Читать книгу Master of the House - Justine Elyot - Страница 6

‘I’ll tell you what, I didn’t realise how dirty posh boys are.’

Minna was full of her escapade at the Hall that next morning after we’d bumped into Joss at the Feathers.

‘Really?’ I said with a yawn, frowning at the wall my hairdrier was plugged into. The electricity kept cutting out and I had an idea that the way the socket was coming away from its moorings might not be helping.

‘God, yeah. Filthy, they are.’

I didn’t want to hear it. If she’d kissed Joss, or gone further with him, I didn’t want to know.

‘It’s all that repression, shut away at Eton. They go wild when they get a sniff of a woman, probably.’

‘Do you think so? Mmm, what a night. Three sexy boys and me in a four-poster bed.’ She was lying full-length on the sofa and she arched her back like a cat.

I had to know. I spat it out.

‘Was Joss one of them?’

‘No, Joss was boring. He went to bed, left us to it with a crate of beer and a multipack of condoms.’

‘And they say romance is dead.’ But my heart leaped up. Joss hadn’t touched Minna. Perhaps gangbanging just wasn’t his scene.

Or perhaps he was gay.

I shouldn’t care, either way.

‘Fuck this piece of shit,’ I fumed, throwing the hairdrier down and wrenching out the plug. ‘I’m going to see your aunt, get her to send the handyman over to fix this socket.’

It was going to be a hot day, the sun already high and so bright that I was a little dazzled as I climbed down the steps from the van.

It seemed like a holy vision, consequently, when Joss pitched up in front of me, illuminated from behind.

‘Am I hallucinating?’ I muttered, a little dismayed to be caught like this, barefoot in towelling shorts and a halter-neck top with my half-dried hair like wild rats’ tails down my back.

‘Lucy. I was just coming to see you,’ he said.

God, he looked like sex on a plate. Snake-hipped in blue jeans and a check shirt, unbuttoned far enough to give a glimpse of dark chest hair.

‘Why?’

He was carrying a small antique-looking book with a tooled leather cover, and he held this out to me.

‘I wanted to give you this. As a token of apology and … perhaps friendship?’

His eyes would put a doe’s to shame and his perfect lips were wet and a little pouty. He was stupidly beautiful. It was ridiculous. Why the hell would he care what I thought of him?

I took the book – Wordsworth’s Lucy poems.

Fuck it. I was doomed.

‘Will you come for a walk with me?’ he asked.

‘You aren’t hung over then?’

‘No, I left them to it. Wanted to keep a clear head so I could come down here and see you …’ He smiled, a little self-consciously, his eyes peering out from lowered lids.

‘Right. That’s … weird.’

‘Is it?’

I nodded.

‘Well, perhaps I’m weird. Will you? Come for a walk with me?’

The spell was cast and I couldn’t resist him.

‘You won’t tie me to a tree or anything like that, will you?’

He let out a quick burst of a laugh and his eyes flashed in a way that made my stomach turn over.

‘Not unless you want me to,’ he said, then he held out his hand and I took it.

* * *

On the way to Willingham Hall, I parked at the caravan site and took a walk along the river first, wanting to remember that day and the enchantment that lay upon it. If I could keep the memory alive, it might protect me against getting too close to Joss again. I didn’t know what he had in mind – he had made it sound strictly business, nothing social at all – but it was always wise to guard against the unexpected with Joss.

The same weeping willows and anglers were there along the towpath, like props in our drama. We had wandered past them all, talking about literature and schooldays and music, snatching at the little things we had in common as if they were treasures to be stored away.

Before half a mile had been covered, I was deeply lost. When we sat on the bank and he made his move to kiss me, I could no more have denied him than I could have called up a river god from the shining depths before us.

I kicked the grass at that place, then turned towards Willingham and the Hall.

The gatekeeper was surprised to see me come in on foot, but he let me pass and I walked on under the canopy of trees, enjoying the shade they afforded on this hot summer day.

The estate office, I recalled, was first left once you were through the door. I rang the bell, looking at the relevant window and wondered if Joss was waiting in there for me.

At a corner of the east wing I could see scaffolding and men on it, working to restore the somewhat neglected exterior of the Hall. This must be what the millionaire’s money was paying for. I watched them filling the peeling plasterwork, until the door opened and Joss stood in front of me.

‘Come in,’ he said, ushering me to his office. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink?’

‘Coffee, I guess.’

‘Coffee it is.’ He went over to a percolator in the corner and poured me a cup. ‘You won’t mind if I indulge in something a little stronger?’

He turned around, brandishing a half-bottle of whisky.

‘Joss,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s nine o’clock in the morning.’

He shrugged, pulled out a chair for me and sat down at his desk.

‘Thanks for that – now I don’t have to ring the speaking clock.’ With an air of defiance, he uncapped the bottle and put it to his lips.

‘So you’re an alcoholic,’ I said, recalling how he had had a bottle to himself at the meal last night, plus his champagne cocktail and a liqueur in place of pudding. I’d thought nothing of it – he had always been a bon vivant. But whisky at this time of day was a different proposition.

‘I do what I have to to get through the day,’ he said, putting the bottle aside. ‘I’ve had some disappointments in my life, Lucy. It’s medication.’

‘You mean having to let the Hall?’

He gave me a chilly little smile.

‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘What happened?’

‘Pa left me this pile, but he didn’t leave me anything else. Not a bean. He spent the lot on yachts, apparently.’

‘You could sell up.’

‘No, I bloody couldn’t.’ Joss nearly spat the whisky over me. ‘Willingham Hall has to stay in the family. It has to. I can’t be the one who flogs it to a Russian oligarch, Lucy. I just can’t.’

‘You’re attached to this place.’

‘Well, I see that you might not understand having a sense of home, but I do. This is my place, my domain. But it costs a fucking fortune to maintain. The heating bills alone are probably more than your annual salary. Or they would be, if I ever turned the heating on. I keep it just high enough to stop the pipes freezing, because I’m not going through that nightmare again. You should have seen me last winter, Lulu. Three jumpers, five pairs of socks. I got through half the peat stocks of the Highlands in whisky.’

‘So it’s expensive, and that’s why you’ve let it. Not much of a story there, really.’ His catty remark about my upbringing, coupled with his use of his pet name for me, had turned me into Ms Uber-Professional Bitch like a charm.

‘No, but the story’s in what it’s being used for,’ he said, lowering his voice. Again, he looked around the office as if he thought it might be bugged. ‘And by whom.’

‘So? Is he here now?’

‘No. He comes here one weekend a month. He brings … friends … with him.’

I shook my head, still not seeing the whole picture.

‘Hookers?’ I hazarded.

‘No, not hookers. He uses the place for extravagant parties. Catering to a particular kind of guest.’

‘Swingers, then?’

‘Do you always think in tabloid-speak these days, Lucy? It’s so unrefined.’

‘I do beg your pardon.’ We gave each other bitter smiles. ‘Go on then. Tell me how elegant and sophisticated it all really is. I’m sure it’s not just rich people shagging on luxury furnishings.’

‘The thing is, Lucy, I’ve never been to one of these parties. I’ve never been invited.’

‘How rude.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? But he likes to keep me in my place. He says he’ll invite me when I have a … guest … of my own to bring.’

‘Joss, could you stop talking in riddles and get to the point? Please?’ I looked at my watch. I was supposed to be in an editorial meeting in an hour.

‘You know, perhaps you should call me Lord Lethbridge. It is my name now, after all.’

‘Might I enquire when His Lordship intends to spill the precious bloody beans?’

Joss hesitated. Actually, I think he was nervous. He was talking to a journalist about something he shouldn’t, after all. He always went all stiff and princely when he was nervous.

‘Please?’ I said, more softly. ‘I promise I won’t blab. It’ll be our secret.’

‘This is serious,’ he said, entreating me with his darkest look.

‘I know. I know it is.’

‘Willingham Hall is at stake. And that’s not all. My life might depend on your discretion.’

‘Wow.’

He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath.

‘I met … this person … at a party. The kind of party he likes to throw, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. It was in London. At a dungeon.’

‘The London Dungeon?’ I said, a little confused. Were they all mad-keen on grisly murders?

‘No, Jesus, Lucy, are you being deliberately dim? A dungeon. In London. Not the London Dungeon.’

Light dawned, albeit of a murky nature.

‘You mean a kinky fetish type of thing?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

I paused and stared at him.

‘Oh.’ It was all I could think of to say.

‘Yes,’ he said, inspecting his fingernails, with the odd surreptitious glance at my expression.

Joss in a dungeon. Was it such an outlandish thought? I mean, there had been nothing weird or fetishy going on when we were together, but we were young, and … actually, looking back, perhaps there had been signs.

A memory popped into my head, of him pushing me up against the tree he had used to tie me to in childhood, holding my wrists above my head, thrusting into me, his eyes like coals. Always that tree. Every time.

‘Whips and chains?’ I said, just for clarification.

‘Whips and, indeed, chains,’ he confirmed. ‘Although I prefer a more subtle approach myself.’

‘You do?’

He looked a little touched by my bemusement and he leaned forwards.

‘Dear sweet innocent Lucy,’ he said softly. ‘Did you never think?’

‘I … you were a bit … I suppose, looking back, it makes a kind of sense. But I never framed it that way. For me you were just on the slightly domineering edge of normal … slap and tickle … I didn’t think it went any deeper than that.’

‘Normal.’ He sat back again. ‘That would be you, would it?’

‘I’ve never been normal.’

He liked that answer.

‘I know. I’m surprised that you’re surprised, to be honest. I always thought you had a touch of that tendency in you.’

‘What … whips and chains?’

‘God, shall we cut the tabloid-speak now, please? I’m talking about dominance and submission. You loved being told what to do and made to do it. In bed, I mean, not out of it.’

I looked down at my lap, remembering the lurid adolescent fantasies I used to have about him. I wanted to deny his assertion, but it was at least half true. It struck me that every time we had made love, he had been doing what he wanted to me, and I had been letting him. And finding the skewed dynamic endlessly arousing.

It probably wasn’t normal. But I wasn’t here to discuss the minutiae of our dead sex life. I made an effort to stay on track.

‘I don’t know why you think that, or what the hell it has to do with this alleged scoop you claim to be offering me.’

‘It has everything to do with it,’ he said.

I pushed my chair back and half-rose from it.

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that,’ I said, scanning his face intently. ‘If you think I have the slightest idea of getting tangled up with you again –’

‘Sit down,’ he said, and the commanding tone I knew so well did its fatal work on me. ‘Hear me out.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m not vain or stupid enough to believe that you will ever fall for my bullshit again, Lucy. I’m not out to mess with your heart. But there’s a way to get invited into the inner circle of our loaded friend which will involve our at least seeming to be attached to one another.’

Fuck that, then, was on the tip of my tongue, but I was too intrigued to dismiss him out of hand. I wanted to at least hear what preposterous non-starter he had in mind before I emptied his oak-aged Macallan all over his unnecessarily attractive head.

‘It would be a charade, Lulu. A performance. An undercover job, that’s all.’

‘What would?’

‘My lessee has always said he would invite me to one of his parties if I got myself a collared submissive.’

A sip of coffee went down the wrong way and I spent the next few minutes trying not to choke.

‘Are you OK?’ said Joss anxiously.

I nodded.

‘“Collared submissive”,’ I coughed out by way of explanation for my fit. ‘What?’

‘Come on, you aren’t slow. I’m sure you can work it out for yourself.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. That I have. What you’re saying is that, if I pretend to be your, your collared submissive, you and I will be invited to Mr Mysterious’s dodgy parties. I will gain an explosive story for the national press and you will possibly get your Hall back? Right?’

‘Right,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think you’re insane. The alcohol’s rotted away what little you had in the way of brain cells.’

‘Give it to me straight, Lulu.’

‘And stop calling me Lulu. It’s Ms Miles to you.’

‘Don’t dismiss it out of hand,’ he said, leaning forwards again, all intensity. ‘It could work for both of us. And, really, don’t you remember how good we were together? Would it be such a chore?’

‘Chore?’ How could he not see that this would be absolute torture – probably literally? ‘Fuck you and your stupid house. I hope it gets bought up and turned into a theme park.’

Damn, my voice was wobbling all over the shop. I had to get out of there, and fast.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve approached this in the wrong way,’ he said, standing and trying to stop me running out of the door. ‘Lucy, I’m a tactless bastard, but please …’

I opened the door.

‘I miss you,’ he said.

I slammed it in his face.