Sleeping Cruelty (13 page)

‘I have the money, haven’t I?’

‘Well, yes, of course, Sir William, but I also have to do my job, and I am advising you—’

‘Don’t. I know what the costs are and I have agreed to them. That is all you need to know.’

‘And the house in Mayfair?’

‘That is also acceptable. My fiancée requires her own establishment so, if there is no other business, please excuse me.’

Yet again, the idea occurred to them that perhaps Sir William was having a breakdown.

As they left his office, Michael was waiting to usher them out. ‘What do
you
know of this Justin Chalmers?’ Mr Flynn asked. He and his company had worked with William for many years, but Mr Flynn had never been spoken to so brusquely or kept so much in the dark by William as he had today.

‘I’ve never met him, Mr Flynn,’ Michael said quietly, afraid to be overheard. ‘I did check up with some interior designers I know of, and they have no idea who he is, but . . .’ Michael hesitated ‘. . . I think he was an associate of Andrew Maynard.’

Mr Flynn nodded. ‘I see,’ he said, but he didn’t really, and he was rather annoyed at the way he had been treated. But, as Sir William had said, he had the finance to do what he wanted, so if this island was what he wanted then so be it. Mr Flynn would keep the money flowing out.

The past months in London had been enjoyable to begin with, especially as William watched people’s attitudes change towards
him. But the ‘intended marriage’ was now constantly raised by the press. Reporters asked ceaselessly for an announcement of the wedding date. But there was to be no date, no marriage. William knew he must do something radical. Sylvina just repeated that he had jumped the gun in announcing it. She felt that to all intents and purposes she had done her job: it appeared he was already accepted socially again.

‘You were invited to Baron and Baroness von Garten’s summer festival, two people you had on your list. You wanted to be acknowledged by them. I just don’t understand why, after the lengths we went to, you turned down their invitation.’

‘That, my dear, was the whole point. I wanted to turn it down. I can’t stand the bloody sight of him, or his stuck-up bitch of a wife.’

She sighed. ‘Fine. Well, what about Lord Hangerford? He’s underlined on the list, and I’ve made contact. You’ve been asked to dinner and the races. You’ve turned him down too. I thought you wanted to get to know these people.’

‘I did know them,’ he said angrily.

‘So why have you had me pulling these strings?’

‘
You’re missing the point!
’ he shouted.

She sighed. ‘William, what
is
the point? You pay me to have you reintroduced and accepted socially, and now you tell me you don’t want to be.’

‘I don’t want to socialize with them . . . not yet.’

‘Oh. Well, why don’t you tell me when you do? In the meantime I’ll just stay at my house and wait for your call.’ In a flash she regretted having said this. ‘Are you backing out of the deal we had?’ She was panicking.

‘No. All I feel is that it’s got out of hand. I’m grateful, you’ve done a good job, but I think maybe it’s boring me now, as much as it is you.’

‘Is that my fault?’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . . I’m tired of it all.’

‘
You’re
tired! Well, let me tell you, I’m exhausted. All right,
you’re paying me, but I’m not only exhausted. Most of the time I’m bored out of my mind by these people.’

‘Don’t get tetchy,’ he said.

‘I’m not tetchy, I just want this all over and done with, and it appears you do as well. So, pay me off, and let me get back to my own life.’

‘That’s all this has really been to you, isn’t it? Money,’ he said glumly.

She wanted to scream, but she took a deep breath, crossed over to him and slipped her arms around his neck. ‘Sweetie, I am what I have always been, and I have never led you to believe otherwise. You’ve always known this was a game. You instigated it and I have played my part. I have not had an affair, I have remained, ready, willing and able, at your beck and call. But it’s almost a year . . . so let’s part as friends.’

He removed her arms from around his neck. Yet again she was taken aback. His voice was soft, hardly audible. ‘If I’d offered more money, would you have fucked me?’

She laughed. ‘Christ no. Well, maybe. If the price was right, who knows?’

‘Someone of your age should be—’ He never got out the word ‘grateful’ as she slapped him across the face.

‘Don’t throw crass remarks, Willy. If I’d have opened my legs, you’d have dived in. I’ve earned every penny, so please don’t try and back out.’

‘Not just yet. There’s one person you’ve not brought to the table. Humphrey Matlock. You’ve not even got close to him.’

Sylvina clenched her teeth. She had really tried, but Matlock was a hard man to get to. He appeared to loathe social functions and, in any case, was often abroad. When he was in London, he went fishing at weekends or whenever he could get away.

‘William, Humphrey Matlock’s a very unsociable creature and, to be honest, I wouldn’t include a newspaper magnate as high priority for social standing.’

‘Bullshit! Newspaper magnates are high in the social pecking-order.
I want to meet him,’ he said pettishly, ‘but on my terms. I want that son-of-a-bitch to want to meet with me.’

‘Right. Come hell or high water, I will arrange for you to do that. But please pay me, William, and let me get out of here. Otherwise we’ll end up hating each other and I honestly don’t want that.’

He took out his cheque book, and dangled it in front of her. ‘You get me to Humphrey Matlock. Forget everyone else.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Have you tried picking up the phone and calling him? You’re on the front page of every bloody glossy magazine, some of which he owns. Meryl Delaware’s been working overtime for you.’

‘What?’

‘Pay her and she’d work for Jack the Ripper – she even works for Matlock but she can’t get close to him either. She’s never met him.’

‘I want him to
want
to know me,’ he said again, thrusting out his lower jaw.

Sylvina looked at the cheque book, and bit her lip. ‘Okay, I’ll arrange it. I’ll see if Meryl Delaware can help, but it’ll cost.’

Two days later an innocuous piece in one of the gossip columns said that all seemed to be going well for the new ‘golden couple’, Sir William Benedict and Countess Sylvina Lubrinsky. Shortly afterwards, William received a gold-embossed invitation to a midsummer fête at the Matlocks’ country home. He propped the invitation on the mantelpiece and stood looking at it, his hands stuffed into his pockets. When Michael walked in, William pointed to it. ‘What a two-faced piece of shit, eh?’ Michael took the invitation down to read it. ‘That’s the son-of-a-bitch who ran filth about me for months. Every one of his papers ran lies about me, and now, a year later, he invites me to his home.’

Michael shook his head in disgust, and replaced the invitation. ‘So you won’t be going, sir?’

‘You accept, Michael, and send a bouquet of flowers to his
wife. Then, nearer the date, you can telephone and say I have been unavoidably detained.’

Michael gave a quizzical look, but noted down his latest instructions. They were getting more bizarre every week – and he had detected a frosty atmosphere between Sir William and his countess.

Sylvina was looking ravishing, and William thanked her for the scrapbook of press-cuttings she had sent him.

‘It was really just to make a point,’ she said. ‘All that coverage was hard work, and sometimes I thought you didn’t know how much time it took.’

William smiled and passed her a white envelope. ‘You’ll find a cheque inside, certified, of course, plus a list of the extra expenses that I did not agree to pay. I have deducted them from the fee we agreed.’

Sylvina gasped. Three hundred thousand pounds had been deducted from the million-pound payment. Even the solitaire diamond engagement ring had been charged to her. He had a funny crooked smile on his face.

‘You fat bastard!’ she snarled.

‘Maybe I’m fat but I’m not stupid. Not stupid enough for you to rip me off anyway.’

After Sylvina left, still cursing, she phoned Justin and at last managed to speak to him.

‘Hi, gorgeous, how’s things?’ he drawled.

‘My cheque was short. The mean bastard deducted three hundred thousand grand.’

‘He’s got
some
sense, then?’ He laughed.

‘Soon you might be laughing on the other side of your face too,’ she said angrily.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly what I said. He’s back doing business again like a demented kid. Every time I got him invitations from those wretched names on his pitiful list, he did nothing about it.’

‘Did you get to Matlock?’ Justin asked sharply.

‘Yes. He’s going to some function at the man’s home. That’s why I’m out of here.’

‘You’re leaving London?’

‘I’m on my way to the airport right now.’

‘He’s going to Matlock’s?’

‘I just told you so. He’s got the invitation, squeezed out of Matlock’s prune-faced wife. What a dull woman she is.’

‘Shit,’ Justin hissed. Sylvina laughed. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, as she switched off her phone. She leaned back smiling. She had just made herself a tidy sum and could look forward to enjoying herself. She certainly had the wardrobe for it, and all the press she had engineered for William had benefited her too. Life was good.

Meanwhile, far from feeling relief at Sylvina’s departure, William felt seedy and foolish, and more so when he considered that
he
had instigated the madness of the past year. But for what? He thought of other men who had been publicly vilified by the press: Profumo, Lambton, Archer and, of course, Aitken, now released from his prison sentence. Admittedly, the scandals in which they had been involved were more sensitive than his. In fact, he hadn’t even been involved in a scandal. He was innocent, but he wondered if those others felt as he did. Had they at some time wanted revenge for the way they had been treated, or had they simply accepted it and got on with their lives? The public hounding as journalists dug into their families’ lives must have hurt each of them, just as it had hurt him.

William looked at the array of invitations to high-society functions that had come in daily while Sylvina was at his side. How ridiculous to have coveted such meaningless things. He knew that if he continued to lavish money on certain charities he would remain on their lengthy, highbrow guest-lists, but he no longer cared. Maybe that was what he had learned from Sylvina: all it took to penetrate the higher echelons was money
and ‘face’. He had been a self-made mega-rich tycoon with one fatal flaw: his need for social acceptability. Now at last he realized how hollow that had been. How could he find a real purpose in life?

William, too, placed a call to Justin. He asked, uninterestedly, how the work was coming along. Justin assured him that everything was going according to plan, that the game would soon be ready to begin. William told him quietly that the game was off. It was pointless. Sylvina had gone, and as soon as Justin was finished with the refurbishments he was to go, too. Justin flew into a rage, but knew better than to show it. When William hung up Justin let out a furious scream.

‘I’m off home now, sir,’ Michael said, popping his head round William’s study door.

‘Goodbye.’ His employer’s voice sounded empty.

Michael stepped into the room. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ he asked, with some concern.

‘Yes, everything’s fine. Goodnight.’

‘Will the Countess be coming back?’

‘No, she won’t. She’s gone.’

William gave a small, sad smile. ‘Not much luck with the ladies. See you in the morning.’

Michael closed the door quietly. He could think of nothing to say.

If he had seen William opening his locked desk drawer and taking out a Luger pistol, he would have been more than concerned. William placed it on his leatherbound blotter and stared at it. The awful loneliness had something to do with Sylvina’s departure but more to do with him. He contemplated ending it all. All he had to do was pull the trigger. But that was easier said than done. The pistol had belonged to his father. It had not been used for thirty years, and the firing pin was bent out of shape. He held it to his head as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, and remembered the discovery of Andrew Maynard’s body. Had
he really died of heartbreak . . . or through fear of his private life being exposed? Suddenly William focused on Humphrey Matlock’s invitation. He lowered his useless pistol and tossed it back into the drawer. A spark of anger ignited amid his spiralling depression. ‘I want to get that bastard,’ he muttered.

William decided then that, after all, he was going to fight back because he was an innocent man. He had not stolen, lied or destroyed anyone in his climb to success yet he had been vilified. He was still wary of Justin’s plan, but the dream of revenge on Matlock had pulled him away from the edge.

In the middle of the night, an enraged Justin placed a call to Meryl Delaware. She was about to launch an angry tirade at him for waking her at such an hour but he didn’t let her get a word in. Speaking in a low, urgent voice, he gave her a front-page scoop. It concerned a young actress called Sharee, and her relationship with Countess Sylvina Lubrinsky, Sir William Benedict’s future wife.

Two days later, as William was sitting down to breakfast, he was surprised to hear Michael arrive and tap on the door. ‘I’m sorry, sir but I couldn’t have blanked it. It came right out of left field.’

William looked up expectantly. ‘Blanked what?’

In an exclusive that seemed exclusive to every tabloid paper in Europe, Sharee had disclosed her sexual relationship with William’s fiancée. The headlines were beyond belief – ‘Britain’s Bad Boy Falls Prey to Sex Goddess’ – but the articles were explicit, and accompanied by photographs of Sharee either in a sexy pose, pouting, tits to the fore, or as an angelic baby ‘used and abused by lesbian temptress’.

The nightmare began again. William’s home was surrounded by pressmen. He couldn’t move outside without cameras flashing and microphones being thrust under his nose. The press regurgitated all his past indiscretions with hookers, and his ex-wives’
quotes were rehashed. The onslaught was relentless. This time Michael was impressed by the way William handled it all. He remained composed and quiet. His demeanour when he left the house was sad, resigned, and that belied his abject humiliation. Eventually he decided to give a press conference. The battery of cameras and television crews with reporters fighting for front-row positions was sickening, all for some ridiculous article that might titillate a few readers.