However, my confidence is put to the test when Gabby begins barking instructions.
“Harder!”
I comply and add a little more gusto to each inbound thrust.
“Oh, yeah. That’s good,” she groans.
I am only too pleased to have obliged.
“Slap my arse,” comes the next command.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Slap my arse. Now!”
“But…”
“Do it!”
Beyond the fact I have never struck a lady before, I’m unsure how much force to apply. She does seem very insistent though so I comply, but my effort is more of a pat than a slap.
“Harder!”
Is this what people do these days? Is this even normal? I try again with a little more force.
“Keep doing it,” she screams back.
I administer a series of slaps until her left buttock glows pink.
“Now, fuck me hard.”
Relieved the slapping is over, I return to my thrusting duties.
“Shout my name,” comes the next instruction. “It turns me on.”
Good grief.
“Gabby,” I timidly venture.
“Louder.”
“Gabby,” I repeat with a little more volume. I feel ridiculous although Gabby appears to appreciate my efforts.
I press on, but despite the humiliating sideshow, I know the finale is fast approaching. Equally, Gabby is making some fairly encouraging noises so perhaps I might be able to coincide our arrival time.
Clearly she’s partial to a more vigorous thrust so I up my intensity. She responds with loud groans. As the pinnacle of our love making approaches, I suddenly feel a sense of complete abandon. I enter the spirit of the moment and slap her backside while simultaneously shouting her name.
“More! More!” she shrieks in response.
The louder she shrieks and groans and squeals, the more intoxicated I become, and the less I feel like William Huxley. I am another man, about to enter some sexual Nirvana. I’ve never indulged, but I’d imagine this must be what a drug high feels like, and I can now see the appeal.
I slap her backside hard, and her response is enough to tip me over the edge. I explode, and bellow a primordial noise which is part word, part throaty gurgle, or possibly Welsh.
As the final traces of my climax ebb away, Gabby wiggles her backside from my grasp, leaving behind a pool of bodily fluids on the bed sheet. I experience an overwhelming urge to hold her but she edges away, leaving me kneeling in the centre of the bed.
“Drink?” she asks, a little dispassionately, as she moves across the room.
I nod, and position myself so I’m leant against the headboard. I watch on as Gabby kneels down and pulls more bottles from the mini-bar. A wave of contentment crashes over me and I close my eyes; happy to bask in a cosy glow.
“William.”
I open my eyes and Gabby is stood next to the bed, holding out a glass. I take it and thank her.
“That was fun,” she adds. “Let’s drink to the next time.”
The fact she suggested there will be a second instalment causes my heart to flutter. I smile and raise my glass.
“To the next time.”
Gabby, clearly thirsty, necks her drink in a second. I take a sip and follow her example, gulping down the cold liquid.
She takes my empty glass. “I’m just going to freshen up. Make yourself comfortable.”
I watch her as she returns the glasses to the dresser. She then picks up the leather holdall and heads into the bathroom. A tiredness, unlike any I have ever experienced, descends upon me and I close my eyes again.
Before I have time to consciously fight it, I pass out.
8.
A shard of light bursts beyond the edge of the window frame — morning has arrived, apparently.
I open my eyes, squint, and immediately close them again. It is sufficient time to establish I am in unfamiliar surroundings — the only reason I’m able to confirm last night wasn’t a dream. The conclusion is bolstered as my fuddled mind confirms I am naked, and my head is throbbing.
Did I really drink that much?
I roll over so I can safely open my eyes. A quick check of my watch and I’m relieved to see it’s not quite seven yet.
Gingerly, I sit up and assess my surroundings. The room is silent, the bed empty.
“Gabby?” I call out, my voice scratchy, throat dry.
No response.
I swing my legs off the bed and tentatively get to my feet. It brings nausea and a coughing fit. The wall provides support as I take a few deep breaths.
Water. So thirsty.
Keeping one hand against the wall, I edge my way along the side of the bed and around the corner towards the bathroom. The door is open and I thump the light switch, keeping my head low to avoid the bright spotlights in the ceiling. Besides my clothes in a crumpled pile on the floor, there are no other signs of recent occupancy.
I stagger over to the sink and fill a plastic cup from the cold tap, trying to avoid my naked reflection in the mirror behind. I gulp it down and repeat.
Thirst sated, I splash my face with water before retrieving my clothes from the floor. I get dressed and return to the bedroom, stopping when I pass the wardrobe. I open the door to find my jacket on a hanger, but nothing else. After checking my keys, wallet, and mobile phone are still present, I slip the jacket on and close the door.
The rest of the room offers no further clues to Gabby’s whereabouts. The leather holdall is gone, as is everything else of hers for that matter. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and process the possible reasons for her absence.
The last thing I recall, post coitus, was having a drink and Gabby heading to the bathroom. She seemed perfectly happy, and if memory serves, even implied there might be a repeat of our liaison. Did I offend her by falling asleep? Or did she have second thoughts in the night and creep out under the cover of darkness, just to avoid any awkwardness?
Questions I can’t answer.
The only thing I know with absolute certainty is that she’s gone, and there is no point me sitting here speculating on the reason.
I locate a notepad and pen on the dresser and scribble a note with my phone number, asking Gabby to call me. I suspect she’ll never see it but I might as well cover that base while I’m here.
After a final glance around the room, I leave.
By the time the lift reaches the foyer, my curiosity has become a niggling itch. I cross the polished floor towards the reception desk where a young woman with prominent cheekbones is stationed.
“Good morning. I stayed in room 904 last night with a…friend, but she seems to have checked out. Can you confirm if she has, please?”
The young woman smiles and taps away at a keyboard.
“She has, sir. Yes.”
“Right. Can I ask when?”
Her eyes drop to the screen. “Last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yes, sir. Late last night.”
I toy with the idea of asking the receptionist if she’ll let me have Gabby’s phone number or email address but I know she’ll decline. Hotels are the last bastions of discretion and privacy.
“Thank you.”
As I make my way out of the foyer and onto The Strand, I consider the legitimate reasons Gabby may have had for leaving the hotel so late. Perhaps she had a family emergency and didn’t want to wake me. That seems perfectly plausible but why didn’t she leave a note?
My frustration is stoked by the fact I never had the foresight to ask for her contact details; possibly because events proceeded at such a pace. Foolishly, I didn’t even establish her surname, despite it being emblazoned across a badge around her neck as we sat in the hotel auditorium.
It then strikes me — I could contact the event organisers. They would obviously have a list of attendees and Gabby is a fairly uncommon name. However, I need to get back home and sort myself out before any further i
nvestigations can begin.
With my flat in Blackfriars only a mile away, I decide a brisk walk will do me some good.
Fifteen minutes later I turn into Temple Avenue and approach the imposing Edwardian building in which my flat is situated. I unlock the main door and enter the communal hallway. The lift is on the fifth floor so I press the call button and wait.
Like Hansworth Hall, the flat on Temple Avenue once belonged to my father and bequeathed to me in his will. He purchased it back in the eighties and I have fond memories of spending occasional weekends here as a child. Me, my mother, and my father — one happy family enjoying our glorious capital. Every visit was an adventure as we explored all the famous sights.
Now it is my home for four or five days a week, and I’m extremely fortunate to call it such. Being ideally situated for Westminster, the City, and the West End, there is no way I could afford such a property on my parliamentary salary. I can only imagine the value must now be well into the millions, not that I anticipate ever selling it. Like Hansworth Hall, it is one of the few connections I have to the family I once had. And perhaps optimistically, I still haven’t given up hope of one day having children myself, and both properties will be theirs when my time is over.
For one brief moment last night, I thought I might have taken the first tentative step to realising my dream. Now I’m not so sure.
The lift arrives and transports me up to the top floor.
Although the flat itself is impressive, the furnishings and decor are less so. I have no interest in such things so the interior of the flat is best described as functional. The guest bedroom, dining room, and balcony are all devoid of furniture because I have no real use for them.
I head into the bathroom and take a long shower.
The simple act of showering and donning fresh clothes aids my wellbeing. I allocate six minutes for a breakfast of tea and toast before heading out the door.
I’m tempted to walk to work but I’m already ten minutes behind schedule so I follow the crowds into Blackfriars tube station and endure the six minute journey to Westminster. By the time I step into the office, Rosa is already at her desk.
“Morning, William.”
“Morning,” I mumble back.
“Tea?”
“Please.”
I sit down at my desk and boot up the computer. It’s still going through the motions by the time Rosa returns with a cup of tea.
“Are you ready to go through the diary and today’s correspondence?” she asks.
I confirm, more reluctantly than usual, I am, and Rosa takes a seat in front of my desk.
“Are you okay, William?” she asks while sorting through the folders on her lap. “You look a little tired, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Observant as always, Rosa. Yesterday was a long day.”
“Of course, you had that event in the evening. How did it go?”
“Don’t ask, but while we’re on the subject, could you email the organisers and ask them for a list of the delegates. Tell them it’s urgent, please.”
She scribbles on her notepad before confirming I’m ready to get the day organised. Thankfully, my diary is looking lean today, and there isn’t the same backlog of correspondence we have to wade through on a Monday morning. It takes ten minutes to cover everything before Rosa returns to her desk.
Before I do anything, I finish my tea and ponder the next move once I’ve established Gabby’s full name. Assuming her profession will have created some footprint online, it shouldn’t be too difficult to track her down. I can only hope her surname isn’t something common like Smith or Brown.
But finding her is not really my primary concern — it’s whether she even wants to be found. I have no wish to act like some lovesick teenager and stalk the poor woman, but I would like to establish why she bailed on me. It’s a well-worn term, but I suppose I’d like some form of closure.
For now though, I have other matters to attend to, not least my never ending list of people to call.
I pick up the phone and call the first name on the list.
My initial impetus is exhausted by the fifth call, and a pounding headache is doing nothing to aid motivation. At ten thirty, my need for tea, aspirin, and a little peace, is overwhelming. I clamber from behind my desk and ask Rosa if she’d like tea. Just as she confirms she doesn’t, and poses a question on a non-related matter, her phone rings. I wave a hand to suggest she should answer it and turn away. I cover eight feet of carpet before Rosa calls my name.
“Yes?”
Rosa has the receiver to her ear but her hand is covering the mouthpiece. The look on her face suggests my morning is about to be ruined.
“Apparently there are two police officers in the lobby, and they want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“They wouldn’t say. Shall I ask Debbie to send them up?”
I scour my mind in search of any good reason why two members of the Metropolitan Police would want to talk to me. Nothing comes to mind.
“No. Tell her I’m on my way down.”
It seems I’ll have to wait a little longer for tea and aspirin.
I make my way down to the central lobby reception. On arrival, Debbie doesn’t introduce me to two uniformed police officers but two serious looking detectives.
“William, these gents are from Charing Cross Police Station.”
I nod at the two detectives. One is fairly young, and tall, with a mop of sandy hair. The second is a much older man, balding, with a ruddy complexion and bloodshot eyes.
They flash their identification.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Barker,” the older man grunts; a slight Mancunian lilt to his accent.
“Detective Constable Perry,” the younger detective adds; his accent of the nondescript, Home Counties variety.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
“We were hoping you’d accompany us back to the station so we can have a chat,” Sergeant Barker replies.
“A chat? About what?”
The two men glance around the lobby and Sergeant Barker shuffles towards me. “For the sake of discretion, I think it would be better if we discussed that at the station.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“No, Sir. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m trying to be discreet so you’re not tabloid news tomorrow.”
I’m torn between standing my ground and protecting my reputation. Quite what I’m supposed to have done that would warrant press interest is beyond me but even a totally innocent visit from the police can set the parliamentary rumour machine into overdrive. Perhaps the detective is doing me a favour by not making a scene.
“Fine,” I sigh. “As long as it doesn’t take too long. I’ve got a meeting at one.”
“Thank you, Sir. Follow us.”
I ask Debbie to inform Rosa I’ll be out for a while and follow the detectives down to the visitor's car park where I’m offered a seat in the back of a blue saloon car.
The journey to Charing Cross Police Station is only a couple of miles but in the London traffic, it takes twenty minutes. After my initial questions were rebutted, neither detective uttered another word so I spent my time trying to think of any indiscretions I may have inadvertently committed.
I’m none the wiser by the time we pass through a barrier and enter the station car park.
The two detectives then lead me through a series of security doors and once we’re in the inner sanctum of the station, I’m offered a seat in an interview room. Constable Perry asks if I’d like a cup of tea while his older colleague heads off elsewhere. Seeing as I was pulled away before I had the chance to make one myself, I accept the offer of tea and the young detective also disappears. Five minutes later, the two men convene in the interview room, taking their seats opposite me.
“Right,” begins Sergeant Barker. “This is just an informal chat and you’re not under arrest.”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Not for me to say, Sir. It’s your right.”
“Well, perhaps if you told me why I’m here, I could make that call.”
He nods to his younger colleague who opens a folder on the desk and scans something inside. I take the opportunity for a sip of tea. Unsurprisingly, it’s from a machine, and awful.
“Okay. Can you confirm your whereabouts yesterday evening?”
“I went to an event at the Montgomery Hotel.”
“And how long were you there for?”
“Initially about an hour or so.”
“And then?”
I start to feel a little uncomfortable with the direction of travel.
“I went for a drink with one of the delegates.”
There’s a brief pause before the next question is fired at me.
“And did you then return to the hotel with that delegate?”
“Yes. She invited me to her room for supper.”
“You accepted that invitation?”
“I did.”
“So you admit you went back to a room at the Montgomery Hotel?”
I can feel frustration bubbling away already. “That’s what I said,” I snap. “Look, what’s going on here?”
“An allegation has been made against you,” the sergeant intervenes.
“An allegation of what? And by who?”
“Theft,” Perry replies.
“Theft?”
“It has been alleged that a sum of money was stolen from a handbag in room 904.”
“What?” I scoff. “By Gabby? I don’t believe it.”
Sergeant Barker puffs his cheeks and sits back in his chair. “Look, Mr Huxley, an allegation has been made and we’re duty-bound to investigate. All I need to know is if you took the money.”
“Of course I didn’t,” I bark at the detective. “Why would I?”
The two detectives swap glances and Perry closes the folder. “Okay. That’s it then,” he says matter-of-factly. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“What do you mean, that’s it? You drag me down here, accuse me of theft, and that’s it?”
“Nobody accused you of anything,” Barker replies. “We received an allegation and you denied it. It’s your word against hers, and with no evidence, there is nothing more we can do.”
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 6