The Pleasure Quartet (27 page)

Thomas had a small spare room, which he had previously mainly used for storage, and with Gwillam in tow, Iris and I helped him clean it out and paint it in bright colours so it could become my
own little bolt hole. It also had a bed, but most nights I slept with Iris and him. As to the nature of our carnal activities, nothing was ever planned in advance and we ventured down that path one
day at a time, a hand here, a touch there, a kiss, a caress, accepting whatever direction it took us in, encouraging our bodies to do all the sensuous talking. I knew this couldn’t last: it
felt like an armistice between wars, but I was quite happy to allow fate and coincidence run my life for now.

One evening, joined for the occasion by Gwillam, joyous and exhausted, we’d all walked down the road to the nearest local curry house where Thomas had agreed to treat us. We were none of
us great cooks, and our diet had become too reliant on beans on toast, ready-made meals and hastily assembled sandwiches drowned in gallons of tea.

A final round of lagers, and some of us were already tipsy.

Gwillam nudged my shoulder.

‘Have you told her, yet?’

Thomas was too busy mopping up his dessert plate of gulab jamun, but Iris was still alert and looked sideways at us.

‘Told who what?’ she asked, sipping slowly from her glass as if trying to make the beer last longer.

I shot Gwillam a dirty look. He lowered his eyes in response.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

Iris grinned. Kept on staring at me. Gwillam looked away.

‘You know you can’t keep a secret, ’specially from me,’ Iris stated with a broad smile spreading across her delicate features, disturbing her normal aura of gravitas. We
were saved by the waiter arriving at our table, enquiring if the meal had been satisfactory. We all nodded approvingly.

But once he had moved off, Iris’s eyes were still focused on me and it was clear she was the least drunk of all of us; despite her petite size, she’d always enjoyed a strong
resistance to booze.

‘Back at the flat,’ I suggested. Under the table, Gwillam was grabbing my knee.

‘Let me guess,’ Iris ventured. ‘Gwillam and you have finally dug something up about the Ball, about Joan?’

She looked quite excited by the prospect.

Once we were home – Gwillam had since gone his own way – Thomas, pretexting tiredness and some important legal meetings early the following day, soon retreated to the bedroom and was
fast asleep long before the kettle had boiled for the hot chocolate Iris and I liked to enjoy prior to bedtime.

We sat in the kitchen.

I was warming my hands on the hot mug, delaying the inevitable moment of reckoning.

‘So?’

I briefly feigned ignorance and took a further sip from my mug. We had perfected our own brew over the years that varied according to the ingredients we had to hand and our mood. Tonight’s
mixture contained a pinch of cayenne chilli that sent a burst of warmth through my nostrils with each mouthful.

‘It’s not really important . . .’ A final attempt to deflect matters.

Iris peered at me over the edge of her mug.

‘I’m not moving an inch until you fess up. You’re hiding something. It’s written all over your face.’

Where to begin?

‘Gwillam and I did come across some of Joan’s stuff . . .’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘Old bits of clothing, letters, a diary . . . nothing major.’

‘Nothing major? That sounds totally major! Probably fit for a museum. A diary? Have you read it? Does she talk about the Ball?’

‘Yes, and yes.’

Her eyes widened.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before, then?’

‘It’s not just about the Ball,’ I said.

‘What?’ The rumble of a night bus rushing by outside the window and a fleeting roll of light unfurling along the opposite wall interrupted us.

Iris looked puzzled, trying to imagine what else we had uncovered. Since that day by the sea and the incredible events we had witnessed and, to a certain extent, participated in, the Ball had
been an obsession of hers and she had often spoken of it and the possibility that we might track it down in London.

‘It turns out Joan is your mother.’

‘What?’

‘Yes. Her diaries make it clear, though not exactly why . . . Perhaps because she wasn’t married. Or maybe she feared she couldn’t raise you. I don’t know. The Larks
adopted you and agreed to pass as your parents at her request. I’m so sorry.’

Iris’s mouth formed an O of utter disbelief.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘And do her diaries say who my real father was, then?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘What the hell does that mean, Moana?’

‘She writes about him, even to him in one case, but only mentions his first name and no real details . . . not enough to identify him. Gwillam did have a go but there’s just not
enough to go on.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I’m sorry. So sorry I didn’t tell you about it earlier. But . . .’

Iris shrugged her shoulders. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference, though, would it?’

‘I suppose not.’

I was expecting her to order me to deliver the diaries to her right there and then. They were in the bottom drawer of my dressing table, wrapped inside my shawls. But she retreated into
silence.

I noticed my mug of hot chocolate was now tepid and still half full. Iris cradled hers in her palms.

‘I have the diaries in my room. I suppose you want to read them?’

‘Not quite now,’ she said in a small voice. She looked deflated and so vulnerable. I dearly wanted to hug her and hold her tight against me, but somehow the correct etiquette of the
whole situation eluded me. I felt useless. I had turned her world upside down and now didn’t know what to do next.

The awkwardness of the moment was broken by a knock at the door downstairs. We shook ourselves out of our daze and looked at each other. Who could it be at this hour? I peered at my watch; it
was past one in the morning.

We stepped over to the window and looked down. It had begun to rain outside, a thin but steady drizzle. Matilda stood by the door, her hair lanky and damp, wearing a long tan coat. She noticed
us peering out from above and waved tentatively at us.

‘I’ll go,’ I volunteered.

‘I’ll come along,’ Iris suggested, and we both tiptoed down the stairs in our nighties and dressing gowns to let the prodigal sister in. ‘What for heaven’s sake
does she want at this hour of night?’

I knew Iris was not Tilly’s greatest fan.

We let her in.

Her normally impeccable make-up was a mess and she was a shadow of the imperious figure I had first come across at her parent’s mansion when she had ruled the roost. Still beautiful,
chiselled cheekbones and shocking dark eyes whose depths seemed infinite, but tonight her posture looked worn out by winds of defeat.

‘Is he in?’ she asked us.

‘He’s sound asleep,’ Iris said. ‘It is late, you know.’

I was expecting Matilda to come up with some witticism or other putdown about us two girls still being awake and about, but her quicksilver tongue was evidently dormant.

She shed her wet coat and hung it up in the hallway. She wore a dull grey sweatshirt and a pair of tight jeans. This was the first time I had ever seen her not dressed to kill.

‘Don’t wake him up,’ Matilda requested.

‘Fine . . . I wasn’t planning to anyway,’ Iris retorted.

‘I need somewhere to spend the night,’ she explained. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.’

Who were we to refuse her?

I offered her my bed. There was no other spare bedroom in the flat. She nodded and thanked me, not even bothering to query where I would sleep or the nature of our regular sleeping
arrangements.

‘I’ll explain it all tomorrow,’ she said and walked up the stairs ahead of us, her long, perfect legs and shapely arse sheathed in denim.

At least, with Tilly now occupying my room, neither Iris nor I had access right now to Joan’s letters and diaries. Probably better we both got some sleep before opening that
Pandora’s box. I wasn’t even sure I should show them to her at all, considering the X-rated content, but I couldn’t see any way to avoid it.

We joined Thomas in bed. He grunted as we slipped between the covers. He always slept naked. Iris, who kept her slip on as was her habit, spooned into him while I threw my night gown to the side
and fitted myself against her back, wrapping my legs around hers as we often did, sharing her warmth. I lay awake for a while longer, overcome by our closeness, puzzled by Matilda’s silent
presence down the corridor in my small closet of a bedroom and wondering how this would change things, as I knew it inevitably might. Nothing lasts forever.

Matilda had panicked.

It appeared that one of the many politicians who had attended her latest party had been the victim of a press sting and his extracurricular activities exposed. However, it was soon discovered
that he had also enjoyed a relationship with a good time girl who shared her favours between him and a suspect representative from a foreign embassy and, as a result, had attracted attention from
not just the press but also other shady government agencies and Tilly had been brought in for questioning. She had been let off for now but strong pressure was being applied against her to
collaborate with the authorities and veiled threats made to make her activities public should she not follow instructions. She was distraught at the prospect of her parents and society friends
finding out what she had been involved in.

She feared that her house was being watched and had run scared to us.

‘I never began organising the parties for the money, you know,’ she pleaded as Thomas, Iris and I sat around the breakfast table listening to her story. ‘It was for the fun,
the thrills. I tried to keep them as exclusive as I could . . .’

It had begun innocently when she’d been part of a somewhat decadent group of revellers at university and one thing had led to another.

‘We were doing no harm,’ she continued. ‘Nothing was strictly illegal. I felt like there should be a place for people like us. I still do.’

Free of make-up, lines under her eyes, wearing one of Thomas’s shirts, her endless legs folded under her on the wooden bench, she now looked so much younger and more vulnerable without the
protection of her war paint and customary wardrobe. I pitied her.

‘What do you want me to say?’ Thomas asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Tilly replied. ‘You were always the brains, brother . . .’

‘And you ever the chief risk taker, dear Tilly . . .’

Iris and I looked on silently, feeling excluded and disenfranchised from the family reunion and dilemma we were witnessing.

‘I’ll be blackballed from society circles if it all comes out,’ Matilda stated, as if that was the worse thing that could have happened. ‘Probably lose my job.’

I wasn’t even aware that she worked. She was a stylist for a leading women’s fashion magazine, it seemed. Made sense. Setting up and running the rather special parties had, for
Matilda, been a game, an exercise in art direction, a perverse way of applying her talents to another field.

It brought a thought to my mind.

‘When I attended the event at your parents’ house outside London,’ I said, ‘I initially had the impression it was connected to the Ball.’

Iris shot me a sideways glance.

Thomas looked on blankly, but Tilly showed a flash of recognition.

‘I’ve heard of the Ball,’ Matilda revealed. ‘It’s something of an urban legend. Someone at university, an older man I mistakenly got involved with, hinted of its
existence. Even promised he’d take me to it one day, but he fell aside as men do. In a way, the whole idea of it was a source of inspiration for the parties. Initially at any rate. But there
is no such thing as the Ball. Just a myth for those gullible enough to believe there is a whole world out there for us pleasure seekers. I’m surprised you’ve heard of it too. Never
imagined such a daft rumour might travel all the way to New Zealand.’

‘It exists,’ I stated.

Iris nodded, lowering her eyes. Thomas gave her a surprised look, both astonished by her tacit admission and the fact that she had not previously mentioned this to him.

Would I be betraying Joan by telling Matilda and Thomas what we knew of the Ball and the way it had entered our lives?

Or what we had witnessed and been part of at Cape Reinga?

Iris beat me to it.

‘We’ve actually been,’ she said. ‘Just the once.’

‘What?’

‘Where?’

We took turns telling Matilda and Thomas our story, and as the words unfolded on that cold London morning around the breakfast table, I felt the dormant fire the Ball had once lit up inside me
rising to life again, bathing the room in a magic glow.

When I finally reached the revelations I had come across in Joan’s diary it was already well past midday. By then, even Iris who was unaware of this part of the story sat open-mouthed
listening to my voice.

Matilda’s eyes were wide open in amazement and I could see how much the tale had affected her. Thomas was pensive and thoughtful.

All at once there were no more words.

Tilly sighed.

‘And Gwillam still believes he can locate this . . . place? Or thing? Or whatever it is?’ Thomas asked.

‘He hopes to,’ I said. ‘He managed to find out about Joan’s diaries, so I’m hopeful he will discover more about the Ball. Its location maybe, how to make contact
with its representatives.’

I fell silent.

As did the others who had run out of questions and were still absorbing all the information. All I’d kept back was the revelation about Iris’s origins. That part of the tale was
strictly for her and me to know.

‘I have a suspicion,’ I hastily added. ‘Someone who might happen to be connected with the Ball.’

Clarissa.

I had no evidence to support this possibility but I had a hunch that she must know about the Ball.

She had mentioned it once, for a start. The fact that she thought Tilly’s parties were attempts to pass off as the Ball. But it wasn’t just that. Her words, her touch, her aura, the
way she and Edward had played with me, enjoyed, opened me up to pleasure.