are discussing Blake or his family.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I know instantly that he is lying. ‘Do keep in touch with them.’

  ‘A little with Marcus.’

  ‘What’s he like then.’

  ‘He changed a lot after his son died.’

  There was no mention of that in the websites I ha
d trawled. ‘Oh, how old was he when that happened?’

  ‘Eleven months.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Cot death.’ He sits up suddenly. I reach out a hand and gently tug him back down. He allows me to pull him back down.

  ‘I’m sorry. It must have been awful.’

  ‘Yes,’ he sighs. He turns his face to me.

  ‘Vann?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  ‘I don’t know if I do or not. He gives us so many flaws and then he goes so silent.’

  ‘Do you think Blake believes in God?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ His voice is casual enough, but again his body is suddenly tense.

  ‘Just wondered.’

  ‘Has Lana said something to you?’

  ‘No.’

  He props his head on the palms of his hands. ‘Have you been snooping again, Julie Sugar?’

  I become red-faced. ‘I kind of read Lana’s notes.’ I don’t tell him it was her diary.

  His face becomes grave. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

  ‘I’m not a cat. Anyway,’ I say, standing up, flinging his clothes on him, and getting into mine, ‘I’ve got to go and practice.’

  You see, I am learning pole dancing. Every day I lock the bedroom door and I practice. I am surprisingly good at it since I have been hanging off door ledges doing my Callanetics for years, and I have very strong arms and the suppleness of a gymnast.

  Twenty-six

  It is a Sunday morning and we have just had breakfast when I turn towards Vann and ask, ‘What about BDSM? Are you going to teach me something about that?’

  He looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Why? Are you interested in being a submissive?’

  ‘I don’t know. I could be. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a game.’

  ‘I like games. Start me off and I’ll tell you if I like it.’