It was Pocock. After all the lovely plants he’d given her, Etta felt a brute saying no.
Collapsing on her bed with hysterical laughter, she fell asleep.
93
The Major – a great warrior brought down by sexual desire – was stalking the passages. He couldn’t waste his Viagra. The soldier’s pole must not fall. He leapt behind a sculpture of Ben Jonson as he saw Seth knock on Bonny’s door and slide inside. He’d be busy for a few hours.
Padding along the passage, moustache erect, the Major found Corinna’s door open. He tiptoed inside.
The bedside light was still on, a bottle of champagne on its side dripping its last dregs on to the carpet. A newspaper lay open at a rave review and a lovely picture. The Major folded it neatly.
Corinna was naked, her long legs apart, lips protruding. An arm thrown back on the pillow raised one big floppy breast higher than the other. Her tummy was concave, she was snoring slightly but still looked ‘As she would catch another Antony/In her strong toil of grace.’
The Major had been unbearably moved by her on the stage, holding his programme over his erection throughout her last scenes. Overcome by lust, glancing down at his stumpy but loyally erect penis, parting his Paisley dressing gown: ‘Long and thin goes right in,’ whispered the Major, ‘but short and thick does the trick.’ Switching off the bedside light, he climbed on top of her.
‘Wakey wakey, here comes Snakey or rather Aspie. The nobleness of life is to do thus.’ He gave a thrust.
It was not quite necrophilia because Corinna did wake up, groaning with delight as his bristling moustache rearranged her pubic hair as he kissed her between the legs until she was flowing like the Nile. Then, plunging into her, he felt her iron muscles tightening round his cock. By Jove!
‘“Give me my robe … I have/Immortal longings in me,”’ she mumbled.
Did she mean her dressing gown, white and silken and tossed over an armchair? Evidently not, for Corinna held out her arms. The Major had found new heaven and new earth.
Rogue Rogers, clocking with fury Amber going upstairs with Marius, joined forces with Seth, who had plans for a foursome.
‘Just like bridge. Shall we ask Alan to join us as well?’ asked Rogue.
‘Christ no, he’s Trixie’s father and a journalist and I don’t fancy Tilda’s teeth on my dick.’
The moment Bonny had come off the telephone to Valent, she had nodded at Seth and disappeared upstairs. Shortly afterwards he had followed her. Registering this, trying not to cry, Trixie fled upstairs to her room, which was called ‘Alonso’, then realized she’d left her new pink high heels in the Prospero Suite. Opening the door, she went slap into Seth, wearing nothing but a pair of black jeans, from which his body reared sleek, muscular, perfect.
Trixie gave a sob. ‘Go away.’
‘Silly child.’ He shoved her back into ‘Alonso’, pulling her against him.
He smelt of drink, sweat, Terre, his musky, sweet aftershave and, too late, as his lips came down on hers, of Allure, Bonny’s favourite scent.
‘Why are you being so mean?’ she sobbed.
‘I had to punish you,’ murmured Seth. ‘You were so arrogant, Lady Disdain, you needed bringing into line.’
Then he kissed her properly, as he had done so often when he was coaching her, holding her upright as her knees gave way, pouring bliss into her. As he pulled away, she stammered: ‘I’ve been so unhappy, you were so cool in the play then so cold at the party.’
‘Not any more.’ Taking her hand, he frogmarched her down the passage. Only when she was inside ‘Caliban’, with the door shut and locked, did she realize Bonny was lying naked in the centre of a large four-poster.
‘No,’ gasped Trixie, ‘not with her, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can, little bitch, you’ll adore it.’ Bonny’s words were slurred, her eyes crossing with drink. ‘It takes a woman’s touch.’ She reached out to Trixie’s breasts. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured, unbuttoning the pink satin coat, cupping, squeezing, caressing. ‘Come on, baby.’ Her touch was unbelievably gentle.
‘I can’t,’ Trixie leapt backwards, ‘it’s gross.’
‘That’s not very polite,’ said a soft Irish voice, ‘when you’re going to have such a lovely time.’
Next moment, iron arms that had driven and thrust a thousand winners past the post gathered her up, ripped off her leggings and pants and laid her beside Bonny.
‘Rogue, how could you?’ sobbed Trixie. ‘Get me out of here.’