Derek Hunt had not been on the list of six, not because he was not rich, not because he had never shown interest in Storm.
Derek Hunt had shown interest in most pretty girls. He had even married two of them, and both of them had divorced him in separate blazes of notoriety, not before they had, between them, presented him with seven offspring.
Derek Hunt's reputation was every bit as vast and flamboyant as his fortune. Look old girl, he had told Storm reasonably. You and I have both got a problem. I want you, have always wanted you. Can't sleep at night, strewth! and his ginger whiskers twitched lasciviously. And you need me. The word's out about you, old girl, Mark of the beast, condemnation of society, and all that rot, I'm afraid.
Your loss, my gain. I've never given a stuff for the condemnation of society. I've got seven little bastards already.
Another one won't make any difference. What about it, then? One for the poor, what? They had driven up to Swaziland, and Derek had been able to get a special licence, lying about her age.
There had been nobody she knew at the ceremony, only five of Derek's cronies, and she had not told her father, nor her mother, nor Mark Anders.
She heard him coming home, like a Le Mans Grand Prix winner, a long cortege of motor cars roaring up the driveway, then the squeal of brakes, the cannonade of slamming doors, the loud comradely shouts and the snatches of wild song.
Derek's voice, louder and hoarser than the rest. Caramba, me heartiest Whipped your pants off on the field, going to drink you blind now. This way, the pride of the Argentine - the stamping and shouting, as they trooped up the front staircase.
Storm lay flat on her back and stared at the plaster cupids on the ceiling. She wanted to run, this senseless panicky urge to get up and run. But there was no place to run to.
She had spoken to her mother three times since the wedding, and each time had been agony for both of them. If only you had told us. Daddy might have been able to understand, to forgive, Oh darling, if you only knew the plans he used to make for your wedding. He was so proud of you, and then not to be at your wedding. Not even invited, Give him time, please, Storm. I am trying for you.
Believe me darling, I think it might have been better, if it was anybody in the world but Derek Hunt. You know what Daddy thinks of him. There was nowhere to run, and she lay quietly, dreading, until at last the heavy unsteady boots came clumping up the staircase, and the door was thrown open.
He had not changed, and he still wore riding-boots. The backside of his breeches was brown with dubbin from the saddle, and the crotch drooped almost to his knees, like a baby's soiled napkin; the sweat had dried in salty white circles on the cotton singlet. Wake up, old girl. Time for every good man and true to perform his duty. He let his clothing lie where it fell.
His bulging belly was fish white, and fuzzed with ginger curls. The heavy shoulders were pitted and scarred purple with the old cicatrices of myriad carbuncles and small boils, and he was massively virile, thick and hard and callous as the branch of a pine tree. One for the poor, what? he chuckled hoarsely, as he came to the bed.
Suddenly and clearly, she had an image of Mark Andersslim and graceful body, with the clean shape of young muscle, as he sat in the dappled sunlight of the glade.
She remembered with a terrible pang of loss the lovely head with the fine strong lines of mouth and brow, and the serene poet's eyes.
As the bed dipped beneath the solid weight of her husband, she wanted to scream with despair and the knowledge of coming pain.
For breakfast Derek Hunt liked a little Black Velvet, mixing the Guinness stout and champagne in a special crystal punch bowl. He always used a Bollinger Vintage
1911 and drank it out of a pewter tankard.
He believed in a substantial breakfast, and this morning it was scrambled eggs, Scotch kippers, devilled kidneys, mushrooms and a large well-done fillet steak, all of it on the same plate.
Although his eyes were watery and pink-rimmed with the previous night's revelry, and his face blazed crimson as the rising sun, he was cheerful and loudly friendly, guffawing at his own jokes, and leaning across the table to prod her with a thick red thumb like a boiled langouste to emphasize a point.
She waited until he had picked up the bowl and tilted the last of the Black Velvet into his tankard, and then she said quietly, Derek, I want a divorce. The grin did not leave his face, and he watched the last drops fall into the tankard. Damn stuff evaporates, or the dish has got a hole in it, he wheezed, and then chuckled merrily. Get it? A hole in it! Good, what? Did you hear what I said? Aren't you going to answer? Needs no answer, old girl. Bargain is a bargain, you've got a name for your bastard, I've still got my share coming. You've had that, as many times as you could wish, Storm answered quietly, with a whole world of resignation in her voice. Won't you let me go now? Good God! Derek stared at her over the rim of his tankard, his mustache bristling and the pink eyes wide with genuine amazement. You don't think I was really interested in the crumpet, do you? Can get that anywhere, all of it looks the same in the dark. He snorted with real laughter now. Good God, old girl, you didn't really think I fancied your lily-white titties that much? Why? she asked. Ten million good reasons, old girl. He gulped a mouthful of scrambled eggs and kidney, and every single one of them in General Sean Courtney's bank account. She stared at him. Daddy's money? Right first time, he grinned. Up you go to the head of the class. I But-but -she made fluttery little gestures of in comprehension with both hands. I don't understand. You are so rich yourself. Was, old girl, used to be, past tense. And he let out another delighted guffaw. Two loving wives, two unsympathetic divorce judges, seven brats, forty polo ponies, friends with big right hands, rocks that shouldn't have been where the road was going& a mine with no diamonds, a building that fell down, a dam that burst, a reef that pinched out, cattle that got sick and myopic lawyers who don't read the small print, that's the way the money goes, pop goes the weasel! I don't believe it. She was aghast. Would never joke about that, he grinned. Never joke about money, one of my principles. Probably my only principle. And he prodded her. My only principle, get it?
Skunked, absolutely flatters, I assure you. Daddy is the last resort, old girl, you'll have to speak to him, I'm afraid.
Last resort, what? One for the poor, don't you know? There was no answer to the front door and Mark almost turned away and went back into the village, feeling a touch of relief and a lightening of heart that he recognized as cowardice. So instead, he jumped down off the veranda and went around the side of the house.
