It was six years ago, spring 1992; Weston had hosted an intimate dinner party at her house in South Hampton. A select gathering, spelling power and influence. It was a celebration: Kelly’s publishing company had just won two prestigious awards; one for a cutting-edge, investigative magazine that she had purchased three years previously for next to nothing, increasing the circulation to over half a million; and another for Editor of the Year. Weston had closely observed Kelly chatting to Todd Prescott, an extremely wealthy senator. The naturally gregarious Kelly had been in a strange mood all evening, and Weston had thought her distracted and withdrawn. After dinner Todd left, and Kelly had asked to stay the night. She and Weston had sniffed a few lines of cocaine, and listened to music. It was Marvin Gaye singing ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’ that prompted Kelly to dance. With her long hair whipped across her face, she had laughed, urging Weston to join her. Weston had refused, happy to watch her friend gyrate; happy to bask in the warm flush that spread from her nipples to her groin when Kelly began to take off her clothes.
Stripped to her panties, hips swaying, she’d danced till the end of the tape, then she stood very still in the middle of the room, panting, breasts rising and falling, her hands running up and down the entire length of her body leaving glistening trails in the sheen that clothed her. Kelly, not taking her eyes off Weston, had slowly slipped her panties down her legs and, sinking to her knees, she crawled to the sofa where Weston sat.
‘You want to eat me, don’t you?’ Kelly had said.
Weston, her mouth suddenly very dry, had merely nodded and watched, lost in desire and anticipation. When Kelly turned round, for a moment she’d thought she was going to crawl away. But instead she bent over gracefully, provocatively, and arched her back, thrusting her tight ass in the air. Weston had gasped when Kelly spread her legs, hands reaching back to ease her buttocks apart and tracing a line that ran down to the bud of her clitoris, which was being rubbed by one finger.
Weston could recall muttering, ‘You’re so beautiful,’ as she opened her mouth to taste Kelly. A fresh and faintly peachy sensation.
The following morning, over breakfast, Kelly had dismissed the encounter. She’d wanted to have a woman, been curious; the cocaine had made her feel horny, she’d needed to come, nothing more. They never mentioned it again.
Weston now took another sip of her drink to drown the memory before it engulfed her. Looking up afterwards, she spotted Beth coming into the restaurant – true to form on the dot of one o’clock. Weston saw her friend before a waiter directed her to the table, and had the opportunity to observe her unawares. Beth was wearing what she always wore, a badly fitting suit. She had appalling dress sense, and no idea what was right for her big-boned, pear-shaped frame. In summer she favoured either a cotton or linen suit, always with a sleeveless tank. The winter version was invariably in wool and usually worn with an assortment of bright polo-neck sweaters, or high-necked starched white shirts. Today she had opted for a black pinstripe, with a long jacket and knee-length skirt. Underneath she had chosen a canary yellow cable sweater, with a brightly patterned scarf tied at the neck. Her freshly cropped dark hair was gelled flat to her head, she wore no make-up save a slash of scarlet lipstick that made her white face look like a death mask. As Beth neared the table, Weston rose.
‘How long have you been here?’ Beth asked between kisses.
‘Not long, I got out of my meeting early so I thought …’ Weston pointed to the half-empty glass, ‘why not have myself a quick shot before you guys arrive.’
Beth dropped to a chair, black eyes darting round the restaurant. The pupils always reminded Weston of shiny jet beads.
‘I need a drink, too. Douglas is the prize prick of the month. I’m telling you the man is a shit, and if I wasn’t such a lady I’d punch him in the mouth.’
Weston laughed, teasing Beth as she summoned a waiter. ‘Being a lady’s never stopped you in the past.’
Beth grinned. ‘He’s bigger than me.’ Then to the waiter who was hovering, ‘Get me a Scotch on the rocks.’
‘Since when did you start drinking Scotch?’
‘Just. That Douglas creep has driven me to drink.’
‘So tell me about it. On second thoughts, I think you already have. The last time he dumped on you, and the time before that. I did warn you not to marry him. Come on, Beth, the man is gorgeous; women come on to him, he can’t resist. Why don’t you take my advice, and lose him? Like once and for all.’
‘Would you believe me if I told you we still have a great sex life? And that I love the louse?’
Weston raised her eyes. ‘Now that I can accept. It’s as good a reason as any for staying with the sonofabitch.’
The Scotch arrived and Beth took a sip, wrinkling up her tiny nose as it hit the back of her throat.
‘No, you’re right of course, I should dump him. But a gal’s got to do what a gal’s got to do, and I need a little pleasure in life. Running the numbers, playing the financial markets, acquisitions and mergers … moving billions of dollars around the world; believe me, it gets mighty tedious. And after fourteen hours of that every day, getting smashed and getting laid becomes top priority. Doug is convenient and he does it good, better than anyone I’ve ever known; he knows exactly how to ring my bells.’ Beth winked. ‘Know what I mean?’
Weston was about to retort that it had cost Beth dearly, both financially and emotionally, when Kelly swept into the restaurant – causing heads to swivel and subdued appreciative whispers.
Weston felt her heart leap. Kelly had that effect on most people, men and women alike. She was, to say the least, beautiful. But more than just on the surface; she had a radiance, a charismatic aura that was tangible. It was a rare man who was not immediately intoxicated by her; a rare woman who didn’t immediately want to be her. Today she was wearing her long hair piled high on her head in a fashionably messy topknot, several strands fell on to her oval face and down the nape of her long neck. When she reached the table she was smiling, but it wasn’t with her usual all-consuming warmth. This smile was taut, forced, polite, the type normally reserved for an unwelcome or distant acquaintance. Weston knew instinctively there was something awry. Reaching across, she covered Kelly’s hand with her own.
‘What is it, Kelly, is there something wrong?’
Kelly nodded, meeting Weston’s enquiring eyes and acknowledging Beth with a sigh. ‘I need a drink.’ She sat silently until a large glass of white wine was placed in front of her. Then she raised it. ‘First and foremost I want to drink to the Pact.’
The three women raised their glasses and drank. Weston was impatient but she knew not to press Kelly, she would tell all in her own time.
‘To the Pact.’ They said it in unison.
Kelly took three deep gulps of wine, placed her glass down carefully and looked first at Weston, then Beth. ‘Three guesses who I’ve just seen on the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second?’
‘Kevin Costner?’ Beth piped up, giggling.
‘This