Guilty Pleasures
TASMINA PERRY
Guilty Pleasures
To Fin with love
Whenever you confront an unbridled desire you are surely in the presence of a tragedy in the making.
Quentin Crisp
Sometime in the 1980s
The residents of the South of France are too chic to consider themselves socially competitive, but in the villas that pepper the Côte D’Azur, one-upmanship was rife. Saul Milford, a man of not inconsiderable self-assurance, liked to think that
he
had the best villa in the whole area. An old
mas
in the foothills of Provence, Les Fleurs was not the biggest house but with its turrets and bright blue shutters, it was certainly the prettiest. Already that summer he’d had Princess Margaret, Mick Jagger and various other members of London’s beau monde round the kidney-shaped swimming pool. They’d all seemed to enjoy themselves and it was easy to see why. The grounds were studded with fabulous bronzes, sculpted by his dear friend Christopher Chase, one of England’s most prominent artists. There were olive groves, an abundance of poppies on the hillside, and in the sunshine, the Mediterranean sparkled like a sapphire in the distance. This evening, as dusk was settling on the grounds with a honey glow, it looked even more spectacular. It was excellent timing: tonight there was to be another party. Staff in white suits scurried around the pool plumping up cushions and filling silver ice buckets with champagne. The smell of spices from the kitchen mingled with the strong scent of lavender and the air crackled with anticipation of a fabulous evening ahead.
Saul smiled to himself, sipping lemonade freshly made from fruit in his orchard, silently congratulating himself that his purchase of the villa the previous summer had been one of the best decisions he had ever made. He could certainly afford it. His company, the luxury goods house Milford, was doing well. For years the
company’s sumptuous leather products had been the preserve of the upper classes who ordered bespoke luggage for their exotic holidays. But the Eighties had seen the rise of a new, more democratic wave of millionaires riding on stock market killings. The City was awash with money and it was making Saul rich. Very rich. And what was the point of taking money to your grave?
Saul looked down from the terrace to where his two nieces Emma Bailey and Cassandra Grand were playing. From this distance, he could just about make out the dialogue between the two cousins. It was funny how personalities were set at such a young age. While the girls were similar in many ways, their differences were equally marked. So marked in fact, that Saul felt confident he could predict how their lives would unfold and the direction in which their desires and ambitions would take them.
Dangling her feet in the swimming pool Emma put a bookmark in her copy of
Jane Eyre.
At seven she was tall for her age, with clever, grey eyes that posed questions without the need to open her mouth.
‘Do you want to play chess?’ she asked her cousin.
‘No,’ replied Cassandra, rolling her eyes dramatically.
‘What about hide-and-seek?’ Emma persisted.
‘No,’ snapped Cassandra impatiently.
‘Why?’
‘It’s for babies,’ said Cassandra painting a coat of red polish on her stubby square fingernails. The twelve-year-old had been excited about the holiday for months. She loved hearing Saul’s stories about rock stars and princesses and wanted to look perfect if she happened to meet any of them that evening.
‘Why don’t you go and ask Tom,’ she added coldly, pointing to her three-year-old brother who was busily rummaging in a flower bed getting soil in his hair.
‘Tom’s too young to play,’ replied Emma, refusing to be fobbed off.
Cassandra looked up at her cousin, her eyes squinting up in the sun.
‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘Come on, Cass,’ Emma persisted. ‘There’s loads of places to explore. We could go and look for butterflies. I bet there are
millions
in this garden. I’ve got a book in the villa that tells you how to identify them.’
‘You are such a swot,’ tutted Cassandra, smoothing down her long dark hair. ‘We’re on holiday. Can’t you just relax by the pool like a normal person? Listen, I’ll paint your nails if you give me fifty pence.’
‘I haven’t got fifty pence.’
‘Well, you’d better go and find something else to do then,’ said Cassandra, ‘on your own.’
‘OK then. I will,’ said Emma. Above her on the terrace, Saul Milford smiled and then walked back into the house to get ready for the party.
She hadn’t been able to sleep. How was she expected to with the music and turquoise light reflected from the swimming pool seeping through the shutters? She had crept out of bed and gone to watch the party from the safety of the terrace. In the glow of a thousand tea-lights the whole scene looked spectacular as hundreds of impossibly glamorous people were laughing, drinking and dancing under an umbrella of moonlight.
Minutes earlier she’d been on the verge of going down to find her parents when Saul, taking a break from the action, had caught her.
‘What are you doing here, I thought you went to bed hours ago,’ he’d said sitting on the terrace next to her.
‘How can I sleep with all this going on? It all looks so beautiful,’ she had explained.
‘There’ll be time to enjoy all this when you’re older,’ he’d smiled putting his arm round her. ‘One day all this is going to be yours.’
‘Really Uncle Saul?’
‘Really,’ he’d laughed, draining the last of his champagne and standing up. ‘Now come on, off to bed! You know I can’t protect you if your father finds out you’re still up.’
What a wonderful holiday it had been! As it was the last night of the trip she had no desire to go back to bed. She waited until Saul had returned to the party and then wandered away from the house, walking deeper into the grounds, wanting to make the night last as long as she could.
The further she walked moving away from the candles around the pool and the buttery light spilling from the villa, the darker it became, only flecks of starlight peppered the tarry sheet of sky above her. The high rasp of frogs in the trees replaced the chirp of
crickets and the air began to lose its floral scent. Still she carried on walking, the damp grass tickling her bare feet, drawn by a faint light in the distance. As she approached the light, she saw it was coming from the little wooden house she had explored with her cousin earlier in the week. She had wondered then what might be inside it, but it had been locked tight. She was not easily scared but for a moment her steps slowed as she wondered whether to turn back to Les Fleurs, now so far behind her that it was nothing more than a black shape in the distance. Suddenly she caught sight of a dim outline of a figure through the dusty glass of the outbuilding. Curious, she edged closer, freezing when she heard a low moan from inside. She was now just below the shed’s dirty window. Holding her breath, she slowly raised her head and peered inside. The glass was so filthy it was like looking through smoke. At first, she was unable to make out what or who was inside. But as she pushed her face closer she let out a gasp – at first in puzzlement and disbelief and then in horror, as she realized what was happening in front of her. Stumbling back, she fell and scraped her arm on a rock. She looked up at the window, then back to the villa. She knew she should leave – run back to her bed as fast as she could – but as if pulled by a force she could not control she looked through the window again, hoping against hope that what she had seen was just her imagination. But no: the vile image was still there. Shaking her head to rid it from her mind, tears streaming down her face, she turned and ran back to the villa, not yet aware that what she had just seen would change her life forever.
Twenty-three years later
Sitting in the passenger seat of an ink-black Mercedes, Emma Bailey turned round and watched the white Federal-style mansion fade from view, bringing to a close one of the most stressful days of her life. She blew out her cheeks, smiling to herself at a job well done. Emma had spent the last twenty-four hours charming and cajoling industrialist PJ Frost, attempting to persuade him that her company Price Donahue was the right one to advise him on a billion-dollar mergers and acquisition strategy. Emma’s head was swimming. Not just from the pressure, but from dinner last night; a seven-course tasting menu with free-flowing vintage champagne that she had been in no position to refuse. Frost was from the old school where deals were brokered over food, liquor and preferably blood-sports, which she was glad to have been spared.
‘We did it!’ laughed Emma, sinking back into the leather and watching the frosty white landscape speed by.
‘You
did it,’ said her colleague Mark Eisner, one of the partners at the firm as he turned up the heated seats. ‘You were the one that got us the invite up here. You were the one who impressed him with the pitch. Price Donahue has been after the Frost business for years. You do realize that this is about twenty million dollars worth of fees?’
Emma smiled. She knew she had done well and it was good to hear her boss acknowledge it, but she had to admit a little bit of luck had helped; her chance meeting with PJ Frost at a business seminar had come at exactly the right time. PJ Frost had a vast industrial empire that took in everything from paper mills to food
production. He was a billionaire, owned one of the finest homes in New England, a fleet of vintage sports cars and two Gulfstream jets, but when Emma had met him, he had just slipped out of the Forbes 400 and he was hell bent on re-igniting his business. Emma knew Price Donahue, one of the most prestigious management consultancy firms in Boston, were the firm to do it: they just had to convince Frost. Emma and Mark had made the long drive up to Vermont a day earlier and even if she did say so herself, they had done an amazing job presenting their ideas. The deal had been sealed on the Friday night. Unfortunately, then Frost had insisted they return to his mansion the next day and celebrate with a brunch of kedgeree, eggs Benedict and even more champagne.
‘My blood feels like pure Dom Perignon,’ groaned Emma, putting on a pair of sunglasses to ease her headache.
‘I could think of worse things,’ said Mark who’d had to stay sober to drive.
‘It’s not funny,’ she said in a croaky laugh. ‘I haven’t had a hangover since college.’
‘That was six years ago!’ teased Mark.
‘University not grad school,’ she smiled, feeling herself flush.
‘Eight
years ago.’
‘Well, I particularly enjoyed it when you climbed on the grand piano to serenade Frost. I had no idea you were a gifted singer as well as a first-class brain.’
‘I didn’t!’ she said sitting up and snatching off the shades.
‘You did,’ said Mark Eisner, a slow, lazy smile curling at his lips. ‘You sang “Begin the Beguine”. I like you like that. Less wound up. Less serious.’
Emma stared at him, a look of horror on her face, until her foggy brain realized he was joking.
‘Ow!’ cried Mark, laughing, as she punched him on the arm. ‘I could have you up on a discipline charge for that!’
He looked back at the frost-dusted road again and smiled.
‘Hey, so you got a bit drunk. Don’t look at it as over-indulgence, look at it as a necessarily evil, Em. When you’re a partner you’ll soon realize that hollow legs are a pre-requisite of the job.’
Emma’s buoyant mood softened.
‘This weekend has got to have helped my chances, hasn’t it?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Of what?’
‘Partnership, of course.’
Although Emma had only been a Price Donahue manager for two years she felt sure she was in with a chance of being selected for partner. Yes, she was still not quite thirty, but she had brought in millions for the firm and her reputation alone had brought in a considerable amount of new business.
‘Well, don’t ask me, I don’t know anything,’ said Mark playfully. ‘You’re in the running but then you already know that.’
‘You don’t think they’ll say I’m too young, do you?’
‘If you’re good enough, you’re old enough,’ he said seriously. ‘Anyway, there’s a partners’ meeting on Tuesday before the final vote. I’ll tell them what a fine job you did of reeling in that old buzzard PJ Frost with your sharp mind and fine singing voice,’ he laughed.
It was getting dark as the soft-top SLK roared south, the trees and fields a blur.
‘Hey, where are we going?’ asked Emma, as Mark turned off the highway.
‘To celebrate,’ he smiled, reaching over and taking her cold hand. He pulled onto a side road through a thick forest of sugar maple and beech. Emma would have loved to have seen the glorious scarlet and orange of Fall, but the February frost, lying in a lacy veil on the trees, was just as beautiful. As they turned a corner, Emma could see that their destination was a log cabin by the shores of a small lake. Pulling up outside it, Mark got out of the car, went round to Emma’s side and opened the door, taking her hand to help her out. As she stood, he pulled her towards him and kissed her on the lips. She responded greedily, pushing her body up against his.
‘What
is
this place?’ she asked when they finally came up for air.
‘A hideaway for honeymooners and rich recluses.’
‘Which category do we fall in?’ she grinned.
‘A little of both,’ he winked. ‘And wait until you see inside.’
The cabin was everything you’d want from a luxury bolt hole in the wilderness. There were skis and Wellingtons in a rack by the door, while the main room was filled with big leather sofas draped with cashmere blankets. Velvet drapes hung at the windows and a stag’s head hung over the stone fireplace. It was cosy and romantic, just perfect. Emma turned to look at Mark and felt herself blush:
perfect for an affair with the boss,
she thought.
Emma had always considered herself too cautious, too sensible for anything so clichéd as a workplace fling, especially with her own boss, but Mark Eisner was the most handsome, not to mention brilliant partner at Price Donahue.
But it was more than that,
thought Emma, looking at him, carrying in their bags:
Mark was good for her.
They had been dating for three months; getting together at a mutual friend’s Thanksgiving drinks, and she still thought he was the most sexy man she had ever seen. With his dark brown hair and his smooth tanned skin, he looked more like a male model in a coffee advert than a city high-flyer. For the first time in a long time, Emma felt as if she was where she wanted to be. She loved her job, her life in Boston, being with Mark. And the cabin, she loved the cabin.
While Mark went to put their overnight bags in the bedroom Emma took off her coat and went to stand by the window to look out onto the lake.
The only thing that would have made it any more perfect would have been if they had spent a couple days up here. She’d have loved to have wrapped up in scarves and boots and gone for long walks together, plus there was some excellent skiing in Stowe, not too far from where they were now. But most of all, she wished she could stay here in bed, curled against Mark’s strong back and sleep. She was frazzled, wound-up and anxious. It wasn’t just the high-pressure sales pitch at PJ Frost’s mansion, it was the constant demands of her job and the 18-hour days were finally catching up with her. The irony was that she
did
have the next three days booked off work but that was for another reason.
Mark came over with two glasses of chilled white wine and handed one to her.
‘If the weather turns tonight we might get snowed in,’ she said looking up at the ominous white sky.
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he said snaking her arm around her waist.
‘You do remember I have to be at the airport at four tomorrow afternoon.’
Mark reassured her with a smile.
‘We’ll make it even if I have to dig us out with my bare hands.’
‘I wish you were coming with me,’ she said stroking her finger across his cheek.
‘You know it will look odd if we both have time off at the same time,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sure my PA suspects us as it is. We don’t want to rock the boat before partnerships are announced.’
Emma smiled.
‘Well, I don’t want anyone accusing me of sleeping my way to the top,’ she joked, privately in complete agreement that she didn’t want their relationship to become public. Not yet anyway. While office romances weren’t expressly forbidden at Price Donahue, she didn’t want to do anything that might harm her chances of promotion; wanting to minimize the recklessness of being with Mark in any way she could.
‘Anyway, I don’t exactly blame you for not wanting to come all the way to England for a funeral.’
‘You sure know how to show a guy a good time.’
Mark saw her face fall and regretted the joke.
‘Hey, Em, I’m sorry. I know how upset you were about your Uncle.’
She nodded absently.
‘After my dad died, Uncle Saul was more like a father to me than an uncle,’ she said. ‘He was the one who paid for my college fees. He was the only one to encourage me to go to university in the States. I spent a couple of summers working with him at his company and I think that helped me get into business school.’
‘So why do I get the feeling you’re not looking forward to going?’ asked Mark.
Emma sighed.
‘It’s not Saul. It’s the rest of the family …’
Mark waited for her to continue, but she remained silent.
‘You never talk about them. Your family,’ he prompted.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she said turning away from him, but he pulled her back.
‘Hey, save it for when you get back from England,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘I want to know about them. I want to know more about you.’
Emma felt herself tense at the intimate gesture.
‘You will call me if you hear anything about the partnership?’ she asked.
‘Honey, please just relax and try and forget about it, huh? For today, we’re on holiday.’
As he held her she caught their reflection in the glass.
It had taken Emma time to grow into her looks but at 29 even her own natural modesty could not deny that she looked good. At work, she always downplayed her attractiveness by wearing little or no make-up, but then she had a naturalness that suited it. Wavy, dark-blonde hair fell to her shoulders, her cheekbones were high, her mouth naturally full, and when she smiled it warmed up her intelligent grey eyes.
Moving closer, Mark slipped his fingers between two buttons of her shirt and under the lacy fold of her bra until his fingertips brushed her nipple.
Mark said, ‘You’re so beautiful.’
Emma would usually deflect compliments, deny them, or make them into a joke, but his touch seemed to sear her skin.
‘I love you,’ he whispered suddenly, looking into her eyes. Emma felt her stomach gallop.
‘You mean it?’ she said not knowing of any other way to respond.
He nodded pushing back a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
She let her body sink into his, and for the first time in weeks she felt such a sense of calm and belonging that she welled up with emotion.
‘I love you too,’ she whispered.
Mark moved his lips towards her neck running them down her skin.
‘I’m sure I saw a bed somewhere around here,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. ‘I think it’s about time we went and checked it out.’
She kissed him on the mouth, then started unbuttoning his shirt all the way down to his navel.
‘Who needs a bed?’ she asked, looking up and smiling wickedly.