Those Wicked Pleasures (24 page)

‘All right! All right! We’ve got a contest!’ The message lit up the alley.

Lara gave him one of her more flirtatious smiles, and then mounted the bike. It felt good. She revved the motor. Her sponsor, Mario, whispered something in her ear. Her laugh was girlish, light and flirtatious. Someone offered her a helmet. She declined. ‘I assume the law is banned from this street?’ Her mild defiance won admiring looks from the bikers.

‘You catch on quick for an uptown chick. But y’ll have to be quicker to beat us.’ Carmine patted his bike lovingly.

The three, Lara, Mario and Carmine set the rules of the three-alley race.

Sam folded his arms across his chest and watched it
all. He had no fear – she would win. But he felt the inevitable male distaste for the way Mario looked at Lara. He knew her so well. For her, Mario was a game. But what was she for Mario? Not a game, he thought. Not one that stopped at racing bikes, anyway.

They were off, cheered on by the crowd lining the alley. She won. Carmine was good-natured about being beaten. Her own group was proud. But before they were able to get to her, Mario had hopped on the back of the bike. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he told her: ‘
GO, GO, GO
!’ And Lara took the Harley off once more down the alley.

The crowd watched. It waited. Instead of looping for the return, Lara and Mario disappeared from sight. No one seemed surprised. The two sets of people mingled and enjoyed the bowls of risotto offered. Julia, looking concerned, said to one of the bikers, Rocco, ‘I don’t know how clever it was for Lara to take off through the crowded streets. The police are sure to stop them. And she’s been drinking since afternoon.’

Carmine heard her and laughed. He went over to her. A friendly arm around her shoulder, he assured her, ‘Nobody picks up Mario Marcachetta. Who’d ya think got these alleys for us? His father’s “
the
father”, if you up-towns know what I mean. Not “the father in heaven”, that’s for double sure!’ And he crossed himself several times.

Laughter greeted the puzzled look on Julia’s face. It was obvious that she had no idea that Carmine was trying to tell her Mario was the Mob. And not just in with the gangsters, but his father was a capo.

Half an hour later, the bikers had lost interest, hardly paid attention to the Harley’s return. There was a change though: Mario was driving and Lara was sitting pillion. Sam, more relieved to see Lara than upset with her for
leaving him to the boredom of the bikers, was wanting to get home. She kissed him on the cheek and he listened to her enthuse about riding through the crowds. The wonders of the Harley. What a good biker Mario was. Sam was aware that, although Lara had hopped off the back of the bike, she had not left Mario’s side. Nor had he seen fit to release her. His arm was still around her waist.

‘We would all like to get back to the fair.’

Lara, realising how selfish she had been to keep them all there, reacted immediately. ‘Of course. Sorry. I simply lost track of time.’ She turned to Mario. Attempting to step away from him, she said, ‘Thanks, Mario, it was a great ride. Meeting up with you all has been the high point of the fair for me.’

She felt him tighten his grip around her waist, and thought, How silly. He said, ‘The
high point
is now. I invite you to dinner. A great dinner.’ And turning to Sam, he added, ‘I’ll see that she gets home.’

Mario assumed too much. She told him, ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I have neglected my friends long enough.’ And this time she managed to release herself.

Sam was quick. He took her firmly by the arm. ‘OK, let’s go.’ They took only a few steps before Mario pulled Sam’s hand from Lara’s arm. The couple, surprised, swung round to face an enraged biker.

‘You can go. She stays.’ He grabbed Lara’s hand.

There was nothing menacing in his voice. Just a tone so emphatic that everyone around them who heard it backed away, except Sam. He tried to reason.

‘Mario, the lady doesn’t want to stay.’

‘That’s what she says, not what she means.’

‘Mario, he’s right.’

‘Bullshit! It’s this fag friend wants to take you away.’ Mario gave Sam a hard shove with his free hand. Not
content with that he released Lara and went after Sam with both hands, shoving him even harder, again and again, down the alley.

‘What’s a soft guy like you think you can do with a hot chick like her, huh? Huh? Why dontcha say somethun? Take her away? You’re lucky I let you
get
away, fag.’

Lara tried to intercede. Only then did Sam say something. ‘Stay out of it, Lara.’

‘What’s that supposed to show her? Is that uptown bravery?’ With that he gave Sam yet another shove, then simpered in female tones, ‘Stay out of it, Lara.’ Those were the last coherent words the alley heard Mario utter that afternoon. Sam hit him with a drop kick. Mario went down, but came up fighting.

Sam amazed everyone with his brutal defence of himself. He was destroying his opponent with karate chops and kicks. No slouch at the martial arts, he could counterattack anything the street-fighter Mario turned on him. And he did go after Sam now, with a vengeance. Lara and Sam’s friends saw a side they never dreamed existed. First, the core of toughness under the usually calm exterior was a surprise. But the brutality that surged from him as he took on Mario, after he was visibly beaten, was a shock. No one had dared interfere. Mario had instructed them, ‘This is personal, not a gang event. Anyone muscles in on it, he has to deal with me.’

‘Sam,’ shouted a terrified Julia. ‘This is barbaric.’ Her words worked where Lara’s had not. He bent down, picked Mario off the road and sat him on an ash-can. Mario leaned against the bricks of the building. His swarthy, handsome face was unmarked. The man held a hand over his ribs. He had trouble breathing.

Sam examined him then told Mario, ‘If I’d wanted to, I could have hurt you badly. Not my game. But you –
you would have maimed me if I’d let you. OK, so you’re right, I
am
soft. Guys like you are why I use karate, that’s all. You’ll be bruised for several days, but there’s no real damage, I made sure of that. Fag, no. Pansy, no. Gent, maybe, Mario. You should try it some time.’ Sam, more angry than he had been at any time during that afternoon, pulled Mario to his feet and dusted his jacket. The two men glared at each other. ‘We’re going to leave now,
all
of us. Are you going to be man enough to let us leave this fair unharmed?’

Mario straightened up. No word was exchanged now. Sam’s outstretched hand demanded a handshake. Nothing happened for several seconds. Then Mario shook Sam’s hand, and walked somewhat shakily from the alley. Sam, Lara and their friends followed silently and melted into the crowds still clogging the main streets.

Later that night Lara and Sam had the most passionate sexual encounter they had had since their erotic interlude on the island. This time Sam did not run away afterwards. Instead, he became sexually obsessed with her. Now, in love and sex, their intimacy flourished, seemed to have no bounds. They were adventurers in an erotic land, friends who had become a couple in society. For Lara, at last, her half-guilty preoccupation with her sexual life with Jamal was over. She rarely thought of him in that way any more.

Life seemed sweeter than before. Sam and Lara appeared at last to have found a relationship that brought them a new intimacy, a oneness that no one and nothing could intrude on. So they made their decision: they would marry. They knew they wished never again to be parted. The passing of time made it obvious to them both that it was not enough just to be together and intimate. As a couple they craved a married existence. They wanted
all the things that marriage had to offer.

Not being married was not easy for them. Actually getting married seemed to be even more difficult, as they agreed they didn’t want the complications of a large society wedding and decided to elope.

After endless discussions about the how and where of accomplishing it, finally, with the help of Julia, a plan was formulated. Not to feel cheated of a celebration, and to share their happiness with their friends, they decided to elope on the morning of the annual Cannonberry Chase summer ball. There was a plan A, and a plan B, and even a plan C, as to where the wedding would take place. But all the plans contained one feature: Lara and Sam would fly to Cannonberry Chase, arriving after the ball had begun. The couple aimed to surprise everyone with the news of the wedding as their joint excuse for being late.

The day came. Sam looked at his watch. Everything was going according to plan, or almost. He had been far more moved by the ceremony than he had expected to be. They both had been. From the air, Cannonberry Chase looked like a tray of scattered diamonds. The ’copter hovered near the open French windows of the ballroom, and the guests were drawn outside by its unmistakable noise.

Lara fussed over her gown. Its skirt was voluminous: tiers of iced-green silk netting that trailed glamorously longer in the back and showed ankle in the front. The bodice of the same material was a form-fitting, off-the-shoulder affair that offered teasing glimpses of cleavage. The tiers of netting so cleverly designed fell from the shoulders to the elbows, making a capacious sleeve of sorts. At her waist was a bunch of fresh magnolias.

Such finery was not ideally suited to a helicopter descent, but somehow the pair, looking ravishingly grand,
stepped unperturbed on to the lawn. Friends gasped and rushed up to greet them. There was applause for so spectacular an entrance. Once they felt the grass underfoot and the chopper blades no longer overhead, looks of relief lit their faces. So far so good, but here was the hard part.

Lara saw David in the crowd walking towards them across the lawn. He was laughing, and that somehow made breaking her and Sam’s news to the Stantons and the Faynes a lot easier. Lara could tell by the look that passed between her and David that he had guessed what their spectacular entrance was all about. He was flanked by Emily and Henry; Max and Steven were not far behind. Only Emily seemed unamused. The two women’s eyes met across the crowd of people. Lara, hand in hand with Sam, pushed her way past greeting guests towards her family. She reached up to hug her father and kiss him on the cheek, and then turned her attention to her mother. Emily smiled, it was one of those smiles she used on public occasions. She reached out and fluffed up a tier of the green silk netting clinging precariously on the edge of Lara’s shoulder. Sam bent down to kiss Emily on the cheek. She looked at him. The smile returned. She reached out to touch a magnolia at Lara’s waist. Then she addressed the couple. ‘Rather a dramatic entrance, children.’

The note of disapproval in her voice was what they had expected but Lara had not counted on it silencing her. She simply could not find the words to tell Emily they had eloped. Instead she raised her hand. Emily saw the wedding band. She took her daughter’s hand in hers and stroked it. ‘But not nearly dramatic enough for such a happy occasion as this.’ She raised Lara’s hand and waved it for the crowd to see. Then she kissed her daughter approvingly.

PARIS, FLORENCE,
MARRAKESH
1981

Chapter 17

Marcy was waiting for her husband, Harry. Harry Cohen was always late. The late Harry Cohen, as the wags called him, while Marcy was always early. Punctuality was just about the only thing they disagreed about. To Harry it seemed a mere neurosis. Otherwise he was an angel of a husband.

Harry loved Paris, and Marcy had come to love it too. He was a shoe manufacturer with cosmopolitan pretensions which transported them to Paris at least once a year for Harry’s business and for fun. The wonderful world of Parisian footwear made a fuss of Harry. That embarrassed Marcy.

She often nagged him, ‘Don’t you find it vulgar, all that toadying. Why do they do it? Just to get your business. How disgusting!’

And he would reply, ‘Don’t be silly! It’s because I speak impeccable French.’

After years of watching the French fuss over him, she came to agree. Marcy took lessons and now spoke her own brand of French too. She had become very possessive about Paris. Considered it
her
special place. As for The Ritz – well, she could be possessive about that too.

This was their last day in the city, and Marcy was itching to get out into the streets. She kept pacing around the lobby, never taking her eyes off the entrance. Twice she walked out into the bright May sunshine to pace up
and down the pavement there. Curious looks from the doorman made her feel foolish. She went back into the lobby and sat down, her eyes assessing the passers-by from the feet upwards.

Marcy got into all the muddles inverted snobs usually get into. She stayed at The Ritz, sharing the elegance and chic of the other people who stayed there but at the same time condemning that elegance and chic. Marcy liked stylish, but more so she could knock it rather than because it could be pleasing to the eye and fun. She wore expensive drip-dry clothes and flat shoes. Her closet was full of designer outfits. These she would pack and unpack, but rarely wear. She enjoyed the idea of old money and tried to behave as if she and Harry were. Old money meant conservative, and plain, and worthy. She considered herself there. Harry, unfortunately, was maybe a tad too flash to make the grade.

She forgot she was upset with him for being late. There was too much to be faulted in the parade passing through the lobby. Midday on a bright spring morning was the perfect time for people-watching at The Ritz. There was a lull at the entrance. Still no Harry. For five minutes or so no mortal darkened the doorstep of The Ritz.

Then Marcy saw two cars pull up: first a vintage Mercedes with its top down and a stylish couple in it, the back seat heaped with Louis Vuitton luggage. Behind it was a blue Rolls-Royce. She guessed it was a model from the fifties or the sixties. Inside sat a chauffeur in uniform and cap. She watched alight from the back seat a child of maybe three, a nanny in grey, and another woman in dark clothes, possibly a social secretary or a maid, thought Marcy.

She saw the doorman smile and shake the hand of the man from the Mercedes. The woman, her blonde hair tousled by the wind, was dressed in wide trousers of ivory
flannel beneath a top of navy blue cashmere with a large sailor collar. The child ran to her, and the woman swept her up into her arms, laughing, talking to the nanny and the maid at the same time.

Marcy was transfixed by the sight of the laughing woman. She could hardly believe it. She watched the group make their entrance into the lobby, several porters loaded down with the luggage from both cars following them. The woman handed the child to her husband. Marcy wanted to hide, but she was too stunned to move. The last person on earth she expected to meet in The Ritz lobby that morning was Lara Stanton.

They were coming right past her. Marcy turned her face away from them. They mustn’t see her. She saw other heads turn to look at the family. She even heard a whispered, ‘Who are they?’ behind her.

‘The Faynes. My, but they are a handsome, elegant sight. They’re always like that, wherever they go. Dead stylish. Supposed to be very nice people as well. Old money, you know.’

‘You know them?’

‘No, dear, they would consider us Euro-trash. Much too common to be worth knowing. There are limits to very-niceness.’

Marcy took the woman’s comments personally. She felt angry to hear herself classed as inferior to Lara. Someone bumped into her as they passed. For a second their eyes met. It was Sam. He excused himself and walked on. The remainder of the Fayne entourage passed within inches of her. She had not been seen or recognised. She heaved a sigh of relief. But too soon.

A hand on her shoulder. She turned around. It was Sam.

‘Marcy. So it was you!’ He gave her his dazzlingly friendly smile. ‘Must be years since I’ve seen you.’

‘Not since we were at Smith.’

‘Didn’t you see us come in?’

‘Could hardly miss that entrance.’

Sam flushed. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

‘I thought you were the Scott Fitzgeralds reincarnated. At the very least, a bunch of his characters. The Divers, maybe. And I never knew them.’

They both began to laugh, a nervous laugh but a laugh nevertheless. ‘Quick as ever, Marcy. Wait here, I’ll go get Lara.’

‘No, don’t, Sam. Please.’

‘She’ll be so happy to see you, Marcy. Maybe we can all dine together, or at least have a drink?’

‘We don’t do that in New York, Sam. Why should we do it in Paris?’

‘That’s a bit harsh, Marcy.’

‘But true.’

‘Please, I insist.’

His easy charm disarmed her. They turned to look for Lara, only to glimpse her as the elevator doors slid closed and she was wafted up and away.

‘Come on, we’ll go up to our rooms and surprise her.’

‘A nice idea, Sam but honestly I can’t. I’m waiting for my husband, and we have arrangements.’

‘Then call in on us when you get back.’

‘We can’t. We fly home this afternoon.’

An awkward silence. They stood looking at each other, each momentarily lost in memories. Finally Sam broke the silence. ‘Quite some days, those!’ He placed an arm around her shoulder. ‘What happened to us, Marcy? All those dreams we had?’

‘We grew up. And some of us, if we were lucky like you, Sam, fulfilled them, for better or for worse. All I can remember you ever wanting was to be married to Lara. You got your life’s ambition. I’m still chasing mine.
But there have been compensations along the way. Here he comes, forty-five minutes late. I must run, I don’t want him to lose that taxi. Tell Lara I’m sorry. Maybe next time.’ Then she was gone.

She rushed away from Sam and through the door just as Harry stepped from the taxi.

‘Hi!’ He gave a big grin. And his wife shoved him back into the taxi, and jumped in after him. He was late.

Sam watched the taxi drive away, ruefully reflecting that he had seen quite a bit of Marcy in those years while he courted Lara at Smith, yet he had never really seen her at all. She had just been there, to be tolerated because she was Lara’s room-mate. To be fixed up with a Yale man because she was Lara’s friend. He had never considered her, or anyone else for that matter. It had been Lara, only Lara.

Instead of going up to the suite to join his wife and daughter, Sam went to The Ritz Bar. He was greeted warmly by the waiters and went directly to a table in a quiet corner next to the window. It was almost ominous that Marcy should have turned up today at The Ritz and he should have bumped into her. It had been many years since he had seen her, years since he had even heard her name mentioned. He had actually forgotten she existed. And there she was, a reminder of what they had all once been during their preppy years. And still with that same quick tongue. Caustic? Fresh? Yes. Irritatingly perceptive? Yes. But often only half right. At least, he liked to think that. Especially since she had so bitchily reminded him that his sole ambition in life had been to marry Lara. Why was she so angry? Had they let her down so badly? She’d expected too much.

For weeks he had been seeking the right moment to say to Lara what he now had to say. He had made up his mind they would speak in Paris in the next few days.
He distracted himself from his problems with a second double extra-dry martini, known at The Ritz as a dry. And a third. He watched the bar first fill up with world-travellers, chic Parisians, old-guard Americans on their annual European pilgrimage – no mere tourists – and empty again as they rushed off to lunch. He was not unhappy, far from it. Not elated either. Rather, repressing some tingle of excitement, dampened down even further by the desire to minimise Lara’s pain. He called the waiter and asked to see the cigars.

In the suite several floors above Lara was unpacking Bonnie’s toy basket. Out came the teddies, the dolls, the china toy tea-set with its tiny silver tea-pot, creamer and sugar and tea caddies – all the accoutrements for Bonnie’s favourite game, The Mad Hatter’s tea-party. Everywhere they travelled, Bonnie’s tea-set came along too and tea was served at some time nearly every day. Invariably Bonnie played a dual role: the hostess and a guest. That could be most anyone. The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, even the Dormouse. She expanded the guest-list, inviting whoever she wanted to play with that day. Cinderella, Mr Macaroni, her pony stabled at Cannonberry Chase, the Wicked Witch From The North, Prince Charming, any number of her playmates, her father or her mother. Her roles varied with her mood. And her guest-list was seemingly endless and always surprising. The guests, if not readily available in person, were played by Nanny, Coral, Nancy, or any adult, child, animal, alive or stuffed, and her favourite dolls. The one role that Bonnie remained consistent in was hostess. She did a take-off of her grandmother, Emily, that could have got the three year old into Actor’s Equity. Even Emily had been amused and entertained. Almost everyone wanted to be invited to Bonnie Fayne’s tea-parties.

For her second birthday David had given her a
collection of all of the major characters in Alice in Wonderland, in perfect proportion to a one-year-old child’s size. They were as much playmates as dolls. When the Faynes travelled, the Alice people travelled with them, but not the table and chairs. There Sam had drawn the line. The very first thing Bonnie did when they arrived somewhere and her toys were unpacked was to improvise. The proper table and chairs had to be found before tea-time. That was what Bonnie was doing now. She had already found a needlepoint-covered foot-stool and two cushions and was dragging them towards one of the windows overlooking the Place Vendôme. Leaving them there, she went to Lara, who was sitting on her haunches and leaning over the toy basket, and snuggled her way on to her mother’s lap.

‘What are we going to do till tea-time, Mummy?’ she asked, stroking Lara’s hair and giving her a hug.

Lara felt herself melting. Nothing moved her more than a crushing hug from Bonnie. She gave her daughter a cuddle. ‘You are going to have lunch here. After lunch you go to the Bois to play with Polly and Jenna Baker. Do you remember them?’

‘Polly can’t swim, and Jenna is afraid of Mr Macaroni.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Can they come to tea, Mummy?’

‘If you like.’

‘Jenna can be the Dormouse.’

‘I don’t think she will fit in the tea-pot, Bonnie.’

‘You are a silly, Mummy! I know that. She can make-believe.’

‘I think she would be happier as Cinderella.’

‘Well, she can be Cinderella, but then she can’t come to tea.

‘Whyever not, Bonnie?’

‘Because we already have a Cinderella.’

‘Who?’

‘Me.’

The smile she gave her mother was full of mischief. Lara stifled her amusement. She stared at the little girl and Bonnie burst into laughter, ‘Oh, all right. She can be Cinderella. And I’ll be …’ The child hesitated for several seconds and then declared, ‘Minnie Mouse.’ Bonnie placed her hand over her mouth and lowered her eyes, a habit she had when she was thinking very hard. Then, tossing her head back and shaking it from side to side so that her very blonde hair swirled back and forth over her face, she said, ‘No, today I will be the Sleeping Princess and daddy can be the Prince.’

‘You were the Sleeping Princess yesterday.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t count because Coral was the Prince, and she’s not a very good Prince, not like my daddy.’

‘That’s not very nice, Bonnie. Just you wait till the next time you need a prince at your table,’ warned Coral, who was walking past with an armful of Lara’s dresses.

‘Don’t be sad, Coral. I’ll let you be the Mad Hatter.’ That was, for Bonnie, the ultimate accolade. She scrambled out of Lara’s arms, and snatching a Raggedy Ann stuffed doll from the pile of toys on the floor, ran to the maid. ‘Would you like to be the Mad Hatter and come for tea today, Coral? I think you could be a very good Mad Hatter.’

Lara watched Bonnie. She could never remember herself or any child she had ever known being so sensitive to other people’s feelings. Bonnie had a streak of caring and love in her that Lara had never had. Every day she learned more about love from her child. Coral, still pretending to be upset about being a bad prince, bent down to tell Bonnie, ‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve always wanted to be the Mad Hatter.’

‘Then you will?’

‘Oh, yes, why not?’ And the maid gave Bonnie a happy smile.

The child, clearly pleased that the maid was no longer sad, skipped away back to her mother, the Raggedy Ann doll clutched to her chest. She flung herself into Lara’s arms.

‘That was a very nice thing to do, Bonnie. Coral looks very happy.’

But Coral and the tea-party were already has-beens. Bonnie was now engrossed in Raggedy Ann. The doll had been picked for the afternoon outing with Bonnie and the Baker children, and Bonnie was busy telling her all about Polly and Jenna. Raggedy Ann was doing her part. She was asking all sorts of questions about them. Lara listened. The child’s imagination was impressive. Even a dialogue with a stuffed doll revealed Bonnie’s sensitivity to the feelings of others.

And yet she showed no lack of raw courage. Lara had taught her to ride Mr Macaroni, and Bonnie displayed the same spirit there as she had when dropped in the pool as an infant and had instantly struggled to swim. The child, already used to sailing, had had no fear of the ocean even when Lara and Sam had first taken her on board. And, ever since a baby, Lara had piloted her for rides in her Cessna, and later in the sea-plane kept at Cannonberry Chase. But, if Lara was teaching Bonnie, they were both learning. Life was sweet for Bonnie, but she made Lara’s life even sweeter. Bonnie’s birth had not changed the Faynes’ life-style. It had just extended it, and the child seemed to thrive on it.