On entering Katherine’s flat Margaret wondered what the owner would say if she could see it now. A discotheque unit had been set up in one corner where a somewhat youthful figure with shoulder-length hair falling into his eyes was busy choosing records and taking long swigs from a beer bottle. Two powerful speakers nearly as tall as Margaret had been positioned in two corners of the room and were belting out the Beatles “Please, please me,” which Simon mouthed to Margaret making her skin tingle and flush with warmth. The music was so loud, the floor beneath her feet vibrated and it was impossible to hold a conversation. The plush leather seating had been pushed back to the walls to make room for the guests who were dancing. Coloured lights from units around the room flashed on and off to the music. The sweet sickly smell of cannabis mixed headily with strong perfumes.
As the lights flashed briefly onto yellow it was possible to see people in more detail and after glancing around the gyrating group, Margaret was relieved to see she knew no-one. Most of the young men wore their hair covering foreheads and ears in a long fringe and were dressed in tight narrow jeans with elastic-sided Chelsea boots. The girls were in outfits similar to Margaret; straight A-line dresses, some in bold checks and contrasting stripes, outrageously short, revealing bare knees and much more besides.
After procuring two glasses of champagne from the kitchen, Simon never left Margaret’s side. She had, as usual, requested water but he grinned and shook his head. “It’s my birthday and you have to have at least one glass of bubbly,” he yelled, trying to make himself heard above the music.
Bowing to the inevitable, knowing that tonight was going to be the culmination of their flirtations and she had absolutely no control over what she was about to do, Margaret took the glass he offered. It was Krug, which always affected her quickly so she sipped delicately until he took it from her, placed the glasses on a nearby table and pulled her into the middle of the room. Margaret threw her shoes and bag under the table and barefoot, matched Simon’s movements as they moved dizzily round each other as hits from the Rolling Stones, the Who, the Kinks and the Small Faces pounded relentlessly. It was crazily intoxicating and sexy and by the early hours of the morning the party was in full swing, the laughter growing wilder as the plentiful supply of alcohol was steadily consumed and the cannabis reefers handed around freely and when Simon handed her one, having taken a long drag himself, she took it and did the same. She had heard that very often nothing happened the first time it was tried but unless it was the whole heady situation she was in or not, she could feel the most wonderful glow washing all over her and an intense urge to throw off her clothes and entangle her body with his without a moments delay.
Couples were pairing off and vanishing into bedrooms or anywhere else they could be away from prying eyes for long enough to satisfy their drug-heightened sexual cravings. Margaret was floating on a sea of urgent desire. Simon had removed his crisp, white shirt and his tanned muscles rippled invitingly. She looked at the spot where the dark hairs on his midriff disappeared into the belt of his jeans. It was all she could do not to rip them off. He was kissing her now and she was allowing it, in public, without giving a damn. His hands run over her body suggestively. It was so delicious she could have fainted. He was so beautiful. Such a handsome lad. So sexy, so wild, so desirable. She moaned as their mouths locked and his tongue played madly with hers.
Suddenly he pulled away.
“Let’s get out of here,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din. “I know just the place.”
He pulled her into the hall. “Stay there,” he shouted. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Margaret closed her eyes. The hall seemed to be moving and automatically she put a hand out to steady herself against a passer-by.
“Enjoying yourself, Your Grace? You certainly look as if you are.”
Margaret opened her eyes and focused on the man whose arm she was gripping. The music had softened and she had heard him clearly. She knew the oily, spotty face but couldn’t put a name to it. Her befuddled brain tried to remember where she had seen him before.
He smiled tauntingly. “Michael Green … freelance journalist.”
Christ! Now she remembered. This jerk had been the one chasing after her last time she was in London. It was he who had written that piece which had caused Charles to insist she return to Yorkshire. Margaret tried to move away but he positioned himself so that she was imprisoned where she stood. He leered down at her.
“I have a deep conviction, Your Grace, that you have just done, or are about to do, something your husband would certainly not approve of. Am I right, Margaret, Duchess of Canleigh?” He emphasised the title sarcastically.
Before she could reply, Simon, a rug over his arm and a bottle of Krug in his hand, pushed his way quickly through the crush of people, having recognised the journalist from previous dealings. He elbowed the man aside. Green certainly hadn’t been invited but knowing the man’s addiction to the bottle, Simon hoped the vast amount on offer in the flat would keep him busy and out of their way for the rest of the night.
“Drinks are in the kitchen,” he scowled. “Help yourself.”
“Why, thank you, Simon. That’s very kind,” Green smiled wryly and turned as if to head to the make-shift bar. He was sorely tempted but for once resisted the need to imbibe. Something was about to happen
