Wicked! (56 page)

Outside, the music was too loud and the dancers and swimmers having too much fun to notice. Someone had found a big yellow ball and Lando and Junior were playing water polo.

Telling herself that first sex with a guy was never very good, still sore from Cosmo’s cavalier seeing-to, Pearl wandered back to the party, pausing in horror to see her new boyfriend ferociously snogging Vicky Fairchild, his hand unzipping her flamingo-pink dress.

Going over, Pearl tapped him on the shoulder:

‘D’you mind?’

‘Piss off,’ said Cosmo, with such venom that Pearl shrank away, looking desperately round for someone to tell, but everyone was snogging or swimming.

Running down a grassy path, she bumped into a reeling, half-dressed Jade, who asked:

‘Where in hell’s Paris?’

‘Dunno. Cosmo’s a fucking bastard.’

Jade stopped, swaying in her tracks, smiling cruelly.

‘What have you and Cosmo been a-doing of? He just texted me.’ Jade unearthed her mobile from her bra and held it out.

‘Mission acc-come-plished pearls a slag’, read Pearl and gave a shriek of rage. ‘The bastard. He said he loved me, that I was the biggest fing in his life.’

‘You might have been five seconds before he shagged you. Cosmo doesn’t let grass grow under his feet, only in window boxes.’

Next moment, Pearl heard the distinctive double beat of a message on her own mobile and read: ‘Sorry its over cosmo’.

‘Wot dyou mean’, texted back Pearl.

‘Thanks for terrific sex shame youve just become my X’, came back the reply.

‘Bstrd how am I supposed to handle this’, Pearl replied.

‘Ask joan for alka seltzer. now fuck off’, texted Cosmo.

Leaving the castle ransacked, Paris found everyone skinny-dipping in the pool. He felt like Actaeon spying on Diana and her nymphs.

A naked Vicky, whose hair had come down, was giggling hysterically and pretending to swim away from Cosmo, who’d just returned from texting. Yanking her back by her hair, Cosmo’s hands closed over her breasts.

Very drunk, Paris laboriously undid his belt and stepped out of his shorts. The Bagley Babes, frolicking like Rhine Maidens, gasped as he paused, sleek, white and beautiful. Actaeon had become a moon-blanched Endymion. The only flaw was the tattoo of the Eiffel Tower on his shoulder.

‘Jesus,’ said Amber.

Letting go of Vicky, leaving her dog-paddling frantically in the deep end, Cosmo scrambled out of the pool, grabbed his camera from his jeans and took a roll of film.

Paris, a glass of neat vodka in his hand, stood gazing into the pool in despair and loathing, then wandered off. After two attempts, a naked Jade managed to struggle out of the pool and ran after him.

‘Paris, make love to me,’ she called out.

‘Fuck off.’

‘How come you’re so mean to me?’

‘Because you’re a bitch.’

When Jade slapped his face, Paris slapped her back, then, grabbing her arm, pulled her behind the changing rooms into the shrubbery. He shoved her on the grass and fell on top of her, yelling in pain as her hand clamped around his sunburnt neck, pulling him down to kiss her. Her lovely sleek body writhed beneath his. Her eyes were glazed with lust and booze, Pearl’s so carefully applied make-up streaked by water. The coupling, like Cosmo and Pearl’s, was violent, fierce, messy and meaningless. The moment it was over, Paris pulled out and walked off.

Bumping into his friend, Pearl, who sobbed hysterically that Cosmo had dumped her by text and told the entire party, he could only say: ‘You shouldn’t go with trash: sorry, I wish I cared.’

Five minutes later, Pearl stumbled over Jade, passed out on the grass, puked-up raspberries and cream gleaming like blood in the moonlight. Jade was so far gone, she didn’t even stir when Pearl produced a kitchen knife and sawed off her twelve-inch plait, threaded with flowers. Then Pearl attacked her own wrist, gasping at the pain and joy of release.

Amber, wet from the pool, caught up with Paris.

‘What goings on, Mr Alvaston.’

So Paris pulled her into his arms and shut up her patrician babble by kissing her. He didn’t care any more.

‘I like you,’ he told Amber.

‘And I like you.’

It was like being serviced by a unicorn, Amber reflected hazily, or a statue half come to life. Paris’s face was dead, devoid of any tenderness. At one moment he called her ‘Janna’, at another his features seemed about to disintegrate in tears, then set like stone again.

‘Oh Christ, oh Christ.’

It was not, as you might say, satisfactory. At least he said ‘thank you’ as he got to his feet and wandered off.

If he found Milly, thought Paris, he could chalk up a Bagley Babe hat-trick, as Feral had always wanted to do. God, he missed Feral; only Feral would have understood his agony. Then he heard the sound of sobbing. It was Xavier, slumped on a bench, head in his hands, an empty bottle of rum beside him.

‘Dad’ll never be proud of me. I failed to pull Jade and why haven’t I got the guts to kill Cosmo?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you,’ said Paris.

55

Joan and Cambola sang tunes from
Ariadne
all the way home, putting down the hood of the convertible Joan had hired so they could admire the stars. Dame Hermione had been wonderfully gracious and invited them back to her hotel for a cold supper of chicken gelé, wild berries, white chocolate sauce and Pouilly-Fumé. When Miss Cambola had pointed out Cosmo’s musical genius, Hermione had replied that Cosmo was ‘such a kind boy and very, very sensitive’.

‘He gets that from you,’ suggested Cambola.

‘Indeed.’ Hermione bowed her head, then, turning her big, brown eyes on an excited Joan: ‘High-spirited maybe, but genius must be untamed.’

It had been after midnight when they’d left Cardiff and her presence.

Overhead, Draco the Dragon, not Welsh this time, had been joined by the Swan and the Lyre, on which Joan would have loved to serenade Dame Hermione. Wild honeysuckle and elderflower bashed in the narrow lanes by her car released a sweet yet disturbingly acrid, sexy smell. The night air was a pashmina round their shoulders. The roads were quiet. Joan took Cambola’s hand. They agreed that Skunk and Biffo would have been home hours ago and that Janna was a sensible young woman to leave in charge.

‘Janna is like Toscanini,’ mused Cambola, ‘many wrong things, but redeemed by so much passion and vitality.’

As they drove towards the castle, they heard sounds of revelry by night. Striding down to the pool, Joan’s first reaction was delight to see such charming young women frolicking naked in the pool. But her delight turned to horror when she realized they were not only her girls, but Vicky and Gloria also stripped off and extremely the worse for wear. Vicky was wrapped round Anatole, and Gloria snogging unashamedly in the shallow end with Hermione’s ‘very, very sensitive’ little son, who, when Joan bellowed with rage for everyone to stop, gave her a V-sign.

Not making a great deal of potential deputy headway, Joan marched inside to be greeted by devastation. Summer pudding had incarnadined the exquisite blue wallpaper, a glazed brown duck carcass had nested in the chandelier. Empty alcoves reproached her. A raspberry pavlova had been rammed, like a custard pie, into the face of a replica of Michelangelo’s David.

Bellowing with rage, blowing her whistle, crunching on smashed Meissen, Ming and Venetian glass, Joan stormed upstairs to find doors ajar and the beds of Jade, Milly and Amber empty. Primrose Duddon wasn’t in her room either, nor were Kylie, Pearl or Kitten Meadows.

Red and more fiery than any Welsh dragon, Joan hammered on Janna’s door.

‘Kerist’ – Hengist leapt out of bed – ‘it’s that porter from Macbeth again. How time flies when you’re really enjoying yourself.’

‘The moon’s gone, get on the balcony,’ hissed Janna, kicking his Prussian-blue shirt and white trousers under the bed.

Wrapping herself in a towel for a second time that evening, she opened her door an inch and again was nearly concussed as it was thrust open to reveal Joan bellowing like a Herefordshire bull. Hastily, Janna leapt backwards, aware she must reek of Hengist, his fingerprints luminous on her quivering, sated body.

‘How could you let this happen? Downstairs has been totally wrecked. Students and teachers are frolicking naked in the pool. None of my students are in their rooms. As duty officer you’re totally to blame.’

Retreating further from a fountain of spit, Janna mumbled she’d been struck down by migraine.

‘The worst ever. I lay down for half an hour before dinner; I must have dropped off.’

‘Well, get dressed at once,’ thundered Joan, ‘your students aren’t in their beds either.’

Turning, Janna caught a glimpse of the rocking horse, hooded like a prisoner by Hengist’s underpants and, fighting laughter, slammed the door and locked it. Equally weak with laughter, Hengist slid in from the balcony.

‘Oh dear,’ he sighed, ‘but quite inevitable after segregating them in separate youth hostels all week. I don’t expect they’ve come to much harm. And quite frankly, that was so miraculous, darling, nothing else matters. I suppose I’d better beat it.’

He was buttoning up his shirt and pausing to kiss Janna, when his mobile rang. It was Joan covering her tracks.

‘Sorry to wake you, headmaster, just to alert you that anarchy has broken out at Castle Gafellyn. Janna Curtis was left in charge but deserted her post, claiming a headache. Both Vicky and Gloria are drunk and incapable. Half our students are missing.’

‘And where were you and Biffo and Rufus whilst all this was happening?’ asked Hengist icily. ‘You went to the opera in Cardiff?’ After a pause: ‘Biffo and Skunk and Boffin went to some troglodyte caves? Surely that was taking coals to Newcastle? Well, you should all have bloody well been there.’

Then, after another long pause: ‘Bertie’s an old friend and very reasonable. I’m sure the bracelet will turn up.’ Reaching out for Janna’s pubes, he pulled her towards him, sliding his hand between her legs. ‘Try to limit the damage. You’ve got yourself into this mess; don’t call the police. I’m at Tintern Abbey and over the limit, or I’d drive straight over.’

Switching off his mobile, he kissed Janna lingeringly.

‘I’d better scarper or we’ll both be in trouble. Stick to the migraine story. Joan hasn’t got a hairy leg to stand on.’

His feet groped around for his loafers.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back down the secret passage. It comes out at the edge of Hanging Wood quarter of a mile away; my car’s hidden in the trees. I utterly adore you, that was the best fuck I’ve ever had.’

‘I feel drunk,’ sighed Janna, ‘and I haven’t had a drop.’

‘I’ll call you,’ said Hengist and was gone.

Groggily, Janna dressed. She couldn’t stop giggling. She was no doubt about to be sacked, but she didn’t care.

I love Hengist, Hengist loves me and two heads are definitely better in bed than one.

Joan meanwhile had stepped over a supine Rocky on the landing, located Lando France-Lynch watching polo on Sky and finally tracked down an orgy in Jack Waterlane’s bedroom. Here she found Johnnie Fowler, Monster Norman, Jack, Kylie, Kitten, Junior, Amber, Milly, Cosmo and Anatole, who she’d last seen behaving abominably in the pool, and oh horrors, Primrose Duddon, among the writhing bodies.

Inspired by an internationally prize-winning installation entitled ‘Shagpile’, which showed models of naked men piled on top of and plugged into each other like Lego, the geography trip participants were trying to create a replica of fornicating bodies.

‘Vaitress,’ shouted Anatole, falling off the pile and waving an empty vodka bottle at Joan, ‘can you get us another drink?’

‘How dare you?’ thundered Joan.

‘Come and join our team-building exercise, miss.’ Johnnie Fowler took a hand off Amber’s left breast and patted the bed.

‘Stop it, all of you, what the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

‘Don’t swear, miss,’ giggled Kitten from the middle of the pile.

‘You told us to overcome traditional animosities and bond with Larks,’ panted Junior, ‘and what better way of doing it?’ He kissed Kitten’s shoulder. ‘You beautiful thing.’

‘Help,’ shrieked Kylie, bucking frantically then collapsing on top of Jack, ‘I’m overcoming.’

‘Have you seen the state of downstairs?’ yelled Joan. ‘Thousands of pounds’ worth of damage has been done.’

‘Not by us,’ chorused Shagpile II.

Drawing a dick the length of a conger eel out of a glassy-eyed Milly, Cosmo said chattily, ‘Could have been Rocky. He was trashing the place as I passed, probably forgot to take his Ritalin.’

Downstairs, amid the debris, Cambola had swept earth from the hurled bamboo plant off the piano keys and, armed with a large brandy, was singing along as she picked out tunes from
Ariadne
.

Paris, having shed his shorts earlier, couldn’t find them. Suspecting Cosmo, he nicked a pair marked Anatole Rostov from the Cosmonaughties’ bedroom. Anatole wouldn’t miss them; he’d brought six other pairs. Wandering into the garden, overwhelmed by vodka, despair and loveless sex, Paris passed Joan having a squawking match with Vicky.