Chapter 3
Prompted by the seeds of promise that Damien Spur had sown, Anna sat back in the comfortable leather chair ready to let her thoughts fly.
In her mind’s eye, she is on television reading The Dog T hat Lost Its Bark to a forum of children who sit enthralled on the television-studio floor.
She is wearing a pink-and-white-check prairie dress with puffed sleeves and a full skirt, her tiny waist cinched in a slim silver belt with matching ballerina pumps. She’s near to the end of her tale, an allegory of Dickensian heights about a very rich but mean man called Iver Fortune, who learnt to love the world through a sweet servant girl and his once fierce dog.
Face to camera, Anna reads the final passage.
A presenter walks on to the stage floor.
‘Thank you so much, Anna, for reading your beautiful story. And now I think you have some very exciting news for us.’
‘Yes. My tale has been bought by Disney and I shall be writing the screenplay.’
‘Anna, wake up! Where are you?’ The efficient Irish practice nurse vigorously shook her shoulder. ‘The patient has been buzzing for the last five minutes. She had to ring the practice to say there was no one to let her in. This is not the first time you’ve been up in your head playing with the fairies.’
‘Oh no! I’m so sorry, Aileen!’ Anna slapped her hand ferociously on the intercom.
‘Too late for that, my girl. I let her in. She was already late for Dr Faith and so she went straight up.’
Anna reddened. ‘Oh, I really don’t know what to say. Please don’t report me. Mrs Cougar has already lodged a complaint about me.’
‘I’m sorry, but the truth of the matter is you just aren’t doing your job. It’s not enough to have a posh voice and nice little dresses. Your fluffy behaviour isn’t suited to a top Harley Street practice.’
If only Anna could say what she really thought.
You’re a nasty piece of work. I bet you’re jealous of my pretty face and good legs. And there’s you with your beady eyes and pinched lips without a trace of make-up, thick tights and flat black lace-up shoes, which make you look old and frumpy.
But Anna couldn’t afford an argument, so she looked at the floor like a naughty child and let Aileen carry on scolding her.
Until Damien came down to say goodbye.
Anna flushed with embarrassment.
She needed to compose herself. Act with grace and dignity.
She smiled at Aileen and said sweetly, ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘Better not,’ the nurse replied. ‘You’re here to do your job. The first thing the clients see is you. And if you’re sitting at your desk half asleep, or eating sweets, it doesn’t make a good impression.’
‘What’s this?’ Damien interrupted. ‘Are we having a spot of bother?’
‘Not at all – everything’s fine,’ Anna replied.
‘Good,’ he said quietly. He turned to the nurse. ‘Now then, I suggest that you go somewhere private if you want to tell your receptionist off. Very unprofessional.’
‘I’m sorry. There was no one else in the waiting room and I didn’t hear you come down the stairs.’
‘Just as your receptionist didn’t hear the buzzer.’
‘Point taken. Right then, Anna. I’ll leave you to it.’ Aileen turned on her heels and walked away.
That was great, Damien , said the Voice. What a hero.
‘Thank you so much,’ Anna said. Her eyes shone with undisguised admiration.
Better watch out she doesn’t corner you. Just read her story and proceed with caution.
‘Goodbye, Anna. I’m booked in for next Tuesday morning. Until then,’ he said, and left. Anna shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She was alive again.
***
Damien was tired. It was hard keeping up a facade.
He hailed a taxi. Sat in the back of the cab, rubbed his cheek. His gum felt numb. He’d take a painkiller when he arrived home. Maybe it was best that he was alone. He had all those women ready and willing, but all they wanted was Damien Spur, the sexy, charismatic writer. Why couldn’t he be like most men? Fall in love with a one and only who loved him even when he was a raging nutter.
Because you’re a must-have-can’t-have man , said the Voice. You don’t really want a kind, caring angel; you need the sting in the tail or you’re not interested.
***
It was 2 p.m. when he arrived home. He opened the green door of his elegant town house. The place smelt of polish.
Marta, his Portuguese cleaner, had been.
He liked Marta. She was discreet. Turned a blind eye to his recreational habits.
He’d come home the night before and drunk half a bottle of whisky and smoked a couple of joints. The empty shot glasses and cigarette papers had been cleared from the glass table in the living room.
He went into the kitchen. Pristine, with no evidence of last night’s debauchery.
In his ravenous stupor, he’d cooked a seafood pasta, but unfortunately, he’d been so plastered that he’d spilt it all over the tiled floor.
He’d keep the kitchen tidy this evening. Order a takeaway. Or maybe go to the Italian round the corner.
He switched on the TV. He loved watching old films in the afternoon. Especially the children’s channel.
Bambi! You’ve got to be kidding , said the Voice. You’re already feeling sorry for yourself. Don’t you remember what happened the last time when Bambi’s mummy got shot? Boxing Day, two years ago. You couldn’t stop crying in front of that Austrian model Clara Voss and her sister, Lena. Swore you’d never go hunting again.
Damien poured himself a couple of shots and rolled a joint.
Bang goes Bambi , said the Voice.
***
Anna came home to find David slouched in an armchair watching the news.
‘Oh, you’re here,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going out with Stevie tonight.’ She’d looked forward to an evening on her own.
‘He’s got the flu and I don’t want to catch it. Haven’t I got enough wrong with me? Had another blackout today. Lucky I was already on the sofa.’
‘Where else would you be?’ Anna said. She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Anyway, you seem okay now.’
‘Yes, I bought a roast chicken and some salad. Lucky I didn’t pass out in Waitrose or we wouldn’t have had anything to eat this evening, would we?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, David! You’re at home all day and it takes you ten minutes to walk to the shops. The man next door is eighty-six and walks with a stick and he still manages to go out and buy the groceries. And you make such a big thing of it.’
Anna gave him a cursory look and, grabbing the remote from the side table next to his chair, switched off the TV.
‘What are you doing?’ David whined. ‘Turn it on.’
‘No, I’ve got a headache.’
‘Yes, sure. Come on, you just want to make my life a misery. Why can’t you let me be?’
‘Poor you, sitting on your backside all day doing nothing, complaining how ill you are and yet you can still go down to the bookies and place your bets.’
‘That’s the only pleasure I get!’ he said. ‘I’d like to see how you’d cope with a dicky heart and chronic asthma to boot. You’re a bloody ball-breaker, you are!’ he shouted, his voice collapsing in a breathy wheeze. ‘Look at me.’ He clutched his chest. ‘I’m a bloody wreck. Why don’t you get a gun and shoot me? I’d be better off dead.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Anna screamed back. ‘I’m tired of your histrionics. Four years of hell. I’m fed up with your insults. Ball-breaker! How can you say that to me, you revolting man? You should have married a fishwife. At least you would have talked the same language. I’m going upstairs for a rest.’
She was exhausted. Lucky he didn’t ask her for a cup of tea, or she would have thrown it at him. It was as if she wasn’t a woman anymore. To think how he once had adored her. Called her his angel.
Said he would die for her.
Sometimes she thought if only he would. No more visceral slanging matches cutting each other to pieces, always ready for the next bout.
She slammed the bedroom door, kicked off her shoes and threw herself onto the mattress. Propping a pillow behind her head, she googled “Damien Spur wife”.
Divorced, that’s good. No need for him to lie to her.
Impressive glittering accolades and reviews made him a worthy suitor. Her mother would certainly approve.
She allowed herself a fantasy. A wish. A future where she did more than just exist from day to day, locked in, hands tied, with a man who made her feel lonely.
Things happen when you dream. Damien Spur had flirted with her. He was going to read her book. Why not?
They would be great together.
She, the writer of enchanting fairy tales, and he, the glamorous literary legend, author of iconic political thrillers and darling of the glitterati, whose novels rocked the bestseller list every time.
Anna opened the bedside drawer and took out a notepad. Write it down, plot the story. Make it happen.
She shut her eyes and visualised her plan.
Number 1. She gives him the manuscript. He strokes her hand. ‘Thank you, Anna. I’ll read it as soon as I can,’ he says.
Number 2. Damien sits next to her at Antoine’s coffee shop wearing a blue silk shirt that matches his sapphire eyes.
‘Anna,’ he says, ‘what a wonderful surprise. You have a great gift. There is no doubt in my mind that The Dog That Lost Its Bark will become a fable that is passed down through generations of children. A true classic. Let’s work on it together.’
Number 3… Back to her place.
‘Oh, Damien, what pretty flowers.’ She kisses his cheek. He holds her. They linger, the chemistry is strong.
She pulls away from him and laughs. He’s still holding her waist. ‘Story first,’ she says.
She knows he wants her. Let him wait.
Anna flies high in her fantasy land as she lies on her bed, arms spread like a bird’s wings, floating in dreams of what could be, what should be.
Damien sits next to her, focused, ready to light the fuse, fire her imagination. His voice is soft and gentle, coaxing her creativity…
Her delicious reverie was shattered by David Rose rasping up the stairs like a scratchy violin. ‘Anna, Anna, pick up the bloody phone! Your mother’s on the line.’
She heard, but waited for David to repeat himself. Just to annoy him.
‘Anna, I said pick up the phone. Why can’t you ask her to ring your mobile? I’m trying to watch the news!’
‘Didn’t hear you – the television was so loud.’ Anna stretched out her arm and grasped the extension on the bedside table.
‘Hello, Mother. Yes, I can take you for your blood test… I’ll pick you up at ten. Brunch, oh, that would be nice… We could go to Antoine’s, and I can drive straight on to work and you can get a taxi home… Yuh, I’m okay. Not the life I hoped for, but things can change. Thank goodness I have my little job. I meet some very interesting people… Okay, Mummy, see you tomorrow.’
***
Evelyn felt guilty that Anna’s life had taken a dip. David Rose. Who could have predicted his demise?
But then again, looking back to those heady days in the south of France, their frequent visits to the casino should have been a clue.
Silly fool, she was. Impressed by the largesse of the house. All that complimentary vintage champagne and copious amounts of caviar. It had suited Evelyn very well. She loved drinking. Why bother to kick the habit?
But this morning she sat with her daughter at Antoine’s, both perfectly suited and coiffed, sipping orange pekoe tea. The good-looking Indian gent at a neighbouring table turned to stare at Anna.
Happy to be noticed, Anna gave him a coy little smile.
Evelyn shifted closer. ‘You see! You’ve still got it. How can you waste your life with a man who offers you nothing anymore? When is he leaving? Ridiculous, living with your ex! What a turn-off for any male.’ Evelyn lanced the top of her boiled egg with a vicious flick of the wrist. ‘I mean it, darling. You are ruining your life. You need someone to look after you. Neither a nurse nor a purse should you be.’
Anna patted a flake of croissant from her plate and licked it from her finger with her pink little tongue.
The Indian gent was mesmerised.
She glanced at her mother, who sat with a silly smile on her face, pretending not to notice that the man was ready to make a pitch.
I don’t want this, Mother. You’ve done all right, but I want more. I want to be like Claudia. Rock bottom she was after her failed marriage, and look at her now – a world-class t arot-card reader. Busy morning till night with A-list film stars, artists, bankers, entrepreneurs, doctors and even royalty.
***
Damien had woken up with a searing headache. His mobile was ringing. Who the hell would call at 11 p.m.?
He grabbed the phone and put it on loudspeaker.
‘Damien, where are you?’
Damien winced. ‘Oh shit, Aidan. I forgot we were meeting.’
‘We said 11 p.m. at the Haunt. I brought you the fish-scale cocaine. This is the purest you can get, Damien, my good fellow. A couple of lines goes a long way. It’s more expensive than the normal blow, but worth the high… Only don’t worry if you can’t make it – there are plenty of punters here who would be more than happy to buy the stuff instead.’ Aidan’s voice had a slippery edge that Damien hated.
‘No, it’s mine. No fill-ins. I’m coming now.’ He hung up with a sigh and got out of bed.
You’re really not all there, Damien. Just look at yourself , said the Voice . If you don’t get clean, you’re going to end up with a heart attack.
Damien winked at himself in the hall mirror. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. Just a few lines tonight and a bit of keep-fit with the girls.’
***
The Haunt was full of illicit delights. An exclusive members’ club in Mayfair for those special punters who had passed the exacting criteria. Money, power, charisma and discretion.
A private place where public figures could lay down their armour and surrender to their secret passions and fantasies and know that each and every one of them had been sworn to a confidential oath never to reveal their fellow guests.
The punishment of indiscretion? A serious accident.
And in return politicians, heads of state, judges, royalty, aristocracy, entrepreneurs, each could be whoever they chose.
Damien had seen the Speaker of the House of Commons dressed as Dolly Parton, a judge wearing prison garb, members of the clergy clad in leather and chains, saints and devils, teddy bears and puppy dogs, all welcome to enjoy their peccadilloes.
The club was owned by a guy known only as Lazarus. Damien had met him at a party in Paris, held in the private mansion of the fabulously wealthy Countess Clotilde Duchamp, who had “mentored” Damien when he was a young man.
Lazarus had watched as the handsome buck had enthusiastically “attached” himself to a striking lioness with a main of tumbling auburn hair, wild green eyes and long muscly legs in one of the antechambers.
And here was Damien twenty years later standing outside the discreet black door. Ready for the night ride.
The facial recognition lock clicked and he was in.
Aidan was waiting in the hallway. A scrawny, leather-clad grinning ghoul with a bald head and bad teeth.
‘Look, mate, I’ve another two stops to make so can we be quick?’ He took out a plastic ziplock bag from his pocket. ‘Five grams, fish scale, pure as the Virgin Mary, 700 quid.’
Damien said nothing. Just pulled out his wallet, gave Aidan the money and took the coke.
‘Thanks, mate,’ the dealer said.
‘My pleasure. But can you do me a favour? Don’t call me mate. I’m not your friend.’
‘Maybe not but the coke is,’ said Aidan. ‘Oh, and by the way, if you like I’ve got some new little beauties that will let you go all night without any downside.’ He gave him a leery grin.
‘Not my problem.’ Damien brushed him aside.
Cheeky little bastard , said the Voice.
Damien keyed in the code to the second door, his index finger firmly on the numbers, but a red light flashed.
An automated voice announced, ‘Code incorrect. Please try again.’
‘Shit.’ Damien banged the keypad with his fist. ‘What the hell?’ He tried again.
It still didn’t work.
‘Come on, you bugger, let me in,’ he yelled at the machine. ‘Why isn’t there a bloody intercom?’
He pulled out the bag and sniffed a line of coke.
‘1973 – it’s got to be right,’ he muttered to himself.
No, you fool, that’s your credit-card pin , said the Voice. Try 2791.
He entered the new passcode. A green light flashed and the door opened. ‘Yes!’ He punched the air.
There you are , said the Voice. What would you do without me?
Damien passed through the dimly lit corridor and stepped into a candlelit boudoir, all gilt and mirrors, scattered with writhing twosomes and threesomes playing with each other.
A beautiful female lay moaning on a velvet throw, wearing nothing but a pair of Jimmy Choos, while a man and a woman caressed her.
Damien moved on, hardly glancing at the bodies, until he came to a golden cage.
And there sitting on two swings were his Belarusian twins, Kristina and Alina, wearing velvet masks and feathered wings.
‘We waited all night for you to come,’ Alina said in her soft smoky voice. ‘Naughty Damien – we haven’t seen you for a whole month.’
‘We want to play with you,’ Kristina cooed.
Damien took out a card and keyed in the code, placing his index finger on the sensor.
The cage door opened.
He looked up at the girls and smiled.
‘Good to see you looking so chirpy.’
You really are flying tonight , said the Voice.
‘Come on, tweeties, hop off your perches.’
Great, Damien, even better , said the Voice.
The women held hands and stepped out of the cage.
Alina veiled his eyes with a black satin scarf. ‘So, let’s go to the playroom,’ she said.
This is a bit strange… What’s with the mask? said the Voice.
‘Make sure you’ve turned off your mobile,’ said Kristina. ‘We don’t want any interruptions, and no peeking. Just behave and we won’t smack you.’
‘Well, here we are.’ Alina removed the scarf.
Damien hadn’t seen the room before.
The garish red-silk walls, high domed stained-glass windows, bronze lamps with burgundy shades and a bed swathed in purple velvet and gold satin pillows made the room seem more like a seedy Soho dive than an exclusive Mayfair sex club.
‘Isn’t this cosy?’ Alina undid his shirt and slid her finger down his chest while Kristina unzipped his trousers. Damien looked at the round mattress flanked by four leather straps as the twins undressed him.
Damien, what the fuck? said the Voice.
Then the girls grabbed each of his arms and flung him on the mattress.
‘Oh no,’ groaned Damien. ‘Stop. No, no, no .’
‘No?’ Alina said. ‘But the reception said when you rang that you booked the special.’
‘Well, I didn’t request it,’ Damien replied. ‘I couldn’t understand what was being offered. I thought the woman said something about Thai.’
‘Yes. Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down,’ the twins chorused.
‘Oh my Lord, this is crazy!’ Damien said. ‘I must have been high as a kite when I said yes.’
The women took off their velvet masks and pouted their red pillowy lips.
Damien wished he’d taken Aidan up on the Viagra.
Okay, Mr Smoothy , said the Voice . No way you’re going to get a boner. Your best boy’s in a coma! How are you going to get out of this one?
‘Thank you,’ Damien said. ‘You girls are wonderful.’ He kissed them slowly. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to leave.’
Damien drove his Jag back to his home in Cheyne Walk, crawled up the stairs and slumped on his bed.
‘Horrible,’ he groaned. ‘Just horrible.’
Indeed , said the Voice. Absolutely horrible. I don’t mean to be cruel but your performance tonight was a flop.
As he sank into a slumber Sophie Fox fluttered elusively across his mind.