Capital Sins (24 page)

Samuel was
in bed reading a novel when the door opened softly. Connie often: came to kiss
him good night before she went to sleep herself, so he smiled, dropped his
book, and held out his arms for her embrace. He was just thinking how lovely
she was looking tonight, when having reached his
bedside,
she pulled back the covers and jumped in.

'What do
you want, Constance?' Samuel laughed. 'Come for a cuddle?'

He drew in
his breath sharply as she put her arms around his waist tightly and nibbled his
ear. She flattened her body against his long length.

'I want
more than that tonight'

Samuel
swallowed. 'Is everything all right, then?' he asked unsteadily.

Connie
giggled. 'I should say so. Come on, lover, show me what a wonderful man you can
be. Show me what I've been missing all these months.' She sighed. 'It's been
such a long wait,
Samuel.' .

He rolled
over on to his side and their lips met in a deep kiss. He ran his hands up and
down her body over the thin chiffon, felt her tremble. Connie sat up, lifted
her arms above her head and pulled off the short baby doll
nightie
,
then lay back and, wriggling her hips suggestively, her eyes teasing, pulled
off the pants. She lay there, naked, looking up at him adoringly while her
breasts rose and fell from her heavy breathing. When he didn't move, she
reached up and unbuttoned his pyjama top, then ran her fingers over his chest.
Her hands gripped together at the back of his neck, and she pulled him down on
her. He kissed her lips, eyelids, cheek and neck while sliding his hands over
her smooth, perfumed body all the while.

Then: 'Let me,'
she whispered, and dipped down under the covers.

Samuel
lay
still, eyes closed. Her hair tickled his stomach as she
pulled down his pyjama trousers, and then her mouth was working on him. He
clenched his fists, willing on himself an answering excitement. Five minutes
later, her head popped up and she took deep breaths of air. She grinned at him
cheekily.

'I'm
killing myself down there.'

'You're
killing me too.' The muscles of his cheek tightened. She lay down beside him
again, blonde hair spreading out over the pillow like a great golden halo.

'Perhaps it
would be better ... if you did it to me,' she suggested tentatively. 'I'm not
very good at this sort of thing yet, but you can teach me.'

Gritting
his teeth, Samuel tried. And tried again...

It was much
later when he rose on to an elbow and stared across the width of the bed at
Connie's straight, motionless form. Edging nearer, he looked down at her
profile lying rigid on the pillow. She seemed to be staring into space, but he
couldn't make out her expression or tell what she was thinking.

'I'm sorry,
darling,' he said slowly. 'Maybe it'll be better next time.'

'Will it?'
Her voice was cold, unreachable. 'Why should the next time be any different?'

'Listen,
Constance, I... '

She turned
sharply and looked at him, her violet eyes blazed. 'No, Samuel, you listen,
I'll do the
talking
!I
want
you to tell me the truth. Are you impotent?'

'It's just
nerves!' The words seemed to tear out from the back of his throat. 'It's just a
temporary ... malady, Constance ...'

'Why?' She
stared at him in disbelief. 'It couldn't just be that you're nervous: you've
got a reputation as quite a stallion. It can't be my fault, it's not possible.
Christ, you couldn't begin to imagine how frustrated I've been lately
... '

'I could, you
know.'

'Just how
long is temporary, anyway? Don't
lie ...

He lowered
his eyes uneasily. 'Maybe it would've been better... to have told you before,
but I thought everything would be all right between us, that
i
... '

Her eyes
slitted
.
'Go on
... '

'I can't,
I've never been able to ... get an erection,' he said hoarsely, adding hastily,
'but that doesn't mean it's not possible.

It doesn't
rule out our having kids of our own but ... it might just take a bit of time,
some patience on your part
... '

'It's never
happened and it might not ever happen?' Her mouth was tight, expression grim.

'I don't
know.' he said honestly.

She sat up
abruptly. 'Yes, you should've told me before. Why didn't you? What were you
afraid of? Why the hell did you marry me in the first place... unless...
' Her
mouth opened slowly as understanding dawned, and she
stared at him, incredulity turning into acid bitterness.
'Because
J was
pregnant, not in spite of it, as I'd thought! No, don't pretend any more, I can
see it in your face that it's so! Why, you rotten, cheating bastard. You said
you loved me – is having a Jessop junior all you cared about?'

'No,
believe me,
Constance,
we can still make a go of it.
Keep trying. I wanted... I want... '

'Huh!' She
cut him short, glared at him. Her mouth was sneering contemptuously, her lovely
eyes suddenly full of hatred. 'You told me you'd give me everything I'd ever
wanted. What a laugh! Money, furs,
diamonds
–
everything: except a husband, a lover and a sex life! Did you think I'd be
satisfied with
things!
'
Her voice rose
hysterically and he reached out to touch her, but Connie jumped out of bed in
one swift, fluid motion.

'Where are
you going?'

'To my own room, where else?'
She turned back to look at him again, the
loathing and disgust apparent on her face cut into his very being. 'I'm going
to have to teach myself the art of masturbation! And I'm going to start
practising right now! You go your way from now on, and I'll go mine.'

'Constance,
I
... '

'Oh, go to
the devil, I don't want you!'

Sleepless
nights; mornings when they avoided each other; evenings with friends when they
pretended that all was well – a mockery of marriage.
Polite
when necessary, silent when not.
Finding solace in friends and
possessions during the long hours of each day: sleeping with the help of pills.
She felt nothing would ever heal the bitterness inside.

Divorce?
It occurred to her often during the bleak emptiness of the following years, but
what could she do and where would she go? She could try to start from scratch
again, make a new life somewhere else – but wealth and luxury had spoilt her,
made her reluctant and weak-willed even to attempt a fresh beginning. She
wouldn.'t
give it all up and go down again to rock bottom.
Besides, why should she get out of his life anyway? Stay – make his life a
misery, as he had made hers. Make him regret everything he'd done. Leave the
field clear for him? Not likely. And there were compensations. He would turn a
blind eye to what she did, so long as she didn't create a scandal, and Connie
had grown subtle and wily. He had never mentioned a divorce either: in any
case, what good would it do him? What other woman in her right mind would
consider living with a half-man? If Samuel Jessop was prepared to tolerate her
being around, she'd make sure she got everything she was entitled to.
Which included sex.

Sheila was
the only one who understood and sympathised. Hell, why shouldn't she? Connie
had soon cottoned on that it was Sam whom Sheila was crazy about. In return for
her confidence Sheila had eventually admitted her secret. Connie had admired
that in her.
Jealous?
Why should she be? Sheila wasn't
getting it from him either, so what was there to be jealous of? No, old Sheila
had had the right idea all along. Being in love with one man hadn't stopped her
making love with others. It was natural enough, the woman wasn't a nun. Connie
wasn't either. Sam was a fool if he thought she behaved like one, but who cared
how he felt? It was
all his own
fault. Connie's lack
of real maturity led her to lack sympathy and understanding for a man she
professed to love.

Connie
reached for the bottle and poured herself another generous slug of gin. Elbows
on the dressing table, she nursed the glass in cupped hands as she stared
drowsily across the rim at her face in the mirror. She frowned when she saw
fine, tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and hastily opened them wider. The
lines disappeared.

Connie was
a very beautiful young woman and only the most observant would be likely to
notice a look of disillusionment that occasionally crept across the lovely
face. She was poised and outwardly presented a picture of confidence.
She had matured and seemed older than her years, for she felt she
had lived a lifetime.
She didn't really need the sleeping pills and other
draughts she took every night, but it had become a force of habit. She took
them the same time she automatically swallowed her Pill. She didn't want to get
pregnant again. She wouldn't give Jessop the satisfaction of knowing that
everyone would think it his. More than once the suspicion had crossed her mind
that one reason he wouldn't divorce her was because he wanted it to happen. He
wouldn't care if it was another man's brat, as long as the world was fooled. If
any man could live such a lie, Samuel certainly could, she had no illusions
about that. Perhaps that was another reason why he'd chosen her to marry in the
first place, because with her looks she'd always attracted men . . . Difficult
to live with him? Christ, it was probably harder for him to live with himself!
At least she was ill woman, while he wasn't even a man!

Yawning
hugely, she scratched her head, disturbing the already rumpled gold curls that
had been closely cropped to fit her small head like a shining cap. Connie
picked up her watch and squinted at it. Twelve
o'clock,
and she was supposed to be meeting Sheila for lunch at one in Mason's. She
didn't feel like doing anything today ... still, she'd promised, and Sheila was
the one person whom Connie didn't like to let down. She knew Sheila was
concerned about the amount of drink she was knocking back, not only at
parties,
and Connie didn't want her to think she was turning
into some kind of lush. Even for her oldest friend, she had to put on a good
front. Regretfully Connie left the rest of her glass untouched and lit a
cigarette, then grimaced at the sour taste it left in her mouth.

She
proceeded to go through the ritual of cleansing her face. Her skin was still a
little grimy from the remnants of yesterday's make-up. After five minutes of rubbing
in assorted lotions, creams, tonics and astringents, her complexion was once
again youthful and glowing. Standing up, she slipped off the robe she was
wearing and goose-bumps rose on her flesh. She shivered, in spite of the
central heating, and knew it was partly due to a hangover. She looked at her
figure critically. There was still a slight flabbiness around her midriff – it
came and went since her pregnancy – but a few weeks at a health farm would soon
remove it.

Her skin
was still tanned from the last vacation, and only around her hips was white: a
tiny girdle of whipped cream on coffee. Her breasts, high and firm, were as
bronzed as the rest of her. Nobody wore a bra on the beaches of St Tropez. She
smiled to herself, remembering the weeks spent there. It had been good to get
away by
herself
again. And that man, what had his name
been?
Enrico
something or other ... it didn't matter.
He'd been a charming companion and escort. His luck had been in that day she'd
arrived at the airport. He didn't usually find them so young and lovely. It had
been fun for them both, and she'd suspected he'd been genuinely upset when
she'd left. He'd got what he wanted, however, but so had Connie. He'd said he'd
performed better with her than anyone he'd ever met. She could believe him,
seeing that the majority of glances he got were from middle-aged women with too
much money and spare flesh. Oh, he'd been eyed by young women like herself,
too, but one look at her – and they had usually looked her over – and they
hadn't bothered. Connie had never needed to worry about competition or rivalry:
she had it all.
Looks.
personality
,
clothes, furs, jewellery.
Enrico
what's-his-name had
gotten his money's
worth.
She always gave as
good
as she got.

Connie
applied make-up and thought about all the men she'd met. Poor Samuel, she could
almost have pitied him if she hadn't despised him so. It was quite pathetic,
his attempts to appear manly. The outrage in his voice when he realised that
she locked her bedroom door at nights had been comical. His last effort to
enter her room had been only last week. He'd almost persuaded her to open up,
pleading, almost crying aloud in his frustration, saying he was sure he could
make it that night. But she'd remembered the previous time, a month before,
when she'd actually admitted him into her room. She'd taunted
him,
half hoping that something might actually happen. God,
how embarrassing it had been, for both, and she'd sworn it wouldn't happen
again. He'd humiliated her enough and, since the last episode, he hadn't
bothered knocking again. But she still kept the door locked as an added insult.