The Pleasure Quartet Page 17

  My initial reaction was that I had possibly been wrong to ask Susan to sell the Bailly to raise funds, until it dawned me how the whole matter felt like an impersonal transaction, both of us being granted rewards of a different kind in a compromise that banished emotions and feelings to the margins.

  Observing my puzzlement, Joao hastily added that there was no need to provide an answer in the immediate, and that for the time being he was happy if we could continue as we were. Was he thinking of some written ‘mistress contract’, should I agree to his terms? His arrogance confounded me, although at the same time there were distinct attractions to his proposition.

  It wasn’t the first time I had given a spare thought over the years, albeit not in the recent past, to the idea of whoring myself for money, not so much for the actual proceeds of sin but for the thrill, the experience of selling something I had always given away for free, to know what it felt like. All this potential new situation would do would be to institutionalise the reality of it.

  In the meantime, Joao’s words continued to pour out, as my mind kept running through a labyrinth of tangents. He wanted me to be at my most charming for the fundraiser at Astrid’s school and, with an expression of tender complicity quite at odds with his preceding exposition of the business arrangement he had so meticulously proposed, handed me over a small Bordeaux velvet pouch.

  The clip-on earrings were stunning, exquisite minuscule amber ovals set in a sterling silver bed, probably antiques.

  I had not worn amber for as long as I could recall, even when in full regalia at the Ball, and I was eager to try them on and see myself in a mirror. I just knew they would match my colouring.

  ‘I’ve also got you a new dress. It’s at home,’ Joao said.

  The American School of Rio de Janeiro, where Astrid was studying, was an architectural marvel. Set in the neighbourhood of Gávea on the edge of the Tijuca National Forest, on a steep hill overlooking the whole city and its expanse of natural wonders from the vast ocean below to Sugarloaf Mountain, it extended over eight towers, ascending in height towards the dark green curtain of the trees, that incongruously reminded me of medieval buildings and Alpine sanatoriums. In a city where land was at a terrible premium, its twelve-acre campus was as ostentatious as it was luxurious.

  Joao’s driver dropped us off and drove the metal grey bullet-proof 4×4 away, as one expensive car after another unloaded its human cargo and we trooped towards the school’s main door in all our finery.

  Astrid was sulking. She had wanted to wear some pale green eye make-up and possibly lipstick, but her father had put his foot down and forcefully stood his ground. I’d always studiously stayed out of arguments between father and daughter when present. Her white cotton dress was demure and fell to below her knees, highlighting the deep tan of her arms, face and delicate ankles. She had earlier given me a despairing glance hoping I would support her, but I agreed with Joao that she was beautiful enough and didn’t require any artificial assistance. I later pointed out that neither was I wearing much in the way of make-up, but she had ignored me.

  We followed the crowds into the large wooden-floored assembly hall which had been converted into an auditorium. I held onto Joao’s arm as Astrid slipped off to join the other students lined up to perform tonight. His tuxedo wrapped around his broad shoulders to a tee, an Armani made-to-measure outfit with wide darker silk lapels and a crisp white dress shirt, the matching bow tie emphasising the firmness of his chin. I looked around.

  All the other men present were similarly attired, shoes polished to untenable brilliance, expensive cufflinks peeking out of their sleeves, their wealth reflected in the way they stood upright and proudly, companions and partners hanging on to their arms as if they belonged there by divine right. Older wives in couture dresses that trailed along the ground, displaying ample cleavage and matronly curves, while thinner and younger ‘friends’ in body-clinging dresses, many slit at the side, in all degrees of voluptuous displaying a desert of leg and vertiginous heels, parading on the arms of their grizzled benefactors with all the arrogance of youth, eyeing the competition with a beady, calculating gaze, as if all along weighing the pros and cons of which protector they would next move on to.

  The wives ignored the mistresses and escorts with a studied air of arrogance, while the younger women similarly pretended the legitimate spouses were not in any way different from them.

  I immediately regretted having come along, as women in both camps began to look me over with a critical stare. I did not fit in by any measure. To emphasise this state of affairs, Joao had deliberately selected for me the type of dress no one else would be wearing tonight. It was a flowing floral dress which left my shoulders bare and emphasised my comparative lack of opulence. Compared to the other outfits, it was modest to extremes. As much as I applauded Joao’s intentions, it just wasn’t me. Never had been. It gave me the feeling he wanted me to stand out among the crowd and be talked about. To make matters worse, I knew the golden tones of the amber earrings did not at all match the crimson and violet hues of the fabric’s flowered pattern.

  We walked over to a group of parents standing by the improvised stage, most of whom were clad in more discreet attire and displayed a modicum of restrained elegance, although the breasts on partial display seemed to my untrained eye more obviously fake. These attendees were in the majority Americans, businessmen and women who worked for international corporations with offices in the Brazilian capital or diplomats from the embassy and consulate. At my earlier request, Joao never introduced me by name, merely as his friend. I took no note of their names. A silver-haired, tall and thin-as-a-rake man approached me while Joao was in deep conversation with others.

  ‘You look familiar. Have we met before?’ he enquired. ‘You’re not from here.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I quickly moved on, without trying to appear rude. He was a cultural attaché. I hoped he didn’t make a connection and identify me and my past, artistic activities, let alone the other less discreet matters I was hoping to have left behind. I had no wish for Joao, or anyone in Rio, to discover anything about my previous life.

  The performances finally began, following a bunch of speeches in both languages, and we were invited to sit.

  A parade of students took turns in front of the varied audience. A lanky crop-haired blonde with an atrocious West Coast accent declaiming a Shakespeare soliloquy, followed by quaint Brazilian twins in matching designer dungarees singing ‘Greensleeves’ to the accompaniment of a tape. Then came the first round of fundraising, with various gifts from the parents or friendly organisations being auctioned by the Headmistress, a buxom woman in her mid-forties in a frilly evening dress dripping with a thousand sequins too many. Joao occasionally bid, more out of obligation than enthusiasm, and paid over the odds for an electronic console which I knew Astrid already had a set of. I felt relieved he did not raise his hand when jewellery items came up for auction.

  It was finally Astrid’s turn. She looked stiff on stage, visibly self-conscious, and her interpretation of the Bach composition was accurate but pedestrian. Even with the technique I had drilled into her, it was evident she didn’t move with the music in her heart, played it mechanically and had no idea how to truly inhabit it. Perhaps the only sounds that truly moved her were the pop tunes that she had picked up from YouTube and been replicating when I first saw her swaying on the sidewalk. Classical music, and formal training, was not for everyone. Not that anyone present but me noticed, and the applause she received was cordial and warm, Joao leading the choir of praise by standing up the moment she set down her bow. We stayed on for a couple of further acts, a young boy who performed feeble magic tricks and a pseudo-operatic duo giving a pop spin on a Verdi aria.

  Astrid had returned from the backstage area and suggested I join her outside. Joao nodded his approval.

  The night air was humid. Small groups milled on the edge of the campus green, picked out by the pale moonlight, wrapped in furtive conver
sations, smoking and sipping drinks. Astrid pulled a cigarette from her pocket, cast a glance around to see if anyone close could help her light it. A classmate obliged.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell my father’ she begged me, taking a rapid puff.

  I felt I should say something to her, but also knew I had no wish to censure her, even though in tonight’s environment it was obvious among her school friends that she stood out like a sore thumb, her personal loneliness visibly an open wound. It was no wonder she had attached herself to me after our initial encounter on the beach. It made me feel uneasy, as if Joao was passively manipulating me throughout the situation, like a puppeteer, just so I could befriend his daughter.

  We left early. Joao had booked a large table at L’Etoile, an expensive French restaurant on the top floor of the Sheraton with a splendid view of the beach below and its fairy lights that shimmered in the darkness from the distance of the twenty-sixth floor. It had been Astrid’s choice, but he had also invited a bunch of business colleagues including the unlikeable Matheus who, tonight, was accompanied by a floozy with more bare flesh on display than grey cells.

  I switched off. Astrid was at the other end of the table and I sat wedged between Joao and an industrialist from the interior who spoke no English and occasionally looked over at me with an air of superiority, as if despising my presence and my person, judging me the lowest of the low, not just a younger escort but a foreign one at that. I half hoped he would put a hand on my knee under the table, make a pass or something, so I could protest loudly and make a scene and embarrass him in front of his dowdy wife and the rest of the guests, but he didn’t even have the courage to do so. Throughout the meal, Joao ignored me totally, as if my decorative presence was all that was required of me.

  As we were being driven home later, Astrid slumped on the back seat by my side, Joao sensed my unease.

  ‘Did the evening bore you, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘Somewhat,’ I told him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Next time we have to go out in public, I would rather choose what to wear myself. I felt like a dress-up doll, Joao.’

  I was about to suggest that I would prefer being dropped off at my apartment rather than spend the night with him at the villa, but he must have read my mind.

  ‘Come back with us,’ he said. ‘Let me make it up to you.’ His eyes were full of pleading. I gave in.

  The driver carried a sleeping Astrid in past the front door, where a maid took over and supported her all the way to her own bedroom at the back of the house and she was quickly tucked in. The driver turned on his heels and the servants disappeared, leaving Joao and me alone in the echoing vastness of the high-ceilinged rooms.

  He wasted no time in leading me to the master bedroom, where he lifted my skirt, pulled down my knickers and buried his face in my pussy. It was the first time in our relationship so far that he had actually gone down on me with any degree of focused enthusiasm, though god knows I had given him blow jobs a-plenty. Usually he returned the favour with a few obligatory laps of my slit, in part to ensure that I was well lubricated before he pulled himself up over my body and entered me, obviously eager to fuck.

  His tongue felt good, but I could not quell the suspicion that his attentive worshipping at my clit was simply Joao throwing out all the stops by way of a sales pitch rather than any real dedication to my gratification. I took great pleasure from grabbing hold of his hair and grinding his face against me until I came, hoping that the residual ache in his jaw would serve as some slight reminder that I was not entirely satisfied with the arrangement he had roped me into.

  I could barely sleep. At my side, Joao snored softly, his face buried into the deep pillow, his broad, hirsute shoulders emerging from the whiteness of the sheets, his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair trimmed with uncanny precision. The random sounds of the house washed over me, a wall of deathly silence interrupted by slivers of creaks, a rustle here, an audible shiver there, as the building conducted its secret life, its materials shedding the heat of the day, relaxing into place, settling. I listened, seeking a pattern, the communication of a rhythm, but it was all a chaos of nothingness, my mind being teased.

  I got out of bed. Walked nude and barefoot over the stone floors to the kitchen on the lower level and took a carton of milk from the massive Whirlpool side-by-side fridge and poured myself a glass. Through the open window, the hill was a pool of thick darkness and the scent of the nearby gardens wafted along the gentle breeze.

  I wandered aimlessly through the silent villa. Was even briefly tempted to brazenly call up for a taxi or one of Joao’s drivers and be dropped off at the nearest expanse of beach and sand, although I knew it wasn’t a good idea and a sure recipe for disaster. I wanted to feel the night air swirl across my bare skin, dip my inflamed flesh into the halting waves of the Atlantic.

  My cunt throbbed. Unsatisfied, my clit still painful from Joao’s attentive ministrations. I stood by the window, touching myself, daydreaming, craving I knew not what. I finally tiptoed back to the bedroom where Joao still lay, his position unchanged. I had somehow hoped he might have wakened and offered a cure for my restlessness, fucked me hard, harder than he usually did. But he failed to move even when I slipped between the sheets and barricaded myself next to him, hunting down the heat radiating from his body.

  It took ages, but inevitably sleep finally overtook me.

  It was already mid-morning when I shook myself awake. Joao had left for work and Astrid was nowhere to be seen. Probably at the beach. I took breakfast on the balcony, swam a few lengths in the pool under the unfazed gaze of the two maids who were busying themselves around the villa, cleaning and tidying up, professionally trained to ignore my nudity, no doubt judging me as just one more of Joao’s walkway of conquests, soon to be replaced by a younger, more exotic model.

  Finally I dressed. Willingly leaving the floral print dress I had worn for the school gala behind, reintegrating my uniform of short skirt, pastel-hued T-shirt and strappy sandals.

  Back at my flat, I heard my mobile ringing as I turned the key in the lock but it had stopped by the time I had reached the desk on which I had set it down. I had entirely forgotten having left the phone behind. So few people knew my number. There were a score of missed calls listed. All from the same local number. I switched to the messages. Raoul sounded frantic. Insisting repeatedly I should call him back immediately. In turns angry, resigned and then angry again. I put the phone down, kicked my shoes off and ignored his demands.

  Men.

  Later that night there was a thunderous knock at my door. Initially I ignored the sound, thinking it must be some kind of mistake – I wasn’t expecting anyone and the buzzer for the main security door hadn’t gone off. I was luxuriously soaking in my apartment’s small bathtub, shoulder-deep in hot water that I had perfumed with a whole packet of lavender bath salts, my legs stretched out and feet resting on the lip of the tub, drinking a glass of red wine and mulling over what to do next.

  My limbs were utterly relaxed and the alcohol in combination with the water’s warmth had made me quite drowsy. Music played through my laptop’s tinny speakers. Hozier’s ‘Take Me to Church’, a tune that I related to on multiple levels, having always sought redemption from sources more closely aligned to my personal brand of raw sexuality than any form of organised religion. I lay there letting the lyrics wash over me and surveying the events of the past few months with an almost hypnotic and objective gaze, half unconscious in my buzzed-out heat haze.

  It had not escaped my attention that my departure from Aurelia’s employ and abandoning my musical career in a laughable attempt to ‘find myself’ away from the world of sex had resulted in a life populated only by troubles with men. I had ended up achieving a situation the exact opposite of what I had been aiming for.

  What a joke. I should have joined a convent instead.

  I toyed with the idea of breaking up with them bot
h and finding a proper job, or taking up formal Portuguese language lessons, perhaps enrolling in online university study and furthering my education. Even cookery lessons or signing up for a library card would do more for my self-development than spending every minute thinking about my love life.

  The bathroom was fogged with steam. It clogged my lungs in a way that felt simultaneously cleansing and suffocating. And reminded me briefly of that night I had spent in the Kentish Town sauna with the bearded brute of a man who had found me playing the Bailly on Hampstead Heath in the altogether and led me there – whom I had knowingly followed – and the group of men he had assembled who delighted in taking every advantage of my willing degradation. No matter how complicated the tangled mess I was in now, at least I had managed to crawl out of that dark place, although the memories of it remained a familiar shadow I doubted I would ever be free from.

  I dunked my head under the water, hoping to wash the unwelcome images from my mind.

  There it was again, someone banging so loudly that I feared they would knock straight through the thin wood veneer and then let themselves in whether I wanted it or not.

  I paused the music and eased myself out of the tub, head swimming as my over-heated body straightened to standing. The luxurious, thick white towelling robe that I often lazed around in after swimming in the pool of the Jardim Botânico villa, was not mine at all, but one of a pair that Joao owned, I realised, as I searched for something to cover myself with and finally snatched up a pair of relatively modest pink cotton panties and an old Holy Criminals T-shirt and pulled both on before peering through the door’s security viewer. The violent hammering had reduced to a series of sharp raps punctuated by long pauses, as if the person on the other side had just about given up and decided that maybe I really wasn’t in.