Pleasure Island (20 page)

‘You won't, babes. I promise,' she'd said, winding her tongue around him, watching as his head rolled back onto his shoulders and he began to stiffen.
Catch me, I mean
. This was nothing a half-decent blowie couldn't put right, she'd decided as she set her lips and tongue to work around him. After a few seconds, however, he had sharply pulled away from her.

‘Get dressed, Billie-Jo,' he'd said, his erection floundering. ‘We'll be late for dinner.'

At dinner Nate ignored his wife's comments and kept his eyes fixed on Angelika's. Frankly he was done with Billie-Jo; if JJ wanted to take her off his hands, he was more than welcome to. In fact, he secretly hoped he would. They were better suited and far more compatible; they even looked right together, the inked-up rock muso and his Barbie-doll arm candy: perfect tabloid fodder. Much the same as Nate knew that Bee had only been interested in him for his status, the same could be said of JJ and Mia. It was obvious to everyone, no doubt even Mia herself, that Joshua Jones was only stepping out with her to garner publicity for himself. Mia Manhattan may be knocking on a bit and hadn't had a record out in years but she was still something of an institution, and the press had always had a fixation on her. They were both social climbers; users; cut from the same tree. It would be a match made in heaven for them, and hell for everyone else.

‘Tell us what exactly?' Rupert's eyes shifted between the pair of them, butterflies gently settling upon his empty stomach.

‘I think we should wait until Mia arrives,' Angelika said. ‘I think this is something we should all see.'

M
ia Manhattan had always insisted
on making an entrance wherever and whoever she was with, and tonight she'd decided would be no exception. In fact, in light of what had happened the previous evening, from what little she could recall, it was imperative she put on an unrepentant display of self-confidence, however mortified she felt. She was a professional after all. Mia closed her eyes. Images of limbs intertwining, naked flesh and erect penises – though whose exactly, she could not be sure – had been coming back to her in sharp, unpleasant, little flashbacks, growing in clarity throughout the day as the fog had gradually lifted from her mind. How on earth had she participated in something so … so sleazy? And with Rupert Deyton of all people! Had she gone temporarily insane?

Admittedly Mia had made some mistakes over the years, not least at the height of her fame when she'd indulged in a few extra marital flings predominantly fuelled by a mix of ego, booze and blues, but this particular epic moment of indiscretion spectacularly stole the cake. At the pinnacle of her career Mia's status had given her access to some of the world's most-eligible bachelors (and some not-so eligible), a position of which she had occasionally taken full advantage, though in hindsight sometimes it had also been the other way round. Dickie had always turned a blind eye to her ‘misdemeanours', the ones he knew of anyhow, the golden rule between them being never to be seen in public with anyone else, never in the marital bed, and never, ever, give the heart along with the body. They'd even indulged in a few
ménages à trois
together back in the day. Well, it was the 70s, after all – who hadn't – and they had been so terribly young, beautiful and rich. But the truth was she'd only ever truly loved Dickie and had always stuck to the rules. How ironic then that in the end, all those years later, he would be the one to finally break them. Mia felt the resentment of her ex-husband's deceit resurface once more. Dickie had committed the ultimate betrayal by abandoning her at an age where it was particularly difficult for a woman to start again. She was past her ‘best-before date' – even she had to admit it – and while she was still considered ‘famous' of sorts, her kind of celebrity was no longer relevant to today's movers and shakers. She'd slipped into comparative obscurity, defunct, a dinosaur, trading on the last of her faded-and-jaded looks, staring down the barrel of fifty with the menopause knocking at the door.

Mia looked at herself in the mirror and swallowed back self-loathing; surgery could only do so much. She inspected her face critically, now predominantly constructed from fillers and Botox, the mini facelift she'd undergone as a post-divorce gift to herself giving her a smooth finish, but it couldn't turn back the clock. She looked like an older woman ‘in good nick', as her father would've said, and had been forced to concede that there really was no magic procedure or potion to give you back what time had robbed you of. No matter how much shit they stuffed into your cheeks and lips, puffed you out, sucked you in or tightened you up, that fresh-faced 25-year-old plump, youthful, glow could never truly be recaptured, gone forever in an underappreciated and painfully short-lived moment in time.

Mia sighed heavily. Who would be a woman? she asked her reflection, engulfed in a moment of self-pity largely brought about by a post-chemical comedown that she wasn't even aware of. It was all right for men; they were allowed to age, many even improving with the onset of time. There was no ticking, biological clock for those bastards; no career breaks to have children, which subsequently left you out of the game and saw you spending the next ten years playing catch up while you watched your tits go south. There were no periods or menopause for them, watching as a slew of younger, more-fertile females climbed up the ranks behind you, nipping at your heels and your husbands, waiting to replace you while you hurtled towards tan tights and TENA Lady, gradually becoming invisible.

Mia thought of Billie-Jo then, the girl's pretty-but-not-especially-remarkable face flushed with the springy firmness of youth, although she had seen the hardness behind the girl's eyes that had made her think she would not age well. Though they were aesthetically very different and she hadn't much taken to the girl, Billie-Jo reminded Mia of herself in some ways. There was a steely determination to her that she related to, even admired. Billie-Jo had only one destination in mind: planet fame. She was hungry for it, focussed, obsessed with getting on, just as she herself had been and Mia sensed the girl was prepared to do anything to get it. No doubt she'd do well as a result of such tenacity, but the industry, even more cut-throat and unforgiving than it was in her heyday, would chew her up and spit her out by the time she hit thirty, if she wasn't careful.

Mia sighed as she thought of JJ and Billie-Jo's brazen flirting in the Jacuzzi the night before; they'd been all over each other like herpes. She supposed she had been somewhat jealous, though not especially surprised. They were, after all, far more suited age-wise and she had to admit that they made a rather-attractive pairing. Why hadn't she just invited the girl back to their cabana – there was enough of JJ to go round, after all – instead of getting embroiled in a Caligulan nightmare with Rupert and Raj? Stupid,
stupid
old woman, she berated herself. Still, she imagined she couldn't feel any worse than Rupert did right now; if she was filled with dread and regret, she could only imagine the velocity of his self-loathing. Good job his wife had been preoccupied with Nate and vice versa, by the look of things. It had not escaped Mia's watchful eye that Nate Simmons had something of a crush on Angelika Deyton and the very idea left her tickled pink.

‘Oh, the wicked webs we weave when we choose to deceive,' she muttered underneath her breath. Last night had been little more than one, big, seedy, swinger's convention. Perhaps it had been too much for them all, the sun and alcohol and the euphoria of Joshua's return, a touch of post traumatic-stress maybe, or perhaps it had been something else, something in the air, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Whatever the reason for their collective tawdry antics, she suspected tonight's dinner would at very best be awkward as hell.

Well, she supposed, attempting to find a bright side, at least she now had something else on Deyton, another stick to beat him with; every cloud, eh? Upper hand or no, she'd still rather none of it had happened. But what's done is done and can't be undone, Mia told herself and not for the first time in her life either. No regrets; well, perhaps just the one. She thought of her child in her arms then, the moment she had held her son for the first time, an image that hadn't faded along with her youth and looks and fought back tears.

Pulling herself together, she smoothed her hands over her neat, shiny, black bob, a trademark style she'd had since time immemorial. ‘Well, if it ain't broke, don't fix it,' as her stylist would say. Bobs never went out of fashion, even if her music had; look at Anna Wintour and Jennifer Anniston. She adjusted the tie on her Diane Von Furstenberg animal-print, silk-jersey-and-chiffon wrap dress, opening the neckline a little to reveal a more cleavage and then pulling it back again. Why was she bothering to try and compete? She'd come here with a boy young enough to be her son, grandson even, and it was clear that he had turned his attentions on Billie-Jo. Who was she kidding anyway; she had been nothing more than a stepping-stone to Joshua Jones. Now that his band was signed to a high-profile label she had been expecting his gradual departure, and frankly he had served his purpose anyway – only it was a bit bloody brazen of him to openly make advances on another woman, another much
younger
woman, and married at that, right under her nose.

Feeling sidelined, Mia slipped on a 54-carat diamond Boodles bracelet and spritzed her entire body with Shalimar perfume. She slipped on her 9-inch Louboutin snakeskin sandals and sighed heavily once more.

‘The show –' she said, smacking her red lips together one last time in the mirror ‘–must go on.'

‘
F
inally
,' Rupert deadpanned as Mia sashayed to the table in a bluster of strong scent and bravado, ‘No, really, Mia, there's absolutely no need to apologise, none of us are hungry or anything.'

‘Good evening, Rupert,' she shot him a sideways glance, ‘and may I say how well you look this evening. Clearly a little fun last night did you the power of good.'

Rupert swallowed hard. He had expected this – an evening of subtle, snide innuendo from her – and she had not wasted a moment.

‘You too, Mia.' He flashed her a mock gracious smile. ‘And you're only an hour late as a result of it. Miracles do happen then?'

‘Fuck you very much, Rupert.' She grimaced as she took her place next to Joshua on the vast wooden table which had been lavishly decorated with a stunning selection of floral displays that wouldn't have looked out of place at a royal wedding. ‘Beautiful flowers,' she remarked, admiring the lush, exotic, fragrant, fresh mix of bird-of-paradise, bottlebrush, heliconia, frangipani, flame of the forest and blue passion flower. ‘A different display every evening.'

Angelika's mind clicked. Mia was right. As someone who had an account with a local florist, delivering freshly cut blooms on a weekly basis to display in her vast hallway, she had over time become versed in recognising certain plants and flowers. She had all but explored the island in its entirety now, with the exception of the far north side and had spotted everything from fragrant orange trees to lurid red poppies, a few wild irises and even an apple blossom or two, but she had not come across anything quite as exotic as the assortment adorning the dinner table. These were tropical flowers that couldn't withstand harsh heat. So where had they come from?

As anticipated the atmosphere was tense and despite her misgivings about any more damned alcohol consumption, Mia decided to accept the champagne cocktail immediately offered to her to take the edge off her nerves. Just the one wouldn't hurt, although she'd pretty much said the same thing last night and look where that had got her. She inwardly cringed. Still, at least she hadn't been the only one whose moral compass had gone askew; there was some small solace in that, at least.

‘I'd be careful drinking that, Mia,' Nate warned her gently.

Mia met his eyes, such a handsome boy, well, man really, and his countenance was always polite and gracious, so unindicative of his profession. The football players she had come across (quite literally, on a couple of occasions) had always been rather brash and uncouth. This one, however, had been well brought-up, she could tell.

‘I do appreciate your concern regarding my alcohol consumption, darling,' she said, ‘especially in light of –' she stopped herself short ‘– but I don't think Betty Ford will be spinning in her grave anytime soon … hair of the dog and all of that, cheers!' She raised her glass to him.

‘Who's Betty Ford?' Billie-Jo asked.

‘Seriously, Mia, please don't.' Nate looked at her ingenuously and she felt a pang in her chest.

‘We've reason to believe that the alcohol may be spiked, Mia,' Angelika cut in.

Regardless of their concerns, Mia contrarily took a sip anyway before carefully replacing her glass on the table and lighting a cigarette. Rupert pulled a face, as if the woman didn't smell bad enough. He was convinced he could still detect that perfume of hers on his skin even after scouring himself in a hot shower for some considerable length of time.

‘Spiked, you say?' Mia humoured her but the truth was such a thought had actually crossed her own mind already, albeit fleetingly. ‘With what, by who?'

‘Are you serious,' Joshua piped up. ‘Like, why would anyone wanna spike our drinks, man?' He supped on his ice-cold beer as if to make a point he didn't buy a word of it. These people were so damn paranoid they seriously needed to lighten-the-fuck-up.

‘The same reason were all being watched.' Angelika gave Nate the nod and he duly threw the little black plastic device in the middle of the table.

Mia looked at it blankly.

‘Am I supposed to know what this is?'

‘Nate and I found it in some bushes down by one of the pools. It was buried deep in the brush. I saw it flashing.'

Billie-Jo pushed JJ's hand from her thigh where it had rested from the moment she'd sat down.

‘
Nate
and
I
.' she mimicked Angelika's voice, her jealousy resurfacing. ‘Oh, yeah? And what the fuck were you two doing in the bushes together anyway?'

Rupert was inclined to encourage her line of questioning, only he remained reticent in case it somehow sparked Mia's vicious, loose tongue. That Angelika may or may not have been getting up to something with Nate Simmons was humiliating enough but it was nowhere near the league of the shame he would experience if Mia's mouth ran off with her, which, given her track record, was more likely to be a case of when than if.

‘It's really not like that, Billie-Jo,' Angelika said, her face flushing, attempted to explain, ‘it's not what you think, we were just –'

‘Which is exactly what people say when it
is
what you think, or else why would they be thinking it?' Billie-Jo said, not sure even she understood what she meant herself. She turned to her husband sharply. ‘Are you fucking her or what, Nate?'

At least the girl didn't sugar-coat it, Rupert thought to himself, watching Mia's reaction closely. He was on tenterhooks; it was like waiting for a firework to go off.

Raj suddenly appeared at the table and silently attempted to refresh their glasses.

‘No, thank you. Not for me.' Angelika shook her head as she covered her glass with her palm.

‘Me, neither,' Nate followed suit, more out of respect for her than anything. She really seemed to believe there was something suspect going on, and while he agreed there were questions to ask he wasn't entirely as convinced as she was. At least not yet.

‘Jesus, you
are
paranoid.' JJ laughed. ‘Like, seriously? Spiking our drinks …? You guys have been watching too many detective shows. I know you journo types are paid to be inquisitive, man, but you're freaking me out with this shit.'

Rupert felt his body stiffen as Raj brushed past him, not daring to look up until he had passed. Mia was staring at him, an eyebrow gently raised.
Don't you dare, you evil bitch
.

‘Well?' Billie-Jo eyes were aflame.

‘Of course not!' Angelika was bright red, hot behind the ears, her heartbeat accelerating along with her awkwardness. ‘We just happened to be there at the same time and …'

Rupert allowed a small snort to escape his lips.

‘I didn't fucking ask you, did I?' Billie-Jo snarled at her in full-blown confrontation. ‘I was talking to MY husband.' She glared at Nate.

JJ watched as the drama unfolded. Jeez man, he was surprised she'd had the front to say anything at all after what they'd got up to themselves, or at least what he
thought
they'd got up to because he still couldn't damn-well remember exactly. The girl had some kahunas, but then again he liked a bit of fire in a chick. Maybe he'd get the chance to fuck her again, and remember it this time.

‘No, Bee,' Nate replied, calmly, ‘it's like Ang said. She was already at the pool when I got there and, well, then she spotted this, didn't you?'

Angelika nodded, thinking it best not to speak lest it set Billie-Jo off again.

‘Ooh,
Ang
.' Billie-Jo's crimson face was clashing with her neon onesie now. ‘You're talking like you've known the woman your whole fucking life instead of five minutes.'

‘Don't, Bee. OK? Just don't,' Nate warned her.

‘Don't what?' She was standing now, her body forming a Z-shape, attitude oozing from every pore. ‘Don't make a scene …? Don't upset anyone … ? Don't object to you being all over Miss Prissy Pants over there like you were last night, though fuck knows why. It's not like she's got anything I ain't.'

‘Aside from a little class,' Mia muttered under her breath.

‘What was that, Grandma?' Billie-Jo had turned hood. ‘Got summit to say, have ya? Spit it out then but be careful your false teeth don't come with it.'

Mia laughed, which disguised her outrage.

She looked at Nate pitifully. ‘You need a muzzle and licence for this one in public.'

Angelika was mortally offended, though did her utmost not to let it show. Miss Prissy Pants …? Jesus, was that really what other women thought of her?

Nate shot up out of his chair.

‘Sit down, Bee. NOW!' he said, raising his voice.

JJ gently pulled Billie-Jo back into her seat.

‘Chill out, babes,' he whispered to her, not wanting the argument to get round to the point where he might be expected to explain himself. He had hoped they could all be kind of British about it, and sweep it under the carpet. Like, if you didn't remember it, it didn't happen, right?

Mia glanced at Rupert expecting to see a self-satisfied smirk on his face, but he wasn't smiling.

‘Going back to the camera,' Nate said, his voice returning to normal pitch and the matter at hand, ‘I'm no expert but it looks to me like it's some kind of recording device – some kind of camera.' He would deal with Billie-Jo later. For now her histrionics would have to wait; this was more important.

Rupert picked up the device and inspected it closely. Admittedly he suspected Nate was right. It did rather resemble some kind of camera, closed-circuit CCTV or the like, not that he was any expert but as an educated guess …

‘And you found it down by the swimming pool, and removed it?'

‘Yes, though I suspect I wasn't supposed to find it at all.' Angelika looked at her husband expectantly.

‘It's just a security camera, Angelika,' he said dismissively. ‘No doubt the place is full of them.'

‘If it's just a security camera, why go to the bother of hiding it?'

‘Jeez man,' JJ said, ‘it's just a CCTV camera. For protection, what else?'

‘Hidden in a bush?' Nate asked, without looking at him.

‘You said yourself that you thought our drinks had been spiked.' Angelika leaned forward across the table towards her husband. ‘None of us can remember last night. I know I certainly can't. Can you?'

Billie-Jo was listening now, her temper gradually dissipating. The conversation was starting to creep her out at little.

Rupert sighed, wearily.

‘So what are you trying to say, Angelika?'

‘Yeah, Miss Marple,' Billie-Jo joined in, ‘what are you saying?'

Ignoring Billie-Jo's remark she looked at her husband with visible disappointment. She had hoped he would have her back on this.

‘I don't know exactly.' She felt herself flush once more. ‘Just that … well, something's not right, Ru. I've … just got a bad feeling, that's all.'

‘Maybe it's your conscience,' he remarked, instantly wishing he hadn't. He just couldn't help himself, especially where Mia was concerned. While he was wholly accustomed to airing other people's dirty linen in public, his own was a different matter altogether. The last thing he wanted was to open Pandora's Box, or any damned box come to think of it. He just wanted to go home, play polo and forget this nightmare ever happened. Pleasure Island had thus far proved to be nothing more than a bittersweet misnomer.

‘Anyway,' Rupert said, dismissively, ‘I've had it out with Elaine McKenzie already and she's assured me the phone lines will be up and running shortly, in which case the moment they are whoever wants to can arrange to have themselves flown off this place and back to civilisation. I'll charter a bloody private jet myself if I have to. So in the meantime try and keep a hold on that wild imagination of yours, won't you,
darling
?'

Rupert had shot her down in flames and Angelika felt humiliated. In hindsight she should've known better than to rely on his support. Any opportunity to belittle her he seized with alacrity these days. The rare moment of intimacy between when he had held her in the bathroom had been very short lived and only served as a painful reminder of how it had once been between them. But her intuition told her that her sense of unease was not without foundation. They were being watched; she was convinced of it.

‘Ah, at last,' Rupert said as he watched the staff appear with an array of steaming silver platters, ‘dinner is served.'