The Pleasure Quartet (10 page)

Her name was Clarice, and she was an insurance broker who originally hailed from Sussex but lived in Leeds and was spending a few days in London visiting clients on business. She was totally unlike April, who would have delighted in engaging Clarice at a party, as a cat might engage a mouse, and then later profess to be bored by her in that way she had of categorising anyone who happened to be employed outside of the arts as utterly dull.

They drained the last drop from what was left of her bottle, and Noah began to shift out from behind the table to fetch another.

‘My hotel isn’t far from here,’ she remarked. ‘You could join me for another glass there, instead?’ Her expression was neutral, but her meaning could not have been clearer.

If he agreed, Clarice would be his first post-April fuck, and the two could not have been more polar opposites. Perhaps the change would be good for him. She was a large woman, with a round arse, wide hips and shoulders, and heavy breasts. Dark brown hair cut into a bob that framed a paradoxically pixie-like face and sharp chin. Teeth that struck him as chemically whitened, a stark contrast to the crimson streak of her lipsticked mouth. She reminded him of his new next-door neighbour, the tall woman with the pale skin, sleek black pony tail and carry-case of unidentifiable accoutrements. Maybe he would fuck Clarice and picture his neighbour, punish her by proxy in the safe confines of his imagination for her earlier rudeness.

Clarice was staying at the Amba Hotel, barely a five-minute walk from Gordon’s, in a deluxe bedroom decorated in shades of beige with a view overlooking the Strand. He placed his hand on her rump as she searched in the mini-bar for a suitable obligatory nightcap. Unzipped her pencil skirt and pulled it down to her knees, exposing the lace tops of her hosiery and the pale expanse of her upper thighs. Her g-string was emerald green, the minuscule waistband and thong a thin band of colour delineating the firm orbs of her buttocks. He ran his finger inside the elastic, pulled it back gently so the thong snapped against her. She moved her feet backwards and apart, her stance inviting his further exploration. She was still wearing her high-heels, a delightfully prim pair of Mary Jane-style court shoes.

‘Wait,’ she whispered, turning her head towards him. Her hair was mussed, her pupils dilated and her red lips slightly open, a picture of titillation. She was gripping the corniced wooden edge of the drinks cabinet tightly.

‘Yes?’ he asked. He was rock hard. Hoping she would not back out now, or he might have to venture into the hotel’s guest bathroom and relieve himself before returning home to save the embarrassment of standing on the street with a tent in his trousers.

She indicated that they should move to the bed and began to remove her skirt, wiggling her legs so that the bunched fabric slipped down to her ankles where she could step out of it.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Leave it there.’

An image sprung into his mind; Clarice on her back, knotted up in her clothes, struggling, unable to move as he fucked her.

Noah led her, stumbling, to the bed’s edge and she sat down. He knelt at her feet and removed her shoes and each of her stockings, then slipped her heels back onto her feet and buckled them up again. The sheer, stretch nylon was gossamer light in his hands. He paused, unsure of what to do next. Should he simply bind her? Or should he first ask her permission? He was acutely aware of how different pornography and his mental fantasies were from real life. Noah’s mental cinemascope might indicate otherwise at times, but he had no wish to assault an unwilling participant.

‘Lie back,’ he instructed her. ‘I’m going to tie you.’

‘Ooh,’ she replied. ‘Sexy.’

He instantly wished that he hadn’t spoken, that they could read each other’s thoughts on the matter somehow. The vision he had earlier conjured had lost its lustre in the few moments between his imagining and the execution. He pulled her hands up and used one stocking to bind her wrists together, then fixed the other around the base of her skull and through her mouth like a horse’s bit, checking both restraints were neither too tight nor too loose.

Next time he tried this with a woman, he would plan it out first. The hose made for awkward fetters – lengths of rope would have been better, and some kind of fixing to attach them to. All hotel headboards seemed to be one solid piece these days, poorly suited to bondage.

Clarice squirmed, a gesture, he felt, of encouragement rather than struggle.

He pulled a lock of her hair back.

‘Can you breathe?’

She nodded.

He kissed her. Her lips were sticky, with a waxy taste from her lipstick.

She tried to kiss him back, squirming to escape the barrier of her gag. Her bonds prevented her from touching or undressing him and she was barely able to murmur her assent. He unbuttoned her blouse, regretting again that he had not thought this through properly; her bound wrists prevented him from removing her top entirely. Unhooked her bra and revealed her breasts. They were huge, bigger than any he had seen before, two plump pillows with comparatively tiny, pink nipples. He bent his mouth to suck one, and then the other, and she groaned; a glottal sound muffled behind her gag.

Noah was by turns aroused and deflated by their situation. Both aggressor and benefactor. He could gift her pleasure, or force her to perform inescapable acts of perversion. He wanted both, at the same time, but did not know how to achieve such a thing. Perhaps Clarice was the wrong woman. Was she actively enjoying, or just tolerating his ministrations? He felt his cock going soft. Too much thinking, not enough action. He resolved to get the whole thing over with.

‘Do you have condoms?’ he asked her. April was on the pill, and they hadn’t used protection since they had both been tested in the early days of their relationship. It had not even crossed Noah’s mind that he might end up having sex tonight. Literally straight off the plane. Was it something about London that beckoned wantonness? He briefly pulled the fabric back from Clarice’s mouth so that she could speak properly.

‘Bathroom,’ she murmured. ‘My toiletry bag.’

Half a dozen Durex were slotted into the side pocket of a blue zip-up case containing a lily-of-the-valley perfumed liquid soap, a myriad of cosmetics and three gold-wrapped Magnums, advertising their XL size. He chose a condom. And stood in front of the wide, chrome framed mirror, searching for an image to bring his arousal back to life so that he could roll on the rubber and return to Clarice, and then his own bed. His urge had passed, but he could not bring himself to simply untie her, explain things, and leave. It seemed rude.

A flash of red hair. The outline of a woman’s body cast in shadow, small breasts obscured by clouds of steam. A glimpse of red-lip, an upturned, triumphant smile.

He was hard again immediately.

It was over in minutes.

‘Sorry,’ he said, rolling off her and releasing her bonds. ‘The wine . . .’

He didn’t stay the night.

A few weeks before leaving New York, Noah had attended a gig in Brooklyn featuring Viggo Franck’s old band the Holy Criminals blooding a possible new lead singer. Both the music and the dynamics had proven underwhelming. Without their charismatic front man they were reduced to a humdrum band, professional and slick but lacking that undefinable magic that makes for a great group. The absence of Viggo’s swagger and fantasy created a void that could not be filled, Noah reckoned, and one of the first decisions he had to reach now in his new position of power would be to assess whether the musicians’ contract should be renewed. Their management were hinting heavily that, should he decline, another rival label was ready to sign them up in a flash. Noah was hesitant. A one-year extension could cover one album and maybe in the studio a spark would fire, and if the budget was held on a tight leash, the profitability break-even point would not be astronomical, and the new product would inevitably have a healthy influence on back catalogue sales. He also knew the guys in the band well and they happened to be particularly nice people, not that it should influence what was strictly a business decision.

The company’s headquarters were situated at the top end of Portobello Road, just a minute’s walk from Notting Hill Gate, and unlike their Manhattan counterpart were not open plan. Noah had the privilege of a large office that occupied the whole top floor, with wide bay windows that opened up overlooking a set of gardens at the back of the building.

He’d been considering the dilemma for some days now and had cleared the afternoon of meetings to contemplate quietly and try to reach a decision. He sat listening to the band’s past albums in strict chronological succession in order to catch any thread of musical progression that could not automatically be attributed to Viggo, who often only supplied lyrics for the songs.

He knew the records well already, had to a certain extent grown up with them. As he listened to each, his desktop screen called up the respective Profit and Loss accounts for the individual recordings. The trend was downwards. He knew what logic dictated.

Then he noticed a jewelled CD box still lingering on his desk. He’d asked his PA, Rhonda, to bring in the band’s entire catalogue. Maybe another album altogether had slipped into the pile by error? Unlike Rhonda.

He picked up the record. He’d never even heard of it, even though it sported the label’s logo.

‘Rhonda?’ She sat just outside his office.

‘Yes?’

‘There’s a CD here I’m not familiar with.’ Noah handed it to her. The cover art was generic, an image of the sea at sunset and a handwritten title ‘Christiansen’, with no name of artist.

Rhonda, a prim, tall woman in her early forties who had been with the label longer than anyone in the building and kept all non-musical matters running with a sergeant major’s cold efficiency, peered at the CD.

‘Ah yes, that. It was something of a favour to Viggo. Some experimental stuff he did with a classical violin artist who was a friend of his.’

Noah’s memory clicked.

It had happened just as he was about to move to New York with Bridget and seeking a way to finance the move, and courting editors to get a book contract. Viggo had performed a series of European gigs with some violin player and had then gone into the studio with her and later other talent from the classical world. A vanity deal.

‘I didn’t realise we’d actually released it.’

‘We did, albeit with little marketing support. Your esteemed predecessor felt it wise not to advertise Viggo and the band’s involvement in it, so it never made waves. Still gets played on Classic FM, though.’ The expression on Rhonda’s face betrayed what she thought of the executive who’d previously sat in his chair. ‘It’s actually quite nice,’ she added. ‘Although not very commercial . . .’

She returned to her desk.

Noah slotted the CD into the player.

Strumming acoustic guitars forming a wave of gentle sound, the familiar underpinning of a bass guitar ordering the beat into place before Viggo’s voice would no doubt surge from the depths in customary fashion, as the echoing drums joined in. But as the group’s instruments all met on the upbeat, smoothly clicking into space, there was just a deep hum, the shadow of a voice in the distance. Viggo double-tracked, it felt like. And then, the sharp sound of a violin punctuating the cloud of the nascent melody, pure, crystalline in its clarity, dragging a parade of emotions in its wake and building the emerging foundations of a melody. The tune had a slight familiarity.

Noah picked up the box and peered at the track listing.

‘Fingal’s Cave.’

It had been ages since he had listened closely to classical music.

The violin soared, its tone mixed up front, dominant but gentle, fierce but tender. Noah closed his eyes. Listened. Abandoned himself to the sounds pouring from the two small speakers arranged at opposite ends of his desk. Surrendering. This was certainly not what he had expected to hear.

The music painted scenes in his mind, like a brush magically conjuring landscapes built on feelings and primal instincts. A raging sea, the cavernous abysses where sunken boats lay, a sky in turmoil, clouds battling above like mythological titans. He recalled vaguely that the orchestral version as originally composed by Mendelssohn was in no way so affecting. Or had he misheard it back in the day?

The way the violin merged with the more modern sounds of the band and its jerky rhythms and electric sensibility was eerie. Opened up new dimensions in the music, like the Northern Lights parting to reveal some dark, enticing, uncommon vision.

He caught his breath.

What the hell was this? How had he not even heard of the album before?

Time flew by and the piece ended, not with a loud climax but with a delicate whimper, the sound of the violin fading ever so delicately until there was just silence floating.

The next track evoked idyllic fields, naked bodies frolicking, an improvisation on one of Vivaldi’s Seasons; he was unsure which. Sensual. Albeit slightly spoiled by Viggo’s spoken words soaring across the sharp tone of the violin. Words were unnecessary. The piece would have been so much better without the slightly pretentious recitation.

Rhonda knocked on his door. He was lost in the music still two hours later, the CD on repeat, playing on and on inside his head. Office hours had come to an end and she was returning home.

‘I’m staying on,’ Noah told her.

She reminded him of tomorrow’s schedule of meetings.

The brightness outside began to fade. He did not switch on the lights. Remained in the dark, alone with the music. Aimlessly watching the sky darken above the neighbouring gardens.

He had never come across such an exquisite blend of classical and rock before. Indeed, it was a collaboration which had always been fraught with peril and which no one had to his knowledge properly mastered.

Why in hell had they not given this album some promotional support and decent marketing? It was bloody wonderful. Parts of it, even when the melodies were familiar, had left him breathless. Whoever played the violin on the record had managed to not just blend in seamlessly with the other instruments but was actually leading the dance in a merry and clever way, imposing his or her will on the others without them noticing it, using Viggo’s group as a foundation for a skyscraper of improvised sound that communicated its passion with so much more power than he ever remembered classical music doing for him before.