‘Hmm.’ (A pause, while Charles tried, according to the best Stanislavskian method, to give the impression of a man torn between the two great motives of his life-love of money and fear of scandal.) ‘Of course, it would take me some time to put my hands on that amount of money. Some days.’
‘I can wait.’ She smiled like a Venus fly-trap. ‘I’m not so sure that you can. Once they start getting deeper into this trial, I’m sure the interest in photographs of this sort will-’
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure it won’t take too long. It’s unfortunate not having my bank in London. It’s in Leeds. But… er… perhaps by Wednesday… Would Wednesday…?’
‘I’ll be here. With the negatives.’
‘Oh good.’ Although he was only acting the part, Charles felt Bill Holroyd’s relief. And in his own character he’d found out what he wanted to know. If there were other copies of the photographs, there was no doubt that Bill Sweet was blackmailing Steen. Steen had assumed from Jacqui’s message to Nigel that she was involved too. Charles was relieved that the information put her in the clear; she had been telling the truth. All he had to do now was what she had asked-get to see Steen, give him the photographs and explain that Jacqui was nothing to do with Bill Sweet. If Sweet himself continued his blackmail, that wasn’t Charles’ concern.
Mrs Sweet rose from the sofa. ‘That’s our business concluded. I’m glad we reached agreement in such a reasonable way. Would you like a drink?’
‘Oh, thank you very much.’ Perhaps a little too readily for Bill Holroyd. ‘That is to say, I don’t make a habit of it, but perhaps a small one.’
‘Gin?’ She went to the door.
‘That’d be… very nice.’ Charles just stopped himself from saying ‘Reet nice’. Would have been too much.
After a few moments, Mrs Sweet returned with a bottle, poured two substantial gins, added tonic and proffered a glass. Charles rose to take it. They were close. She didn’t move back. ‘Cheers, Mr Holroyd.’
‘Cheers.’
She looked at him, hard. ‘You like all that, do you, Mr Holroyd?’
‘All what?’
‘Parties. Like the one in Holland Park.’
‘Oh… well. Not habitually, no. I’m a respectable man, but, you know, one works very hard and… er… needs to relax, eh?’
‘Yes.’ She sat back on the sofa and motioned him beside her. ‘Yes, I find I need to relax too, Mr Holroyd.’
‘Ah.’ Charles sat gingerly on the mock leopard. He couldn’t quite believe the way things appeared to be going, and couldn’t think of anything else to say.
But Mrs Sweet continued, softly. ‘Yes, and relaxation becomes increasingly difficult.’ Her hand rested gently on top of his. The scene was getting distinctly sultry.
Charles decided to play it for light comedy. ‘I go in for a certain amount of golf, you know. That’s good for relaxation.’
‘Oh really.’ Her hand was moving gently over his. Charles stole a sidelong glance. The mouth was parted and thickened lashes low over her eyes. He recognised that she was trying to look seductive, and, while he didn’t find her attractive (rather the reverse), he was intrigued by the sudden change in her behaviour.
Mrs Sweet leant against him, so that he could feel the lacquered crispness of her hair on his ear. Her hand drew his to rest casually on her thigh. ‘I’ve never played golf.’
‘Oh, it’s a grand game,’ said Charles fatuously. In spite of himself, he could feel that he was becoming interested. Her perfume was strong and acrid in his nostrils. ‘Champion game.’
‘But I’m sure you play others.’ Quite suddenly the grip hardened on his hand and he felt it forced into the warm cleft between her legs. Instinctively he clutched at the nylon-clad mound.
But his mind was moving quickly. Mrs Sweet and her husband were blackmailers. This must be a plot of some sort. ‘Where’s your husband?’
‘A long way away.’
‘But wouldn’t he mind if-’
‘We lead separate lives. Very separate lives now.’ Her face was close to his and he kissed her. After all, he reflected, I am one of the few people in the world who isn’t worth blackmailing. And Bill Holroyd was already showing himself to be pretty gullible, so it’s in character.
Mrs Sweet reached her free hand down to his flies. No impotence problem this time. Charles began to consider the irony of life-that with Jacqui, whom he found very attractive, there was nothing, and yet with this nymphomaniac, who almost repelled him… but it wasn’t the moment for philosophy.
Mrs Sweet stood up and stripped off the housecoat. There was a crackle of static electricity. Her underwear was lacy red and black, brief and garish, the kind of stuff he’d seen in Soho shops and assumed was the monopoly of prostitutes. Perhaps she was a prostitute. The thought of another dose of clap flashed across his mind. But he was by now too aroused to be side-tracked.
He hastily pulled off his clothes and stood facing Mrs Sweet.
‘It doesn’t show,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Your war wound. The shrapnel.’
‘Ah. No. Well, they do wonders with plastic surgery. He advanced and put his arms round her, fumbled with the back of her brassiere. ‘The front,’ she murmured. It unclipped.
They sank down on to the leopardette sofa and he slipped off the crisp lacy briefs. Underneath he’d expected her to be hard and dry, but she was very soft and moist. Again he thought of meringues. And as he had her, he emitted grunts which he hoped were in character for the director of a man-made fibres company.
VII
Charles felt distinctly jaded as he walked along Hereford Road. Mrs Sweet had kept him at it some time. He ached all over, and felt the revulsion that sex without affection always left like a hangover inside him. It was half- past four and dark. No pubs open yet. He felt in need of a bath to wash away Mrs Sweet’s stale perfume.
As he entered the hall of the house, he heard a door open upstairs. ‘He is here,’ said a flat Swedish voice. There was the sound of footsteps running downstairs and Jacqui rushed into his arms. She was quivering like an animal. He held her to him and she started to weep hysterically. A podgy Swedish face peered over the banisters at them. ‘You are an old dirty man,’ it said and disappeared.
Charles was too concerned with Jacqui even to yell the usual obscenities at the Swede. He led the trembling girl into his room. She was as cold as ice. He sat her in the armchair and lit the gas-fire, poured a large Scotch and held it out to her. ‘No. It’d make me sick.’ And she burst out crying again.
Charles knelt by the chair and put his arm round her shoulders. She was still shivering convulsively. ‘What’s happened, Jacqui?’
The question prompted another great surge of weeping. Charles stayed crouching by her side and drank the Scotch while he tried to think how to calm her.
Eventually the convulsions subsided to some extent and he could hear what she was saying. ‘My flat-they broke into my flat.’
‘Who did?’
‘I don’t know. This morning I came back from doing the weekend shopping and it was-it had all been done over. My oil lamp-and the curtains pulled down and all my glasses smashed and my clothes torn in shreds and-’ She broke down again into incoherence.
‘Jacqui, who did it?’
‘I don’t know. It must have been someone who Marius-who Marius-’ she sobbed.
‘Why should he-’
‘I… I tried to ring him again.’
