Friends and Rivals. Tilly Bagshawe

Чтение книги онлайн.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Ivan Charles kept a firm grip on Joyce Wu’s hips as she bucked and moaned in pleasure. As well she might, thought Ivan, who’d spent the last fifteen minutes with his head between his teenage lover’s legs, trying to bring her to climax. Generally he wasn’t much of a one for oral sex – giving it, that is; receiving it was naturally an entirely different matter – but he made an exception for Joyce. Partly because she begged him to. Ivan Charles did enjoy a bit of begging. And partly because her smooth, hairless Asian pussy made him feel like he was doing a porn star, not a virtuoso violinist from a strict Chinese family. Although that was kind of horny, too.

      Even so, fifteen minutes was enough to give anybody jaw ache. His own orgasm already felt like a long time ago and he’d spent the last five minutes at least thinking exclusively about his meeting at ITV tomorrow and whether the blue or the green Paul Smith shirt would make him look more telegenic.

      ‘I’m coming!’ Joyce gasped, unnecessarily. Her twitching thighs had already imparted this information forcefully to the sides of Ivan’s head. Finally she stopped moving and slumped, exhausted, back against the chaise longue, panting. Ivan, also panting, headed to the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water.

      Ivan loved his Belgravia flat. Loved it. The lateral, two-bedroom apartment on Eaton Gate was his own private lair, his 1,500 square foot kingdom where he could do what – and whom – he pleased. Of course, The Rookery was home and he loved that too. In Oxfordshire, with Catriona, he was grown-up Ivan, husband Ivan, daddy Ivan. The unfortunate incident that Jack had witnessed in the bathroom on the night of his birthday was an anomaly. Usually, Ivan Charles made a point of keeping his two lives, and two selves, utterly separate. Here, in London, he was Ivan the player, Ivan the music mogul. He was, as one of Jester’s interns had rather brilliantly named him, after a brief but passionate affair, Ivan the Terrible. And the Eaton Gate flat was his palais d’amour.

      Every room was filled with mementos of his triumphant career. Here, in the kitchen, two Grammys and a Brit Award gleamed proudly on a shelf above the sink. The drawing room, an elegant Georgian reception space with double-aspect sash windows and original parquet flooring, was littered with framed photographs of Ivan with music industry greats. Ivan and Burt Bacharach hugged on top of the piano, Ivan and Alfie Boe laughed on a yacht on the antique side table. On the wall above the chaise longue, where Joyce Wu lay sprawled in postcoital contentment, Ivan had a paternal arm wrapped around Charlotte Church back in her gawky teenage days.

      Secretly, Ivan longed to be able to line the walls with a different kind of star. The kind of artist that Jack represented for Jester almost exclusively. He wanted to have his picture taken with Will Smith and JLS and Justin Bieber. With Katy Perry and Britney and Kendall Bryce. He wanted to be in the pop world, to be young and contemporary and relevant. Most of all, he wanted to lead Jester out of the dark ages of old school music management and into the new era of reality television, of YouTube virals and multimedia world domination. It was a terrible irony, a travesty really, that he, Ivan, who ‘got’ the pop scene and was excited by the brave new world of free downloads and webcam concerts, should be stuck with an overwhelmingly classical list, while Jack ‘Sam Eagle’ Messenger, he of the paper diaries and computer phobia and all-American family values, should represent such cutting-edge acts as The Blitz and Kendall Coke-Head Bryce. The fact that Ivan’s list made more money than Jack’s was insufficient consolation. Classical fans still bought albums. Pop fans downloaded (aka stole) them. But if only Jack weren’t so pig-headed about Jester diversifying, into the TV world and beyond, Ivan was sure their rock and pop business would blossom exponentially. Tomorrow’s meeting with ITV would be Ivan’s first concrete step into these choppy waters, a step he was taking without his partner’s knowledge, still less his permission. Ivan had a lot riding on it.

      ‘Sweetheart, I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to ask you to skedaddle.’ Walking back into the drawing room he passed a still-naked Joyce her clothes. ‘I’ve got a ton of work to do this afternoon. Plus the cleaner’s coming in twenty minutes. We wouldn’t want her to find you here and spill the beans to the missus, would we?’

      Poor Ivan, thought Joyce, pulling a lemon-yellow sundress over her head and stuffing her knickers and bra into her handbag. Imagine being saddled with an old frump like Catriona and having to sneak around behind her back, just for the sake of the kids. He really is such a good father.

      ‘Of course not,’ she said solemnly, scooping up her violin from a red brocade armchair in the corner. ‘Don’t worry, darling. You can count on me to be discreet.’

      Ivan watched her leave, noticing for the first time how short her legs were for her body and how unsexy her walk was from behind, knock-kneed and gawky. The time had come to end things with Miss Wu. He would disengage gently, as he always did, with expensive jewellery and flowery apologies, citing family commitments for his reluctant change of heart. Ivan prided himself on the fact that not one of the clients he’d shagged then grown tired of had ever left Jester, or fired him as a manager. Women were marvellous creatures. They’d accept just about anything from a man, as long as it was done with charm, and a few choice trinkets from Asprey’s.

      With Joyce gone, Ivan could begin his day in earnest. Farting loudly to kick things off, a triumphant trumpet sound heralding the dawn of male freedom, he turned on Test Match special and, blasting the sound through the flat’s state-of-the-art audio system, retired to the master bathroom for a shower. Afterwards, he laid out a variety of shirt and tie combos on the bed and began to give serious consideration to which made him look the most handsome. Ivan was, and had always been, terribly vain. But tomorrow’s meeting at ITV genuinely merited a careful attention to his appearance. He was effectively auditioning to become one of the judges on a new talent show, an updated version of X Factor that combined both classical and popular acts. Mike Grayson, ITV’s new head of programming, was flamingly gay and well known to have a soft spot for good-looking male presenters. Ivan Charles fully intended to flirt the socks off Grayson. Once he got the gig, he could begin a new charm offensive with Jack.

      Holding a peach shirt and royal blue tie up to the mirror, Ivan started. Was that a noise downstairs? He turned off the cricket and listened. At first there was nothing. Then there it was again, a scraping, scratching sound, a bit like a … key! Oh my God, Catriona!

      Frantically Ivan tore around the apartment, hiding evidence of Joyce’s recent presence. Catriona never came to London – never, СКАЧАТЬ