“I’d prefer a home fixture,” said Rupert. “And besides, our bed is bigger.”

He strolled over to Janey and began to kiss her. Frozen with horror, Helen watched him take her pink breast out of the white shirt and gently stroke it, then he undid the zip of her trousers. Helen shot a panic-stricken look at Billy, only to see him watching with fascinated pleasure.

Janey ran laughing into the bedroom. Giving a view halloo, Billy followed her. Rupert turned to Helen, holding out his hand.

“Come on, darling, or you’ll miss the first act.”

Helen looked at him aghast. “We can’t! what about the servants?”

“I sent them home hours ago.” He grabbed her arm.

At the bedroom door she balked. Billy, already undressed, was sitting on the bed drinking brandy, watching Janey and wearing Helen’s sun hat. He was roaring with excited laughter and had a huge erection. Janey was standing in front of the mirror, tossing her hair back, spraying Helen’s most expensive scent over her boobs, and jiggling them so they caught the light. Helen turned to bolt, but Rupert’s viselike grip on her arm tightened.

“No you don’t. Don’t be a fucking spoilsport. We might finally find out what turns you on.” Shoving her towards the bed, he turned the key and pocketed it. Turning to Billy, he added, “It’s harder than getting Snakepit into the lorry.”

Billy took off the sun hat and turned to Helen.

“Come on, lovie, it’ll be fun. No one’s going to eat you.”

“Everyone’s going to eat her,” said Rupert and, pulling down Helen’s panties and lifting her dress and her pink silk petticoat, he kissed her bush. As she wriggled frantically away, his hand clamped down on her bottom.

Across the room her eyes met Janey’s, which were mocking and slightly contemptuous.

“Come and help me undress her,” Rupert said to Janey.

As he peeled off the black dress and the petticoat, Janey undid the pink bra.

“Lovely underwear,” she said. “Did you get it at Janet Reger?”

Helen covered her pitifully small breasts with one hand, clasping the other over her bush.

“I can’t, I can’t,” she pleaded to Rupert in panic. “I truly can’t.”

“Don’t be so bloody wet,” he hissed. “Do you want to make me look a complete idiot. Here she is, all yours,” he added and, scooping her up, dropped her on the bed between Janey and Billy. The fastest trouser-dropper in the business, next minute he was on the bed beside Janey.

From then on it was a heaving anthill of legs and arms. Helen lay beneath Rupert, her eyes glazed, her hair coming down, as responsive as a corpse, aware that Rupert was fondling Janey’s breasts at the same time. Janey, determined to put on a virtuoso performance, climbed on top of Billy, bucking like a bronco, arching her back in pleasure, writhing and wriggling against Rupert’s hands.

Then they changed over and, despite shutting her eyes, Helen knew Billy was inside her. He was much solider and heavier, yet gentler than Rupert.

“I’m not hurting you, am I, angel?” he breathed in her ear, running his hands over her body. “You’re so beautiful. Please enjoy it.”

Helen didn’t respond, lying rigid with horror, her teeth clenched, eyes closed. Billy, her dear, dear friend. How could he do this to her? But Billy was watching Janey bucking on top of Rupert. God, she looked wonderful! He was so proud of her!

“I’m coming,” cried Rupert suddenly, his face contorting.

“So am I,” said Janey, screaming and threshing.

She might be faking, thought Billy, but it’s a lovely performance, and next moment he’d shot into Helen. Looking down, he saw two tears welling out of her closed eyes and coursing down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, angel. Please don’t cry.”

More tears welled.

Oh Christ, he thought. We shouldn’t have forced her. He rolled off, gathering her against him. Rupert gave Janey a long, long kiss, then eased out of her and said in an undertone, “See if you can get Helen going.”

“Move over,” Janey said to Billy, pushing him to the left of the bed. “Our turn now.” She trailed her fingertips up Helen’s thighs. Helen gave a moan of terror, shrinking away from Janey, eyes darting frantically for a way of escape. But, like bookends, Rupert and Billy blocked her exit.

“No, no, no,” she sobbed, as Janey’s insistent fingers started burrowing inside her, as she felt Janey’s breasts flopping on her stomach and Janey’s tongue on her breasts.

“Jesus,” Billy muttered to himself. “I’ll be off again in a minute.”

“Please don’t be frightened, Helen,” whispered Janey, as she caressed and stroked. “We’re all having such a good time, we want you to enjoy it too.”

I can’t go on forever, thought Janey, five minutes later. No wonder Rupert complains she’s frigid. She needs twenty-four hours’ defrosting. Rupert, bored with a spectator role, crawled down the bed and entered the slippery warmth of Janey from behind, so he could watch Helen. She looked like a martyr at the stake. Putting his hand around, he found that, despite Janey’s ministrations, she was as dry as a marathon runner’s throat.

She’s useless, he thought.

Suddenly, with Rupert behind Janey, Helen saw a way of escape. Shoving Janey to the left, she wriggled away from her and, before any of them had realized it, had jumped off the bed and stumbled across the room. In Rupert’s pocket she found the key.

“Come here,” he snarled.

For once she was in luck. In his excitement, Rupert hadn’t locked the door properly. Crying hysterically, she managed to slip out, slam the door, and turn the key, just as he crashed against it. She longed to run away into the night, but on the terrace the moon had gone in and everywhere was as black as ink. She heard the dry cough of a leopard and decided to settle for the third bedroom. There were no sheets on the bed. Huddled under the counterpane, gazing unseeingly at the bookcase, she shuddered until dawn. If her sleeping pills hadn’t been in the bathroom cupboard, which could only be reached by going through the bedroom, she would have taken the lot. Any minute she expected an enraged Rupert to appear and drag her back to the torture chamber.

But the others were enjoying themselves.

“The grown-up has gone to bed now,” said Janey.

“All hands on dick,” said Rupert, filling up the glasses.

Playing games of their own, they carried on till morning.


50


Ringing home next day, Helen discovered that Marcus was in bed with tonsillitis and a temperature of 103. She was so riddled with guilt that she felt so relieved there was a really good excuse to fly straight home by herself.

In recent months the tonsillitis attacks had been getting closer together. The antibiotics were having less effect and Marcus was looking so waiflike that Helen accepted James Benson’s recommendation that he should have his tonsils out at once.

“They’re as big as billiard balls. Marcus’ll be much better shot of them. It won’t cure the asthma, but all the illnesses he’s having as a result of the infected tonsils are pulling him down. There’s a very good man at the Motcliffe in Oxford. He’ll only be in hospital for four or five days.”

“Can I go in with him?”

“I honestly don’t recommend it. You’ve been under a lot of strain recently.” Privately Benson thought he’d never seen her look so wretched. “Leave him with experts who see this operation fifty times a week.”

“You’re saying I’m no good as a mother,” said Helen, beginning to shake.

“No, no,” said Benson reassuringly. “I’m saying you’re too good.”

“It’s certainly been a stressful year. D’you think that’s making his asthma worse?”

Benson shrugged. “Probably. Children are like radars; Marcus must realize how unhappy Rupert’s making you.”

Thank God we didn’t take the kids to Kenya, thought Helen, with a shudder.

“Rupert wouldn’t want me to go in with him.”

“Well, don’t. By all means visit him during the day, but go home and get a good night’s sleep every night.”

The night before Marcus was due to have his tonsils out, at the beginning of March, Helen and Rupert went to a big ball in London to raise funds for the Tory Party. It was the sort of invitation that Rupert would normally have refused; but, surprisingly, he was rather a fan of Mrs. Thatcher, the new prime minister, and felt she needed every bit of help if the Tories were to stay in power.

“You wouldn’t be able to afford to have Marcus’s tonsils out privately if the Socialists brought in a wealth tax.”

They went very grandly to the ball with several ministers and their wives. Helen found the evening a nightmare. Hollow-eyed, thinner than ever, her black ball dress had had to be taken in yet again. She knew she was being a damper on the evening, but all she could think about was Marcus in his white hospital bed and the surgeon’s knife going into his little throat in the morning. All around her, every table seemed filled with ravishing, chattering women flirting with bland smooth-haired men. At the same table a be-diamonded brunette with a roving eye, who’d already had a long amorous dance with Rupert, was surreptitiously holding hands with one Tory minister and, at the same time, making animated conversation to his wife.

The whole world’s at it, thought Helen, in despair.

There was Rupert coming off the dance floor, looking around for fresh talent. Goodness, he was going up to Amanda Hamilton, the much-admired wife of the minister for foreign affairs. Now she was smiling up at him and he was taking her onto the floor. She must be forty, but very attractive in a determined sort of way — driving her husband Rollo on from success to success, knowing everyone, rigidly governed by the social calendar.