“Shut up,” Curtsinger snapped. He stared woozily at Ottaway. “We don’t want to hear.”
“We may not get another chance, my dear James,” Ottaway replied, his courtesy contemptuous. “Don’t you think we should all admit the truth? We are in extremis! Oh yes, my friends. We should all get down on our knees and confess!”
“Yes, yes,” said Stephanie. She was trying to stand but her legs were of another mind. Her dress, the back unzipped, threatened to slip. “Let’s all confess,” she said.
Dwoskin pulled her back into her chair.
“We’ll be here all night,” he said. Emily giggled. Ottaway, undeterred, was still talking.
“Seems to me,” he said, “he’s probably the only innocent one amongst us.” Ottaway pointed at Marty. “I mean, look at him. He doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.”
The remarks were beginning to irritate Marty. But there’d be precious little satisfaction in threatening the lawyer. In his present state Ottaway would crumble under one blow. His bleary eyes didn’t look far from unconsciousness. “You disappoint me,” Ottaway murmured, with genuine regret in his voice, “I thought we’d end better than this . . .”
Dwoskin stood up. “I’ve got a toast,” he announced. “I want to toast the women.”
“Now there’s an idea,” Curtsinger said. “But we’ll need a fire.” Oriana thought this the funniest remark she’d heard all night.
“The women!” Dwoskin declared, raising his glass. But nobody was listening. Emily, who had been lamblike so far, had suddenly taken it into her head to strip off. She’d pushed her chair back and was now unbuttoning her blouse. She wore nothing beneath; her nipples looked rouged, as if in preparation for this unveiling. Curtsinger applauded; Ottaway and Whitehead joined in with a chorus of encouraging remarks.
“What do you think?” Curtsinger asked Marty. “Your type, is she? And they’re all her own, aren’t they, sweetheart?”
“You want to feel?” Emily offered. She’d discarded her blouse; she was now naked from the waist up. “Come on,” she said, taking hold of Marty’s hand and pressing it against her breast, working it around and around.
“Oh, yes,” said Curtsinger, leering at Marty. “He likes that. I can tell he likes that.”
“Of course he does,” Marty heard Whitehead say. His gaze, not too focused, slid in the old man’s direction. Whitehead met it head-on: the hooded eyes were devoid of humor or arousal. “Go on,” he said. “She’s all yours. That’s what she’s here for.” Marty heard the words but couldn’t make proper sense of them. He pulled his hand off the girl’s flesh as if scalded.
“Go to Hell,” he said.
Curtsinger had stood up. “Now don’t be a spoilsport,” he rebuked Marty, “we only want to see what you’re made of.”
Down the table, Oriana had started to laugh again, Marty wasn’t sure at what. Dwoskin was banging his hand, palm down, on the table. The bottles jumped in rhythm.
“Go on,” Whitehead told Marty. They were all looking at him. He turned to face Emily. She was standing a yard away from him, attempting the catch of her skirt. There was something undeniably erotic about her exhibitionism. Marty’s trousers felt tight: his head too. Curtsinger had his hands on Marty’s shoulders and was trying to slip off his jacket. The tattoo Dwoskin was beating on the table, which Ottaway had now taken up, made Marty’s head dance.
Emily had succeeded with the catch, and her skirt was at her feet. Now, without prompting, she pulled off her panties and stood in front of the assembled company wearing only pearls and high-heeled shoes. Naked, she looked young enough to be jailbait: fourteen, fifteen, at most. Her skin was creamy. Somebody’s hand-Oriana’s, he thought, was massaging Marty’s erection. He half-turned: it wasn’t her at all, but Curtsinger. He pushed the hand away. Emily had stepped toward him and was unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom up. He tried to stand to say something to Whitehead. The words weren’t there yet, but he badly wanted to find them: wanted to tell the old man what a cheat he was. More than a cheat: he was scum; dirty-minded scum. This was why he’d been invited up here, plied with wine and dirty talk. The old man had wanted to see him naked and rutting.