The Perfect Retreat Page 0,74

some unpleasant Russian and a giant penis playing a guitar. Johnny heard her throwing things in the room next door and went to investigate.

‘You right darling?’ he asked smoothly as he heard the shattering of glass. Tatiana opened the door wearing knickers, a bikini top and sunglasses. She looked at him.

‘I hate him,’ she said, and she pointed to the wall.

Johnny looked at it, and then looked at her and smiled. ‘That’s really something,’ he said. ‘Ever thought about a career as an artist?’

Meanwhile Eliza and Kerr were getting pissed in the pub and she was planning his career in America. ‘They love accents over there. You should leave the band and go solo. Launch in America,’ she was coaxing him. She was sick of London and she was sick of Johnny. What she needed was a rich rock star and LA, where she could hang out with Posh Spice and maybe join Scientology with Katie and Tom.

Kerr listened to her. ‘You’re fucking right,’ he said. ‘I’m better than England. Fuck it, let’s do it.’

‘Excellent,’ said Eliza, draining her vodka.

‘What about Johnny?’ he slurred.

‘Who’s Johnny?’ She laughed and Kerr joined in, although he didn’t understand.

Later when they fucked in his bed underneath Tatiana’s mural, Eliza looked up at it as she rode him. ‘You’re such a rock star, trashing your hotel room like this,’ she said, her head spinning.

Kerr had no idea what she was talking about again, but he pumped harder. They fell asleep together.

In the room next door, Tatiana was holding a mug of hot chocolate as Johnny cut up the cocaine she had produced earlier.

‘You think I could be an artist?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I can make you a star of the art world.’ He leant down and snorted.

To be a star was all Tatiana had ever wanted, and she nodded. ‘I am vey passionate. I just need an outlet.’

‘Well how about you start on me then,’ said Johnny, undoing the robe he had slipped into and showing her his hard dick, completely devoid of pubic hair.

Tatiana smiled. Johnny was much more her type, she thought as she peeled off her shorts.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lucian picked up Custard the bear and walked downstairs. He could hear his mother and Merritt talking heatedly in the kitchen. Kitty wasn’t around, nor was Poppy. His father had left the house a while back. He found George asleep in the drawing room and he picked up the small puppy. Tying a long red hair ribbon of Poppy’s around the dog’s neck, he dragged him out through the French doors, out onto the terrace, and found himself on the lawn.

He looked each way. Where to go? he wondered. He reached down and patted the dog, and then set off in his red jumper and blue jeans.

He walked through the trees and came to a fence. Clambering under it, he was in a large field, and he looked around again. He let go of George’s ribbon and George ran ahead. Lucian chased him and they ran to the other side of the field, and soon they were both exhausted.

Coming to a road, Lucian put out his foot and stepped on the trail of ribbon to pull George back to him. He must be careful on roads, he always remembered Kitty saying that.

He walked up the road further. He had no idea where he was going, he just wanted to be away when his father tried to take Poppy and George away from him. He didn’t mind Poppy going so much, she was annoying, always talking when he was trying to find the words, but George was another story. George and Custard were his only friends. And Merritt, but he was a grownup after all, and you can’t trust grownups.

Taking a small path off the road, he walked along a bit further; but he felt tired. So tired. And hungry.

He sat down under a large tree and George settled in next to him. Lucian sat and closed his eyes for a moment. The sun on his face was nice. He liked the country, he thought. He liked lots of things, but no one understood him. No one tried. Maybe Merritt, a little, and Kitty; but not his mother or father. At the thought of his father, Lucian started to cry. Big fat tears rolled down his little face and he cried with sheer abandonment. He knew more than people thought; he had things he’d say one day. He knew stuff, plenty of stuff, if someone would listen.

George