Butterfly of Venus Read online

  BUTTERFLY OF VENUS

  Susan Ferrier MacKay

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Linda Mackay, a longtime friend who opened my eyes to the powerful world of a woman’s imagination. She gave generously of her time, insight and editing skills. A special mention goes to Alison Sinton and Leeann Abruzzi for contributing their wicked sense of humour. Other girlfriends gave much in the way of encouragement and support. Thanks for the shared laughter and your belief in me. Salut, ladies! Thanks as well to David Cobb, Beverley Slopen, Patrick Crean and my family.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth Harding disliked Friday afternoons because her staff treated them as an extra half-day vacation. As the sole owner of Alternative Talent Management, the biggest and most successful music management agency in Canada, she worked until at least nine p.m. every night and could frequently be found at her desk on weekends. This weekend would be different. Her friend Effie had arranged a spa day for them, and she’d agreed to go back to Effie’s penthouse for her birthday dinner on Saturday. She looked at her Cartier watch and sighed. It was four thirty. She might as well let ATM’s legion of marketing reps, production assistants and secretaries go home early. She could see them through the glass wall of her office. Were they actually throwing spitballs at each other? Kids. She should fire them all. Instead she buzzed for Manny, her personal assistant. Manny swished into her office with a customary little hop in front of her desk.

  “Boss?”

  “Tell the herd they can leave early today.”

  Manny squealed with delight. He was thirty and had recently moved in with his boyfriend, Damon, an architect. Lately Manny had been more effervescent and irritating than usual. He was in love.

  “Oh, boss. Sampson called.”

  Elizabeth groaned. Sampson was her ex, a man she’d lived with for six years until he dumped her for a younger model. The girlfriend was literally a model in her twenties who could be seen in lingerie catalogues displaying more than just lingerie.

  “What did he want?”

  Manny gave an exaggerated shrug. “Didn’t say. If he calls again, shall I put him through?”

  Elizabeth thought for a minute. Sampson was high on her list of scumbags. Before he turned into a cheating liar, he’d been good company, generous and attentive in bed. As far as orgasmic fireworks went, they didn’t happen for her, but still, she missed the cuddling and closeness of a relationship. It had been almost a year since Sampson walked out—no, since she’d thrown him out. Her bed had been lonely ever since. She immersed herself in work to keep her mind off the disturbing picture of Sampson and that girl. It might be fun to entice him into . . . into what, a fuck for old time’s sake? Bad idea.

  “No, Manny. If he calls again tell him I’m in Botswana.”

  “Discovering the next boy band?”

  Manny could be cheeky, but he was fun. She put up with more from him than she would from any other employee.

  “Just say I’m not here.”

  “Hinges get squeaky if they’re not used.”

  “Let me worry about my hinges. You worry about yours.”

  “My hinges are perfectly oiled and in excellent working order.” He giggled. “Damon sees to it. He’s my very handy man.”

  “Thank you, Manny. Now go release the troops.”

  Manny gave another little hop and headed to the door. “Oh, boss. One thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Damon’s cousin has moved to town. He’s got talent, big time.”

  “You know the rules, Manny. Get him to put something on YouTube. I’ll get Hunter to take a look.”

  Hunter was the head talent scout/screener for the company. No one was allowed in the door without his approval.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, boss, Hunter has missed out on a couple of big fish lately. He could be losing his touch.”

  “There’s bound to be a couple that get away.”

  “Don’t think you’ll want this cutie pie to get away,” said Manny in a smug singsong. “He’s the total deal. Looks, looks and more looks. Talent, talent and more talent. Songs, songs and more . . .”

  Elizabeth cut him off. “Okay, Manny. What’s this wonder kid’s name?”

  “Declan Thomas.”

  She couldn’t explain why, but she felt a small thrill. “Hmm. Like the name. He’s good?”

  “Better. Beyond your wildest.”

  “All right. Get a video. I’ll see what I think.”

  Satisfied, Manny skipped into the main office and retrieved a bullhorn he kept under his desk. He announced that staff could go home early. A general cheer filled the air. Soon the office was empty except for Elizabeth. She made some calls to the west coast, looked through a few marketing plans and went through her emails. Finally, it was twilight and she had nowhere to go except home. She started to close up the office for the weekend, but something was disturbing her concentration. It was the name Declan Thomas.

  Elizabeth googled him. Nothing. Then she tried YouTube. Nothing. These days, talentless little piss-pots were plastered all over social media. Declan Thomas was clearly an anomaly. Anomalies intrigued her. Well, she’d reserve judgment until she’d seen what he could do.

  Her sense of who could be turned into a star was instinctive. Her intuition rarely failed her. Generally, it took less than sixty seconds for her to decide whether some aspiring young musician was worthy of ATM representation. Declan Thomas . . . his name had the right sound of catchy appeal. No need for a pseudonym.

  Elizabeth poured a glass of red wine, swirled it around and watched darkness settle over the surrounding office towers. In a moment she would call Eddie, her driver. He would pick her up at the front of the building and deliver her to her renovated Victorian house. She would have a long soak in the tub and snuggle into bed, alone. Tomorrow was a big day, of sorts. It was her birthday. She would be leaving her thirties behind forever.

  * * *

  “I’m Sexy and I Know It” woke Elizabeth from a deep sleep. Manny’s idea of humour had been to program the tune as her ring tone. She hadn’t had the heart to remove it. Elizabeth pushed up her sleep mask and glanced groggily at the call display. It was her best friend, Effie. Elizabeth hit Receive, then placed the cellphone beneath the pillow beside her. Elizabeth knew she’d be able to hear her friend’s raucous voice through the layers of goose down.

  “Sweeeeetie. How are you? Happy, happy, happy birthday.”

  Elizabeth propped herself up on one elbow, yawning. “Hi, Effie. Thanks. I’m just waking up.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, Effie. I’ve got a brass band in here with me. I’m
thinking of signing them.”

  Effie roared with laughter. “That’s my girl. I’m picking you up at three. We’re heading right to the Mayfair Spa. Wear something glam for dinner afterwards.”

  “I thought I could wear jeans. I hate getting dressed up on the weekend. I have to do that all week long.”

  “Jeans are not permitted in the penthouse. It’s a house rule. Besides, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Elizabeth groaned inwardly. Effie was always trying to set her up.

  “I thought it was just you and me.”

  “It will be you and me, kiddo, plus one or two others.”

  It slowly dawned on Elizabeth that Effie was throwing her a surprise party. She didn’t want to spoil it.

  “Okay, Eff. Whatever you say.”

  “Good girl. See you at three.”

  Elizabeth tromped down two flights of stairs from her third-floor bedroom to her stainless steel and granite kitchen, where she slipped a bagel into the toaster. She put on a pot of coffee and retrieved the Saturday newspaper from the front porch. She skimmed through the arts section, pleased to see a front-page story on Clam, a jazz trio represented by ATM. Suzie, a junior she’d taken on fresh from college, had written Clam’s press release. Suzie had cleverly played up the poverty angle. Jazz was a hard sell at the best of times. Toronto, once alive with jazz clubs, had been reduced to a couple of dives where musicians were forced to work for the cover charge at the door or, even more humiliatingly, had to pass around a hat.

  Elizabeth’s father had played jazz guitar his whole life. Rather than pursue his dream of a life in music, he had taken a middle management job with the railway to support his family. His decision, tinged with regret, had left Elizabeth with a sentimental spot for musicians. It was the main reason she’d decided to go into the business of representing them. She must remember to praise Suzie for her press release.

  Elizabeth believed in making staff feel appreciated. They responded with even greater efforts and firm loyalty. Many of her employees had been with her for years. They’d seen her grow from a small storefront operation into a powerful multimillion-dollar company that represented some of the country’s finest talent. It had taken years of hard work, but now Elizabeth truly felt she had made it, although it was hard to define what “it” was. Success? Money? She had plenty of those, enough to afford an easy lifestyle and more than one home, but when all was said and done, she was alone and getting older.

  She thought about the empty cottage waiting for her on the other side of the world. Four years ago, on a trip to Scotland to visit her aging aunt Mary, she’d discovered the tiny hamlet of Kinlochbervie. It was a remote village of four hundred hardy souls who endured bleak winters of howling gales and darkness so they could revel in the dramatic scenery of brief summers. On a whim, Elizabeth had purchased a small croft house overlooking a breathtaking beach and majestic cloud-covered mountains. Thinking she and Sampson could retire there someday, she’d restored the house into a cozy two-bedroom nest. Now it served as a vacation home and the place where she went to recover when the world proved too brutal or harsh.

  She had retreated to Kinlochbervie after her father, Jack, died. She’d spent long lonely days walking to the top of the wind-blown peat road, listening to Miles Davis on her iPod. The freshness of the air, the rhythm of the sea, the fierce majesty of awe-inspiring rocks that were millions upon millions of years old— it all helped heal her grief. On other occasions she had taken Sampson, but much to her disappointment he didn’t like it. Too remote, he said, plus he couldn’t understand the thick brogue of the locals. He’d stay a few days, then make an excuse to return to his real estate business in Toronto.

  He’d actually been returning to the arms and fake breasts of Shalene Gardiner, but Elizabeth didn’t know that at the time. It was only later, when she came across a kinky email from Shalene that Sampson had left open on his desktop computer, that she clued in. The email said, “I want you to fuck every hole I’ve got, Daddy.” Daddy? That was sick.

  Disgusted and furious, Elizabeth printed out fifty of the offensive emails in twenty-point font and taped them all over the house. When Sampson arrived home, it took him a moment to recognize what the pieces of paper were. He dropped his briefcase and looked at her in dismay.

  “Christ, Elizabeth. I’m sorry.”

  Elizabeth crumpled some of the remaining printouts and began firing them at his head. “Pack your things, you dirty fucking bastard, and get out.”

  Sampson stood in the hallway, looking stunned.

  “Didn’t your hear me?” screamed Elizabeth. She launched herself at him, raining blows at his head. “Fuck off. Now, Daddy!”

  It took Sampson five minutes to throw some clothes into a bag, then he was gone. Elizabeth sank to her knees. She cried and cried. A year had passed since that humiliating betrayal. Elizabeth had been true to her promise never to be that vulnerable again.

  * * *

  Effie picked Elizabeth up at exactly three p.m. in her pink T-bird. The car had been a gift to herself when Stylish, the magazine she’d founded, was bought out by a much bigger publisher. At the time, Effie said, “There’s the money for the kids’ education. Wait a minute. I don’t have kids. Oh well. Guess I’ll buy me a T-bird instead.”

  Effie, her chosen nickname for the much-disliked “Francine,” came from old money. Her family was part of the blue-blooded Rosedale establishment. She used to joke that her blood was a viable stock market commodity. She had been given everything that could possibly be considered “the best.” She went to private schools, had private tutors and took private lessons in everything from deportment to piano. Her father was “in banking.” Her mother was “in society.” As the first-born, Effie was keenly aware that she was supposed to have been a boy. That honour fell to the second-born, Effie’s brother, Alex. Sadly, he turned out, like Effie, to be a disappointment to the family. He dropped out of school, joined the Canadian army and got killed by a landmine in Iraq. Effie never saw either parent shed a tear. She shed plenty when no one could see or hear her.

  Her father expected her to take up banking and continue where he had left off. Neither parent had noticed that Effie did things like sew feathers on her school uniform. She once showed up for class in a dress festooned with plastic skulls. Effie’s passion was fashion, but she saw the practicality of going to business school, which is where she had met Elizabeth. Both driven to succeed, they quickly became best friends. As soon as Effie graduated with a degree in commerce, she enrolled at New York’s Parsons School of Design. Determined to start a fashion magazine, Effie refused to use family money. Her outgoing personality, obvious smarts and keen sense of style attracted investors. Stylish magazine soon rivalled Vogue for readership and cachet. Within five years, Effie had repaid investors with interest.

  She was less successful in her personal life. In her late twenties she fell hard for Eli Ahmoud, an Egyptian businessman of enormous wealth and culture. He proposed marriage. Effie accepted. Uterine cancer intervened. A hysterectomy put an end to any hopes of children. Eli wanted them above all else, even above Effie.

  Food assuaged Effie’s pain. After a period of promiscuity, she chose to remain alone with gallons of ice cream and cookies for company. She didn’t attend either parent’s funeral. Instead, she sent a thousand roses, insisting to the florist that they all have thorns.

  Effie honked the horn when she saw Elizabeth, then leaned over and gave her a big kiss. “Why, honey chile, you don’t look a day over thirty-nine.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “That’s exactly what I am, Effie, one day older than thirty-nine.”

  “By the time the Mayfair gets through with you, you won’t look a day over twenty-nine. Have you got your outfit?”

  Elizabeth patted her gym bag. “In here, Eff. Everything I need. Dress, shoes, jewellery.”

  “Good girl. Let’s go.”
/>   The Mayfair was in an ivy-covered building that had once been part of the University of Toronto. In the late 1990s it had been purchased by a cosmetic surgeon and converted into Toronto’s most exclusive, and expensive, spa.

  “I’ve booked us in for the works,” announced Effie, sailing through the oak doors of the entrance. “Top to toe, plus a few other places.”

  “What do you mean, a few other places?”

  “You’ll see,” replied Effie with a sly grin.

  Elizabeth soon found herself swaddled in a thick bathrobe, in her own private treatment room with a shower and hot tub. A series of technicians arrived with masques, creams and exfoliants. She was wrapped, massaged and steamed until her porcelain skin glowed. After a French manicure and pedicure, Elizabeth felt pampered and relaxed, and wondered what was coming next.

  A stout older woman came in holding a tray of wax, introduced herself as Brenda, then said, “Take off your robe, dear.”

  Elizabeth did so.

  “Spread your legs, please.”

  “What?”

  “You’re down for a Brazilian.”

  “Whaaat?”

  Brenda consulted a card. “Yes, it says here a Brazilian, plus anal bleaching.”

  Elizabeth almost fell off the treatment bed in shock. “Anal bleaching? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Brenda looked a trifle offended. “It’s the latest thing.”

  “I don’t care how ‘latest’ it is. Why on earth would anyone do that?”

  Brenda shrugged. “Don’t you want your anus to look light and pretty?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s not going on a date by itself. And I don’t want a Brazilian, either. I’m not into pubic topiary.”

  Brenda glanced at Elizabeth’s crotch. “I don’t mean to offend, but you could use a little trim.”

  “Thank you, but that’s way too personal. I’ll see to it myself.”

  Brenda swanned huffily out with her nose in the air. Elizabeth grabbed her robe and put it back on. What had Effie been thinking?