Dirty Minds, page 12
‘He makes it?’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Rosalind. I just own the vineyard.’ He lifted the bottle and pointed out the label. ‘It’s in a little place called Buxy, just to the southwest of Chalon-sur-Saône. I would have brought more, but the Ferrari has so little storage space.’
‘So he only brought me a dozen bottles.’ Ros gripped his arm and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. ‘So, tell me, Fonsie, how good is Tom’s Italian, really?’
‘He speaks it better than I do.’ Tom protested, but was silenced by the Italian’s wagging finger. ‘I spend so much of my life away from Italy, I am forgetting the language of my mother.’
Tom studied the older man. His face was impeccable, without a wrinkle or blemish. His teeth were pure Hollywood and his figure not that of your average sexagenarian. The clothes he was wearing were immaculate. His calfskin shoes looked brand new, and probably were. He looked younger, fitter and considerably more handsome than Tom. Just then, a bulb, that had been flickering, suddenly lit up in Tom’s head.
‘Could I ask you something, Alfonso? Could it be that you are related to somebody I feel I know very, very well?’ The Italian raised an eyebrow. ‘Does Lotario di Segni ring any bells with you?’
Alfonso smiled broadly. ‘So not only is he a gifted linguist, he also knows his history. Yes, Tommaso, my family includes not only him, but two other Popes in its archives.’
Tom turned to Ros. ‘Lotario di Segni became Pope Innocent III in 1198. He was at the helm when the Crusade against the Cathars took place.’
The Italian nodded. ‘Ah yes, the Albigensian Crusade. Not the Catholic Church’s finest hour.’
They sat and chatted. Alfonso was excellent company: cultured, mundane and funny. From time to time, Tom found himself glancing at the two beautiful people across the table from him, wondering just what he was doing here. On one occasion Ros caught his eye. He saw straightaway that she knew what he was thinking. She smiled, then returned to the food.
‘Right, Here’s your starter. I hope you like it.’
She brought over a plate of little vol au vents, some filled with goat cheese, some with crab meat. They were delightful.
‘For somebody who claims to have only eaten carrots for years, you cook really well, Ros.’
‘Rosalind is a girl of many, many talents.’ Alfonso reached across and caught her cheek between his fingers. ‘She is superwoman. There is nothing she can’t do.’
‘Stop it, you two. You haven’t had the main course yet.’
The main course proved to be excellent. It was a leg of lamb roasted with rosemary and garlic. She had made roast potatoes to go with it. The two men applauded her efforts and Alfonso opened a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Barolo.
‘I’m sorry, I should have opened this when I got here. But, as usual, as soon as I gazed into Rosalind’s eyes, I forgot everything.’
‘That’s something else we have in common, Alfonso.’ Tom raised his glass and proposed a toast. ‘To beauty.’
Ros met his eyes. There was a gentle smile on her face. He thought back to his blunder in the kitchen the previous night. Maybe there was hope that she would forgive him. He would never forget the accusation of being just a self-centred man who saw her only as a sex object. Her expression gave nothing away.
After the baked pears in Madeira, they settled back. It was then that Alfonso brought up the question Tom had been dreading.
‘So, Tom, you and Rosalind are writing a book, a rather special book, I believe.’ His roguish expression made clear that he had already been made aware of the nature of the book.
‘Erm, yes. It’s a collaborative effort. I am trying to choose some female writers to join me in the project.’ Noticing Ros’s enquiring look at his use of the plural, he explained. ‘I’ve received applications and specimen pieces of writing from six ladies. Well, six people who describe themselves as ladies, anyway. The original plan was to select just one co-writer, but I have been so impressed with the quality of the stuff they have sent me, I’m coming round to thinking it might be better to choose, not just one, but several co-authors.’
‘That’s a really good idea, Tom. But how do we, you, suss out who’s who?’ She turned to Alfonso. ‘We have serious doubts as to the gender of a couple of the writers. It would be embarrassing to discover we had been tricked.’
‘Can’t you ask them for a photograph?’ As he said it, he was already shaking his head. ‘No, no, no. The number of times in my life I have found that the reality of the person did not match the photograph. You have no choice, surely: you must meet them.’
Tom had been thinking along the same lines. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Alfonso. If we are going to make it a group effort, we really need to set up a meeting. The main aim of the meeting will be to discuss specifics of the plot, setting and characters. But at the same time we will be able to see for ourselves what sex we are dealing with.’
‘Ah, if it were only that simple.’ The Italian was smiling broadly. ‘Tommaso, I could tell you of several times in my life when only the grace of God and my innate sexual radar has prevented me from making a big mistake.’ Ros decided this would be a good time to get up and make coffee. The Italian finished in a whisper, ‘A face like an angel, poppe da sogno, ed un cazzo piu grosso del mio!’ He erupted into ribald laughter.
Tom excused himself and headed upstairs to the toilet.
Ros left the coffee and ran after him, calling, ‘Wait Tom, I’m not sure if there’s a towel.’
He stopped at the top, as he heard her feet behind him on the stairs. The bathroom door was open and a pristine towel hung beside the basin. He turned back to her.
‘It’s all right, I can see the – ’
She reached the top of the stairs, flung her arms around his neck and pulled his face up close to hers. He staggered backwards under the onslaught.
‘I’m sorry I was mean to you, Tom. I’ve been feeling awful ever since. You’re not the man in your story. I know that. And I’m not the girl.’ There was a pause. ‘Unless you want me to be.’ Before he could answer, she touched his lips with hers, turned, and ran back down the stairs.
Before leaving the bathroom, he washed his hands, splashed some water onto his face, and did his best to stop grinning like an idiot.
‘Ah Tom, I have an idea.’ Alfonso had been deep in conversation with Ros. ‘Listen, Rosalind tells me you are thinking of setting your book in the 1920s. Is that right?’
‘Yes, I think so, if you agree, Ros.’
‘Of course. Anyway, it’s your project Tom.’
‘And what sort of setting did you have in mind? I mean in terms of where the action takes place?’
‘I hadn’t really got round to thinking about that.’ He cast around for ideas. ‘I suppose I was thinking about hanky-panky among the upper classes, rather than sex in Skid Row.’
‘Esatto! Precisely. How does the idea of an upper-class house party sound? A very dirty weekend in a country mansion somewhere in England? Does that appeal?’
It did. The more Tom thought about it, the better he liked the idea. ‘I just finished re-reading my Evelyn Waughs. Yes, somewhere like Brideshead would be perfect.’ He thought back to his initial research. ‘Lots of boathouses, orangeries and dungeons. Great idea, Alfonso.’
Ros was smiling. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if the meeting could be somewhere like that? Everybody could get the feel of the place, work out the geography and so on.’ Something in her voice struck him.
‘It would indeed. But I’m not sure my budget would run to putting six people up in a country mansion.’ The other two were both grinning by this time.
Ros hastened to explain. ‘But you didn’t take into account the most generous Italian I have ever met. Alfonso has just told me about his new project. Go on, tell Tom.’ She was hopping up and down with excitement.
‘I have just bought a country house. I came from there this afternoon. It is only two hours away.’ Tom wondered how two Ferrari hours translated into his car hours. ‘It isn’t really a house, it is a hotel. I am planning a big refurbishment but it’s fully functioning at the moment, although we have stopped taking bookings. If you would like to have your weekend meeting there it would give me the chance to test out the staff. Naturally it would be at my expense. You would be doing me a favour.’
Ros wasn’t joking when she described him as generous. This was way beyond generous. ‘I couldn’t possibly, Alfonso. That is altogether too kind.’
‘Not at all. You will be very welcome. I would do anything for my beloved Rosalind. And, my friend, I get the impression she would do anything for you.’ This was accompanied by a very Latin wink. Ros blushed red and punched him.
‘You horrid man. You mustn’t say things like that. Behave yourself.’
Totally unrepentant, Alfonso continued. ‘Besides, Tommaso, you are simpatico. I would be delighted to have your company for a weekend. Please accept this invitation.’
Tom did not know what to say. Taking this as agreement, Alfonso showed that his business brain was still functioning. ‘So, if I understand correctly, you will have five guests, presumably plus husbands, lovers or friends. Plus yourselves. I will instruct the staff to prepare five double rooms, plus whatever accommodation you two require.’ Before either of them could speak, he continued. ‘Make the invitation from Friday evening until Sunday afternoon. We will provide all the food and drink. Like I said, it will give me a chance to see the staff in operation. Now, there is just one small problem.’
They both looked at him, breathless at the speed with which he had worked out the arrangements to be made.
‘The refurbishment begins the week after next. Today is Wednesday, so this weekend is too short notice. It will have to be the weekend after. It doesn’t give you or your other writers much time. Is that all right?’
‘Alfonso, you are wonderful.’ Ros threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Tom almost followed suit.
‘Alfonso, I don’t know what to say. First you come up with the best idea for the setting of the book, and then you offer us your house. That is fantastic.’
‘Houses? I have got lots of them. It’s the people you fill them with that count.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tiffany was the first to get the news. She read the e-mail and then read it again. She suppressed a squeal of delight. Not only had she got the job, but she and Luca were going away for an all expenses paid weekend in a country house hotel. She made two telephone calls.
The first call was to her mother.
‘Mum, I’ve been offered a job. A writing job.’
‘Oh, that’s good, dear. What sort of thing is it?’
‘A historical novel. It’s a collaborative effort: me and half a dozen other people.’
‘I’m so happy for you, dear. Your father would have been so proud.’
‘Mum, I have to go for a weekend meeting to sort out all the details. Would you be able to come and look after the kids for two nights?’
‘Of course I would, darling. When?’
Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘A week tomorrow. I’m sorry it’s such short notice. If it’s no good for you, I’m sure we can arrange something.’
‘Nonsense. Of course I can come.’
The second phone call was to Luca. He was delighted at her news. He came home that evening with a bottle of champagne.
‘So what happens next weekend?’
‘Mum’s agreed to come and look after the kids. Good, eh?’
She showed him the e-mail.
Dear Tiffany,
I am contacting you by e-mail as time is tight.
I was very impressed by your specimen piece. In view of the exceptionally high standard of writing from all six applicants for the position, I have taken the decision to make this a collaborative effort. Each of you will be asked to write between ten and twenty thousand words. It will be my task to pull it all together into a coherent unit. We will decide together on characters, plot and action.
The book will be set in the 1920s. The events will take place over a weekend house party. The participants will be predominantly upper class; the famously amoral Bright Young Things.
In order to get to know each other and to finalise the different strands of the story, I should like to invite you to a weekend meeting at a country house hotel. This will serve as the location for the book. In order not to waste time, the meeting has been arranged for next weekend, 2-4 March. I apologise for the short notice, but feel that the project will stand more chance of success if we waste no time. Details of timings and location are at the bottom of this letter. Accommodation and all meals, including drinks, for you and a partner or friend, will be completely free of charge.
As a further attempt to recreate the atmosphere of that period, I would like to propose that the Saturday evening dinner be in 1920s dress. How far you choose to go in search of authentic costume, I leave up to you.
I hope you are as excited as I am at this project. I look forward to meeting you all next weekend.
Tom
Thomas Marshall
PS I would be grateful to have your speedy reply. Please indicate if you will be alone or accompanied and if you prefer a double or twin beds.
‘He sounds like an organised chap.’ Luca was impressed. ‘And he’s prepared to put his money where his mouth is. Six couples for a weekend, all expenses paid, will cost him a few grand.’
‘Yes, it sounds like he has faith in the project.’ The more she thought about it, the better it looked.
‘What about the dressing up business? Have you thought about that?’
‘That sounds like fun. And a good idea for the book as well. Nothing like trying on a ninety-year-old corset for getting into the spirit of the age.’ She was laughing. He caught her arm and pulled her close, so the kids wouldn’t hear.
‘Or tearing it off! Erotic literature has certainly come as a very pleasant surprise. And the book isn’t even written yet. We’ll have to keep on with the research.’
She put an arm round his neck and kissed him.
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The letter arrived on Saturday morning. Jimmy was first down the stairs. From the screaming and moaning in Clint’s room from midnight until four in the morning, he had either got a bear in there with him, or he had got lucky again. Jimmy had decided overnight that, if things didn’t improve, he was going to have to move out. There is a limit to what flatmates should be expected to tolerate.
He took the letter into the kitchen and put the coffee on. He opened the envelope and read its contents. His first reaction was surprise, coupled with delight that he had been chosen. This was immediately followed by the bitter disappointment that the game was up: There was no way he could go to the meeting in Dorset. Not without a sex change, anyway.
He heard the toilet flush upstairs. Seconds later there were footsteps on the stairs. He pushed another cup under the spout and pressed the green button.
‘Morning, Jimmy. How’s it hanging?’ Clinton looked bushed.
‘Not as well as you, by the sounds of things last night. Who’ve you got up there?’
‘Dolores.’
‘Dolores? I thought you said she was past her sell-by date.’
‘Keep your voice down, Jimbo. She’s awake.’
‘So you two have got back together, then?’
‘That’s the way it is.’
‘And you’ve forgiven her for leaving you trussed up like a chicken?’ He added sugar and pushed the cup across the table. He saw Clinton looking at him in a very funny way. ‘What’s up, Clint?’
‘Can you keep your mouth shut?’
‘Better than Dolores last night, from the screams and shouts I kept hearing.’
‘That wasn’t Dolores.’
‘Not Dolores?’ It was too early in the morning for conundrums. ‘So who else have you got up there? Or what else?’
‘Listen Jimmy, I’m telling you this is private, totally private. You got that?’
‘Sure, Clint. No need to get so intense.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not trying to get heavy. It’s just that I owe you an apology.’
‘You owe me an apology?’
‘That’s right. I’m very sorry.’
‘Sorry for what, Clint?’
‘For keeping you awake last night.’
‘It was you keeping me awake?’ Jimmy’s voice couldn’t hide his incredulity. ‘You mean it was you making all the noise?’
‘‘Fraid so.’ He was looking sheepish, very sheepish. ‘You see, Dolores and I have sort of got a thing going on.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘A role-play thing. You see–’ he hesitated, unsure how to continue. He was saved further explanation by the unmistakable sound of high heels coming down the stairs. ‘Shtum, Jimbo. Got it?’ He held his finger to his mouth. Jimmy saw that it was trembling.
Jimmy got the shock of his life as Dolores walked into the kitchen. Stomped, would be a better word. She was clad in black leather from breast to butt. Black stockings and unbelievably high heels completed the look. Along with the riding crop, clenched in her fist. She ignored Jimmy completely. For his part, he did his best to disappear into the gap between the fridge and the wall.
‘I told you to bring me coffee.’ She glared at Clinton. She looked, and sounded, terrifying.
‘I’m sorry. I was just talking to Jimmy.’
Don’t bring me into it, Jimmy found himself thinking.
‘Where’s my coffee?’ Before he could answer, the crop lashed out. It hit Clinton on the thigh. Both men winced.
She strode up to the cowering Clinton. ‘You will bring me the coffee now. And remember, not too hot or too cold. Otherwise you know what will happen.’
She swung round and made a showy exit. As she did so, Jimmy could have sworn she winked at him. He straightened up from his place of refuge.
‘Shit, Clint. What’s all that about?’
‘Shut up and make the coffee quick. Otherwise I’m in for it.’
‘In for what?’
