There then followed a long sequence of dreadful adolescent-style poetry, in which the word ‘torture’ featured over and over again. Maynard never referred to a ‘he’, or specifically named Chalmers, but wrote often that he was desperate to hear from JC. William found a note at the top of a page, decorated with a heart, that read, ‘JC called. I am in heaven, must get more money.’ There followed a long list of items of clothing he had purchased, gifts for JC, and then
I am beginning to realize that beneath the drugs and the debauchery, beneath his perfectly handsome, stunningly beautiful profile, his face sometimes takes on a coldness, just as hers does. Sharp like a knife-edge. I feel frightened... Justin was so sour to me today, he made me weep.
Then more blacked-out lines, and then over the page, the ink was blotched, from tears perhaps.
I think Justin hides in a bottomless well of cynicism, which at times is so deep there is no sun, there are no stars, only darkness, and I have such a need to reach out to him, as he has become the centre of my universe.
William sighed at such twaddle, hardly able to believe this had been written by the man he knew. He flicked through the pages, then stopped at the sight of his own name.
Mr Need-to-be-accepted, Sir William B, came round today. A tedious, wretched man with too much money. He believes I will be his political hero. If only he knew what I really felt about his persistent intrusion into my life, this inarticulate buffoon who got lucky with some computer chip and believes himself to be my equal.
William felt sick. A buffoon! He had ploughed hundreds of thousands of pounds into this egotistical pervert. How could he have been so stupid? He hurled the diary across the room.
Alone in his vast bed, William tossed and turned, asking himself over and over why he had allowed himself to be subjected to such abuse. Did he have such an inferiority complex that no matter what success he achieved he felt unworthy of it? Why had he allowed himself to be humiliated by virtually everyone who had entered his life? He had been living in some fantasy world since meeting Maynard. He had deluded himself that at last he had found contentment. Eventually he fell into a restless sleep.
He woke feeling tired, wretched, unwilling to face the day, and stayed in bed with the curtains drawn. He told the servants not to disturb him, and refused to eat. For two days and nights he cried as he never had before, until at long last he felt he had no more tears to shed. Then a calm sense of relief washed over him.
When he got up for a pee, he saw his reflection in the full-length mirror. He was in appalling shape: his eyes were puffy and dark-ringed, his face was pasty. William had never been handsome, but he had believed he was attractive, particularly since his success. He laughed bitterly to himself. Who would want him now? The depression returned. He had never been in love, had never felt passion the way Maynard had. He had wanted sex and been willing to pay for it, but he had never experienced ecstasy. Now, he thirsted for love.
He walked back into his darkened bedroom and threw on some clothes. First he called his office to say that he would be away for some time. Then he instructed his valet to pack a suitcase with evening suits and casual wear. He asked Michael to arrange for his jet to be fuelled and made ready to depart from Heathrow’s private airfield.
‘What destination shall I tell the pilot, sir?’ Michael asked.
‘Nice.’
‘Will you need your apartment prepared?’
‘No, I’ll be at the Hôtel Negresco. Book me a suite.’
‘Would you like me to arrange meetings?’
‘No, this is not business. I need...’ he gave the ghost of a smile ‘...need some space, as they say. I’m taking a break.’ He gave another wan smile. ‘Taking a break from my life, Michael. No more questions.’
The flight to Nice was comfortable, and the drive to the hotel uneventful. On arrival he didn’t unpack but telephoned the villa in Grimaud. Justin Chalmers’s villa. Part of him denied what he was doing, but the other part knew perfectly welclass="underline" he was going to find water in the desert. He believed that here he would find solace for his lost soul.
A woman answered. ‘Countess Lubrinsky speaking.’
‘Sir William Benedict,’ he said. ‘A friend of Justin Chalmers. I’m going to be in Grimaud at the weekend...’
‘Really?’ crooned the Countess. ‘Then you must join us. We are having a small dinner party.’
‘I’d be delighted, thank you. If your plans change, I’ll be at the Negresco.’
‘I look forward to meeting you.’
The phone went dead and he replaced the receiver on the cradle. He had no idea what he was doing. It was the beginning of an adventure. He liked the sound of Countess Lubrinsky’s voice, but he really wanted to meet whoever had accompanied Chalmers to meetings with Maynard. Was this countess the beautiful woman to whom he had referred in the diary?
He thought again of how Maynard had described him, and his lips tightened. A buffoon! His whole body flushed with indignation. Was that what they all felt, how they all saw him? God Almighty, he wanted to get back at Maynard — at them all — and he would start with Justin Chalmers. That was why he had come to France. It was because he needed space to think, to make plans for how he would take his revenge. He would pay back every one of the bastards. No one was ever going to call him a buffoon again.
Chapter five
The Countess Lubrinsky tied her silk sarong tighter round her slim waist, and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the telephone table. She ran her fingers through her thick auburn hair, the curls in ringlets around her neck. She had long tapering fingers with short, unvarnished nails, and wore no jewellery apart from a gold ankle bracelet. At forty years old, Sylvina was proud of her figure, and her sculpted face was without a wrinkle. Her slanting green cat-like eyes, fine straight nose and high wide cheekbones gave her the look of a mystic. She lit a cigarette and, turning to the right, caught Sharee’s reflection behind her. ‘Hello, darling, have you had your swim?’
‘No, just about to. Who was that?’
‘Some friend of Justin’s. I invited him to dinner.’
‘Oh, God, why do you always invite every stray he gives our phone number to?’
‘Because I presumed he’d arranged it.’
‘Well, don’t presume. Ring the bastard up and ask.’
‘Don’t start. It’s just for dinner, and I’ve left a message on his mobile.’
Sharee, blonde and fair-skinned, was twenty-four. She had a fuller figure than Sylvina, slightly plump around her bottom and thighs, with full, perfectly shaped breasts. Sylvina stared at her, took a long drag on her cigarette and blew out a perfect smoke ring. It coiled around Sharee’s right nipple.
‘You smoke too much, Sylvina.’
‘I know. Keep still. Let me see if I can circle the left one too.’ She sucked at her Gitane, held her breath and pursed her lips. The smoke ring floated in the air and Sharee wafted it away, strolling out on to the patio.
She leaned against the balustrade and, one hand shading her eyes, watched the butterflies in the garden. Sylvina, not knowing their correct names, had called the various species after Parisian couturiers: the blue was Dior, a deep black, brown and orange one Schiaparelli, a remarkable multicoloured one Versace, and a rather dull moth type she found amusing to nickname Chanel.
‘Penny for them, sweetie,’ Sylvina said now, pouring herself a Dubonnet.
‘I was looking for a Gaultier,’ Sharee said, and turned back to the garden.