Authors: Georgia Fallon
They were both rather pleased with themselves
. Beaming at Lucy, Zoë told her, ‘We thought it was up to us to provide a touch of anarchy seeing as how you’ve gone all establishment on us. You’re looking very nice yourself, but shouldn’t you have a security guard in attendance?’ She looked at the diamond ring with wonder. ‘Is it really real?’
‘
Yes, I think it probably is.’
‘
We’ve been chatting with your intended and very gracious he was too,’ Spyder informed her. ‘Knew just who we were and what we do.’
‘
Well, he’s not likely to have confused you with anyone else!’ retorted Lucy with a laugh.
‘
True. Still, he seems pretty human for a filthy rich capitalist.’
‘
I’m sure he’d be very touched to…’
Suddenly Lucy was aware that she had lost her friends’ attention. Both were looking over her shoulder with amazed expressions on their faces. Before she could turn around Zoë whispered urgently,
‘Don’t look now, but the Prime Minister has just walked in!’
~
The ringing sound of a spoon tapping a crystal glass caught everyone’s attention and there was a general hush as they all turned towards the familiar and elegant figure of the country’s leader. Well-dressed as ever, and with his lean intelligent face and shock of prematurely silver hair, most of the women present were thinking how much more attractive he looked than on the television. Not far from him stood, as ever, Rosemary, his wife of many years, and his Personal Protection Officer who wore a dark suit, serious expression and a discreet earpiece and mike.
Confident he had their attention Andrew Eastman smiled and began,
‘I should like to say a few words on…’
His cabinet colleague groaned theatrically and Rosemary piped up,
‘Andrew, you have never been capable of keeping your words to a few!’
Everyone laughed and the premier joined in good-naturedly.
‘It seems a shame when one is barracked by one’s own wife and minister but such is life. As I was saying, I should like to say a few words on this happy occasion. This evening I have had the pleasure to meet Lucy for what is, I’m sure, the first of many times.’ He smiled at the blushing Lucy. ‘Marcus and I, of course, go back a long way and I greatly admire his business acumen and entrepreneurial spirit; the country could do with many more like him. It is enormously satisfying to succeed in one’s chosen career but all the more rewarding when you have a partner with which to share it, and your life.’ He looked now at his own wife who returned his smile warmly. ‘I am pleased that Marcus has found such a partner and wish them, as I’m sure we all do, the very best. So, ladies and gentlemen, if you would raise your glasses, I give you Marcus and Lucy!’
More than forty voices repeated the Prime Minister’s toast while Marcus looked relaxed, and Lucy somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. Andrew Featherstone’s call for a speech was quickly taken up by others and Marcus stepped forward.
‘Thank you, Andrew, for your mercifully brief address to the nation! And to all of you for being here this evening.’ He beckoned Lucy who came to stand at his side. ‘I consider myself both fortunate and honoured that Lucy has agreed to be my wife. She came into my life unexpectedly and has given it new meaning. She is a rare and valuable thing. Someone whose heart is always open. I look forward to a future with her at my side.’
He lifted Lucy’s hand to his lips and there were very few of the guests who doubted he was a man in love. Lucy could have almost believed it herself. Couldn’t he ju
st turn it on when he wanted to, she thought to herself as she accepted the kisses and congratulations of everyone around her.
~
As they closed the door on the last of the departing guests Lucy yawned and Marcus looked at his watch.
‘
One-thirty. You get off to bed, Lucy. Hopefully the caterers won’t be too much longer and I can lock up. Good night.’
He turned as if to walk away but Lucy was having none of it.
‘Marcus! We have just got engaged this evening, the least you could do is kiss me goodnight!’
Turning back with a rather sheepish smile, he said,
‘Yes, of course, sorry.’
Lucy moved quickly, getting so close he had no option but to take her in his arms. As their lips met she held him tight; there was no reaction. She increased the pressure of the kiss and this time she got a response. He kissed her back with a hunger he’d never shown before and slipped his hand up under the back of her flimsy blouse.
‘Oops!’ It was one of the waitresses. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but your cat is in one of our packing cases and seems to want to fight anyone who tries to remove him.’
As he followed her away, Marcus muttered,
‘I’m sure that animal needs psychiatric help!’
It was another hour before he made his way upstairs. Lucy was in a deep dreamless sleep and did not hear his footsteps pause outside her room.
~
Flaming June had made way for a blazing July and as he made his way through the stifling Soho streets Martin Culver’s shirt already had large patches of sweat under the arms. It was late Saturday morning and he was on his way to meet a contact who claimed he had some very juicy information concerning the presenter of a popular Christian lifestyle television programme. Culver could smell blood and the premature end to a budding career; manna from heaven! His mind occupied with this pleasant possibility he had no thoughts of Marcus Delacroix, but had been a little piqued the previous day when he had spotted the engagement announcement in
The Times
.
He had rung Amy.
‘You’re slipping, Amy! If you had let me know I could have done a piece in yesterday’s column.’
She had not been pleased to hear from him.
‘I wouldn’t give you the time of day let alone any more information,’ she had told him in a heated tone. ‘Where did you get hold of that test tube babies stuff? You dropped me right in it. Everyone thinks I told you!’
‘
I can’t reveal my sources,’ he had told her loftily.
The fact was that he didn’t know who the woman with the cultured but very seductive voice was, or how she had come by the number of his mobile phone. She had seemed remarkably well informed about Delacroix, but unwilling to keep in touch in the future. The little nugget she had given him was too good to miss, but unable to confirm its validity he had not dared name names, all too well aware that Delacroix’s lawyers would come down on him like a ton of bricks.
Amy had shouted back at him, ‘Because of you I’ve lost my best friend and my boyfriend. It’s all your fault. My life is a mess because of you!’
‘
Not my problem, dear girl, not my problem. When we practice to deceive, and all that stuff!’ he told her uncaringly.
She had hung up and he knew he’d lost his best font of information yet about Delacroix. If only he could find she of the velvet voice; he fantasised about the body that might go with it. An exchange of information, or better still bodily fluids, with a woman like her was just what his increasingly dull life could do with.
He was to meet her in the not too distant future and she would be all, if not more, than he had imagined, but he would live to regret it.
Sitting at the bar in The Nag’s Head, Bill Thompkins could see Culver as he made his way towards him, dodging the traffic as he was forced into the road by the huge skip outside the building site opposite. He drained his glass in the happy expectation that Culver would pay to refill it. Bill didn’t much like Culver. His pasty damp skin gave him the creeps; he looked like someone straight off the Sex Offenders Register and he wasn’t keen on being seen in public with him. The problem was that if he invited him to the house the game would be up with Janice, his wife. The money he earned from the reporter allowed him to spend most of his spare time in the boozer or the bookies without her screaming and shouting about him leaving her short of housekeeping.
Bill was fifty-four and for the last eight years he had worked for one of London’s biggest contract cleaning and janitorial services firms. When he’d first started most of his co-workers had been what he described as “coloureds” of some description, Indian, Pakistani, Jamaican, but now they tended to be Eastern European. They worked hard but were apt to be sullen and silent. He missed the laughter and cheery chatter, particularly of the West Indian women.
For the last two years he’d enjoyed a cushy little number as day janitor at the recording studios of a commercial television station which was how he had encountered Martin Culver. The outgoing janitor had been supplying information for money so Bill took over where he left off, and a nice little sideline it was too. Each day the studios were bustling with the production crews, regular presenters and celebrity guests for the various chat and games shows filmed there. No one took much notice of him as he went about his business of supervising the cleaners, replacing light bulbs and unblocking drains. But with the keys to everywhere, and no conscience about going through people
’s drawers, listening at doors or abusing the security cameras, he came by some very interesting little titbits and occasionally, like now, something with real money making potential.
There was a sliding scale of payments the gossip columnist was prepared to make. It started with celebrities’ little foibles, moved up for evidence of drug and
alcohol abuse, and the best pay-offs were for information that would make headlines. Today Bill had headlining information.
Spotting him at the bar Culver made his way over.
‘Morning, Bill, how’s it hanging?’
‘
Not so bad, and yourself?’
‘
Same old same old.’ Nodding at the barman, Culver asked, ‘The usual for you?’
‘
Yeah, and make it a double. What I’ve got for you is worth it.’
The drinks arrived and the reporter got down to business.
‘So, got something on God’s little helper, Felicity Ferndale, have you?’
Bill took a swig of whisky, slapped his lips and said,
‘Yep, she’s having it away with the show’s producer, and him with a wife and three little kiddies! She’s married too of course. Not what you’d call very Christian behaviour, eh?’
Culver’s eyes glinted at the thought of two marriages and two careers to shoot down in flames.
‘Very interesting, but how do you know?’
‘
Saw ’em at it!’
‘
What, literally?’ Culver was very interested now.
‘
Very literally. In his office they were, her with her skirt up round her waist, bent over the desk and him giving her one from behind. And she was loving it, not surprising, he’s got a dick like a donkey! If you want to mention it, she’s got a butterfly tattooed on her bum.’
Bill had guessed at the effect this little scenario would have on his listener and he wasn’t wrong. The beads of sweat on Culver’s brow owed little to the warm weather and his eyes were glassy as he ran his tongue over his full, rather loose, bottom lip. Bill knew a perv when he saw one.
‘Well, I reckon that’s worth top dollar, don’t you?’
Pulling out his wallet Culver slipped him the notes.
‘Nice one, Bill!’
The screech of brakes took their attention and they looked out into the road where a taxi had nearly knocked down a woman who had tried to cross from behind the skip. Insults were being hurled and the traffic started to back up.
Culver’s eye ran over the building which was swathed in scaffolding and he commented, ‘Looks like they’re doing a lot of work across the way.’
‘
Dunno what they’re turning it into this time. It’s been everything from a Mission Hall to one of those clubs where you can get yourself tied up and whipped. S and M, I think they call it. What’s that stand for anyway?’
‘
Sadomasochism,’ Culver informed him.
‘
Don’t know what people see in it meself, but everyone to their own. Anyway, as I remember it, there was a right old rumpus there one night when someone nearly killed someone else and they got closed down.’
‘
Was this recently?’ Culver asked.
‘
No, donkey’s years ago. Back in the early eighties, I reckon. No use to you.’
‘
Don’t you be so sure. It’s surprising how often an old forgotten scandal can come back to haunt someone. Do you know more details?’
‘
I don’t, but I know someone who might.’ Bill called out to the landlord, ‘Steve, didn’t your missus used to work across the road when it was the place to get spanked?’
Looking up from the racing pages, Steve replied defensively,
‘Yeah, she was only a barmaid though, not Miss Whiplash! Why are you asking?’
‘
Martin here is interested in what happened the night they got closed down.’
Steve knew Culver paid well for information so in a more obliging tone he offered,
‘She’s in the kitchen sorting out the Dish of the Day. I’ll ask her if she’s got time to talk to you.’