One Way or Another(64)

There was a tap at the door, and he turned to look. It was Mehitabel. He said nothing, simply stared at her, taking in the elaborate evening dress, the emeralds, the diamond hair clips. Irritated though he was to see her when what he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, he complimented her on her appearance, and asked, since she was so dressed up, where she was going.

“I’m here for you,” was her reply. The satin skirt slid open over her thigh as she took a step toward him, revealing a pale, slender leg and a hint of what lay beyond where the skirt just closed together.

Mehitabel was not the woman Ahmet wanted but despite himself he felt aroused; she was sexy in her way, lovely for sure, if you only glimpsed her in passing; elegant, classy even, if of course you did not know her background. Mehitabel could pass in most situations these days, thanks to his help, and his teaching, and his money. But right now he did not know why she was here and what she wanted of him.

She came and stood at his elbow, reached across and filled up his glass.

“Please, take one yourself,” he said, indicating a fresh glass on the tray. She poured a little of the red wine into it. As she leaned over he caught a glimpse of her exposed breasts, the dark, pointed nipples like shadows. It was obvious Mehitabel wore nothing under the green satin. Since Ahmet had never thought of her in any sexual way he wondered uneasily what was going on.

She stood in front of him, sipping the wine, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. He knew enough to understand Mehitabel’s smile meant either a secret, or trouble. “Okay, so let’s have it,” he said wearily; he was in no mood for game-playing, he had decisions to make, moves to make, earth-shaking moves. First, though, he had to figure out exactly what and how.

Mehitabel met his eyes. Her smile disappeared and she became all at once deadly serious. “I have something for you.”

He was busy with his own thoughts, impatient. “Well, what is it then?”

“Let me show you.”

Mehitabel strode back and opened the door. “Come in,” she said, though not, Ahmet noticed, in a kindly way. She was giving an order.

He stared at the woman who came into the room, stumbling in oversize red flip-flops, drowning in too-big gray sweats, bent over as if in pain. Her shaved head gleamed naked in the lamplight and around her neck was a jeweled dog collar, attached to the lead which Mehitabel held raised high in the air so that it pulled the woman’s neck, forcing her head up, so she would look at him.

“Dear God.” Ahmet stared at the woman he knew as Angie; though how he’d recognized the former sexy girl with the come-on patter and the mass of wonderful hair and the eyes that promised a future, he did not know. This … creature … did not belong in his drawing room; she did not belong on earth, in the land of the living!

He turned to Mehitabel, said, “Why? Why did you do this to her?”

Stunned by Ahmet’s reaction, Mehitabel took a step backward. Clutching a hand to her throat, she said, “But I thought only to please you, I wanted you to extract full pleasure from this—”

“From this S&M tawdriness? From dressing her up—then taking her down? Mehitabel, you do not know me. This is not what gives a man like me pleasure. You do not give me pleasure. You are here only to obey orders, to carry out my commands, not to think on your own, to decide what I like and what I don’t like. Take this … person … away. Clean her up, dress her in her own clothing. No jewels. No bonds. Then bring her to me.”

Still Mehitabel hesitated.

“Understand?” he barked, and Mehitabel turned at once, took Angie’s arm, and led her out of the room.

Ahmet sank back into his chair. He took a great gulp of the wine. He flung the beautiful Picasso plate into the hearth with its delicious toast and paté made by the nice old lady in Aix-en-Provence. He lay back with his head against the soft red leather chair, put his hands to his face, covered his eyes. Tears trickled through his fingers. He was as alone as he had ever been in his life. And he had no idea what he wanted. The yacht party, the grand ball, the famous guests.

After a while he sat up, he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed away the tears, took a few deep breaths, slowly, yoga style as he had been taught to do when meditating. He knew he could not go on like this, he must regain his control, put all thoughts of others aside, return to the man he had once been, the way he had started out, letting nothing, no one, stand in his way.

An Apple laptop sat on the desk under the window. He turned it on, waited a few seconds. Outside the window was only darkness. Appropriate, he thought, for what was about to happen. When the computer came to life he sent a message to France to immediately evict the old woman who made the paté from her small farm in Aix-en-Provence, close it down, kill off the animals, demolish the buildings. Leave nothing standing, nothing alive, was his order.

He got to his feet, looked around at the lamplit luxury, the overstuffed sofas and the too-heavy curtains and too many Turkish rugs, too much of everything. Soon Martha would change all that. Everything would be gone. He would make a fresh start. There was only one thing to get rid of now.

He called Mehitabel to bring Angie to him. Again.





45

Marco, Martha, and Lucy, with Em tucked as always under Marco’s arm where sometimes Martha thought she ought to be instead, though she told herself she seriously could not be jealous of a dog, took a flight to Antibes. Morrie remained in London, minding the shop, as he called it, and getting over what he’d told Martha was the scariest time of his life at Marshmallows, where he’d vowed never to return. That is until Martha told him he had to be practical, it was a job, he had work to do, and so did she; he should just get over it. Morrie guessed he would, but he would still not go back there alone.