‘Come to my room in five minutes,’ she whispered, stamping her cigarette out under her heel and disappearing back into the house.
Ten minutes later there was a polite knock at her bedroom door.
‘Lock it,’ she said. He did as she instructed and she knew he was putty in her hands.
‘So what does a muse do now?’ she said, tipping her head to one side.
He stood a foot away from her and folded his arms across his chest.
‘Let me look at you,’ he said, a quiver in his voice.
‘OK,’ she said, unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor. She’d removed her panties before he’d got there and stood naked in front of him except for her red-soled Louboutins.
‘Come closer,’ she said, enjoying the sense of power she had over him. She hadn’t felt this aroused, this in control, since she had fucked Mr Browning, her English teacher, twelve months ago. He’d been a terrible shag, but at least he had let her coast through his A level class ever since.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered.
‘I know.’
‘I want you.’
‘I know.’
He put his hand out, tracing around her dark beige aureole with the tip of his finger. His skin felt grooved and rough like an emery board, and as he moved his fingers down her long, lithe body she groaned, desperate to feel him inside her.
‘Touch me,’ she said, parting her legs, feeling his hand moving between her thighs. She gasped as he dipped two fingers into her warmth, then circled her hips, clenching around him.
‘Happy birthday,’ he whispered, pulling out of her to unfasten his trousers.
She felt a glow of pleasure and accomplishment. ‘Make sure you make it one to remember.’
Connie Ashford was a careful woman. Over the years, she’d had to learn to be. She did not like to think ill of the dead, but life had certainly not been easy with Robert Ashford. She’d known that her husband had been having affairs since soon after their children had been born, and she knew it went with the turf when you were married to a rich and successful man. But having made the decision to stay married to him, she had spent over two decades on red alert, safeguarding her position, ensuring none of his mistresses got too serious, and with the exception of Sasha Sinclair, she had been expert at detecting when women were closing in for the kill on her husband.
So when she’d seen her granddaughter and Julian talking, flirting in the courtyard, sharing a cigarette, she had been suspicious. She had never liked Julian, whom she considered too cocky and self-important by half, and Olivia had always been so precocious, rebellious and selfish. It was not surprising that she might be flattered by her mother’s glamorous boyfriend, but she couldn’t know what he had in mind, what foul idea was growing in his head. Age might have dulled Connie’s senses, but life experience had sharpened her instincts. So she watched and waited.
The whole of the south wing had been closed off to the party and the corridors were dark. Approaching Olivia’s bedroom, she could see that the door was closed, but she could hear noises coming from inside. Horrible, horrible noises. The guttural groans of frantic, passionate sex.
How could he? She was just a child! It was tantamount to incest. Connie’s anger rose: she couldn’t have this, she wouldn’t allow it. Through Robert’s selfishness she had been robbed of seeing her own children grow up, and she was fiercely protective of her granddaughter.
‘Stop this!’ she shouted, banging her hand on the door. ‘Stop it at once!’
She listened: frantic whispers, then footsteps. The door flew open and Julian was standing there naked, his face flushed, his penis still erect. Behind him she could see Olivia sitting on the bed, her knees pulled up, clutching her dress to herself, her expression shocked and guilt-stricken.
‘Connie!’ gasped Julian. ‘I can explain; it’s not what you think . . .’
She slapped him hard and he stumbled backwards.
‘I’m going to tell your mother,’ she hissed at Olivia. ‘I’m going to tell her right this second.’
She turned and hurried back down the corridor, heels tapping the granite floor, eyes glazing over with tears.
It was dark. Connie was unfamiliar with the house and did not know where the light switch was. She was confused. Anxious. Maybe she should tell Alex or Sarah Brayfield first. This would just destroy her daughter.
She reached the top of a small flight of stairs that led back to the main wing of the house.
She began to descend the steps, but her shoe slipped on the polished stone, turning her ankle over. Her thin hand grabbed the banister, but she was moving too fast: the momentum carried her forward, pitching her over, crashing down, down, hitting her head against the stone. Seeing flashing light, momentary pain. And then she felt nothing.
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