Those Wicked Pleasures (11 page)

Lara was a constant reminder to Henry of the night she was conceived. The night that Emily and he had a frightful row that culminated in his rape of her. For the first time in his married life he forced Emily into sex against her will. Her husband’s near rape of her had continued until she submitted to him in a frenzy of lust such as she had never allowed herself to enjoy before. It had been the most disturbing sexual night of their married lives and Lara had been the fruit of it. Emily’s disapproval of such extreme sexual pleasure precluded the luxury of such lust again. Lara was no less a reminder of that night for her mother than for Henry.

Henry was having a pre-lunch vodka Gibson with Max and David in the library when he saw through the Oriel window the two Range-Rovers circling the white marble Oceanus fountain, a copy of Giovanni da Bologna’s masterpiece in the Boboli Gardens in Florence. It had been playing its water tune there in the main courtyard for nearly three hundred years. The three men smiled. She was home. Glasses still in hand, they went out to meet her. Only to find that she had not ridden home with the drivers who brought home the worldly goods of her Smith College years.

‘I am not best pleased, George. Where is my daughter?’

‘I told her you wouldn’t like it, sir, but you know Miss Lara. She insisted. So we came in convoy. She said you would understand because you would have done it yourself, sir.’

‘You mean she came all the way from Northampton on that blasted Harley Davidson I gave her?’ Henry shook his head in disapproval, but could not hide the smile on his lips. The minx – he could hardly say more about it: Lara was right, he would have done the same.

They heard the sound of the motorbike before they saw her, because of the rise in the road as it approached the house. The men drained their glasses and left them on the stone balustrade. They started down the white marble stairs as they saw her come over the rise. It was Henry who spoke first.

‘Boys, you do spoil that girl.’

The two men began to laugh and protest at the same time.

‘Dad! Look who’s talking! Who bought her the Harley?’ cried Max.

‘I stand corrected.
We
spoil her. It’s a miracle she has come out as well as she has done.’

Their joy at her return was evident, no matter how she arrived. Lara still had that quality of bringing an extra verve into the lives of everyone in the family.

She wore no helmet. That had been discarded as soon as she entered the gates of Cannonberry Chase. She sported a camel-hair jacket with wide revers, belted at the waist and worn over a matching pair of trousers. They tucked into brown leather boots buckled tight across her calves. Her long silvery blonde hair flying in the wind, she rose out of the seat and waved as she rode at full throttle towards them.

She cut the Harley’s motor, secured the cycle, and tore
off her gloves, dropping them as she swung herself off the bike and into her father’s arms for an enormous hug. She felt her father’s hand caress her hair for an instant, before he held her away from him and said, not unkindly, ‘How is it possible for me to have a daughter who looks like a glorious angel, behaves as if the term “free spirit” was a label especially designed for her, and has a devilish will of her own? I thought I bought this bike for you to get around Northampton. I was obviously wrong. Welcome home, La.’ He kissed her, first on one cheek then the other, and a third time on the forehead. He tossed a, ‘See you later, children,’ and then climbed on to the Harley. After a quick turn around the fountain, he took off on it down the avenue of trees.

His children watched him disappear. Then Max and David greeted Lara with their usual enthusiasm and teasing, and the three walked arm in arm up the stairs and into the house. The two chauffeurs spirited the Range-Rovers around to the side door to unload them there.

In the library, Lara discarded her jacket. With David taking one leg and Max the other, they helped to pull her boots off. She had been riding flat out for hours with her convoy to get to Cannonberry Chase in time for lunch so now she was stiff and sore and just a little weary, and her legs seemed to have swelled tight into her boots. But she had been even more exhausted from her ride before she came through the gates of Cannonberry Chase. There a wave of renewed energy flooded over her – and something more: a diminished dread of the year she had promised Emily and Henry in which she would rest and relax and take her place in society, their society.

She braced herself, holding tight to the arm of the chair, and watched the two men struggling with her boots. A surge of affection for them rolled over her. For the last few years she had seen much of the world, had
participated in several conscience marches, had lived a happy-go-lucky existence. And they had been fun years, a sexy, preppy life with Sam. A free-spirited time of travel with college chums that had nothing to do with family and life at Cannonberry Chase and being a Stanton. Oh, she had had those too, but they had been something separate from her new experiences.

Her family’s obvious affection for her, returning home, and being in that grand room of books and maps, with its whiff of leather and spring flowers, triggered in her a sense of belonging. That formidable yet almost cosy library had always been a haven for her for as long as she could remember. Until that very moment, she had thought the last four years were to be the pattern of her life, her future. They seemed like the backbone of everything she would ever be or do. Suddenly, and for no reason at all, she was not so sure. Doubt took hold. Had she been fooling herself? Was she or was she not the liberated lady she thought she was? Cannonberry Chase, the family, her need for their love … five minutes in their enveloping embrace, and everything else in the world seemed questionable.

That bastard Jamal, was he right? The last time, nearly a year ago, when he had tricked her into three days of off piste skiing on a Swiss mountain-top, and sex: he had lulled her back into believing that he loved her obsessively. That the erotic passion of his life was herself. She had almost believed him. Until he had gone too far in his urge to enslave her sexually. He was so certain he had her. Yet she had slipped away from his depraved demands as easy as quicksilver running through his fingers. Enraged that she had foiled him yet again, he had shouted, ‘You silly, spoilt bitch! You think you’re a liberated lady of the seventies. You’re no more liberated than a frivolous, fan-tailed goldfish in a tank of water.’

Chapter 7

The party of the season was not one but three. All given by Henry and Emily Stanton to launch Lara Victoria into society. The tribes of the New York Four Hundred mingled with the Boston nobs, the Philadelphia mainliners, the more select of the upper-crust San Franciscans and the odd guest from St Louis and Chicago. Not a penny of new money was to be found disgracing the pockets or purses of any at the events. No Texan either (with the exception of Lynette). Emily had screened the guest-list.

Only days after Lara’s homecoming, Emily and her social secretary, Missy Manners, trapped Lara in the library. It was the first of what appeared to be an endless stream of meetings on the events of the looming ’74–5 social season. Instructions on protocol, some sprucing-up of social etiquette, outlines of her own coming-out parties, were meticulously recorded in a set of beige ostrich-covered books of blank paper. A large desk-diary and a smaller matching one for the handbag were also included. Emily was assembling Lara’s bibles.

No surprise when Lara casually thumbed through the desk-diary to find dozens of dates already filled with events she knew nothing about, and cared even less for. She knew well the map of Emily’s world. Here were the beginnings of her translation from the margin to the centre of the Stanton world, the family, its wealth
and social position and all that was expected of it.

Clashes of temperament between mother and daughter, embarrassing double bookings, social gaffes of all kinds, crucial decisions about which invitations one accepted, which (with devastating sadness) one rejected, were all avoided by the loan of Missy from Emily to Lara from 9:00 to 9:45 am every morning. This was also adjudged the best time for Lara to dispose of the necessary correspondence that went with the position of Number One Deb of the Season.

Missy would, of course, have a duplicate of Lara’s diary: Emily must be au fait with what was going on. Not to interfere, just to advise. Through all this, Henry, who stood off to one side listening and saying little, watched his daughter. He was not displeased by her attitude. She seemed to take it all well enough. Henry had been summoned by Emily for support, yet had not had to participate in any of the unpleasantness Emily had suggested might occur. Relieved that there had been no negative scenes between the women, Henry decided to reward his wife and his daughter. He would sail them across the bay for fresh lobsters. He was about to make his offer when he heard Emily say, ‘Lara, as you can see in your diary, wardrobe day is tomorrow. Oleg Cassini will be here at ten. Elizabeth Arden at twelve, Mary McFadden at two, and the Bergdorf people at four. No shops – much better, don’t you think?’

‘Fine. The only better thing would have been to do it over the telephone.’

‘Too chancy. But a fashion show in the ballroom, privacy, and we can see everything, and you can try things on at your leisure … Don’t make a face, Lara. I know it’s a bore, but there it is. Must be done. May I come and look over what wardrobe you do have? What we might make do with? No need to overspend.’

Henry interrupted. ‘Emily, in this particular instance I think we can dispense with the “make-do”, don’t you?’

There was an unmistakable firmness in his voice. They had all heard that tone before: the women knew what it meant. Especially Emily. It didn’t sound often, but when it did, she obeyed, just like everyone else from the boardroom to the bedroom. As a husband he appreciated Emily’s parsimony. But towards his youngest child? Some extravagance could be permitted there surely. He made up his mind then and there to go into New York and buy her a piece of fine jewellery. Something special for her graduation from Smith, her coming home, coming out. Soon, with school behind her and fun ahead of her, she would be swept along on a tide of men, and slowly Henry would lose his daughter to them. That appealed to him even less than the idea that she would one day settle down and marry and he would lose her for ever. The only thing that reassured him was that it would be to Sam.

Emily answered him, ‘Yes, if you say so, Henry.’ She walked over to where Lara was sitting and sat down on the arm of the girl’s chair. She added, ‘You heard your father. We can splurge tomorrow, Lara. You are indeed fortune’s child.’ She brushed a piece of lint from Lara’s sleeve and smiled at her. From Emily that amounted to a gesture of affection.

Henry was not insensitive to the warmth in Emily’s voice. He sensed that she was relieved that all was going to plan. There had been none of the bucking she had expected from Lara. Henry looked at his two women with some pride. They were beautiful, and he could respond positively to beautiful women, especially those who gave him what he wanted without trouble. Not that trouble ever posed a problem for Henry Garfield Stanton. He marvelled at his luck: he both liked and loved his wife and daughter.

For days the family had been assembling at Cannonberry Chase for the first of Lara’s parties, a late summer ball. The winter cottage, a charming, eight-room stone house, covered in pink climbing roses and set in a field on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, was where Elizabeth and her brood, and John, his wife Ann and their two children, were staying. Steven and Lynette remained in the main house, as did Max and David. Every day someone was arriving and was accorded one of the remaining fourteen bedrooms. The beach bungalow was reserved for Jamal who had managed to infiltrate the guest-list. Emily still considered him just about suitable and an old and trusted friend of the family. And she was not immune to his dark good looks and drawing room charm. There had been years of subtle attentions and respect towards her. He was instructed by Emily to play host to the other house-guests staying in the beach bungalow. The remainder of the cottages scattered over Cannonberry Chase would all be filled to capacity with friends by the evening of the ball.

Just the mention of Jamal’s name and Lara looked forward to seeing him again. And yet … she wondered. Would there ever be a time when his name would mean nothing to her? She could only hope so. She disliked her sexual enslavement to him. He provoked an erotic excitement in her that disturbed the equilibrium of her life. She displayed no reaction to the news that he would be there, but just the mention of his name set her emotionally on edge. Since she had walked out on him in Gstaad there had been no contact, direct or indirect. There were moments when Lara actually despised her own voluptuous nature. Maybe not so much despised as
feared
it. She banished Jamal from her thoughts.

It was dusk, and the first veil of gauzy mist could be seen
rolling low over the water several hundred yards behind the boat towards Cannonberry Chase. Henry steered the
Justina
smoothly in close to the dock. He threw the towline to Bill the boatman. The sloop was secured. They were gathering their things together and making ready to leave when David’s plane swept down out of the sky and buzzed them. He and Julia waved from the six-seater sea-plane. It made another low pass over the sailboat. The three Stanton sailors waved back. Lara was delighted.

Julia Van Fleet had been Lara’s best chum since childhood and until Lara went to Smith and Julia to England to study at Oxford. Time and distance, new friends and different interests, had caused a drifting away from each other. New worlds other than the one they had always known had opened for them and partly swallowed them. But the bonds were still there. The friendship survived. Now both girls were home, returning to New York and the life-style from which they had taken a four-year sabbatical.

Julia Van Fleet was special, but not lucky. She was almost as American an aristocrat as Lara. A Van Fleet was there when the Dutch settlers paid the Indians $24.00 for New York. Her ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War, took part in the battle of Bunker Hill, and one of them, an artillery officer, helped outwit General Burgoyne at Saratoga.

The Van Fleets were especially sweet and kind people in spite of the tragedy in their lives. Their friends, the Stantons and the Faynes, and many of the other New York Four Hundred (the magic number of people who would fit into Mrs Astor’s ballroom and ever after set the numerical limit on ‘old’ New York society) closed ranks and supported them through their periodic bad times. Those periods when Julia’s mother, who suffered
from severe depression, would have to be sent away to the Stockbridge Clinic in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts, sometimes for months.

The Van Fleets had been the beautiful, romantic and glamorous couple of their set. The Scott Fitzgeralds of another era. Their house in Newport could have modelled for Gatsby’s. The effect of her mother’s illness on Julia and her father was to ensure they took full advantage of the periods when Betsy Van Fleet was well. They travelled together, and were valued wherever they went for their charm, wit, and amazing
joie de vivre
. But those other times, the dark times, were a heavy burden which they bore with a quiet stoicism while their hearts were sore. Each time they worried that maybe this would be the one when Betsy would not emerge from her dark and lonely pit. Maybe this time she would slip over the edge into the vortex of madness.

Her mother’s illness made Julia’s father over-protective of her. It was really he who brought her up. He and sundry nannies and tutors, and the wives of their close friends. When Betsy was well enough, they summered in the house in Newport, or they travelled. When she was not, it was as if a part of themselves had died. They carried on. That constant shunting about, between people and places created in Julia an ability to fit in easily. It instilled in her a sense of compassion that some might mistake for weakness, but was her strength. Julia had a calm, loving and loyal nature. She was like a breath of freshness among the competitive Stantons. When any members of the family walked on to a tennis court, they were like gladiators entering the Colosseum. When Julia played doubles with them, there was no hint of aggression, no flash of the killer instinct about her. Like some disciple of Zen (which she was not), she quietly locked herself into the game. Not infrequently she walked
off the court the winner. Slow, quiet and rational was her way. She wore her calm self-obsession like a coat of silk gauze.

When the moment arrived both girls had reluctantly donned vestal white from bosom to toe, and clutched snowy roses in kid-gloved hands. To the fanfare of a band, a melodious horn woven into a drum-roll, they had descended the sweeping staircase, each on the arm of her father, to the Debutantes’ Ball. They had duly dropped two deep curtsies to their social peers in unison with twenty-two other seventeen and eighteen year olds. It was tradition, and Emily, the old stickler, had held out for every ounce of it that evening. A lump bulged in many a maternal throat as that bevy of top-notch teenagers crossed the threshold into eligible adulthood. Though the girls relished the spotlight and had been properly launched, were officially ‘out’, they never sailed through the social scene quite as their contemporaries had. But here they were, belatedly agreeing to make it up to Emily by spending the year she felt a girl needed in order to find her place in society.

For all her snobbery, Emily did have the ability to create for her family homes that were not only grand and elegant but also attracted people and music and laughter. The atmosphere was always charged with hospitality, whether for two or twenty or two hundred, which was to be the quota for Lara’s ball. Emily appeared to manage it effortlessly, or to have trained her staff meticulously both behind and on the scene. She ran her houses and her family with
éclat
. Hers was a powerful presence that ruled and sustained her unshakeably as the doyenne of New York’s old-guard high society.

Julia had been given the room next to Lara’s. After a delicious dinner and several hours with the family and guests, the girls retired. It was not long before Lara
arrived at Julia’s room with two large bowls of home-made peach ice cream and a box of Belgian chocolate truffles. Lara sat cross-legged on the bed facing Julia, who had propped herself up against the pillows in readiness for the sugary orgy.

‘You know this is wicked.’

‘Sure. But nice,’ answered Lara with a big smile. ‘It’s so long since we’ve done this.’

‘Four years? Nearly five?’

‘You don’t think we’ve matured beyond this sort of preppy gormandising?’

‘Not a chance, I’m glad to say.’ Julia reached out for her portion of calories.

They fell silent while they tucked into their ice cream. It was an awkward silence.

Lara buried her faint unease in a champagne truffle. The succulent soft chocolate stuck to the roof of her mouth. She sucked on it with her tongue. It prompted that instant chocolate high that makes you reach for the next round blob of addiction. But before she succumbed, she bent forward and said, ‘Try this. I think I’ve died and gone to chocolate heaven.’ Both girls began to laugh, and Lara popped the remaining half of the truffle into Julia’s mouth. She closed her eyes and sighed. The truffle was delicious. Lara’s declaration seemed to have broken the ice between the two girls. The years of separation vanished.

They talked for hours about their lives and loves, their aspirations and their friends. Half a dozen times Lara was on the verge of telling Julia about her relationship with Jamal. Half a dozen times she thought better of it. Was it too dark, too murky a relationship to expose to scrutiny? Or, she wondered, was it simply too sexual, too loveless, too peculiarly private to share with anyone else? Could it be that she didn’t want Julia to know her sensual
nature governed her life? She allowed no more than hints of this to her friend.

What did come out of the frank talk between the girls was the revelation that Lara and Sam had not been faithful to each other. That they had come to an arrangement that suited them both. They were in love, and believed that they would one day settle down with each other. But, until then, they allowed each other freedom to date others. Date yes, sex no: that was the tacit agreement.

In those four years, Lara had taken up with several young men: a Princeton boy, an Amherst guy, a French charmer. Nothing more than a fun time had ever come of those affairs. Maybe a sort of falling in love, a little preppy sex, a soupçon of French romance, a stint of Peace Corps passion – even a fling with a biker – but always she returned to Sam. She discussed with Julia how strange it was that she and Sam knew there were others, but not once did they confess to each other that they had been unfaithful.