The Accidental Mistress (22 page)

‘She’s got a new boyfriend too,’ Lizzie pointed out, glad to have the spotlight off her and John at last.

‘He’s not a boyfriend, as such. It’s early days … and not serious.’

‘Pull the other one,’ said Brent. Even though, not all that long ago, he’d blinkered himself in respect of his own problems, Brent had always been sharp, and able to spot anxiety and prevarication in Shelley and Lizzie. ‘Who is this guy? Do we know him?’

Shelley gave Mulder a kiss on top of the head, and let the cat down. The little feline had been struggling, as if she too detected her favourite human’s stress.

‘No … Yes … You might, but don’t go all Papa Brent on me! I’m a grown-up and I can run my own life perfectly well.’ Shelley’s eyes were bright, and defensive. Her chin came up,
and Lizzie had a sinking feeling. Oh Shelley … ‘And even if I do get into a scrape, I won’t be the first one. Look at Lizzie, she got into the biggest scrape you could imagine, and she’s ended up pulling a billionaire!’

‘Is this guy of yours a billionaire too?’ Brent gave her a long look.

‘No.’

‘How did you meet him, Shell?’ Lizzie said, wanting to know, but knowing how she herself hated cross-questioning. ‘You never said.’

Shelley looked away, her face tense, as she pushed a hand through her short, blonde hair. Still silence.

‘Shelley, what is it? What are you hiding? What is it you don’t want us to know about this new chap of yours?’ Brent looked worried now too.

Shelley got up and walked to the sink, and braced her hands on its edge, her back to them. ‘He’s not my boyfriend. Or my chap. He’s a male escort, if you must know. I bought him because I’m fed up of not meeting any decent men … and I’m fed up of not getting any decent sex.’

‘Shelley! What the hell?’ cried Brent. He started to rise, but Lizzie grabbed him by the arm and made him sit again, pulling a face at him, urging him to calm down.

Shelley spun round, her face fiery. ‘I really don’t see what the big deal is. I had some money from Auntie Mae, and she said to buy myself something nice … a treat … so I did. I wanted a good time, and some sex with a guy who’d put me first, and an escort seemed like the only way to be sure of that.’ She looked from Brent, to Lizzie, and back again. ‘And neither of you are in a position to say anything bad about escorts, seeing as you’ve both
been
escorts yourselves, after a fashion.’

Brent huffed. Lizzie smiled. Shelley was right on that score, certainly.

‘You should be very, very careful, Shell,’ said Brent, quietening.

‘Why? You were an escort, Brent. And you’re a good person … Why shouldn’t Sholto be a good person too?’

‘Sholto Kraft? Oh, please don’t tell me you went to my old agency.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Shelley defiantly.

Lizzie sighed. This was all going to get combative again if they weren’t careful. ‘Perhaps Shell chose your agency, B, because she thought the guys were all likely to be nice, like you. Better the devils you know, sort of … eh?’

Shelley returned to the table and sat down again. ‘Do you know Sholto?’ she asked Brent.

‘Slightly.’

‘Well, then … There’s nothing wrong with him, is there?’

Brent drummed his fingers on the table. ‘No … not that I know of. As far as I know, he’s a straight-up guy. Tends to do the kinky gigs … but who hasn’t done that?’ He broke into a grin, winking at Lizzie. ‘I do know he’s had some shitty luck in his life, which is why he’s on the game, probably, but yes, he seems OK as a person.’

‘Good! Because I like him, and I think I might see him again.’

‘All right, then. As long as you don’t spend your rent money on buying his body, and as long as you don’t start entertaining ideas of morphing him into a proper boyfriend.’ He cast a sideways glance at Lizzie. ‘We all know it doesn’t work that way, except in
Pretty Woman
and in certain very special, specific cases where the escort isn’t really an escort at all … and when the fairy tale
can
occur.’

‘All right, all right …’ Lizzie flipped the V sign at him.

‘I’m not entertaining those ideas,’ Shelley said firmly, ‘but I am going to see him again. At the risk of revealing too much information, his services are
worth
paying for, and he’s showing me things I might never have experienced otherwise … like Lizzie with her kinky billionaire.’

‘Look, can we leave the subject of John’s sexual quirks alone for the time being,’ Lizzie said equally firmly. ‘We’re all grown-ups here, and we can manage our own relationships.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ remarked Brent, with a rueful shrug.

Lizzie and Shelley exchanged looks, but Brent grinned back at them.

‘Don’t worry, bitches, I’m OK. Really, I am … I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time, and do you know? I just might be ready to get out there again.’

‘Well, good for you, man-bitch!’ Shelley came around and gave him a hug, and Lizzie reached out to squeeze his hand.

‘That’s brilliant, B. Mr Right will come along, just you see.’

‘Well, I’ll settle for a bit of fun with Mr OK For Now, to be honest.’

‘I’m sure he’ll come along too.’ Lizzie rose. ‘Now, if these proceedings are concluded, shall we all get to bed at last? I need some sleep!’

I thought you wanted sleep, Lizzie?

Brent stared down into the road, from behind his bedroom curtain, and watched Lizzie climb into a taxi. It was six-thirty in the morning, and she was smartly dressed – as if already on her way to work at that dress agency of hers – but he’d no doubt whatsoever where she was really going.

To the Waverley Grange Hotel, and the bedroom of her man.

Brent hugged his blanket around him. He shivered, even though it wasn’t particularly cold. Had he done the right thing, helping to bring John Smith back into Lizzie’s life? Nothing could be totally straightforward and plain sailing for two people of such different ages, and from such different backgrounds … but since when had Lizzie ever been one to settle for plain sailing? If she had, she’d have followed her father’s plan for her, and finished her university education. She certainly had the brains for it, and she could buckle down and work like the very devil if she had to. But instead she’d chosen the rocky path of defying parental expectations.

And now she was on another rocky path, albeit one that offered brilliant happiness too.

Don’t over-think things, man. She’s a grown-up, and she knows what she wants. And Smith isn’t an ogre or an exploiter. Just a pretty decent man with a bit of a chequered past … and which of us doesn’t have one of those?

As the taxi sped away, he wished his dear friend God speed, and a happy time of it, and as the black cab disappeared around the corner, in the distance, he turned his attention to other chequered pasts, and his other friend and house-mate.

Shelley … and Sholto Kraft. Now there was a turn-up.

Savouring the absurdity of his own instinctive objections, he reviewed what he knew of the man, which was fairly minimal. They’d met once or twice, during gigs where a client had booked two men. Always female clients, and he was fairly certain, pretty much one hundred per cent really, that Kraft was wholly heterosexual. Gaydar, or whatever it was, had not pinged once.

Another older man, but this time only slightly. Sholto Kraft
was in his thirties: a widower and a man who’d suffered some bloody cruel knocks, with which Brent could sympathise. Kraft had lost his wife, his business, his home; he’d lost his love to cancer, and the rest to the damned recession. He was another man who’d been driven to extreme measures by hard times. Did he even enjoy servicing the women who paid for him? Who knew …?

Brent had no reason to think that Sholto Kraft was anything other than a decent man who’d sought to pay his way in life by an unorthodox career change … but still, he was troubled.

Shelley was sweet and smart, but like Lizzie, she could be impetuous, perhaps even more so. And she was looking for love. Brent only hoped that Kraft could see this, and treat her accordingly. With compassion, but also professional detachment.

I’ll have a word …

Sholto Kraft also worked part time at the Waverley Grange, filling in with a second, perhaps more morally palatable, job to cover his debts. Bar work, Brent thought, or possibly a bit of management cover? He wasn’t sure. Either way, there might be a chance to catch him there for a man-to-man chat.

It seemed strange, both his house-mates involved with men who were connected in some way to that crazy hotel.

Brent smiled, thinking about what he’d said earlier. It had been a long, tough road, since Steven’s death, and there’d been times when he’d thought it would never end. But astonishingly, he did feel that, now, he wanted to … to start looking again. Even if just for some fun, a friendship, something casual … maybe a bit of sex.

Maybe I’ll find someone at the Waverley too?

Just swan in. Don’t think about it. They
know
you’re John Smith’s girlfriend. Just ask for his room number. It isn’t a big deal.

Before seven o’clock, the foyer at the Waverley Grange Country House Hotel was understandably quiet. The manager, handsome Signor Guidetti, was already behind the desk, frowning at his computer monitor over something; and a cleaner was polishing the woodwork diligently, sending a cloud of Pledge aroma out to join the fresh smells of cut flowers in a scattering of large vases. But they were the only ones around. All the guests were still abed, or maybe taking an early breakfast in the restaurant.

‘Could you tell me which room my friend, Mr Smith, is staying in, please?’ The confidence in her own voice shocked her, this early in the morning, but the admiring smile from the Italian manager told her the confidence ploy had worked. Or perhaps it was because any friend of their beneficent investor was a best friend of the Waverley too?

‘Of course, Miss Aitchison. He’s in Nineteen, and I believe he’s not yet gone out if you want to go up. I’d be happy to
escort you.’ Signor Guidetti’s smile was ineffably courteous, but also twinkling with masculine admiration.

Lizzie flashed him her best ‘Bettie Page’ smile in return, knowing full well he recognised her ‘look’. It was obvious the man was a thoroughgoing sensualist, a person well acquainted with the notorious pin-up goddess, and he appreciated Lizzie’s slim skirt, chunky high heels and her pretty blouse tucked into a wide belt. ‘That’s so nice of you, but I can find my own way, thank you. Good morning!’

During the short lift ride, Lizzie drew in deep breaths. She might look the part, but underneath, she was fluttering. Sleep had eluded her, evaporating every time she’d thought she was drifting off. By the time she’d seen shreds of dawn through the gap in the curtains, it had been impossible to just lie around, turning things over in her head, and missing John. She still wondered if telling him outright that she loved him had been a horrible mistake. Would it have been better to try and keep things light, hide her feelings?

Hurrying along the corridor reminded her of the first time they’d been together here, her original call girl adventure. Her foolhardy agenda that night had been so simple. No expectations or hopes of anything more than a hot one-nighter, or maybe a couple of delicious dates with an attractive businessman who’d be gone again before she even got to know him.

It’d been silly, but uncomplicated.

Maybe I’ll take it back to that … at least as a game.

Reaching the door marked ‘Nineteen’, Lizzie found she wasn’t the first person there. A handsome young waiter in his smart uniform had his hand raised to knock. His trolley was loaded with morning tea trays.

‘I’ll take Mr Smith’s tray in, if you like. If you’ll knock and announce it?’

The young man grinned. He knew the score. At the Waverley, it was probably nothing out of the ordinary for people to be sneaking into their lovers’ rooms for a spot of Morning Glory. He rapped sharply, called out ‘Your tea, Mr Smith’, and then tried the door.

‘Come!’ was John’s answer, the sound of his voice like a pure thrill through Lizzie’s body.

She reached quickly into her bag, looking for her purse, not wanting to deny the young waiter his tip, but he shook his head and winked, then handled the door for her as she slid in with the tray.

‘Here’s your tea, Mr Smith,’ she said, trying to keep a straight face and a straight voice, and failing miserably, ‘and the … um … other thing you ordered.’

John spun around from the desk where he was seated, already working on his laptop, all business, business, business. But he was still in his bathrobe, he didn’t look as if he’d shaved yet, and his blond curls were shaggy and awry, as yet uncombed.

Good. Man in the raw. Just how she liked him.

His smile was immediate, and like the sun that had barely yet risen outside. All anew, it bowled her over, and only a supreme effort at presence of mind prevented her from making the crockery clatter and the tea slop. Controlling herself, she placed the tray carefully on the sideboard.

‘Ah yes,’ he said softly, rising from his seat, ‘I remember now … I
did
tick the box for “breathtaking sex goddess” when I filled in my order for this morning. How could I have forgotten?’

‘I don’t know about that … I’m just an escort, sir.’

His blue eyes sparkled, full of fun, right on the same page without prompting. There was nobody like John for being quick on the uptake, especially where sex was involved.

‘There’s no “just” about it, young woman,’ he said, striding towards her. ‘How do you feel about scruffy, half-asleep middle-aged businessmen who haven’t even had their first shower of the day? Can you handle that?’

‘I love handling sexy, handsome businessmen in their dressing gowns. It’s what I live for.’

‘Good,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, and staring into her eyes. His were already darkening, brilliant cerulean turning from morning to midnight as she watched. ‘And think yourself lucky that I’ve at least cleaned my teeth, even if I haven’t had a shave.’