Текст книги "Seduce Me"

Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Thirty

Julie Sugar

I walk to the Tube station numb with shock. It had all gone so disastrously wrong. In the train I stand with all the other passengers. A man in a pin-striped suit stands up to offer his seat to a pregnant lady. I watch the exchange blankly. She sits and meets my eyes. Smiles. I smile back automatically. At my stop I scramble off. I stand on the platform for a moment before heading towards the exit. I put my ticket through the barrier gates and come out into the silver light of the evening. There is dog poo in my path and I manage not to step into it. I open my door and my mother calls out, ‘Is that you, Julie?’

‘Yeah, it’s me,’ I reply and I am surprised by how normal my voice sounds. I go up the stairs and enter my room. I sit on my bed and look at the wall of photos. I see Jack smiling up at me, squinting, looking moodily, laughing, expressionless, a cigarette dangling from his lips, sitting in front of a beer, and the photo I never liked, but kept anyway—a girl on his lap and two kissing him on either cheek.

Strange.

How very strange.

Is it possible that even this morning I had kissed Jack’s photo and been convinced that I was in love? I had built a fairy tale in my mind and I was so strong-minded that I refused to give it up, no matter what. Now I know I must have been mad to think that I was in love with Jack. What a fool I’ve been? I feel the bitterness of my own stupidity. I sit with my hand pressed to my midriff. Could I trust what I feel now? And yet the feeling is worlds apart.

I loved Jack in my head, I loved him because he had the blue eyes, because he was so handsome and so dead cool and because all the girls were crazy about him, and what a trophy it would have been to have him, love him, because he was a doctor and in the end he was an imaginary figment of my imagination.

I love Vann with my entire body and my heart. I love talking to him, I love being in his presence, I love kissing him and being kissed by him, I love making love to him, I love the way he makes me wet simply by looking at me, I love eating with him, I love listening to music with him, I love having a laugh with him, I love that he doesn’t give a shit about money and celebrities.

I love that he doesn’t strive for what all of us spend day and night trying to acquire—oodles of money. He simply walked away from it all without a backward glance. What most human beings would sell their souls for. What I felt for Jack is a tiny thing compared to what I feel for Vann. My entire body feels it. I realize, too, the feelings I had nurtured for Jack were all wrapped up in jealousy about Lana and wanting everything she had. I feel light-headed and suddenly cold. It is like being in a dream. I thought it was passion and lust but it is love. Things that shouldn’t make sense do.

I’m in love with him.

I am head over heels in love with him.

How long have I been in love with him? I cannot say. It does not matter anymore. Only that I love him. The depth of this new yearning is so intense, the ache so great that the girlhood crush that I nurtured and stubbornly kept alive for years has paled into nothing. He is the first person to make me ‘feel’. He makes me feel replenished. My fears have flown. I no longer need to gorge simply to hang my head down the toilet. I took him for granted. Never appreciated the splendor of the man.

Surely he must have felt something for me too. I think of him, winking at me, building me up in that dim drawing room, accepting me into his flat that first night even though he had heard me refer to him so scathingly as a servant, asking me to pretend he was Jack, crouching beside me on the toilet floor and wiping my damp face as I stank of vomit, offering to take me to the hospital to see Jack. Why, no man would do that if he did not love a woman to distraction! I’ve hurt him terribly.

How crazy life is. There I was thinking he is ashamed he is poor and it turns out he is ashamed that he is immeasurably rich.

I walk over to the wall and begin to take down the photos. One by one, the memories of where I had acquired them, when I put them up. God! How very silly I have been. I stand on a chair and pull down the highest one. I pick them up and put them on a pile on the bed. The wall is stained with Blu-Tack marks. I want to tear all the photographs into tiny little pieces and forget I was ever so mad and foolish, but I cant. I’ve had them for so long they are a part of me. They tell their own story. The story of how I allowed a crush to become an obsession.

I sit on my bed and realize that I must tell Vann everything. Everything. I can win him back. I won’t give up. I will go with him to Paris or Provence or wherever the light is best. He will paint and I will go to the open-air market for vegetables and fish and meat. We will have a wooden table where I will prepare everything. The windows will not be slash. They will open out; perhaps they will have shutters. I will cook and we will eat together and make love, and we will be happy. In winter we will light a big fire and watch the snow falling, making everything vanish in white.

My phone rings. It is Lana.

‘Hi.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s the matter, Jules?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You sound a bit down.’

A sob rises in my throat. I swallow it down. It remains a lump in my throat. ‘I’m all right, really.’ My voice sounds funny.

‘Look, Blake won’t be back for another two hours. Why don’t you come over? Do you want me to send Tom or would you rather take a taxi, my shout if you do?’

Now the tears are running down my face. ‘I’ll take a taxi, but you don’t have to pay for it,’ I blubber.

‘Oh, Julie. Would you rather I came to you?’

‘No,’ I sniff. ‘I’ll come over.’

I go to the mirror and watch myself cry. I am one ugly fucker when I cry. The phone rings again and Lana says, ‘Don’t take a cab. Tom’s very close to Kilburn and he is already on his way to you. He’ll call you as soon as he gets to your block and you can go down to him, OK?’ Her voice is very kind and it makes me want to bawl.

‘All right,’ I sniff.

I don’t cry in the car. I simply sit staring out of the window. How strange that the one friend I seem to have in the world is the person I thought I hated. I arrive at the wide, tree-lined street, manned on either end by armed diplomatic Protection Group officers. Set back on the eastern side is Kensington Palace. Here, too, is where the Russian Embassy is located and where the steel magnate, Laxhmi Mittal, lives. This is London’s billionaire’s row, Lana’s new residence. Each mansion is white stone and surrounded by spacious gardens, but I don’t see anything. Tom drives us into the gated magnificent mansion that is Lana’s new home.

I get out of the car and Lana herself opens the tall front door. She comes down the steps and taking me by the hand leads me into the house. I look around me, dazed. It is as beautiful as a palace. Even in the daytime a massive chandelier, hanging from the lofty ceiling, is blazing with light, and the floor is gleaming like a mirror. She takes me into a sumptuous sitting room full of all the usual trappings of wealth, but I am too upset to pay any attention to them. Sorab’s toys and a coloring book are on the floor. As if he had been there moments ago.

‘Come sit down,’ she says.

‘Where’s Sorab?’

‘Gerry’s taken him outside for a bit. Thought you might like some privacy.’

I nod. A woman in a black and white uniform comes in. She smiles and nods in a friendly fashion.

‘Do you want anything to drink or eat?’ Lana asks me.

I shake my head mutely. Any food would make me hurl.

The woman nods silently and leaves. Lana guides me to a deep sofa and sits beside me. ‘What’s the matter, Julie?’

I look into her beautiful face, take a deep breath and say, ‘I’ve hated you for years.’

She moves back as if struck, her hands falling away from mine with shock.

I plough on. ‘And I’ve been envious of you for even longer. You see, I fancied I was in love with Jack but he only wanted you, so I was jealous, rabidly so. I think I also became a bit obsessed with you. When I was younger I even sometimes prayed that you would drop dead.’

‘Oh.’

‘And that’s not all. When I came to your apartment the last time, I looked at the notes beside your laptop, and on your wedding day I went into your room and read your diary. And I’m really, really sorry because I realize that you’ve never been anything but good to me and I‘ve been such a selfish, shallow bitch.’

She clasps her hands in her lap and for a moment says nothing, and then she looks up at me, her eyes are twinkling. ‘Did you read anything interesting in my diary?’

I smile tremulously. ‘I didn’t get a chance to read too much. You came back into the room.’

‘And you hid in the cupboard.’

I gasp. ‘You knew?’

‘A wisp of your dress was trapped at the bottom of the cupboard door. It could only have been you or Billie. I kinda figured it was you. Billie would have chosen to dive under the bed.’

I laugh then. Not a happy laugh, but a relieved laugh. I should have done this years ago. Unburdened myself. It feels so damn good. I finally feel clean.

‘Now tell me what is wrong?’

‘Just now, when you went to see Vann, I was not going, but coming. I sneaked in after you and listened to your conversation.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. It was crazy but I thought you were having an affair with Vann.’

Lana stares at me speechlessly.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I know you love Blake to bits. Anyway, I confessed to Vann that I am in love with him, but he refused to believe me. He thought I was saying it because I had just found out he was a Barrington. He’d come upon us talking at your wedding reception, and heard me refer to him as a Barrington family servant so he refused to believe I could be in love with him if he wasn’t rich. But I swear it on my life, Lana, I don’t care whether he is a billionaire or hasn’t got a pot to piss in. I truly love him.’

‘When did you find out you loved him?’

‘I knew I was in love with him when I went to Jack’s mum’s house this afternoon and asked him to kiss me as an experiment… And felt absolutely nothing. What will I do, Lana? He says he’s going back to Paris.’

‘Don’t give up Julie. I know he cares.’

The words ‘Don’t give up’ resonate. A memory resurfaces. The only thing that had never fit was the fatherless thing, but if Vann is Blake’s brother then he is fatherless. ‘Oh my God, the fortune-teller was right.’

‘What fortune-teller?’

‘The one at your wedding.’

Lana laughs. ‘That was just for fun. I didn’t think she was particularly good.’

‘What did she tell you?’

Lana makes a face like, How obvious? ‘She told me I’d found my soul-mate and I’d have three kids, two boys and a girl. And she told me not to go swimming on my own after the age of thirty-five. Otherwise, she saw bright and happy life ahead. What did she tell you?’

‘She told me not to give up on a strong, tall, fatherless man. She also told me evil was trying to touch me and I must not let it. She didn’t elaborate and even more intriguingly she made me give her a coin so I wouldn’t owe anything. As if she was afraid me owing her would somehow taint her.’

Lana’s face changes. The secrets come back into her pale face. Now I am dealing with the woman who wrote the diary.

‘What do you think she meant?’

‘I don’t know, Julie. If you heard my conversation with Vann, then you will know I know hardly more than you.’ Lana takes my hands in hers. ‘But Vann is right, there are many things hidden that are best left hidden.’

‘Lana, why were you always so nice to me when we were kids?’

She shrugs. ‘Don’t know. For some weird reason I always wanted to as a sister.’

‘Really?’

She nods. ‘Are you still coming tomorrow for the art exhibition?’

‘I don’t know if he will want me there.’

‘He does. Blake offered to arrange your transport and he agreed.’

‘Really? He does?’ My heart feels like it would burst.

‘Yes, really. Have you got something to wear?’

‘Most of my clothes are a bit tight now. I’ll go shopping tomorrow.’

‘Shall I arrange for some cocktail dresses to be sent over here and you can come around and pick what you like?’

I stare at her in disbelief. Would I like to? ‘Hell, yeah!’

She smiles. ‘Got any color preferences?’

‘Yeah, red.’

Thirty-one

Do you know the only thing that gives me pleasure? It’s to see my dividends coming in.

–John D. Rockefeller

Darkness has not yet fallen when Tom comes to pick me up. Billie is already in the car. She smiles at me.

‘You look amazing,’ she says.

She says it like she means it, and I blush with pleasure and wonder what it must be like to be kissed by a woman. All soft lips and silky skin. ‘Thank you, Billie. As it happens, I don’t think I have ever seen you so beautiful.’

And it is true. She is dressed in a mini silver dress that is covered in tassels. Every time she moves all the tassels agitate, shimmer briefly and settle down. She looks almost molten.

‘It’s a present from Lana.’

I nod. Of course it is. For the first time in my life I feel nothing but warm love for Lana. I am not in competition with her. She has Blake and I don’t have Vann, but maybe I will. Maybe the gypsy knew something I don’t. I won’t give up hope.

Tom drops us off at the Serpentine gallery. I feel incredibly nervous. The sky is shimmering with myriad colors. As I step out a woman comes up to the car.

‘Miss Sugar?’

‘Yes.’ She is wearing perfume strong enough to cut through steel. Once I doused myself in that way too. Once, when I was a different person.

‘Come this way. You are the guest of honor.’

Billie winks at me. ‘Go on,’ she says. Once I would have gone. Skipped away and left Billie to her own devices, but I am different now.

I hold my hand out to her. ‘Where I go, you go.’

Billie grins. We walk together through the entrance. There are so many people, and they are all so finely dressed.

‘You’re cutting off my circulation,’ Billie whispers in my ear.

I relax my fingers. ‘Sorry.’

‘No problem.’ She smiles. ‘It’s just that I kinda like having fingers.’

That makes me smile.

Vann is coming towards us.

Billie gently unknits her fingers. ‘You’ll find me at the bar. I’ll be drinking up the place.’

I can’t even turn my head to look at her or make any kind of answer. Oh my! How gorgeous can a man look? I have never seen Vann in a tux before, and he is simply magnificent. Without doing anything he dominates the room, simply with his presence alone. I watch him walk towards me, his gait unhurried, deliberate, confident. A lion roaming the savannah. And yet, when he stands before me, he appears ill at ease, his eyes without laughter or life.

‘You look very handsome,’ I say softly.

‘Thank you. You look exactly how I imagined you would in an evening dress.’

He doesn’t elaborate further, but I blush like a schoolgirl.

A waitress appears with a mirrored tray bearing a selection of canapés. She waves her free hand towards them and tries to tempt us with creamed, piped anchovies, lobster mousse, or even blue cheese with poached pears.

Even the thought of food makes me feel ill. Both Vann and I politely decline. A waiter comes by with flutes of champagne and both Vann and I reach for them immediately.

Vann looks at me. ‘You are the star. Don’t get drunk.’

My head rears back. ‘I’m the star?’

‘Yeah. I want you to see the collection before it opens to the public. Come,’ he says, and, laying his hand on the small of my back, guides me towards an area sectioned off with red ropes. With an untouched drink in my hand I follow him into the viewing area.

And blink.

That’s fucking me! On that canvas. And… I am beautiful beyond anything I have seen in the mirror. Not beautiful as a human being is, but as an image can be. And… I am much, much larger than I really am. And yet I am luxuriously, gloriously beautiful. I remember his words. You will be desired, cherished and possessed for the very things you are ashamed of.

How can I describe Vann’s art to you? Only to say it is what all great art should be—beyond words. Indescribable.

I stand there shocked.

There is only one word for my state of being. Overcome. As I move from canvas to canvas, Vann my silent shadow, I don’t gasp or exclaim or utter a word. You see, I couldn’t make a single sound. Until the day I die I will be glad I never made a sound. A sound would have broken the magic language of his art. For Vann has woven a vivid story that speaks to my soul.

Amongst the dabs and strokes of color, I see Blake, I see Smith, I see flowers, I see skulls, I see robed Chinese horsemen, and snakes and cranes. I see Yehonala, and I see me. I see me everywhere. In every painting: there I am, eyes glazed with passion, or dreamy, or angry, or hard, or sly. Standing by the window, the sunlight streaming in, throwing the colors and patterns of a large, open, semi– transparent fan onto my breasts.

And I see Vann.

In each wild, joyful splash of color I see his dreams, his desire for freedom. It is everything that matters to him, everything worth giving up what he once called ‘the unyears’ for. I feel proud of him.

Skulls, snakes, evil-looking flowers, but all have been transformed into objects of terrible beauty. In one painting a baby, its eyes open, is in a jar. Fragmented pain vibrates across the canvas as if the painting itself is crying. You can’t just hang that on a wall and not look at it. It screams at you to look at it, experience it—it’s terrible beauty. It is like the lure of Medusa.

As I pass through I notice that all his paintings have a lyrical longing that is fraught with something darker. Sometimes it comes in the way of horns where none should be. Sometimes in the form of sharp cornered black cubes or the single eye, suspended and watching. I remember—the symbol for the brutal God El.

Finally, we come to the last piece, the pièce de résistance.

I can’t take my eyes off it.

And you must bear with me now because I have to describe it to you. It is unbearably erotic and sublimely beautiful in execution, but there is something else. A something that almost feels as if the painting is alive and it is gently purring at you. The undercurrent of mystery and emotion that powers out of it is like a palpable energy. It makes my stomach clench. It reminds me of the feeling I had when I was reading Lana’s notes. The uneasy sensation that hidden away from my view, in the dark there are things that I know nothing of.

In the painting I am sitting in a garden, and the garden is so lush and so dreamy that the viewer will convince himself that it must be Paradise. I am nude, sitting with my legs wide open, head tilted slightly, mouth parted, and eyes mysteriously hooded and inviting: it is a brazen invitation to whoever is watching to enter me. But they won’t dare. A very large cobra is coiled around my body and my legs. Its hood is extended and its mouth aggressively open. It is a fierce guard. For my sex.

I remember his words, ‘Beauty is dangerous. It has the ability to tantalize and crush. Even strange beauty.’

The painting is titled Adam & Eve. It would seem that I am Eve and the cobra is Adam, but—here’s the occult gem: Vann’s real name is Quinn Adam Barrington. At the bottom there is a little card: Not For Sale.

I don’t turn to him and say the work is beautiful, because that would cheapen it, judge it, classify it. Let it be left that his art left me speechless.

‘My art didn’t come out of a vacuum. It came in a flash… After you. Thank you.’

I turn to look at him. He looks unbearably sad. I want to put my arms around him, but I know it will be the wrong thing now. Later. I have plans for this man. I don’t know what is in my eyes, but he takes a step back from me.

‘Let’s go back out. I’ll introduce you to everyone.’

I nod, and we leave that area and go back out amongst the glittering people. Lana comes to me. She is wearing a jaw-droppingly large, pink diamond teardrop pendant necklace. After she gets pulled away I smile and nod, and smile and nod, but I am not the same person who came in to see the exhibition. All I can think of is that last painting of Adam and Eve. The expression on my face, the exaggerated plumpness of my mouth, the ferocity of the Adam between my legs. Vann tries to keep me with him, but I can see that all these people want to talk to him, have a piece of him. Some of the women even give me dirty looks. They want the newborn star, and they think I am monopolizing him. After a while, the dirty looks become tiresome and I allow myself to be separated from Vann. My feet take me back towards the paintings.

His paintings make me remember what I thought I had forgotten from my school days. A snatch of Oscar Wilde. To reveal the art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.

I start again at the beginning, but now, with the other people shuffling about me and their quiet murmurs dotting the air, the effect of his paintings are thankfully less intense. My senses are not as overwhelmed as before, and I can assimilate more. I hear snatches of their conversations.

‘The colors remind of Ed Baynard’s Flowers That Talk range, but the background is almost Murakami.’ A woman declares that they are ‘scary but compelling the same way a road accident is. Horrible but it makes you look.’ A man with a pompous voice makes me stop and listen. ‘It’s good, but there is too much slavish attention to beauty.’

He is exactly the kind of intellectual snob who would declare a tin of excrement as an innovative piece of great art. Vann has done what he set out to do—beauty is no longer a frivolous thing, a pretty postcard or a chocolate tin Monet painting. Beauty, he is saying, can be compelling the way horror is. You don’t want to look at a skull of an evil-looking, flesh-eating flower, but you have to because it is so beautiful. He has become the master of beauty, strange beauty.

A man comes to stand beside me. ‘So, you’re the muse.’

I look at him. He is in his thirties and brilliantly successful in some capacity that would make him useless on a desert island. But here, he is a prince holding two glasses of champagne. He is the kind of guy that would install a lap dancer’s pole in his bedroom.

‘Sam Shepherd,’ he introduces. ‘What will they say? Not a toilet bowl in sight.’

I smile despite myself. How Vann would laugh. I will tell him later about this remark.

‘The last painting is…interesting, isn’t it? Do you think it has some hidden meaning? A social commentary on our dissolute life? Or…’ His eyes suddenly change. They start to undress me. I am frozen by the violence in his eyes. Nobody has ever looked at me like that. ‘Would you like to have your purse full of money and supper with me in Paris?’

Suddenly Vann is at my side. I exhale the breath that I was holding in a rush. Sam smiles at Vann.

‘I was just asking Miss…’ He turns to me briefly. ‘Sorry I didn’t quite catch your name, what the meaning of this painting was.’

Vann’s jaw is set in a hard line. He doesn’t smile and he looks angry. I realize that I have never seen him anything but indulgent or passionate. This new Vann is perplexing. Messes with my head and yet I kind of like that he has this side to him. This hard, don’t mess with me persona.

‘It is exactly what you think it is.’

‘I’d like to buy it.’

‘It’s not for sale.’

‘I am prepared to pay more, far more than the price the others would stop at.’

‘It’s not for sale,’ Vann repeats tightly and curling his fingers around my upper arm starts to turn away.

‘Three hundred thousand.’ His voice is loud. I realize for the first time that he is drunk.

Vann is already walking away with me in tow when another voice, a thin, reedy one, farther away, says, ‘One point five million.’

There is a gasp.

Vann stops and turns around to look at the owner of the voice. Everyone else does the same. A small, slim man. From head to toe he is dressed entirely in black. His face is thin, pointy and deathly pale, and his eyes are deeply sunken and glitter like dark gems. He is tiny and insignificant, but I am suddenly frightened of him. I cannot explain the immediate and instinctive fear. I feel Vann stiffen beside me. For a long, tense minute there is pure silence. That old cliché, you could have heard a pin drop, became true.

Then the air around me moves and Blake is standing next to me. From him come waves of antagonism for the newcomer and a rock-like, unshakable support for Vann. I feel Vann relax and some of my fear sloughs off like old skin. It is the most amazing feeling, having someone like Blake in your corner. You know that, no matter what happens, he is going to come out the victor.

‘Monfort,’ Blake says coldly.

Monfort acknowledges the greeting with a slight, silent bow of his head. His mouth curls at the end. And there is something evil about that grotesque curl. I shiver.

‘Congratulations. It is a fine painting Mr…Wolfe. It does us proud.’ The hesitation is deliberate. He knows. He knows that Vann is a Barrington.

‘Thank you.’

‘You have my offer if you do decide to sell.’

Vann nods.

He turns his attention to Blake. ‘Your father would have been pleased with you. Come and see me in the cigar room.’

‘If time permits.’

At that moment I know it is absolutely true what Vann told Lana: The brotherhood will carry on holding their great balls for El. You will not be invited. Neither will I, but Blake will always be invited as an honored guest.

The man called Monfort moves the tip of his mouth into a cruel curl. His dark eyes settle on me. ‘I bid you goodnight, Miss Sugar.’ Then he turns and slips away, a silent, black shadow.

‘Well done, Vann.’ A look passes through them and Blake smiles at his younger brother. There is so much in that smile. Vann visibly relaxes and around us the crowd starts whispering and moving and everything becomes normal again. Lana pushes through the crowd. Her brow is creased with worry and fear.

‘Is everything all right?’

Blake catches her by the waist and playfully growls, ‘Of course. Except for the fact that you are not by my side. Where have you been?’

‘I got waylaid by this woman who wanted to talk about CHILD.’

‘The penalty of success is to be bored by the people who used to snub you,’ he replies with a low laugh.

For a moment Lana looks from Blake to Vann to me, and back to Blake. Vann shrugs, I shake my head, and Blake grins innocently.

‘Fine,’ Lana says with a laugh. ‘Don’t tell me, then.’