Death by Indulgence Page 7

  Konrad’s greatest fan, concierge George, was manning the front desk and squeaked with unbridled anticipation when Konrad leant over the polished desk surface to have a private word.

  Gorgeous George was known to every member of staff in the building. His genuine optimism for life was infectious and his hilarious campiness made for delightful entertainment. George’s co-worker, the simpering Lillian, had become desensitised to this behaviour. She loved George’s outrageous mannerisms and he in turn appreciated her quiet enthusiasm for meeting and greeting. They made a fabulous contribution to the first impressions of visitors to the soulless building. Lillian approached as Konrad whispered the news. He couldn’t face causing upset, so he put a positive slant on the outcome of the meeting in the hope that it would come true.

  ‘You’ll have to put up with me for a while longer by the looks of things.’

  George almost sank to his knees, he had an unerring crush on Konrad and fawned over him at every given moment, thus, with dramatic flair, he clutched at his heart. ‘Oh thank God for that. I’ve been worried sick. Haven’t I, Lillian?’

  She nodded as George interrupted any attempt she may have made to speak. ‘Sick to the core, Mr Neale. I couldn’t have imagined coming to work and not seeing you again. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it Lillian?’

  George’s longsuffering co-worker shook her head slowly, smiled and said, ‘He’s been in a terrible state since you arrived for the meeting.’

  Konrad stifled a laugh, managing to keep a straight face as he patted George on the shoulder. ‘Everything is fine, George. As you were.’

  Lillian handed over a large brown envelope. ‘A courier delivered this for you, Mr Neale. Private and Confidential. I assumed it was the one you’d been waiting for.’

  Konrad thanked her for her diligence and tucked the envelope into his document folder as he walked through the revolving glass door. Once outside on the noisy London streets he frowned and uttered an expletive aimed towards the snow-laden sky. He pulled his tweed cap from his overcoat pocket and headed to the park. It was the best way to march off his adrenalin and find the nerve to call Lorna and speak to her as if nothing in the world were wrong.

  It didn’t work.

  ‘When were you going to tell me it was under threat of being cut?’

  He’d been blown. His daughter Eliza must have been in touch with Lorna, or vice versa.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. Anyway, I made a strong case, and I even managed to negotiate a change of executive management, should I be reinstated, on the grounds that D.L.C. and I have a conflict of interest. That way Delia, the unprincipled bitch, can’t put the kybosh on my future. Our future. If I win, then we can safely say that the rebellion has been well and truly quashed.’

  ‘I do hope your confidence is well founded. When will they decide?’

  ‘I have to make another pitch with a fully formed concept for the new series by the second week in February. I’ll think of something.’

  He wasn’t at all certain that he could develop a workable proposal by then, let alone sell it convincingly. A cold sweat sprang from his forehead as a wave of nausea hit.

  ‘Can we make Harry Drysdale’s disappearance our first programme of the new series?’ Lorna said without hesitation. Konrad lifted the phone from his ear and stared at it before speaking again.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Seriously, Kon. I’ve been digging, and I have tidings, tantalising tidings but not of great joy. Of mystery and puzzlement. Do you think you can get back on the train before they stop running because of the wrong type of snow on the tracks? Come home. We’re meeting Barney and Netty in The Valiant for dinner and a preliminary facts discussion about Harry and his secret lifestyle choices. They are what you would call big and juicy.’

  ‘Yes.’ He sighed loudly with relief, not needing any more of a clue from his wife. ‘Yes, you bloody marvellous woman, I’m on my way right now.’ Konrad tapped his leather document pouch. Hopefully he would have something valuable to contribute later that evening and with any luck he may drag a miracle from misfortune and save his pride before the public witnessed his fall from grace.

  13

  The morning after dinner at Buxham’s

  Marcus Carver stretched and yawned. A contented sigh escaped as he surveyed the evidence of a satisfying evening with Leonora. She was long gone, sometime around midnight. Dessert had been served in his room, as usual, and they had eaten together savouring each mouthful: he a small dainty portion, she an amount worthy of a banquet for the gluttonous.

  There the trolley stood by the door, laden with dirty crockery and cutlery waiting to be collected later by the housekeeping staff. They would also have the unenviable job of dealing with the soiled sheets and towels; the ones covered in essential oils and bodily fluids.

  He drew a deep breath through his nostrils, filling his senses with the recollections of his hands on Leonora’s rolling folds. Recalling the feel of her sweat on his forefinger as he played with her deep naval cavity, his eyes closed with the pleasure of the memory. Those moments would have to serve him for a whole week until he could return for another helping. Then he smiled at the thought of the new restaurant hostess, the one he had been introduced to the previous evening as he and Harry were heading for their rooms with Leonora and Ciara in tow.

  He had spied her earlier in the evening and been shaken by a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Mild panic had set in as he wracked his brain trying to place where he had seen her before. It was only when Teresa directed them to the charcoal life drawing by the entrance to the bar area that he made the connection. That drawing had been the talking point of the previous three weeks with both he and Harry taking turns to name the mysterious beauty.

  Now she had a real name: Ella. She also had an enticing coquettishness that deserved attention and Marcus found himself fantasising that he could persuade Ella to be his personal life model. She could pose for him in his room. Couldn’t she? Yes, she could if Harry didn’t beat him to it.

  Their rivalry was part of the game.

  His mobile phone rang, jarring him upright from his early morning daydream pose on the edge of the bed. It was Lydia. His wife didn’t usually bother him at the club. She seemed to sense that it was better to leave him to his male only, old-fashioned antics. He had never lied to her about the club. As far as he knew, she’d made the assumption that he stayed at a gentlemen’s club and sat around with a bunch of professional cronies. No doubt she thought they discussed articles in The Lancet while sipping brandy, just like his father used to do.

  ‘Morning. Sorry to disturb you but I just wanted to remind you not to be late if you can help it. The children are planning to trash the kitchen after school and are determined to make a birthday dinner for you. Marcus? Are you there?’

  Whenever Lydia spoke to him on the phone, he had a picture of her in his mind of how she used to be; fulsome, a proper shape for a woman. A size befitting a lady who gave generously of her time to charity and doted on her offspring, the homemaker, the housewife. He wanted that woman back and his heart gave a short flutter of extra beats in recognition of the fact. He’d worked hard to win her in the first place.

  ‘Yes. I’m here. I’m listening. I’ll try not to be late, but I can’t promise.’

  ‘Thanks. The girls are so keen to cook for you. Good night with the rest of the stuffed shirts was it?’

  Their conversation was false. ‘The food was excellent as usual, but I went to bed early. Surgery’s turning into a slog on a Thursday at the moment.’ Marcus stared at the mess surrounding him and smirked to himself at the contrast between his night of pleasure and the banal communication he was having with his wife.

  ‘Pre-Christmas panic?’

  ‘What? Oh, I see what you mean. Surgery being busy because of a last minute panic? God, no. It’s far too late for anyone to have surgery in time for Christmas. No. This is the summer holiday and wedding panic. Six months recovery and h
ealing time.’

  ‘I should have realised. How stupid of me. Listen, Marcus, while you’re on the phone. I’ve been in contact with a counsellor, he’s highly recommended and he’s got space to see us in January, but−’

  ‘You can go if you like, I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘Marcus, please. It’s for both of us but it will have to be on a Wednesday evening near your London clinic.’

  Briefly Marcus held the phone to his chest. His hands began to shake as he returned it to the side of his head. ‘No. That’s impossible. I have surgery on Thursdays and I need to be nearby the previous night. It’s too long a journey otherwise. You’ll have to ask him to rearrange.’

  There was a pause. ‘This is about our marriage, Marcus. Can’t you make an exception for a few weeks? He’s a highly sought after counsellor and won’t have space for another six or eight months after that.’

  Irritation arose in Marcus’s voice. How dare she? Did she think she was in control here?

  ‘Then find someone else, or, better still, forget the whole idea. We’ll work it out between us. How hard can it be?’ There was a bitter edge in his tone. He heard it but couldn’t smooth it out.

  Lydia’s response was equally barbed. ‘I wouldn’t know. Yours hasn’t been hard for over a year… unless it has been for someone else.’ She paused. ‘Marcus, if you’re having an affair then I think you should have the good grace to tell me.’

  Marcus was stunned. ‘Shit, Lydia, this is a physical problem not a marriage problem.’ As the words bumbled out he knew they were wrong.

  ‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you? If it’s impotence, then speak to one of your medical buddies and get it sorted.’ He could hear defiance, or was it mockery?

  ‘You know bloody-well that it’s not about me.’ He stabbed at the phone ending the call, his heart racing, his eyes burning into the phone screen. Seething.

  As the months of pretence and denial had dragged by, he and Lydia had resorted to telephone calls as a safe way of discussing his alleged lack of sex drive. She had blamed his high levels of work stress at first and he had played along only dropping the odd hint about her weight loss being counterproductive. Then he began to beg her not to diet any more. She ignored his pleas and countered by reminding him how her self-esteem had improved, how much more fun she was having with her children and how healthy she felt.

  Those were his lines, the ones he used to persuade his overweight patients to proceed with exorbitant surgery.

  One night as they were preparing for bed he held her by the shoulders and confessed. ‘I find you more attractive the way you were. I love the curves.’

  ‘I know you do, but you should love me however I look. I’m happy. Don’t take that away from me, Marcus.’ He didn’t. Not then. Instead he went looking elsewhere for pleasure.

  14

  The Second Weekend of December

  Thanks to a release of tension during his evening with Leonora, Thursday’s surgery list had been uneventful. Later that day, his evening birthday treat at home with Lydia and the children had been bearable, but only because he had a weekend medical conference in York to look forward to. With Friday and Saturday accounted for, he wouldn’t have to face Lydia’s bony prominences again until some time on Sunday afternoon.

  The lectures had been informative and inspiring but his world shook as a personal earthquake hit at about nine o’clock on the Saturday evening.

  Standing with his nose over a gin and tonic, he had been privy to a general discussion between colleagues in the bar of the hotel. The lively debate had been about the ethics of offering surgery to friends and relatives of colleagues. During the exchange of views, his old mentor and one of his business rivals, Charles Broughton, approached him and took him to one side.

  ‘I noticed you were rather quiet. I suppose it’s a subject painfully too close to home. Can I ask how Lydia is doing?’

  ‘Lydia is doing fine thanks. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She certainly seems to have benefitted. Wouldn’t you say?’ Charles was speaking in his usual pompous manner, but it was the nature of his enquiry that threw Marcus. Why was Charles Broughton asking about Lydia? Then Charles revealed himself. ‘I’m always interested in how well my patients are faring after surgery. Aren’t you? Gastric bands can be so effective for—’

  There had been a burst of raucous laughter from the nearby gathering of fellow surgeons, amused at an anecdote. Charles had turned towards the noise but looked back at Marcus in time to see him reel back in shock at the dawning realisation. He placed his drink on the nearest coffee table and, with a thunderous look in Charles’ direction, he turned to leave without engaging in any form of reply.

  Not far away the gaggle of doctors had picked up on the tense interaction. What followed was a palpable silence broken by low sounds of ‘Oh-oh’ from a young intern. After a few long seconds, a stammering apology came from Charles Broughton who raced after Marcus down the wide carpeted hotel lobby.

  ‘Marcus. Marcus, wait. Christ, old chap, I do apologise, that was insensitive of me. I thought you knew.’ Charles Broughton had paled, suddenly aware that he had committed professional transgressions that could place him in the line of fire for accusations of misconduct.

  Marcus wasn’t even thinking in the same vein. He aimed one shoulder at Charles Broughton, avoiding a face-to-face confrontation and a withering, contemptuous look shot from his slitted eyes. He said, ‘Do the words professional courtesy mean nothing to you?’ Marcus could barely manage to finish the sentence. Confidentiality be damned, this was deliberate professional sabotage designed to inflict lasting damage. What would people think if this ever got out? The internal rage he felt at that disclosure and that open declaration and breach of confidentiality never left him. It festered.

  Worse than anything was discovering that Lydia had deceived him, battering the last of his personal defences, decimating any trust between them. He knew nothing of her gastric band, but he did recall her words as she announced her intentions to change. ‘You have to stop feeding me. I can barely get up the stairs without puffing. We don’t go out together, which is hardly surprising, and I know you say you want me like this but I have to think of the children.’

  Lydia had tried dieting, tablets, exercise, and he honestly thought it was her self-determination that had finally helped her to succeed in spite of his forceful assurances that it was unnecessary. He was emphatic that dieting was not the answer, even so and despite the harm she was causing, she had disobeyed him. She hadn’t found a miracle diet; she hadn’t become Weight Watchers’ success story of the year because, unbelievably, she had secretively sought the services of his competitor, his adversary, Charles Broughton of all people.

  Back stabbing bitch that she had become, she didn’t even have the common sense to ask one of his practice colleagues. How could she be so much more self-assured? Where had this inner strength to defy him come from?

  He thought back to the time when she would have contrived to undergo the surgery. She had travelled with her mother to South Wales with the children to recuperate from some minor surgery to remove a problematical polyp in her uterus. That’s what she had told him and he hadn’t been interested enough to ask details. Being honest with himself, he had been glad of the respite their departure had brought. They had gone to Lydia’s parents’ holiday cottage in Tenby, and stayed for over three weeks, but, when he phoned her there, he was too distracted to enquire beyond everyday happenings.

  ‘Hello, darling. Having a good time? Feeling better? How are your parents? The children? Good. Nice weather there I notice from the reports…’

  Her health problems, fictitious ones as it turned out, had prevented her from carrying out her wifely duties for several months prior to her surgery and thus she was unavailable to satisfy his sexual appetites. He was irritated by her excuses, and with his hunger increasing, had sought to indulge himself elsewhere, desperately skirting the obvious availability of his trusting but sexually ma
gnetic obese patients.

  Flicking through health magazines for tantalizing “before and after” weight loss pictures failed to supply the necessary release. Public transport merely provided him with seedy fleshy encounters that did nothing more than drive his need; he brushed against plump women on the London Underground rather than take a cab. He once stood in a queue at a fast-food restaurant and accidentally reversed into a large lady standing behind him. With fear of exposure impeding him, he could do no more than make a grab for her enormous arm as he apologised to her cleavage.

  In desperation he resorted to use of a plus sized prostitute by the name of Wanda. However, her cheap perfume, lack of intelligent conversation, sordid rental room and disrespect for his particular requests left him feeling dirty. She rushed him. He hated that.

  Spectacular relief came in the shape of a call to Harry Drysdale.

  ‘Harry, it’s Marcus. That offer you once made me… I’d like to take you up on it if I may?’

  The Wednesday of his wife’s first week on so-called holiday, Harry had taken him to Buxham’s as his guest. That initial foray into the expensive but utterly gratifying world of indulgences led him down a path he could not resist. The very next week he signed up for full membership and his inner demons escaped from their box permanently.

  Packing his bag to leave the hotel in York on the Sunday after the medical conference had finished, he planned to leave without having to face his esteemed surgical colleagues and their inevitable questions over breakfast. He was angry. Bitter.

  His wife’s actions had completely sideswiped him. Was it a spiteful act of revenge for sexual bullying - as she had called it? If it was, he couldn’t understand what had brought about such change. She should have been grateful to him. After all, he’d taken her on with two children in tow and all she had to do was satisfy him. She had always been his release, his safety valve to protect him from himself until she deliberately removed herself from his playground.