The Gift of Girls (27 page)

Everyone turned in our direction. Some of the men were waving away the tractor as you wave away flies, but my blond companion just kept going, weaving around the motorbikes and quad bikes. He shouted at a couple of girls lying on the grass sunbathing. ‘Wanna lift?’ but he didn’t stop and they came to their feet and ran along beside us. I saw Milly and the Maasai, the emerald twins, the girl with her tattoos like bronze reliefs over her painted skin. I saw the Duc de Peralada, the Texan, the oil sheikh in his muddy robes. Simon’s two dogs had got my scent and were barking and jumping up at me as we drove along.

Sandy Cunningham had stopped at the foot of the tower. He must have guessed it was me sitting on the tractor wrapped in a blanket, because all the other girls had been caught and were there in the field.

‘It’s her,’ he shouted, kick-starting the Harley and skidding down the hill headlong towards us.

Blondie had the tower in his sights now and just kept on the same course. Sandy had to swerve out of the way and crashed in a heap. Now I’d been seen, I threw off the blanket and stood up, balancing on the mudguard and steadying myself holding on to the shoulders of my driver, my charioteer.

The dogs were barking louder, biting at the tractor wheels, jumping up and rolling over as they fell. The other girls when they saw me joined in the chase and formed a cordon around the big wheels of the tractor, making it harder for the men to break through; the foxes turning on the hounds.

One of those athletic men, the American, I thought, did manage to charge through the barrier and made a grab for my legs, but I slid out of his grasp and he fell to the ground. Another man pushed through the foxes and vaulted up on the other mudguard, but, as he tried to cross over towards me, Blondie gave him a good hard push that sent him flying.

The ground rose steeply around the base of the tower and the tractor slowed as it climbed. I could smell the old stone in the hot sun and I could see a gap between those stones a couple of feet above my head.

‘There,’ I said and pointed. ‘Aim for that gap.’

Blondie nodded and pushed on. He swerved right and left, this swaying action making my balance precarious, but it did stop the men breaking the cordon and getting a hold on his tractor. He pulled finally to the right, almost hitting the tower. I used his shoulder as a stepping stone and tucked my foot in the gap between the stones, grateful that I was wearing trainers, not high heels. As he swerved away, my feet found footholds and step by step, just as I’d climbed the oak tree, I climbed the tower.

When I reached the top I punched the air with both hands and a great cheer went up from the crowd below.
The
girls danced, the men clapped and at that moment I felt like the master of the universe. The sky was blue and cloudless. The sea was lit by the sun, calm now after the storm. The woods of Black Spires stretched out to the north, and to the south I could see along the jagged line of the coast all the way to Westgate, where Saint Sebastian stood out above the white chalk cliffs.

14

The Ball

THAT NIGHT WE
peeled off the black straps and roamed the wardrobes in the long changing room. There were hundreds of dresses with labels from the best couturiers, shoes by Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik, little dreams of silk and satin panties in their swaddling sheaths of tissue, in boxes and shiny black envelopes. In a world of hunger and want, no expense had been spared.

I had taken my bag into the changing room and when my mobile rang it was like hearing a sound from another lifetime. I answered eagerly and was disappointed that it was only a message.

It’s your dad, call me soon as you can
.

He sounded far away and I could hear in the background the chatter of an airport or a hotel. I called straight away, but there was no answer and I tagged his message with my own.

‘I’m here, Daddy, call me,’ I said.

I slipped my phone into the gold link bag I’d found packaged in a soft leather case. I was wearing a strapless Balenciaga gown and shoes with towering heels and lethal points, all in gold like an Olympic medal winner.

As I descended the stairs with Milly, I felt let down by the pleasure that arises from a challenge realised. I had climbed to the top of the tower. Like a racing greyhound, for me there was no prize, winning was the prize, and I
couldn
’t help wondering: what next? Would my long gown and fragile puffs of golden underwear be torn from my body as the night turned into another orgy? It had been so gloriously decadent, such fun, but I imagined it was going to become tiresome if that was all that lay ahead for the next thirty days. Once you reject convention, you don’t want to keep repeating yourself, become the reflection in the mirror; you find pleasure in constant change and novelty.

An orchestra was playing themes from Tyler Copic films. Lee-Sun and the butlers were passing flutes of champagne and
tapas
, as the Duc de Peralada explained.

‘
Si´, yo sé
,’ I said. ‘
Hablo español
.’

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘I have a very nice castle, quite small, you must come one day soon,’ he said.

‘I would like that,’ I replied, and we touched the rims of our glasses.

‘You were …
una maravilla
today.’

‘Was I?’

He didn’t reply. Other men, shiny after their showers, girded in dinner suits, came up to congratulate me.

‘She’s too foxy for us. Just like a woman,’ Sandy Cunningham remarked.

‘Is that sour grapes?’ I said

‘Not from my vineyard,’ said the Duc.

The woman, the French Government Minister, magnificent in red latex and long boots, pushed through the men, leaned towards me and our lips met in a leisurely kiss.

‘One day,
chére
, they will walk naked and we shall hold the whip,’ she said, and the men roared with laughter.

‘Not if I have anything to do with it, they won’t,’ said Ben Olson, his big voice breaking through the noise. ‘Come, you might bring me some luck,’ he added.

We wandered as a group through the hall to the adjoining annexe where some roulette and blackjack tables had been set up. The croupiers, severe men in black
suits
, made columns of chips and pushed them across the green baize, the players signing for the amount they required with Jay Leonard, everything done on trust among the men of the New World Order.

The lights were low. At the next table, the ball danced over the grooves of the roulette wheel, tapping and clicking, tempting fate. The cards slid across the blackjack table as the dealer shuffled three packs together before lodging them in a shoe face down, their arrangement a narrative of good luck and ill fortune. I could smell those cards, like cotton growing in the sun, like fresh linen. My underarms were tingling, my fingers prickled with pins and needles. A bead of perspiration ran down between my breasts as the dealer turned the cards across the playing field, each snapping into place like a bolt into a lock.

The Texan placed a £1,000 chip on the six of hearts; it was joined by the seven of hearts. He asked for another card, a 10, bringing him to 23, and I watched the £1,000 chip being scooped back into the dealer’s pile. I watched Sandy lose £1,000 and double up, following the system. Sergio Buenavista, the Duc, won with his £5,000 stake and left the two black-ringed chips to ride on the next deal. He won again, a total of £15,000 to the good in a few minutes, so quick, so easy, so painless. Money attracts money, money likes money, that’s why those men at Black Spires enjoyed each other’s company, why they could bare their bodies and souls and deepest desires and primitive instincts.

The cards turned, the chips moved back and forth like a tide, though more in the direction of the bank. I noticed Simon appear on the other side of the table, watching me as I watched Sandy Cunningham double again, £4,000 now riding on the two of diamonds.

‘You’re not playing, Magdalena?’ Sandy asked, grinning, his blue eyes sparkling with the light from the chandelier.

‘I don’t have any money,’ I replied.

‘That never discouraged you before,’ said Simon, and they all laughed.

‘Here,’ said Sandy, ‘you make it last.’

He rolled a red £100 chip across the table. It slowed, shivered and fell in front of me.

‘Hey, don’t encourage the girlies,’ said Ben Olson. ‘You’ll lead them on to the path of wickedness.’

That red chip felt comfortable in my hand, as a ring feels comfortable on your finger. I didn’t sit. I remained aloof as I leaned over to place the chip on the last available playing site at the table.

I was back.

Ten of hearts. Ten of clubs.

Jay Leonard had taken over the dealing. ‘Split?’ he asked, and there was another rumble of laughter.

To have split the two tens I would have needed another £100 chip to place an equal bet on each, managing two hands instead of one. Most players do split tens, but I couldn’t and, calculating the odds, I didn’t consider it a good idea anyway: I already had 20 and the banker was sitting on a seven. He drew a 10. I’d doubled my money.

There was a little round of applause that I didn’t acknowledge. I was deep in thought and what I decided was to take Sandy’s system and stand it on its head. Instead of hoarding my winnings and doubling when I lost, I thought I’d let it all ride. Play to win. In for a penny. All or nothing. I placed the two red chips on the table and drew the seven of spades. The King of Spades came to join him and Jay Leonard bust with a nine, a six and the enigmatic Jack of Diamonds.

I let the money ride again. I won again. The four red chips became eight.

On the fourth hand I drew the Ace of Hearts and the Jack of Clubs: blackjack.

From just one red chip, I had 16 chips, £1,600, and around that table the king makers, the masters of the
universe
, the politicians and media moguls, the oil men and the men who matter, were silently watching. I had won four hands in a row. Losing five in a row is almost impossible. That’s what Sandy Cunningham had told me. I imagined winning five in a row must be the same, a challenge to the odds, an affront to the law of averages. You needed the luck of the devil. The men knew that, too. They had watched me on that tractor with Blondie cross the field and climb to the top of the tower. They were waiting now for me to fall.

‘Place your bets,’ said Jay Leonard.

I hesitated.

And I remembered something Sandy had once said:
Never trust anything but your own instincts
.

I placed those red chips in four neat piles on the table. The other players idly pushed their £1,000 and £5,000 chips out into the playing arena. They weren’t watching their hands, they were watching me. The cards cracked from the shoe and there was something musical about the way they fell crackling to the table, the notes slipping across the scale as if scored by Mozart.

I drew a two followed by a three. The bank sat on a Queen of Clubs, juicy as a ripe blackberry, every inch a winner. My heart sank and I tried not to show it. I drew another card and when Jay Leonard turned over the six of diamonds my spirits lifted again. I had 11 and drew the King of Hearts: the perfect 21. I flushed with pleasure.

Jay Leonard adjusted the position of his Queen, pausing before turning his second card. If he turned over an ace, he would have a blackjack and I would be finished, bankrupt, an example of Sandy’s system. But it wasn’t an ace, it was the nine of diamonds, giving him a score of 19, enough to rake in thousands from the other players but not enough to beat my 21.

I had won five in a row. I had accumulated £3,200 and for a moment I was in shock. My heart was pounding and beads of sweat broke out on my brow. I looked up
and
the eyes that met mine belonged to Simon Roche. I studied those eyes and those strong features for any emotion his expression might betray. He studied me, too.

What now?

The amount I had won was magical. The perfect number. A sum chosen by providence. I returned the one red chip worth £100 to Sandy Cunningham and I pushed the remaining £3,100 across the table to Simon Roche.

He looked at those chips. He looked up at me and, at that same second, my mobile rang. For some reason it sounded urgent.

‘May I?’ I asked, and Simon nodded.

‘Oh my God, hello, Daddy …’

The game had ceased. Everyone was listening.

My father spoke hurriedly and excitedly for two minutes and I’m sure my mouth must have fallen open as I listened. He told me that he was in Dubai where he had met at the hotel a director from CunniLingus who had
heard on the grapevine
that he was in the business of selling second-hand aeroplanes. The low-budget airline was updating and needed an agent to unload 400 craft surplus to its requirements. Daddy would make about $100,000 on each, a total of $4 million.

‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ he said.

‘I always knew it would.’

‘So, what are you up to, Madge?’

I paused before answering. ‘Playing blackjack,’ I said.

‘Listen, a word to the wise, run with your luck and quit when you’re ahead.’

We hung up. I stared in turn at Simon Roche, Sandy Cunningham, Ben Olson. They all wore that complicit, vaguely condescending look of teachers and elders, of people who think they know you better than you know yourself and perhaps they do.

‘Happy, now?’ asked Ben.

I nodded.

It was the perfect Hollywood ending.

The orchestra was playing dance music and Simon Roche led me away from the gaming tables to waltz in a rather old-fashioned way. I danced with the Texan that night, and Sandy, and Kurt –
very gut, very gut
, he kept saying. I danced with the American, the diplomats and politicians, the kings and king makers. I drank champagne. I ate blini, lush with caviar and sour cream. I was like Cinderella in my golden heels and at midnight I danced up the staircase with Simon, my tormenter, my master, my lover. I was free now. I had paid my debt. I would, as I had planned, go to the LSE and work at Rebels to pay my way if I had to.