The Eunuch's Ward (The String Quartet) (13 page)

The time stamp on the text message said 6.12 am. ‘Can’t wait to see you tonight. I’ll bring back some fresh seafood. XXX’

I smiled. Three Xs was far more than Hugh had ever done in real life. He’d only ever kissed me once and that was not something that I could ever talk about outside the Quartet. I liked his style.

Normally, I would have turned on my parent-approved phone to silent before dropping off, but last night I’d left it on. There had been no traffic on it whatsoever.

Mother had planned an unscheduled, surprise visit to a children’s day care centre in a disadvantaged part of London. Her wording, not mine. I didn’t have the heart to refuse. We first took a taxi to Hamleys in Regent Street to buy presents.

‘They get donations of old books, plastic toys and second-hand clothes. But there’s nothing like the smell of the unworn, the feel of the just unpacked, the shine of the never-used,’ she sort of explained then spent the next hour with an elderly assistant making choices best suited to the little community they were meant to serve. It was great to see her that confident and competent, but deep down I was inwardly cringing at the prospect of arriving to some dilapidated, run down and smelly little place that no one else had any use for, laden with rich kids’ toys, reeking of rich people’s charity. I was a little relieved that none of those brightly coloured boxes actually ended up in our car, but I was convinced that there was a small van following us, bringing the gifts to the disadvantaged in style.

Once we arrived there, everything was quite different from what I’d expected. I had been right about the dilapidated building of no use to anyone else. But, it wasn’t dirty, neglected or smelly. The bungalow was painted brilliant white, doors, windows and wooden shutters edged in blue. That gave it a Mediterranean look, enhanced by long wooden window boxes planted with herbs and trailing geraniums. Mother headed for the side of the building, a kind of a kitchen, with packs of milk, biscuits and soft drinks piled up high on the counters. She beckoned over two youngsters, a tall boy with Down syndrome and a red-cheeked young woman in bright yellow overalls. With their help, we unloaded the boot of her car. Out came the crates of grapes and peaches, large canisters labelled
‘100% Pure Pomegranate Juice’,
and a few smaller boxes of fruit bars.

‘What’s happened to the toys?’

She smiled in the way that had never failed to remind me that she was once the third most beautiful woman in the world. ‘The shop will be delivering them in instalments over the next three months. It doesn’t pay to overwhelm the kids. They only become destructive.’

We spent the next two hours solving Mensa puzzles with the older groups and acting as pony express for the youngest. My first rider, a little girl of two, was digging her heels into my sides and using my hair to keep herself in the saddle. The saddle was impersonated by a floral double oven glove. I was blessing Mother’s foresight to wear jeans, trainers and a sensible top, and at the same time begrudging her this double life that she had been leading behind my back. The staff and the elder children called her by name, and she was returning the courtesy with ease born from practice.

‘So, you’re not just a pretty face and the idle rich, then?’ I said icily on the way back. I felt cheated.

‘I’m not rich,’ she smiled back. ‘I’m married to a rich man. Or not, as the case may be. We’ll find out soon.’

* * *

I swam for about one hour, using the time to examine my moral fibre. Of course I loved my father. Of course I cared what happened to him. To all of us. Of course I would have done anything in my power to help. And yet, I couldn’t but feel that the timing was unfair. Why did the crisis choose to interfere with one of the most testing times in my life? The most testing time so far. All that talk about men having a one track mind, being after only one thing cut no ice with me. I couldn’t give it away. The man next door had offered to cook me a seafood dinner in preference to a roll in the hay. Was that good? Was it a good thing that two years ago Mungo Steen had literally pushed me away, forcibly detached my eager vulva from his huge hard-on?

Why was it that two men lusted after me but passed up on the chance to screw me?

I had described Mungo’s rejection as an act of decency to Hugh. It may have been. Probably was. Decency coupled with caution. But, why hadn’t he come back later? Why had he never responded to my messages? He hadn’t even accepted my offer of friendship on Facebook. The obvious answer was that he’d found someone else, someone that even the media were unable to detect and was too happy with what he had to bother looking back.

None of that explained Hugh’s behaviour, though. Fair enough, no man with any self respect would have jumped on a girl with her head wrapped in a t-shirt and her genitals exposed on what must have looked like a makeshift examination table. But, that didn’t stop him from wanting to, as his gasping and panting peeping cock was my witness. So, why did he make it abundantly clear that he was happy to share his food and drink with me but not his cock?

It was coming up to 6 pm when I left the pool and headed for the shower. With Mother and Bakir at home, what were my chances of slipping off to the roof next door for a spot of fresh French seafood? I could ask Ela to cover for me should anyone ask. And if there were any developments on my father’s front, Mother would be bound to call or text. There was no sense in keeping vigil at home night after night to no avail.

Yes, that was a good plan. With my wet hair up in a knot at the top of my head, I applied a generous amount of my most expensive body lotion everywhere that I could reach, allowed it to soak up and pulled on my most alluring pair of thongs. On second thought, I pulled them back down again, inspected my pubic area, removed a couple of tiny hairs that had appeared along my groin, and carefully gilded my pubic crescent. Then I went in search of suitable attire. There was that stylish black and white polka dot dress that showed off my legs but not my bum. The built-in bra made a splendid job of the cleavage.

But, first the makeup.

Very little. Hardly any.

Careful inspection highlighted the need for something that would even out my complexion. At the first glance all that time spent under the umbrella on the terrace gave my face a fine, golden glow, but close-up there were tiny pale blotches and a few darker spots that required urgent eradication. With my eyes still on the mirror I reached for my make-up box where I kept everything that only needed to be used occasionally. What I ended up with was something that felt like the head of a dead cat. I squealed and dropped it.

It was the head of a cat. A little makeup bag made of fake fur with glass eyes, and plastic teeth serving as a clasp. It certainly wasn’t mine. One of the Brazilian girls must have left it behind. Without any qualms, I opened it. What could be more intriguing than another girl’s bag?

It contained a few creased receipts, an eyeliner, some funny looking coins, two out-of-date platinum credit cards, and a thin cardboard box containing pills. None of the girls seemed in need of medication. The trade name meant nothing to me. Both tin trays were still complete, there were no tablets missing from them at all. I pulled out the instruction leaflet, skipped the Portuguese section and turned the sheet over until I found the English translation.

Oops!

One of the girls, my money was on Bruna, was on the Pill.

I checked the name on the credit cards. Yes, I was right. It was Bruna. That made retuning her property to her easier. I could simply slip it in her voluminous handbag when no one’s looking. She probably hadn’t even noticed its absence. The credit cards were not valid any longer and she probably hadn’t finished the current supply of pills yet.

I was in the middle of spreading my equaliser over my face when my private phone pinged.

‘Landing gear playing up. Parts may take a couple of days. Enjoying the crevettes and thinking of you. Will be in touch. XXX’

My first thought was whose French grill he was cooking the crevettes on. The second, the use of full words as opposed to silly sms abbreviations made his texts very classy. But above all, the sharp pain of disappointment was battling the embarrassment of relief. Truth be told, I was scared stiff. Once my loose and wild sexual fantasies had found a specific target, I was terrified of acting on them.

Sex wasn’t just an orgy of senses and hormones.

On an impulse, I pulled the contraceptives out of the fake cat, swallowed one tiny pill, and stored the rest with my tampons and ‘monthly knickers’. Then I dropped the cat into the waste paper basket but not before I shredded the credit cards.

I was pulling up my khaki dungarees over a black sleeveless top when the official mobile sounded off. I’d heard somewhere that the theme tune for Mastermind was called Approaching Menace and I was using it as my ringtone ever since.

‘He’s just called the lift down,’ said Mother. ‘You may prefer to stay put up there?’

The thing with the penthouse lift was that it was grade two listed or something, a unique specimen of its kind. I liked the mahogany and bronze cage and the etched crystal glass, but if I wasn’t carrying something heavy or awkward, I preferred to climb the stairs two-by-two to the tune of
Let’s Get This Party Started
. I’d nicked the CD from my mother’s collection. She wasn’t listening to it anywhere near enough.

If Father had only just called the lift, he’d be up in three or four minutes at the earliest. I fished my flip-flops from under the bed, Father so hated bare feet, and ran downstairs.

From the stairs I watched Bakir proffer two tablets to my mother.

She shook her head. ‘Maybe better not just yet. Let’s see how it goes.’

He nodded and returned the drugs into his breast pocket.

‘So, that’s it,’ I screamed. ‘You’re her dealer. That’s why she’s always dopey when she’s at home.’

‘Not now, Kitten,’ Mother whispered.

‘Yes now...’

The lift doors slid open and my father stepped into the hall.

‘Daddy!’ His appearance shocked me. He’d looked bad enough when I went to see him in the office. Now he was almost unrecognisable. He was still stocky, heavy around the shoulders but he seemed to have lost several inches in height. There were deep dark rings under his eyes, he stooped, and he was secreting an odd, fetid odour as if he was rotting inside those misshaped clothes.

He marched past my extended arms.

‘My office! All of you.’

How I hated that place!

The room was darker than any other in the flat. The high ceiling must have been painted ochre at some point. That alone would have been bad enough, but over time the colour deteriorated into a semblance of a grey cloud. The walls were covered with dark mahogany cladding or else in floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of hardback volumes inherited from previous owners. By absurd, offensive contrast, the two light ormolu armchairs were covered in bright red plush, matched by his desk that I was sure must have started life as a lady’s dressing table. Mother took one of the chairs, under his gaze I took the other. At the sign from him, Bakir positioned himself behind me, his hands on the backrest.

Imperceptibly but unmistakeably my concern started turning into alarm. My father had been occasionally exhibiting erratic and bizarre behaviour, but never anything like this.

One of the Boys brought in a tray with a large jug of lemonade and four glasses. Father filled his glass while the Boy slid noiselessly out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Before he started to speak Father cleared his throat a few times, rinsed it down with a gulp of lemonade, cleared his throat again.

‘I’ll make it as short and simple as possible. I won’t be taking any questions.’

Mother’s hands were folded loosely in her lap. I found it easier to sit on mine.

‘I’m a businessman. I make enemies. That’s a given,’ he started.

No one argued.

‘What I’ve learned over the past few days is that my latest enemy has made it his life’s ambition to ruin me. And, to cut a long story short, he’s succeeded. He’s pulled the rug from under my feet.’

‘Daddy!’ I tried to get up and run over to him but Bakir placed his hands on my shoulders and stopped me from leaving my chair. ‘Let go of me,’ I shouted, ‘let go, you freak!’

‘Let go of her, you freak,’ my father repeated.

If anything, Bakir’s grip tightened.

‘As I’ve said,’ my father continued, ‘to all intents and purposes, I’ve been done. The only two properties that I own now, and even those are under threat, are this flat and the house in Hampshire...’

‘I small country could live on less than you’ll get for those two if you decided to sell, Daddy. I’ll be able to get a job soon...’

He looked at me with an inscrutable expression. I didn’t know what it meant but it served a purpose. I stopped talking.

‘Very laudable, I’m sure, but there’s another way of handling this. As I‘m in a habit of saying, if you can, always play the long game...’

He seemed to expect a response this time, but no one had anything to say.

‘Please yourselves,’ he shrugged. ‘It seems that our salvation is in your hands, Miss Ganis. The man says that if I leave everything that I still posses to you after my death, he’ll do you the honour of marrying you. And if you marry him, he’ll let me keep these two properties and a few other bits and pieces.’

‘Marry me?! Who is he, Daddy?’

‘In the circumstances, probably the only man who’ll ever ask you to marry him.’

I felt relieved. If my father’s problems chiefly revolved around my desirability as a wife, there was nothing to worry about as far as I was concerned.

‘Who says that I want to marry in the first place?’ I pooh poohed the entire subject. ‘If this flat and the house are yours, there’s nothing to worry about. Ok, you won’t be a multi-billionaire any longer, but what good has that ever done you?’

He was still very calm. ‘If you do what I tell you, I stand a chance of recovering everything. It’s not a matter of money, it’s a matter of keeping what I’ve built with my own two hands. The marriage would give me some breathing space, a respite, time to regroup and follow up the loopholes. Surely, you can do that much for me?’