The Baroness had just showered when Laura tapped at the door of her suite. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘Laura.’
The Baroness opened the door and her towel slipped to reveal her breasts. ‘Oh, sorry, come in.’ She made only a half-hearted attempt to cover herself.
‘Are you alone?’ Laura asked, closing the door.
‘Yes. God knows where my husband is.’
Laura sat down on the enormous sofa loaded with cushions. ‘I think you know perfectly well where your husband is.’ She smiled sweetly.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Laura opened her bag, removed a video cassette and held it between her thumb and forefinger. ‘See for yourself.’
The Baroness sat opposite Laura on a low seat, her legs wide apart, knowing she was leaving nothing to the imagination. ‘So what is this video, darling? Not of you, is it?’
‘It’s nothing to do with me, but you’ll thank me for passing it on to you. There are two seats reserved on a plane tomorrow morning. The launch will have to leave rather early so that you don’t miss the flight. I’ll get your maid to help you pack, unless you’d prefer not to use Ruby.’
She slipped the tape into the VCR, then sat back and crossed her legs. ‘I wouldn’t mention this to the other guests. Just make sure you and your husband leave tomorrow.’
The tape whirred into action. On the screen the Baron, naked, walked into shot, his erection leading the way.
‘Or the film will be shown to all the guests in a specially announced screening tomorrow night,’ Laura added.
The Baroness was speechless as she watched her husband cavorting with a couple of the boat-boys. ‘I’m in love with Max,’ said Laura. ‘He’s asked me to marry him and I have accepted.’ She looked at a small flower in the curtains behind the Baroness, her wide eyes clear and focused.
The Baroness was glued to the screen. She had always known of her husband’s antics, but seeing him perform had silenced her.
Laura pressed on: ‘We want to be left alone, to lead our own lives.’
The Baroness stood up suddenly. ‘You lay one finger on my son,’ she screamed, ‘and I’ll scratch your eyes out.’
Laura continued, ‘It’s not only the Baron on tape. Shall I fast-forward? I notice you have been spending a lot of time with Kurt.’ She looked the Baroness in the eye. ‘Well, I see I have no need to elaborate. Why not sit and view it for yourself? Think about whether you’d like Humphrey Matlock to get hold of it.’ Laura straightened her skirt and stood up. She smiled. ‘See you at dinner.’
Left alone in her suite the Baroness played the video through. It was still running when her husband returned. ‘Beautiful evening,’ he said, as he came in.
‘You are in for one big shock,’ said the Baroness. ‘Sit down and get yourself a stiff drink. And while you sit and watch that video, I’ll be packing — without a servant, because it appears you have fucked every single one of them.’
The Baron sat in a stupor, staring at himself on the screen. He was mortified. Then his wife was back. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘Max is staying on here, with that two-faced whore.’
‘Who?’ said the Baron, cowering.
‘Laura Chalmers has her claws into Max. She said they’re going to get married.’
‘But he’s only eighteen,’ he stuttered.
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Tears of fury streamed down her face.
The Baron’s shoulders slumped and he started to cry. His wife screamed, ‘Get showered and changed. We’re dining at nine thirty and we don’t let so much as a hint of this show, do you hear me?’
He nodded, and with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach he turned to watch the video. He felt ashamed. The boys, he realized, were younger than his son. Then the screen went blank. A new scene: the Baroness entered the sauna. Kurt was lying on the top bunk. He eased himself down and began to rub oil over her chest. They were joined by Dahlia. The Baron watched in horror. His wife would blame him for driving her into the sex games, but he was too humiliated to argue with her.
Matlock, swathed in a towel robe left undone to reveal his naked body, carried his gin on to the veranda, a cigar clamped between his teeth. ‘You ordered dinner?’ He looked to his wife, as he slumped on to a cushioned chaise-longue.
‘Yes.’ Angela passed him a bowl of prawn and oyster canapés.
‘Odd that Benedict’s still not shown. I’d say the Prime Minister’s not coming either.’
‘I doubt it. He’s at some European summit. It’s in The Times.’
Matlock clicked his fingers. She put down her cross stitch and went to retrieve the newspaper. She hated the way he did that. He was so uncouth at times it made her skin crawl.
Matlock roared with laughter as he read of Lord Hangerford’s downfall and held out his glass to be refilled. ‘Probably why Benedict’s not shown up. They’re related, aren’t they?’
Angela poured his drink and returned to her seat. ‘By marriage only. Hangerford was his second wife’s cousin.’ She began selecting silks.
‘Ah, yes, I forgot you knew so much about them.’ He snorted as he turned the pages.
‘I find it hard to believe that you would forget that I went out with William Benedict.’
He lowered the newspaper. She didn’t meet his eyes, but continued to sort through her silks.
‘Slip of the tongue. Of course I haven’t. All the same, when you think about it, it’s odd that we should be here accepting his hospitality.’
‘This was your idea,’ she said primly, her lips tight.
‘So it was, and I’m glad I did accept. Even if the PM doesn’t show, I’m having a good holiday.’
Angela concentrated on threading her needle. Now she understood why Humphrey had come here. It had been too good an opportunity to refuse, no matter what she might feel about facing William. Her husband, she mused, would be able to commit murder and blank it from his self-obsessed mind, just as he had her pitiful threats of divorce. Months ago she had claimed that she could expose Humphrey’s indiscretions: they would make headlines. Usually it was an employee who caught his eye, and no one ever lasted longer than a few months, but his callousness hurt her. Finding a credit-card slip from Aspreys for a diamond bracelet that had not been for her had been the last straw. ‘I want a divorce,’ she had said.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ He had held his hand out for the credit-card slip. She saw him wince as he realized what it was.
‘I’m not being stupid. How many women have you played around with? This time I mean it, I MEAN IT.’
Matlock stood up and reached for her, drawing her close. ‘Let me make it up to you. What do you want from me? I’ll do anything to please you and stop all this nonsense about divorce.’
She had wriggled away from him, still angry, then turned on him again. ‘I’ve been made to look a fool once too often. If you want to make it up to me then ruin William Benedict. It’s your choice, because I won’t be persuaded to forget about this.’
Matlock had sighed and picked up the paper. The story of Andrew Maynard’s suicide had only just been leaked and there would be a lot more to come. Perhaps his wife had hit on something newsworthy in Sir William’s indiscretions. And if there weren’t any to be exposed, Matlock and his cheque book would invent them. ‘Deal,’ he said, and lit a cigar. ‘I never realized how much he hurt you.’
She did not add that if she had married William, as she had so desperately wanted, she would not have been tied to a man she detested. ‘Just ruin him any way you can,’ she spat out.
He had been as good as his word, had perhaps gone even further than Angela had intended, but she had read of William’s disgrace with relish.