It was only because of those weeks of unrelenting, skilled tuition that he could now make this blond creature beneath his body attain heights of pleasure that she was unlikely to know with a Western man. Few Western women had experienced such consideration as Abdullah could show, such lifting of mood from gentleness to passion to wild abandon and then softly back again. Abdullah loved the primitive, musky smells of women, and he knew their bodies and their needs as he knew his own; he seemed uncannily able to read a woman’s mind and know exactly what she longed for at any given moment—everything she had ever secretly desired—and he was the Nijinsky of cunnilingus. Abdullah was completely, naturally uninhibited, and so his women felt equally abandoned, which was generally what made the difference between how they felt with their stiff British husbands and how they felt about the breathless sensuality of Abdullah’s body, which summoned up such erotic response to what he murmured in their ears. He knew that speech was an important part of seduction.
Prince Abdullah did not find it difficult to use Western women as his means of revenge upon Western men; he loved women as some men love horses. In almost every female he found something to admire and desire; he loved their softness, their elusiveness, their laughter. He loved small girls and big, voluptuous ones, slim bodies and rounded chubby ones; he loved dark silky hair and short blond curls; he loved little, firm, high breasts and low, voluptuous breasts like melons; he loved slim waists, but he also loved little rounded stomachs, big rounded buttocks and thighs like soft pillows. He loved the excitement that he could summon up in that delicious, warm, sensual flesh, to see some beauty writhing out of control at his command, responding in a frenzy to his light, sure touch, while Abdullah, by contrast, stayed in complete possession of himself and could remain so for hours. He gave many women that romantic bliss that as schoolgirls they had dreamed of; he gave a few women the sort of unrestrained passion of which they had never dared to dream. He captivated women with his fierce, proud face, his lean, well-exercised body, and his aura of sexuality, wild as that of a stallion. Added to which, by the time he left Sandhurst, Abdullah had the carriage and savoir faire of a much older man as well as the invisible assurance provided by money and power.
However, to be loved by Abdullah was not always a bed of roses, although sheafs of roses were, in fact, sent three times a day to his current lady. Abdullah always made it clear to all his women that, although at that moment he was completely at her command, there could be no permanent future for her in his life. He would whisper this regretfully, with heartbreaking sorrow, as if he couldn’t really bear to speak of it, but felt it only honourable to say before he bent again to the distraction of her breasts. So not one woman could say that he had in any way misled her, although he might easily exasperate, hurt or anger her when he suddenly disappeared. No woman could say he had deceived or jilted her, or dropped her or left her, because he never really had. He hated saying good-bye to a woman; he always liked to feel that he was joined to them by an invisible silken thread that he could, if necessary, gently tug. After being loved by Abdullah, no woman ever remembered him with anger or remorse—only with nostalgia, a slight smile or a sigh and the memory of having been magically charmed. It was as if he had just appeared one night for a brief moment. Then—equally suddenly—he wasn’t there anymore and the wonderful nights were gone.
But the memories were unforgettable, if only because they were unlikely to be repeated. Abdullah, murmuring soothing words of flattery and love, encouraged most women to behave in a more voluptuously agile manner than they had ever thought possible as he led them swiftly through an erotic crash course, which culminated in his sensuous pièce de résistance. With silken cords he would bind the wrists of the more adventurous ones to the bedhead and then he would dip one golden hand—his skin wasn’t very dark, just a permanent sun-bronzed tone—into the bowl of golden fish that always seemed to be at his bedside. Abdullah would quickly scoop out one little fish and swiftly push the wriggling creature into the girl. At this point, she generally stiffened and shrieked with surprise, but Abdullah threw his body on top of hers and held her hard against the mattress until she relaxed and was able to enjoy the strange erotic sensations as she felt the little fish move inside her warm body. As soon as the girl started to groan with pleasure, Abdullah would slide down her body and—with great dexterity—he would languorously suck out the goldfish.
Now, as the present blonde writhed beneath Abdullah’s body and her harsh little shrieks grew louder, his aide-de-camp was calling him through the ornate doors of the Dorchester Hotel. “Your Highness, Sire. The telephone, Sire. The prime minister, Sire.”
Abdullah threw his head back and growled. Suliman was supposed to see that no telephones disturbed him, especially not in the late afternoon.
“An emergency, Your Highness.”
Quick as a cat, Abdullah was off the bed and, in an instinctive reflex action, had grabbed his gun before the woman on the bed realised what was happening. She lifted herself on her elbows, as Abdullah backed toward the telephone, carefully lifted the receiver and had a short conversation in guttural Arabic.
Abdullah carefully replaced the receiver. In the dim light of dusk, he looked alert, wary and very upset. Suddenly the woman on the bed realised that although he was scowling fiercely at her, he had forgotten that she was there.
“Your Highness,” she said, uncertainly. There hadn’t been time to get on first-name terms.
He blinked and looked thoughtful. “Not Your Highness,” he said, “Your Majesty.”
Damn, the tousled blonde thought as Abdullah strode naked to the door. Damn, damn, damn!
26
PAGAN WAS SITTING up in bed and drinking her morning mango juice, when Robert threw the morning newspaper at her and said, “That wog boyfriend of yours is now in the hot seat.” The headline read, Young Warrior King Ascends Throne.
Pagan said nothing until Robert had left for the office, then she went to the cocktail cabinet, took out a bottle of vodka and climbed back into bed with it. In 1954, after three years of marriage, her relationship with her husband had become one of polite, cold hate. Pagan was no longer such a good business asset. In fact, she was carelessly drunk quite a lot of the time.
The next morning, Pagan woke to see Robert, his head propped on one arm, looking at her from the next pillow with such venom that she felt frightened. Suddenly she realised that she’d always been a little frightened of him. She faced the truth—she had made a dreadful mistake; she’d married a pompous ass with an imposing exterior. Inflated by his own self-importance, Robert was as empty on the inside as a blown-up carnival balloon.
“You’re thinking about that black bastard as usual, aren’t you?” Robert threw the sheets back from the bed with cold fury and, still glaring at her with hate, roughly yanked at the shoulder strap of her topaz silk nightgown. As Pagan flinched away from him, Robert gave a strange little hiss, tore the silk from her breasts and raped her.
She cried out as she tried to push him away from her, but his fingers only dug harder into her breasts. Afterward, she saw a look of satisfaction on his face, of power and cruelty. She realised he had enjoyed hurting her and would do so again. He had become her intimate enemy.
After he had left the room to saunter to the terrace for his impeccably served breakfast, Pagan staggered into the bathroom. Silk strips fluttered from her body, and in the mirror she saw fingermarks on her breasts. Shuddering, she ran a warm bath and lowered herself into the water. With a wet hand she carefully lifted the telephone and dialed the airport.
Leaving behind the pale blue Rolls—later much regretted for its trade-in value—Pagan caught the next plane to London.
Pagan’s mother was appalled, but not surprised, to see her daughter. A cablegram had arrived for Pagan the day before and Mrs. Trelawney had opened it, thinking her daughter still in Egypt.
INTEND TO IMMEDIATEY DIVORCE YOU STOP GROUNDS DESERTION STOP ALIMONY NOT FORTHCOMING FOLLOWING YOUR DISGRACEFUL B
EHAVIOUR STOP PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE ROBERT SALTER.
Pagan scowled as she read it. “He makes it sound as if I’d been sacked for incompetence.”
“Do you mind explaining what happened?”
“Darling Ma, couldn’t we have a drink first? It’s been eight hours on the train you know.” Pagan’s mother sniffed, took a step closer and sniffed again. “Yes, I know, I had a nip or two on the train. Medicinal. And consoling. So cold here after Cairo. And I was a tiny bit disappointed that you didn’t meet me at the airport. Didn’t you get my cable?”
“Yes, darling, but I could hardly just disappear and leave Selma on her own for two days; one has one’s responsibilities. And after all, you’re not a child, you only had to take a cab from the airport to Paddington Station. How long do you think you’ll be here?”
“Darling, I’ve come home. Here. Trelawney is my home. I’m going to stay here in blissful Cornwall.”
There was a pause, then her mother walked toward a wall-hung corner cupboard. “I think we both need a drink.”
She poured two glasses of Amontillado sherry. “We’re full at the moment,” she said, after a moment of silence. “There isn’t a spare guest bedroom, but one of the servant’s bedrooms is vacant. It’s on the top floor of the east wing.”
“You mean that utterly grim attic?”
“Well, darling, you must admit your arrival is unexpected. We didn’t know you were coming and we’re fully booked up three months in advance; doing quite well since the new hydrotherapy tank was installed. Goodness, you finished that quickly, darling, are you sure you want another?”
Pagan was intrigued by the change in her mother. She and Selma wore crisp, white uniforms and called themselves the Executive Director and the Dietetic Consultant. They spoke in low, soothing murmurs, even when no one else was present. Mrs. Trelawney wore no makeup, sported a large pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, and had taken up yoga.
After four nights, during which Pagan slept in a small servant’s bedroom, Mrs. Trelawney said, “I’ve talked things over with Selma and when it’s free we’re prepared to let you have one of the guest rooms—the housekeeper’s old room I thought. But you’ll have to behave. You know what I mean. No drink, darling. Not one, tiny, hidden bottle. You know that I can’t risk it.”
Pagan no longer wanted to live at Trelawney, where strangers in dressing gowns drifted down the overheated passages or sipped herbal tea in the conservatory. She had decided to move into a gamekeeper’s abandoned cottage about a mile from the house. It nestled in a dip in the woods surrounded by golden azalea bushes. Mrs. Trelawney had intended to convert the old cottage into a luxury annex suite, but when she said, “Impossible, darling, I’m afraid” Pagan looked at her coldly and said, “Darling, please remember that Trelawney belongs to me.”
The gray stone cottage was furnished with some castoffs from the big house, and Mrs. Hocken came once a week to clean up. “What you want is a bit of company, Miss Pagan,” she offered one morning, leaning on her broom. “A nice cat or a dog, Mrs. Tregerick was telling me since her Jim passed on there’s not a body to exercise their dog, a sheep dog ’tis, no harm in having a look at ’un.”
Buster was black and white, shaggy and the size of an armchair. Together they kept the cottage in a state of chaos—it smelled permanently of wet dog. Every day Buster took Pagan for a walk, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket as he strained at the leash. Buster meant that Pagan didn’t stay alone in the cottage all day, sprawled on her chintz-covered lump of a sofa whose sagging springs creaked as she reached for the vodka bottle.
She felt bitter and frightened—a failure. How and where had she gone so wrong? Could someone else have made Robert happy? Should she have tried longer, harder? It took more energy than she could muster to think it over again and what was the point? It would all end badly anyway. Better to stay home with her darling Buster and her vodka and blot out the loveless mess.
One morning Mrs. Trelawney walked over to the cottage to find Pagan sitting on the kitchen floor wearing gum boots and a pair of old riding breeches and nothing else. She had been eating baked beans laced with vodka out of the dog bowl and could barely manage to lift the spoon to her mouth. She flung the spoon at her mother.
“Pagan! Pull yourself together!”
“People only say that when you can’t.”
Pagan’s mother suggested she might like to talk with the clinic doctor, who was able to help people with unfortunate addiction problems.
“It’s a bit bloody late to start being interested in me,” Pagan shouted.
Pagan had arrived in Britain with only a hundred and fifty-six pounds cash, all that had remained in her account at the Ottoman Bank. After two months in Britain, this had been reduced to seventeen shillings and four pence, so Pagan decided to tackle her mother about funds. She waited until evening to walk up to Trelawney: after six o’clock her mother had no reason to give that sharp, meaningful sniff.
Mrs. Trelawney was checking diet sheets at her desk in the study. “Won’t be five minutes, darling,” she murmured, peering over her tortoiseshell rims. “Help yourself to . . .” But Pagan was already pouring a gin and tonic.
“Darling, haven’t you any dresses? Since you arrived I’ve only seen you in wellies and jeans.”
“Well, Ma, it’s such a divine change from Cairo. Wearing clothes there was practically a full-time career, one was always having to change. Frantically boring. Anyway, I haven’t any money to spend on clothes, which is what I’d like to talk to you about.”
“You mean you expect me to support you?”
“I don’t see how else I can be supported, for the moment.”
“A pity you didn’t consider that before you left your husband.”
“Ma, do you really want to know why I left so suddenly?”
“That’s a personal matter between you and Robert.”
“But do you want to know?”
“No.”
Mrs. Trelawney didn’t want to be involved, she never had.
“But I must have something to live on, and my only asset is Trelawney.”
“No need to ram that down my throat, darling. If it hadn’t been for Selma we’d have had to sell it.”
“But now that you’re doing very well, surely you could let me have a small allowance? After all, you’d have to pay rent to somebody else if you moved the health clinic. I’m willing to work if I can find somebody to bloody well hire me, but what can I do? I’ve no saleable abilities. You never trained me to earn my own living. I’m useless.”
“I don’t think you should have another drink, darling. If you’d only stop, we could perhaps give you a job in the hydrotherapy department.”
“Pointing a hose at fat old men?”
“You can be so incredibly vulgar at times.”
“What exactly is the position of the estate—or should I ask that solicitor in St. Austell?”
“By all means do so, but I can tell you myself. As your trustee I leased Trelawney to the health clinic on a full repairing lease for fifty years at a rental that amounts to the yearly interest on the loans secured by the estate. It’s already been explained to your husband’s lawyers. They plagued the life out of me for months as soon as you were married.”
“Eh? Could you say that again please. . . .” Her mother did so. “Does that mean that when I’m sixty-eight I will still have Grandfather’s debt around my neck although you will have been raking in the profits for half a century? What happens if you die tomorrow?”
Her mother looked into the fire. “Selma and I have drawn up identical wills. We both own fifty percent of the shares in the clinic, and upon the death of either shareholder the surviving shareholder may purchase the shares at par value. I saw no reason to mention that to Robert’s lawyers—they were unpleasantly aggressive—but I suppose you ought to know now.”
“You mean that if you died, then Selma would get the lease of Trelawney?”
“Darling, I wasn’t tra
ined to earn my living, either. When Grandfather died I had to accept the business proposition that Selma put to me. Of course, now that I’ve had five years’ experience, I could run the place by myself, but don’t you remember the state I was in at the time? And it’s a full repairing lease. You’ll get the place back in perfect condition, which will increase the value.”
“Doesn’t sound as if that’s a bonus. Grandfather always kept it in perfect condition.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t raise your voice, the patients might hear. To be quite frank, the other directors and I have already discussed the possibility of paying you a small allowance.”
“Who are the other directors?”
“Selma and her accountant. Our accountant.”
“And what did they say?”
“Mr. Hillshaw thought we might manage three pounds a week.”
“Four. Plus the running costs and upkeep of the cottage.”