Authors: Nic Bennett
Her mouth was now on his cheek, her hands holding his shoulders. Her lips were soft, lingering, as she kissed him first on the left and then on the right. He was uncomfortable: uncomfortable with her attention and flattery, uncomfortable with her proximity, and uncomfortable with the feeling of butterflies at the base of his stomach.
She stepped away, her eyes finding his, her hands still on his shoulders. Four years ago he’d hardly thought of her at all—she was a minor character he had to deal with in order to impress the Baron. Things had changed since then. He noticed the fullness of her lips, her high cheekbones, her clear and taut skin, the way her blonde hair was pulled back from her face to reveal her blazing
eyes. He stood, rigid, his own hands firmly by his sides, unable to hold her gaze lest she read his mind. A slight smile flitted across her mouth as he looked away. “Come, let us go somewhere more private,” she said, leading him into her office.
He looked around. There was no desk in the Boudoir. Instead there was a glass dining table with six chairs, along with a matching glass coffee table surrounded by a rainbow of armchairs, poufs, and a sofa. There was also a bookshelf-cum-display cabinet along one wall, containing a variety of objects that Jonah couldn’t identify. Hanging on the opposite wall was a single painting, an explosion of color within which Jonah could make out the discrete form of a naked woman. Otherwise the walls were covered in grey, textured wallpaper. The floor was carpeted, also in grey, and as the door closed, the soft furnishings deadened all sound, and Jonah felt cocooned and cut off from the world outside. He settled himself into a plump, cerise velvet armchair, wary of the consequences of choosing the sofa. He hadn’t fallen in love during the summer, but he had had a good time with a couple of girls. But they had been girls. This was a woman.
Amelia walked toward the dining table and picked up a telephone that was lying on it. Turning, she asked Jonah, “Cappuccino?” Jonah nodded, wary of speaking lest his voice do something weird. She punched a button and spoke into the phone, staring at Jonah the entire time.
“Creedence darling, would you please make my guest a cappuccino? And do join us when you’re finished. Thank you, darling.” She released the button and walked over to where Jonah was sitting. She placed the phone on the coffee table and perched herself
on the arm of Jonah’s chair, her arm along its back, her bare thighs highly visible to Jonah’s rabbit-like stare.
“So here you are, all grown up,” she almost whispered. “Do tell me what you have been up to.”
Jonah started from his erotic reverie.
Come on, Jonah, pull it together
, he silently castigated himself.
You’re with the big boys now. Don’t give her the pleasure of teasing you. Play the game.
He gave the most obvious answer he could think of: “Making money.”
Amelia jumped up from the chair, smiling widely. “My darling,” she said with a gasp, “if it’s money that you’ve been making, you have come to the right place.” She pirouetted so as to sweep her arms around the whole room and on completion flicked her right hand as if casting a spell. “It’s all here, darling. Anything you could ever desire. No need to leave the building.”
Jonah now had the chance to scrutinize what was on the shelves of the display cases. Luxury goods would be the correct collective term—jewelry, handbags, shoes, gadgets, model cars, boats, planes, signed photos of some of the world’s best clothing designers, auction catalogues, books on art, books on homes, books on travel; the possibilities seemed infinite.
“Only thing missing is breakfast,” Amelia said, her face now close to his, her expression stern. “We don’t do that anymore. Traders are up in arms, of course, but in these times of trouble we all have to accept certain reductions in privileges.”
There was a gentle knock on the door, and Amelia straightened up. “Come in,” she called out. The door opened and into the room stepped a girl, not much older than Jonah. She held a tray of coffee and biscuits that she placed on the table. Then she curtseyed.
Jonah was taken aback. “Did she just curtsey?” he asked Amelia.
“She most certainly did. I like to maintain standards.” She held out a hand toward the girl. “iPod, meet Creedence Clearwater.”
Jonah stood up and stretched out his hand, about to apologize for being so rude, though he knew the Baron would have thought it beneath him. But before he could speak, Amelia jumped in again, “Creedence, this is iPod. He will be working as the Baron’s right hand.”
Creedence raised her eyebrows a fraction at this statement.
“He has been sent here to get everything he’ll need for his new job. Would you be so kind as to do the honors?”
“It would be a pleasure, Miss Amelia,” she said. “But I’m sorry, sir,” she added as she turned to Jonah. “You were going to say something?” Her brown eyes sparkled with amusement, and her voice was much deeper and stronger than Jonah had expected. There was a hint of an American accent in there somewhere. She was elfin, dark, and her hair was cut boyishly short with long bangs. She had three earrings in her right ear and one in her left, and Jonah suspected that she was not quite as demure as her introductory curtsey suggested.
“I was. I was,” he stuttered. “Jonah is my real name. Jonah Lightbody. And I would like to apologize for being so rude.” He extended his hand further toward her, and she placed hers inside his in a formal handshake.
“Apology accepted. And I’m pleased to meet you.” She paused. “Jonah.”
That voice again. Almost rasping. It made the hairs on his arms
stand on end. “Is it Creedence Clearwater as in the band?” he asked.
She jumped back, surprised. “One and the same. Not many people our age have ever heard of them. My parents were hippies. When they had me, the temptation to combine Creedence with Clearwater was all too great.”
“It’s cool,” responded Jonah.
“Thanks.” Creedence smiled. “I like it too.”
“I knew you two would hit it off,” interjected Amelia in a suddenly maternal tone. “But we must get to work. The Baron doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Jonah realized he was still clasping Creedence’s hand and sheepishly pulled away. Creedence grinned again, more broadly this time. She didn’t seem to mind the extended shake. They continued staring at each other, only starting when Amelia placed a dark brown leather attaché briefcase on the table between them.
Once they all taken their seats, Creedence pulled the case toward her, snapping the locks and lifting the top open as she did so. She was now very businesslike. “First, your phone,” she announced. Like a magician she withdrew a smartphone from inside the case. “This is a next-generation prototype: faster, longer battery life, and no dropped calls. It’s been preprogrammed with all the necessary numbers and e-mail addresses from the Baron’s address book, plus a selection of useful and relevant websites and apps. There’s a real-time market prices feed, no twenty-minute delay, a fully operational trading platform, and a stealth function so that you can use it on airplanes without the crew knowing. In these markets we can’t afford for our traders to be out of touch for any time at all.”
Jonah gazed longingly at the device in Creedence’s hand, though he remained far more impressed by the woman holding it. “Very useful,” he said in what he hoped was also a businesslike manner.
“It is. The bank picks up all your telephone costs, and if you do use a second phone you must register it with Hellcat. It’s a requirement. The easiest thing to do is cancel any other contracts you have and transfer the number to this phone. If you leave your phone with me, I’ll sort it out.”
Jonah extracted his old phone from his pocket, placed it on the table, and took the new one from Creedence. No contest.
“Laptop.” This time an ultra-slim slab of anodized aluminum came out of the magic case. “Again a next-generation prototype and the thinnest laptop in the world. Externally it’s no different from the one you’ll find in the store. Inside it’s a souped-up beast with an HD screen and more processing power than Mission Control in Houston. It’s set up for remote access and a personal Hellcat trading account with fifty thousand pounds worth of credit on it. For compliance reasons you must use this account for any personal trading. If you have any other accounts, close them down.” Creedence hesitated. “Do you have any others?”
Jonah was going to say yes, but remembered that his trading account was actually in the Baron’s name. Probably best not to mention that. He shook his head. This was better than Christmas.
“Credit card. The American Express Centurion, or Black AmEx as it’s more commonly known.” The black card took its place on the table. “It has an exceptionally high spending limit. The most expensive purchase known to date on a black card is that of a thirty
million dollar private jet, although you might have to wait a while to hit those heights.”
Jonah tried to look cool and unconcerned. He failed. “Thirty million bucks on a credit card!”
“Apparently so,” Creedence replied with a smile twitching around the edges of her mouth.
The next card was purple, with no other markings on it except Jonah’s name.
“This gets you into the VIP section of any club you might want to go to, here in London or in any other major financial center. It will also—”
Amelia interrupted. “Yes, I’m particularly proud of this one, darling. I call it the Purple Nicey.” Her tone had changed from charm to firm. “This is what I really do, Jonah. Erase any images you may have of me dressed up like some tart for the traders to ogle at. This card makes money for us. It doesn’t only do clubs. You’ll find that if need be it might even get you into an embassy or two. All our clients will recognize it and do whatever they can for you. A Black AmEx is just money. This card is power and contacts. And that’s what makes this business function, the ability to reach what others cannot.” She made a point of looking Jonah in the eye and ensuring that he had understood. “Treat it with care.”
“Wow!” said Jonah, all attempts at grown-up behavior falling away.
“Wow is right, darling. Wow is right.”
Meanwhile, Creedence was returning the booty to the briefcase. “You get the case too,” she said. “It has a secret document compartment to protect confidential information, a thumbprint
locking system, which you’ll need to activate, and a built-in solar powered phone and laptop charger.” She pushed the case across the table toward him. “Happy?” she asked.
“Happy?” Jonah exclaimed. “It’s like being James Bond. Does everyone get all this stuff?”
“Oh no. Only the biggest swinging dicks get this stuff, the masters of the universe,” Amelia admonished, causing Jonah to shift his attention away from the case. “You are working for the biggest swinging dick of them all, darling, so you get everything. But keep it quiet.” She put a finger to her lips. “We don’t want to incite too much angst among those less fortunate. You are only a temporary employee after all.”
A thought flashed across Jonah’s mind. “Does my dad get this stuff?” he asked.
Amelia put on an expression of theatrical dismay, brought her hand to her forehead, and pretended to faint.
Jonah laughed. “I guess not then.”
“Correct,” said Amelia, now fully recovered. “Which reminds me, your iPod. The source of your music collection also resides in this room.” Amelia raised herself from her chair and crossed the room to a steel cabinet Jonah hadn’t previously noticed. She ran her security pass across a sensor on the right, and the front of the cabinet slid back to reveal a stack of eight briefcase-size black boxes behind a glass door. She stroked the door lovingly. “The Baron’s hard drive,” she sighed. “He likes me to look after it for him.”
“Pardon?” said Jonah.
Amelia simply smiled and carried on. “On here is the Baron’s complete music collection, among other things. You will find a
database on your new laptop. When you need your iPod updated, mark the songs you want, bring the laptop and the iPod to me, and I’ll get it done. It has to be me. Nobody else has access.”
“Oh. I see,” said Jonah. “Right. Yes. Thanks. Out of interest, how many songs are there?”
“Oh, thousands. Tens of thousands. I have no idea. They download automatically. I can’t believe he listens to them all, but there you go. It’s his passion, and money buys you the ability to fulfill those passions, no matter the cost.” She ran the card over the sensor again, and as the front slid back she looked at her watch. “Nine fifty-two. Time to move on.”
Jonah and Creedence stood up, Creedence handing him the case with one hand and a business card with another. “If there is anything else you might need, day or night—travel, tickets to the theater, sports, music, limousine service, restaurants, you name it—ring this number,” she said, her suggestive glance hinting that Jonah could find more than the aforementioned items at the other end of the line.
“Thanks. Thanks for your help,” he said, wondering if perhaps he’d read too much into what was, at the end of the day, a simple gesture.
“I hope we meet again,” came the warm reply, and Jonah felt himself flush.
He had to find some reason to call her.
Having left the Boudoir, his heart still racing over the encounter with Creedence, Jonah took the elevator up another five floors to see Harry Solomons in the Legal Department, or Pistol as the Baron
had called him. He was made to wait ten minutes until a secretary ushered him into a large office with a large desk, behind which sat a small man in a dark suit and waistcoat. He was writing, his head down, revealing a bald patch on top. The secretary gave Jonah a weak smile and left, but Mr. Solomons carried on writing, leaving Jonah standing and feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the silence. Finally, after well over a minute, the man put down his pen and looked up at Jonah with disgust.
“I am Legal Counsel to Helsby, Cattermole, & Partners,” he said in smooth, well-educated tones. He then proceeded to lecture Jonah about how he alone was the guardian of the firm’s reputation and how he—Jonah—had a choice: he could either follow in the Baron’s “dangerous” and “egomaniacal” footsteps or adhere more closely to his father’s example by sticking to the straight and narrow. Jonah wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to respond to any this and felt that it was all coming a little late in the game—he’d already chosen sides. So he nodded in the appropriate places, hoping that would be enough to appease the man in front of him and get him back to the Bunker unscathed. It worked for a while until Pistol made him sign a bunch of forms, handed him a giant-looking file with the word “Compliance” printed on it, and sent him on his way, muttering, “Reprobates, all of them,” as he did so.