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He scowled now as she opened the door to him, ready to demand an explanation from her.
What had got into her? Pulling that idiotic trick of returning his tie like that. Now the postscript at the bottom of Fern’s note was beginning to make sense. She must have known that even someone as dim as Fern would put two and two together, and then telling Fern that she wanted to see him… He could feel
the irritation bubbling up inside him. He couldn’t afford to antagonise Venice now, not when he was so desperately in need of her business, nor was he ready yet to give up his place in her bed. She was an exciting lover, a little too demanding perhaps at times… a little too unfemininely aggressive in the insistence that he complete her pleasure. His ego did not take happily to the suggestion that what he had already given her might not be enough, that he had not totally satisfied her, but whenever he tried to correct this annoying habit, by subtly trying to shift the responsibility for her failure to reach her own preferred peak of orgasmic satisfaction on to her, she somehow or other always managed to turn the tables on him, refusing to accept, as Fern would have done, as other women had, his careful redirection of the ‘blame’ on to her shoulders, by implying that she was not perhaps sexual enough… not perhaps quite woman enough… She simply laughed at him, mocking him almost as she told him graphically and with an almost shocking bluntness just what it was about his own performance she had found lacking and just what it was she wanted him to do to correct this shortfall.
And in truth there was a part of him, an alien and previously unknown part, that was almost squirmingly and secretly excited by this kind of humiliation. In truth, on those occasions when Venice did complain about his performance, he always invariably found himself being driven, compelled, obsessed almost by the need to prove her wrong… to show her… to reinforce upon her his mastery, his control… his supremacy.
It was only afterwards, lying exhausted, drained, soaked with sweat, his muscles still trembling with effort, in her bed, the fog of almost manic intensity gone, that it struck him that he was far from being in control, from being her master, and that, in contrast, she was the one who was supreme, the one who manipulated and used him. But these thoughts seldom lasted very long.
Venice was a woman, and, like all women, she was weak and vulnerable, easily dominated by his sex.
He needed Venice in his life right now, he reminded himself as she let him in. He needed to keep her sweet, to give way a little to her…
But she had to realise that when it came to his marriage…
He was frowning as she led him into her drawing-room. He couldn’t tell her, of course, why his marriage was so important to him; why it was so essential that Fern not be allowed to leave him for Adam… Adam, whom he had always loathed from the moment their parents had married and he had seen the way his mother had turned away from him, giving to Adam’s father and to Adam the time and attention which had previously belonged exclusively to him… gently upholding Adam to him as a role-model.
‘Darling, what kept you so long?’ Venice was pouting teasingly at him, her manner all little-girl-lost, all soft and coaxing.
For a moment he was briefly soothed, and then he remembered his irritation.
‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ he demanded, pulling away from her, turning his back on her as he walked over to the window. ‘Fern recognised that tie and now she’s starting to make a fuss about me seeing you.’
No need to tell her what Fern had actually said; and perhaps by threatening and hinting that he might have to curtail their meeting he could both subtly punish her for breaking one of the unwritten rules of their affair—rules which he had laid down in his head even if he had never discussed them with her—and experience the discreet pleasure of reminding her of who it was who actually controlled their relationship… and her.
He turned round, keeping his face impassive, waiting for the protests, the apologies, the tears which he knew would follow.
He would make her squirm for a while… draw out the punishment just a little before magnanimously forgiving her.
He could feel the pressure and tension aroused by Fern’s unexpected rebellion and the row they had had starting to ease, the uplifting mental and emotional narcotic of knowing he was the one in control running swiftly through his veins.
‘Darling, I’m sorry, but I had to do it.’
He could hear the remorse in Venice’s voice. He turned round, starting to relax slightly.
She had been jealous, of course. Women were like that: jealous, possessive, vulnerable… Any minute now Venice would start telling him that it was her love for him that had driven her to it. He would have to point out to her of course that Fern was his wife… that…
‘She had to know. And it seemed kinder, more tactful to do it that way than to wait until…’
Nick frowned. Something had gone wrong. That was not what Venice should have been saying. Where was the remorse and self-abasement now? All he could hear in her voice was smooth determination, and a certain dangerous coolness.
She was smiling at him now, but it wasn’t an apologetic or pleading smile. His muscles tensed as he recognised the catlike quality of Venice’s smile, the knowingness… the superiority of it.
Something was wrong…
‘Darling, I’ve got the most wonderful news. I’m pregnant.’
Nick stared at her.
Watching him, registering his shock, Venice continued to smile beatifically and vacuously at him. It was a smile she had been practising in front of the mirror for weeks now. Long before she had actually conceived… It was a copy of a smile she had seen on one of the vacuous, innocently virginal faces of a stone madonna statue she had seen on the last holiday she had had with her late husband before his death. They had gone to Italy… it had been a kind of a pilgrimage. He had been stationed there during the Second World War. If he had returned seeking a miracle, he had not found one, because he had died shortly after their return.
She had spent her time shopping and planning. She had seen his will by having finally managed to coax the young junior partner at this legal firm to provide her with a copy. The boy, if not precisely a virgin, had been young and inexperienced enough to have a brief novelty value as a lover, and it had given her an extra frisson of excitement to know that she had outwitted Bill and had seen his will.
It had been a relief to discover that he was still besotted enough with her to leave her everything unconditionally, but she was always conscious of the resentment her inheritance had caused his family. There was always the threat that with a clever lawyer and enough stamina they might just be able, if not to get the will totally overset, then potentially to overturn her total control of Bill’s estate.
Unless she did something about it… made her position so secure, her reputation so inviolate that she could not be touched. She had worked far too hard for Bill’s wealth to let it go.
She had been pondering the problem when she had first met Nick. Then he had simply been another attractive and vain man who had intrigued and amused her, and who had excited her sexually, but then, as time had gone on, she had begun to perceive that he might just possibly be able to play a different role in her life.
