Swan (24 page)

I stared at him for a long time. Then, I
burst into tears. It was the most moving thing anyone had ever said to me and
yet, this realisation was also tainted with sadness. Despite his prostesations
to the contrary, I felt more than ever that I was a figure of pity.
I was indeed a charity case
.

He drew me towards him, wrapped me in my
arms. I sobbed loudly, making strange noises that sounded like a wounded
animal. I had to get it all out. It wasn’t just the shock of Chet’s duplicity.
I was mourning the loss of David as well. The man I had fallen in love with.
Had everything we had shared been a lie? Had it all been an act? This man that
was holding me in his arms, this Chet Vincent, was someone I didn’t know. The
actor, the person behind David’s mask was someone entirely different, someone I
had no connection with. It was all too much for me to bear.

‘Don’t think so badly of me, Madeline. You have no
idea what it’s like to be in the spotlight all the time, what it’s like never
to have had any privacy ... not since I was twelve years old. Can you imagine
what that’s like? To never live a normal life, be one of the ordinary people.
You don’t realise how lucky you are. Anonymity is something I’ve craved for
years. I know what I did was wrong but try, please, to see that my motives were
not as cynical as you might imagine. I know it sounds like a cliché, but it
really is lonely at the top sometimes.’

I stumbled over the coffee table.

Chet moved forward, swiftly took hold of my waist
and steered me towards the bedroom. ‘I think it’s time we put you to bed.
You’ve had a long night.’ Gently, he eased off my shoes then helped me stagger
fully clothed onto the mattress. My head was reeling as he pulled the duvet
covers over me.

‘It’s all just one big performance, isn’t it?’ I
slurred. ‘Just ... one big performance.’

‘Sweet dreams, baby,’ he whispered, before switching
off the light and leaving me alone in the darkness. I closed my eyes tightly.
Sleep was the only cure for this madness. The only antidote to insanity. When I
awoke in the morning, I told myself, everything would be back to normal.
It had to be.

Chapter
Seventeen

Daylight entered the room. Blinking rapidly, I
slowly started to adjust to my surroundings. At first, I didn’t know where I
was. Then it all came flooding back. I was in David’s flat. The rest of the previous
night’s events flittered through my head like erroneous pieces of a jigsaw
puzzle.

I groaned, turned over, buried my head in the
pillow. My head hurt like hell. The worst hangover ever. Opening my eyes again,
I wondered what time it was. I raised myself up on my elbows, glanced down the
side of the bed and saw a bucket filled with vomit. Had I done that? Licking my
flaky lips, I realised how sour my mouth tasted. Yes, that must have been me.
Oh God. Had I embarrassed myself last night?

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened and Chet Vincent
walked in. He was dressed in faded jeans and a loose fitting paisley shirt. In
his hands he carried a tray laden with croissants and orange juice.

I froze. Every part of my body went rigid from
shock.

‘Have I died and gone to Heaven?’ I murmured, more
to myself than him.
Chet Vincent serving
me breakfast?
Get outta here!

He laughed and placed the tray on the dresser.
‘Good, you’re awake. How’s your hangover? You know, you were throwing up all
night. I was really worried about you.’

I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. This was just too
surreal. Fragments from the night before started to come back to me and I had
to pinch myself to check that I wasn’t dreaming. Was I really lying here
staring at Chet Vincent? It didn’t seem possible, yet every indication was that
this was indeed real.

I covered my mouth with my hand, spoke through my
fingers. I was shaking uncontrollably. ‘You ... ’

Chet perched himself at the edge of the bed, took a
bite out of one of the croissants and stared at me for a couple of minutes.
‘You really should eat something. It’ll make you feel better.’

‘I can’t eat,’ I mumbled.

He was older than he looked on screen, but this only
made him more attractive in my opinion. He had flawless tanned skin and features
that were refined in an understated way. When he smiled, there were gorgeous
crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
The
same way David had smiled
.

Suddenly, I was acutely aware of having the residue
of dried vomit on my chin. There was also the overall discomfort of wearing the
same clothes from the night before, a sticky, musty feeling that made me feel
like a sweaty baboon. A wave of embarrassment swept over me. I needed a reality
check – and fast!

Flinging back the covers, I clambered out of
bed and raced into the bathroom. I needed to cool down, needed to get some
perspective on things. I splashed cold water on my face, rinsed my mouth out
with Listerine four times. Then, composing myself as best I could, I returned
to face Chet. He was still waiting for me on the bed, quietly sipping his
orange juice. His face was alive, expectant.

‘Listen,’ I said quickly, ‘I have to go now. Really
I do.’

‘Why? It’s a Saturday. Where have you got to be?’

Damn! I’d lost my other shoe. ‘It’s just ... I need
to get my head together, that’s all. Please, I promise I won’t be long. I’ll
come back later.’

Chet looked at me dubiously. He put down his orange
juice, walked up to me and stood with his face a couple of inches from mine. I
could feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, the sweetness of his
aftershave, the smell of a freshly washed body. A tingle coursed through me. I
couldn’t look him. He was too beautiful, too attractive. I didn’t want anything
to cloud my judgement.

‘You would never betray me, Madeline, would you?’ he
purred. ‘You are on my side, aren’t you? I
can
count on you. I mean, you would never go to the press with this? Sell me down
the river to make a fast buck?’

I didn’t miss a beat. ‘Of course I wouldn’t. I-I’m
so grateful, so privileged that you thought you could confide in me, that you
considered me capable of sharing something of this magnitude with you.’ My
words sounded so flat, so empty. In no way did they convey the enormity of what
I was truly feeling.

‘Okay, you can go,’ he said at last.

Wearing only one shoe (bugger the other one), I
opened the door and started to hobble out of the room.

‘That’s the closet,’ Chet said tightly.

‘Oh! Sorry.’ Hastily, I disentangled myself from the
rows of coat hangers and made my exit through the correct door.

When I got back to my flat, I peeled off my sweaty
clothes and jumped in the shower. Somehow the jets of hot water helped to heal
me, helped to get my head straight, keep me focused.
Of course I was being unreasonable. Chet was right; how could I possibly
know what it was like to be him? He was a movie star, for Christ’s sake. Who
was I? A nobody.

I rubbed soap over my body and wondered what it
would be like to be hounded by the press all the time. To live every part of
your life under a microscope. Who knew what any of us would do in that
situation?

I turned off the shower and started towelling myself
down. Then I slipped on my red silk dressing gown, rubbed cream over my body, cleaned
my teeth three times. All the dirt and residue from the night before had
finally been erased.

Then the doorbell rang. Still rubbing my hair
vigorously with the towel, I rushed to answer it.

I caught my breath.

Chet was standing there holding a bottle of Dom
Perignon and two champagne flutes. He looked sexy as hell: dark and brooding
and even more gorgeous than he had done an hour ago (if that was at all
possible). He didn’t say anything. He just stood there for a second-long
eternity, watching me, studying me, devouring me with his gaze. Slowly, his
eyes travelled from face, to my breasts, to my feet, then up again. Turning,
but still with his eyes fixed on me, he locked the door behind him.

There was
no escape now.

I laughed nervously, backed away. My hair was still
wet and drops of water were drizzling down my neck and back. The damp dressing
gown clung to my body in unruly clumps.

‘More alcohol, Chet?’ I quipped, pointing to the
bottle. ‘Surely not? Then again, my mother used to say that the best cure for a
hangover is more alcohol, so what do I know, right?’ My voice faltered, my eyes
straying away from his. I was so anxious I was actually starting to tremble.

Chet silently followed me through to the kitchen,
then put down the champagne and glasses on the table. His mouth was hinting,
speaking to me, promising something I dared not contemplate.

‘Do you want to open the champagne, or shall I?’ I
paused. ‘Actually, I hate popping corks, so perhaps you’d better do it.’

Suddenly, he lunged forward, swept me from the
ground and roughly thrust me on to the table. Hungrily, he devoured my face
with hot, savage kisses. Penetrating kisses. Ran his hands up and down my
thighs; hitched up my gown. Never had I been so turned on in my life. I
responded with all the ferocity of a woman who had been starved of sex for a
quarter of a century.

The glasses smashed to the floor. Broke to pieces.
We didn’t care. After several minutes of crazed, breathless frenzy, Chet paused
for air. Reaching past me, he picked up the Dom Perignon, popped open the cork,
and covered us both in a fountain of bubbly. I shuddered at the cool, tingly
sensation against my skin.

Then Chet reached into my dressing gown, cupped one
of my ample breasts in his hand, squeezed it hard. I gasped with delight.
Lowering his head, he caught the nipple between his teeth, ran his long agile
tongue over it. Next, he carried me into the bedroom. Threw me down on the
mattress like a rag doll, stripped me naked.

For a second, he stared down at me, catching his
breath. I was filled with fear. What was he looking at? My stretch marks? My
podgy tummy? I felt so exposed, so vulnerable. The only thing I was thankful
for was that I had bothered to shave down
there
.

Bloody well
say something then
, I thought.
Anything was better than this dank silence.

‘You’ve got such a beautiful body,’ he said softly.
‘So, so beautiful ...’

I gulped, my limbs frozen with the anticipation of
what was to come. Closing my eyes, I listened as Chet stalked about the room. I
heard the opening of my wardrobe, the closing of one of my drawers. What on
earth was he up to?

I looked up and saw that he had found what he was
looking for – a pair of opaque tights. With worrying glee, he tied my
hands together and secured the nylon firmly to the bedpost. He did it all with
such ease, like he was the connoisseur of knot tying. I was on fire, my body
screaming out for him to touch me again, but now I saw he was holding out,
making me wait. He wasn’t going to rush anything.

Chet started to undress himself. He did it with slow
relish, like he was performing a strip tease for me. If I hadn’t been tied up,
I would have probably looked away, but as I was his prisoner, there wasn’t a
choice in the matter.

First, he unbuttoned his shirt, dropped it to the
floor. I drooled at the sight of his toned pecks, strong, muscular arms, and
that six-pack that had been the stuff of legends since his first topless
appearance in
The Long Summer
.

I had to take short little breaths to keep myself
from going completely gaga.

Next, he unzipped his trousers, peeled off his boxer
shorts. I gasped at what I saw. Let’s just say the rumours that Chet Vincent is
hung like a horse are very much substantiated. I remembered reading a kiss and
tell about a threesome he’d allegedly had in a Vegas hotel with two strippers.
The story had been extremely favourable about his performance in bed, with both
tarts commenting repeatedly about how well endowed he was and what amazing
stamina he had. Both strippers were left panting for more, but sadly, whores
who sell stories to the media aren’t likely to get a second shot with the
celebrity Lothario they have betrayed.

I had always been aware of Chet’s reputation as a
ladies man. It was part of his appeal, part of his mystique. The consummate
bachelor boy. Over the years, I had pored obsessively over the various liaisons
he had supposedly had with everyone from waitresses to budding starlets,
critiquing their attractiveness and worthiness of my idol’s attentions. Despite
various discrepancies in these stories, the one thing everyone agreed upon was
that Chet Vincent was a great lay. At one point, in the late ‘90s, he’d even
admitted to having a sex addiction, and sought treatment for it at an expensive
rehab clinic. But in recent years, Chet had seemed to have put his wild past
behind him, having enjoyed two high profile, monogamous relationships - most
recently, of course, with Maria Esposito.

The fact that I was about to experience something
I’d only ever fantasised of, filled me with almost paralytic excitement.

Chet picked up the champagne bottle, which still had
remnants of liquid in it, and walked towards the bed. He held the Dom Perignon
above me and emptied the rest over my body. I let out a high-pitched squeal.
Then slowly, he eased himself down on top of me. Gently, teasingly, he began to
lick my body all over with a sure knowledge and instinct. He started at my neck
and travelled down, kissing and lapping every crevice with relish. As he gorged
himself on my flesh, I marvelled at how soft and supple his lips were, how
warm.