Wicked! (84 page)

Behind them the house reared up watchfully, ordering them to behave. A lawn to the right was almost as big as a football pitch.

‘Paris coming?’ asked Feral.

‘Not yet,’ mumbled Xav, ‘evening’s young.’

Bianca came back with a glass and filled it. Feral took a cautious sip, then a gulp.

‘It is cool, man.’ He took another gulp, then, putting down the glass, edged a box out of his tight jeans and handed it to Xav. ‘Happy birthday.’

‘Thanks.’ Xav put it on the table.

‘Open it,’ nagged Bianca, ‘Feral brought it all this way.’

It was a bracelet, consisting of two black straps attached, instead of to a watch, to two silver skull and crossbones flanking the word FUCK in diamanté letters.

Xav’s face lifted, showing for a second how good-looking he could be. ‘That is wicked, man, really wicked.’ He was worried he’d got too fat, but it did up easily.

‘Thank Feral,’ chided Bianca.

‘I was about to, you stupid bitch.’

Feral, who’d been admiring the lake in the moonlight, swung round to defend Bianca, but she shook her head and his fists unclenched.

‘It’s great,’ mumbled Xav. ‘Can’t wait to wave it at Poppet and Alex,’ and he wheeled off into the house.

Justin Timberlake, fortissimo and blaring out over the valley, obliterated the need to talk.

‘Don’t people complain about the noise?’ asked Feral, thinking of the fuss Miss Miserden made at Larks.

‘Not really, Daddy owns the land,’ said Bianca simply. ‘What have you been doing all summer?’

‘Working here and there, mostly for Lily and the Brig. He’s been doing a series of
Buffers
; I’ve helped him dress – cufflinks and fings.’

‘Daddy says it’s going to be a huge hit, the network’s taking it. Grandpa’s booked for the next series. So naughty, he forgets I’m his granddaughter sometimes and pinches my bottom.’

‘Not surprised in those shorts.’ Feral drained his glass.

‘They ought to do a programme about me called
Duffers
,’ said Bianca, filling it up.

‘And me.’ Feral collapsed on a bench. He wanted to kiss Bianca’s ruby toenails in those jewelled flip-flops. ‘Can your mum really not read?’

‘Hardly at all, she’s dyslexic. Suits me, she can’t read my diary. Dora’s mother’s always reading hers.’

‘What does yours say?’

‘Feral didn’t come and see me today. Boo hoo.’ Bianca was on the bench beside him, edging up like a kitten. She had no wiles, no defence mechanism; he knew she was dying to be in his arms just as he was to be in hers.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Bianca.

‘Kind of.’ It wasn’t cool to say he’d been too nervous to eat all day. ‘This drink’s strong. Perhaps I should.’

‘It’d be nice if you could. Mummy’s worked so hard. Poor Xav, I don’t think anyone else is coming.’

‘Bad for him, suits us.’

There is a limit to the inroads three people, two of them dottily in love, can make on supper for twenty. Feral ate some chicken pie and some chocolate roulade and Bianca toyed with a piece of quiche. Xav had another line of cocaine and another glass of Pimm’s and passed out on the sofa.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ murmured Bianca, taking Feral’s hand, ‘Daddy and Mummy have gone to some dinner.’

Drunk with love and fruit cup, Feral had to cling on to the crimson cord to pull himself up the splendid oak staircase.

He would never have followed Bianca upstairs, or even turned up, if he hadn’t been boosted by the prospect of a trial with the Rovers on Monday. A contributory factor had also been that this week (earlier than expected) his court case had come up. The Brigadier had accompanied him to court and vouched for his good character. Luckily the magistrates were all fans of
Buffers
and had let him off, and because he was still just fifteen, none of this had been reported in the papers.

Inside Bianca’s bedroom, someone appeared to have shredded a rainbow, as clothes she’d rejected littered bed, chair and carpet. As she gathered them up, chucking them on a blue and white striped sofa, Feral admired the daffodil-yellow curtains and the pink and violet quilt on the little four-poster. On the powder-blue walls, framed photographs of Colombian beauty spots – sweeps of orchids, giant water lilies, the lake where the legendary El Dorado was hidden – rubbed shoulders with posters of Michael Owen and Justin Timberlake, which he wanted to tear down. When he was striker for Larkminster Rovers, he’d have his own posters.

‘This used to be the nicest spare room, but Daddy hates having people to stay so much, he let me have it.’

Feral leapt for the wardrobe in terror as he heard what he imagined as frantic hammering on the door, but it was only the hooves of Rupert’s horses being let out into the fields in the cool of the evening.

‘It’s like a zoo here,’ he grumbled, peering out of the window. ‘Graffi’d be in heaven with all these horses and pictures.’

‘Bring him tomorrow,’ begged Bianca.

Feral had had so many girls, taking what he wanted without compunction, but none had touched him like Bianca, nor been as beautiful. Her clear, pale, coffee-coloured complexion was flushed with rose, her slim, supple body quivering to be entwined with his. He longed to bury his lips in her belly button and progress downward, to caress the delectable curve of buttock emerging from her blue shorts, to feel against his thighs the fluttering caress of her sooty eyelashes. Grown-up things.

But this was a child’s room. On the shelves Harry Potter and Jacqueline Wilson fought for space with Barbie dolls, rows and rows of lipsticks and coloured nail polish. She was only thirteen – where the hell could it lead?

Above the bookcase hung a glass plate engraved with the words: ‘Welcome to Penscombe, Bianca Maud Campbell-Black. May 1990’.

‘I don’t remember arriving here, I was only three months old, but Xav does and there were flags and balloons all the way up the drive. Mummy and Daddy crossed the world to find us,’ Bianca added proudly. ‘They were sad they couldn’t have children but so pleased to have us. Our mother is the sweetest woman in the world.’

Feral edged towards her. ‘Makes two of you.’

Bianca shrugged. ‘Daddy’s tricky, I used to be jealous of how much he adored Xav, but now they fight all the time.’ She crossed the room, peering out at the empty terrace and the stars nearing their full brightness. ‘I’m really sorry, it doesn’t look as though Paris is coming.’

‘Don’t matter.’ On her return from the window, Feral reached out for her, realizing she was trembling as much as he was.

‘Why didn’t you ring me? I gave you my number on three pieces of paper.’

‘They ran in the washing machine. I tried once and got your Dad and bottled out. I watched your house across the valley for hours like a stalker.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise, promise.’

Grabbing her tiny waist, encountering goose flesh, he caressed the edges of her springy, surprisingly full breasts, then he bent his head to kiss her arched-back throat, then her closed eyelids, the tip of her tiny nose, behind each ear, breathing in the deliciously heady Arpège. Finally he kissed her soft, sweet, pink lips, which parted shyly, her darting tongue touching his, flickering then retreating like a dancer, drawing him into heaven.

As her little hands closed on his head, his hair felt so thick, vigorous and right, compared with the floppy silken tresses of other boys she had snogged, that she clung on. Their first, magic kiss seemed to last for ever.

‘Oh Bee-unca,’ murmured Feral, collapsing back on to the bed, ‘I have dreamt of you.’

‘Why, uncle, it isn’t a shame at all,’ giggled Bianca, collapsing beside him. ‘Xav’s passed out, Mrs Bodkin’s asleep and Mummy won’t be back for centuries.’

83

Mrs Axford and her fleet of waitresses were clearing away the main course of chicken supreme with tagliatelle and wild mushrooms when Rupert stalked in. He could have murdered a quadruple whisky, but couldn’t drink as he had to fly home. A ripple of excitement ran through the hall as mothers readjusted their cleavages and checked their reflections in little gold compacts. The only man in the room not in a dinner jacket (except Alex Bruce, who’d refused to wear one on principle), Rupert in a crumpled off-white suit and cornflower-blue shirt suddenly made everyone else look overdressed.

Hengist leapt to his feet. ‘You’ve made it, well done, you’re over here.’

Rupert had already clocked his wife looking utterly dejected between the appalling Alex Bruce and the just as appalling old queen Biffo Rudge. Serve her right for dragging him along to such a ghastly evening.

‘OK?’ he asked as he kissed her rigid cheek.

‘No one’s come to Xav’s party,’ whispered Taggie in anguish, ‘they’ve all gone to Jack Waterlane’s.’

‘Might teach him to be nicer to people,’ snapped Rupert.

Nemesis descended swiftly with a jangle of ethnic bracelets as a voice cried, ‘Rupert, Rupert, you’re here,’ and Poppet Bruce patted the chair beside her. ‘You’ve got Joan Johnson on your left, so we can enjoy an exchange of views about Xavier and Bianca. You know Alex and Biffo, of course, and Boffin’s parents Gordon and Susan Brooks, and Anthea Belvedon.’

‘Oh, Rupert and I are old friends,’ said Anthea, delighted with an opportunity to captivate. She’d always thought Rupert was gorgeous and wasted on Taggie. How infuriating Dora, watching her every move, was waiting at table and had now rushed over and dumped a large piece of venison pâté in front of Rupert.

‘Poor thing, you must be starving. Toast’s on the way. How’s Penscombe Peterkin?’ That was Rupert’s star horse, much fancied in the St Leger.

‘Awesome, but we need rain, he loathes hard going.’

‘Then he wouldn’t like sitting between Joan and Poppet,’ whispered Dora.

Seeing amusement in Rupert’s eyes, Anthea said icily, ‘You’re supposed to be working, Dora. Had a good day’s horse racing, lots of winners?’ she called across the table.

‘None,’ said Rupert.

‘Are Meridian going to take over Venturer?’ asked Gordon Brooks.

‘Not if I can help it.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Rupert caught sight of Hengist, Ruth Walton and his friend Billy Lloyd-Foxe at the next table, laughing their heads off at his plight.

‘Trapped between Silly and Charybdis,’ sighed Hengist, ‘poor Rupert.’

As compensation, Rupert had a direct view of Mrs Walton, golden brown and replete in a beautiful Lindka Cierach dress in old rose silk, with a tiny pink cardigan knotted under her glorious boobs. She smiled lazily at Rupert, who smiled back, an exchange instantly registered by Randal Stancombe. At least he was at the head’s table and not Rupert, who made no effort and called him Randolph (if he deigned to recognize him).

Gordon Brooks was now discussing some chemical formula with Joan, so Rupert turned to Poppet. ‘How’s the new baby?’

‘Flourishing, flourishing. His siblings are so supportive. They relish developing their parenting skills. Parenting could be a good GCSE for Bianca.’

‘Bit premature, she’s only thirteen. Might qualify her for a free house, I suppose.’

‘Now you’re deliberately misunderstanding me.’ Poppet laughed merrily. ‘And we need to discuss Xav.’

‘He’s fine.’

‘He has very few friends.’ Poppet sipped her cranberry juice reflectively. ‘If it’s any consolation, Charisma, our eldest daughter, was dreadfully bullied for being severely gifted.’

‘Not Xav’s problem.’

‘They accused Charisma of being “posh”.’

‘Posh? Your daughter?’ said Rupert in genuine amazement.

‘Because she always gets A stars. Charisma, of course, is a workaholic.’

‘Neither of my children’s problem,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Thanks, darling,’ as a grinning Dora exchanged his venison plate for a plate of chicken.

‘I’ve given you lots of mushrooms, they’re really good.’

Greedily shovelling up butterscotch ice cream, Poppet trundled on: ‘Xav yearns for acceptance by his peers.’

‘Peers live in the House of Lords,’ said Rupert coldly, ‘or they did before Blair gelded the place.’

He glanced across at Taggie. Accustomed to being married to the prettiest woman in the room, he noticed her red, swollen eyes and unbecoming, unruly hair and felt outraged that Alex Bruce was wrapped in conversation with Boffin’s mother and Biffo had gone off table-hopping, leaving her stranded. A second later, Biffo’s seat had been taken by Sally B-T.

‘How’s Xav’s birthday going? Such a super chap.’

‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same child?’ Rupert answered for Taggie. ‘Six weeks into the school holidays, he’s emerging as the devil incarnate.’

‘Rupert,’ gasped Taggie in horror.

Rupert crashed his knife and fork together, chicken hardly touched, fingers drumming, and turning to No-Joke Joan for heavy relief, learnt she’d been giving a paper on the evolution of the potato.

‘Does Bianca lack social skills?’ he asked finally.

‘Quite the contrary. She and Dora Belvedon never stop chattering. I shudder to think of their phone bills. I’m afraid there’s little likelihood of Bianca getting any GCSEs unless she buckles down.’