by Primula Bond
‘I’ll tell you what I got up to out there. One day.’
‘It’ll be like prizing open a clam. Just like it used to be.’
‘Now. Talking about getting me out of these clothes –’
‘Don’t get saucy now,’ Chrissie said and giggled.
‘No. I mean getting out of these rags and into something suitable for this interview tomorrow.’
‘I must say, I would have expected you to come back from overseas decked out in jewels and finery, not all your old gear from way back,’ Chrissie remarked. I could tell she was disappointed that there was to be no more sex talk. I just didn’t feel like obliging her. I’d left a pretty wild scene behind me, one pretty wild man in particular, just because I was restless, just because I had itchy feet and just because I’d run out of money. But now I was back in staid old London, I was beginning to regret my hasty decision.
‘This gentlemen’s club,’ I said and sighed, looking again at the piece of paper. ‘I need to make an effort, I suppose.’
‘Of course you do. Get positive.’ Chrissie took a sip of wine, and choked as she started to giggle again. ‘Think there’ll be any tasty men there?’
‘I doubt it. They’ll all be old codgers with handlebar moustaches and gout. They’ll all be slumped in their leather armchairs, hidden behind the Telegraph and demanding port and cigars. Can I hack that? I doubt it. But I just need to earn some money, Chrissie, so I can take off again. Now. Will you help me, or not? I need to borrow some clothes.’ I plucked at my frayed Levis. ‘What you got, Chris?’
‘Just let me toss the salad,’ she said, jumping to her feet and going back inside. I remembered that she, at least, could cook. ‘Are you staying for supper?’
‘In a hurry, but thanks. I’ll meet Jeremy another time.’ My stomach rumbled. Chrissie was a brilliant cook, and I was dying for a square meal. But I also wanted to be on my own for a while. I was still horribly disorientated, and her perky confidence just made it worse.
It was getting chilly, and I followed her indoors, scooping the wine bottle and glasses off the terrace table.
‘Always so restless,’ Chrissie complained, energetically chopping some spring onions with violent jerks of her elbow and dropping them into a complicated marinade. I could tell she was pissed off. ‘Why the rush?’
There was no reason. I just didn’t want to play gooseberry with her and her darling new man.
‘Nothing riveting,’ I said, truthfully. ‘Just need to settle into my lovely bed and breakfast before the dreaded interviews and flat-hunting tomorrow.’
‘I’ve told you. You can stay here. I’m sure Jeremy wouldn’t mind.’ There was a tiny pause. ‘He loves having new people around.’
I hugged her, shaking my head. ‘Just take me to your wardrobe, and I’ll be gone.’
It didn’t take long. We nearly came to blows as she tried to squeeze me firstly into a tomato-coloured sack-shaped dress, and then into a green ensemble which looked like our old school uniform. We were just coming to an uneasy agreement on an outfit when the buzzer went.
‘That’s Jeremy, warning me of his arrival. He says it’s so I can chuck out the toy boys.’
Chrissie patted her already immaculate curls and a pink flush of pleasure went up her neck as she waited for her fiancé to come up in the lift. I grabbed my rucksack and the Harvey Nichols bag stuffed with the borrowed suit. Chrissie had thrown in a silk blouse, some stockings and a pair of shoes. I gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘I’ll leave you lovebirds together. I’ll be back with the clothes in a day or so, Chrissie.’ I pushed my way out of the flat, and took the stairs down to the street.
3
I rang the doorbell of Club Crème once more, keeping my finger impatiently on the little round disc. A taxi rumbled past the alleyway, sending up a dirty spray of puddle water. Still no one came. I turned to go. I was usually willing to try my hand at anything, but Chrissie’s remarks about my professional abilities came back to haunt me. I hadn’t come all the way back to London just to change old men’s catheters, rustle up a mean soufflé or hang about in dingy alleyways.
‘Can I help you?’
Someone was pushing open the metal gate at the entrance to the alleyway, which gave another ear-splitting squeak. Stiletto footsteps clacked smartly towards me on the dark tiling. Some murky drops of rain found their way down through the surrounding high walls and started to drum on the top of my beret.
‘No, you can’t. I’m in the wrong place,’ I muttered, squeezing against the dank wall to let her pass.
‘Really? So you’ve not come for an interview? Although now I think about it, you’re not our usual type of candidate at all. Could you look at me when I speak to you?’
I jerked my head up like a sulky schoolgirl. The most sensational-looking woman was standing in front of me, dressed from head to foot in what looked like real silver fox fur. She looked as if she should be sweeping into the Savoy, not stamping about in a dank alleyway off Shepherd Market. Then again, after what Chrissie had said, that was exactly the sort of look that would go down a treat at Shepherd Market. She was as tall as me, which was unnerving in itself, and her black hair was piled up on top of her head in that clever way which looks as if it’s about to tumble straight down again. Her heavily made-up eyes, ringed in sooty kohl, glittered in the gloom of the alleyway and her big mouth was a slash of scarlet.
‘Yes,’ I mumbled after a moment, but keeping my eyes on hers. ‘I am here for the interview.’
‘Good.’
One side of her scarlet mouth curled in what could either have been a sneer or a smile. Holding my gaze, she fingered the lapel of my jacket between finger and thumb, as if checking for dust. Then she smoothed it over my breast, resting her gloved hand there for a moment.
‘I’m meant to be seeing Miss –’ I checked my scribble on the newspaper cutting ‘– Miss Sugar?’
My interrogator’s head fell back and she let out a throaty chuckle. I could see the sinews in her white throat, the rows of white teeth, and the red, red tongue. She looked like a flamenco dancer about to fling herself into the arms of a matador.
‘We love employing people with such hilarious names. You’ll see how well it suits her.’ She gave me one last, glittering look, then swiped a card key to unlock the door. I followed her, and prepared to hold my breath against the smell of stale cabbage and Elastoplast.
Once inside, I couldn’t imagine something as lowly as cabbage ever being cooked inside Club Crème, let alone any ghastly odours being allowed to seep out of the kitchen. (Although it was at that precise moment that the idea of ‘school dinners’ was hatched, and later, much later, crisp green cabbage was allowed back on to the club menu, lightly tossed in butter, black pepper and a sprinkling of nutmeg . . .)
And instead of peering at chipped linoleum and brooding mahogany, I found myself gazing round a beautiful marble atrium, bathed in a column of light streaming down from a domed skylight above me.
‘What is that lovely smell?’ I wondered aloud, sniffing the fragrant air. ‘Beeswax, and lily of the valley?’
The woman paused beside me and laughed softly.
‘Correct. You have sensitive nostrils, like our Miss Sugar,’ she replied, obviously amused. She, too, lifted her chin and sniffed. ‘The beeswax polish and pot pourri are all her idea, and how right she is. Don’t you agree that the first impression to greet you in a new place, or even an old familiar place, is the aroma? Virtually before you’ve seen anything, or spoken to anyone?’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘And how awful it is if you get it wrong. But this is all so right.’
She and I were directly beneath the column of light and I now saw that it illuminated a circular atrium of white marble, with several stained-glass internal doors leading off the hallway and a stone staircase curling upwards. In this cocoon of hushed luxury, it was impossible to imagine the chilly rain falling outside.
‘You’ll find Miss Sugar through there
,’ the woman said, waving her hand towards one of the doors. ‘I will be fascinated to know what she makes of you. Or you of her, for that matter. Good luck.’
And she was gone, sweeping up the stairs and disappearing into the bright light from the sky.
Miss Sugar was as thin as a pin and looked as if nothing so sweet as an apple, let alone chocolate or puddings, ever passed her lips. Everything about her was grey to the point of see-through. Her eyes, staring behind thick spectacles, her clothes, her skin, all looked as if they belonged to a ghost. She didn’t seem to like the bright light and clean marble of the building because she kept her office shuttered and lit by one solitary lamp. Her hair may as well have been grey, but actually it was very pale, silvery blonde, and scraped back into a tight bun. She was the opposite of the voluptuous dark lady. And she was definitely the opposite of me.
‘You have done many things in your time.’ Miss Sugar stated the obvious, holding my CV up to the lamp light and reading it very slowly. She turned her thick spectacles towards me, and I saw my face distorted there like a fish.
‘And I’m not yet thirty,’ I interjected. But she didn’t smile.
‘I can’t quite see how all this travelling, modelling and, ah, riding, would fit into the kind of role we are looking to fill here at Club Crème.’
‘Well, you didn’t ask about my experience when I phoned about the interview, so I figured you were open to allcomers,’ I replied, slightly sarcastically. She was taking an age getting to the point, and I could already tell she didn’t like me. ‘If you could give me a clue what that role entails exactly, I’ll tell you how I can fit in. I mean, I can type,’ I added, tugging at Chrissie’s pinstripe jacket and realising that two of the buttons had already either come undone or snapped off. ‘And I know my way round most computer programmes.’
While she bent her head to study my references I undid the other buttons to relieve the burden on the jacket, only to find that the silk blouse was just as taxed trying to cover my big breasts. Irritation began to jab at me as I fiddled with the remaining buttons. The only item of clothing that fitted me today was my bra.
Unbeknownst to Chrissie, or indeed anyone who only encountered me in my usual tomboy mode, beneath my scruffy clothes I always wore exquisite underwear. It was the one legacy I had taken away from my years as the favourite girlfriend. After the first time the prince had unwrapped my body like a precious consignment of contraband, he had trained me to appreciate and dress my body, just as I had trained him to appreciate his horses. To give him his due, he’d brought my body to life under the blazing blue skies, and I had quickly seen why it was important to keep that body in lovely underwear. I particularly treasured my breasts, liked to cosset and look after them. I liked buying something lovely to encase them in. Too bad if I then hid their splendour under sweatshirts and ripped denim.
The prince had set his sights on me after he’d seen me galloping on a silver Arab mare around the pyramids at Giza. Dawn had been breaking; my favourite time of day in a hot country. He had quickly jumped on another horse at the stables – Armani business suit and all – and chased after me. A few hours later, he had offered me a job and we were in his hotel room in the middle of Cairo, drinking Buck’s fizz for breakfast to celebrate.
Our conversation had rapidly become less businesslike and more flirtatious, and suddenly room service had appeared with a big box overflowing with silk and lace underwear. The prince had asked me to put it on, and I had been stunned into obeying him.
I’d been in Egypt for precisely 48 hours. I was meant to be passing through. Certainly no thought of men, or sex, or any kind of entanglement, had crossed my mind when I’d set off on my travels. Quite the reverse, in fact. But the prince was different. You’d have to be blind not to be mesmerised by him. Dangerous charm wavered off him like a heat haze. Once he’d got me alone, his eyes were so dark with lust and admiration, so intent on watching me, the champagne so cold and delicious, the underwear so expensive and sexy, that I had done as he asked. I remember shivering uncontrollably as I had pulled off my sweaty T-shirt and jodhpurs.
He had looked calmly at me, not licking his lips or making any comment to embarrass me, and had simply waited, holding out the box of underwear. My head had been swimming by this time with Fuck’s bizz (as Chrissie and I always called it), as well as confused excitement. I had returned his gaze and stepped boldly out of my plain vest and pants. Then it was my turn to wait. We had eyed each other in the shuttered cool of the hotel room until he beckoned me over. He had certainly known what he was doing, hooking me tenderly into the various garments, showing me how just wearing a bit of well-designed underwiring, whalebone or even Lycra could alter my posture and my silhouette. As he talked, I had wondered how many other women dotted around the globe were strutting about similarly attired from his generous wallet.
That very first morning he had made me parade round his room like one of his horses in the exercise ring, goading me out of my usual slouch until I was walking tall like a ballerina. Except this prancing pony was sporting a dark-pink basque and matching frilled knickers. My body had felt like a new toy, my limbs swinging, my hips swaying from side to side, my sap rising as the sun blazed down and the cars hooted in the clogged streets outside the hotel.
He had watched me for a while, still sitting on a chair by the window, then he had grabbed me by the hips as I stalked past him and before I could blink he had hitched me onto his lap. He had studied my new, warm cleavage, all raised and ripening under its silky cover, then scooped one breast out of its nest, weighing it like a juicy peach at the market. Dressed – or rather undressed – like this, I felt I was a new person, capable of anything. He was a total stranger. He would eventually flit out of my life as soundlessly as he had flitted in. But I was abroad. No one knew me. No one could stop me. For the first time in my life, I could do what I liked. It had been a great feeling.
I pulled myself back to the present. What a difference five years made. All I had left of the suave but unpredictable prince was the pack of lies we called a reference which he had concocted for me the night before I left.
‘It’s not exactly typing we’re after,’ Miss Sugar was saying in answer to my remark, pushing aside the CV. She obviously didn’t believe a word of it. I glanced around the gloomy office. There was a computer in the corner and a couple of metal filing cabinets, but no other evidence of secretarial work. When I looked back at her, I saw that she was staring through her spectacles at my bosom. I looked down. The blouse had given up completely, had undone itself to the waist, and my breasts were thrusting out from between the defeated silk folds, encased in cream lace. I tugged the jacket round me, feeling it rip down a back seam, and wondered how soon I could beat a retreat.
‘I am very versatile,’ I repeated. I’d rehearsed this mantra on the tube coming here. ‘Filing, errands, messages, answering the phone, I can spell, I’m good with people, I spent all day being good with people in my last job. I’m good at making coffee – I make a wicked coffee.’
She didn’t smile, but looked back at my CV, then waved a hand at the filing cabinets.
‘I see you were pretty good with animals in your last job, too. But we don’t tend to have thoroughbred horses clamouring to join this club.’
I slowed my breathing down.
‘Could you tell me, Miss Sugar, who exactly does join this club? Not to mention who exactly works here. I’m afraid I haven’t got the picture.’
‘Well, it’s a very English, very select club. A retreat, if you like, for moneyed, mostly titled people. Aristocrats. Hence the name of the club. We accommodate la crème de la crème here.’
She looked me up and down again, obviously placing me firmly below stairs.
‘Well,’ I announced smartly, unable to resist the opportunity to set her straight, ‘I can do aristocrats. I’ve been working for a prince for the last five years.’
‘True,’ she said slowly, studying my CV again as if it was an exam paper
. ‘But I suspect your exotic princes are rather different from our mostly home-grown members. Oh dear. They wouldn’t like me describing them as home-grown . . .’
‘Quite. It makes them sound as if they live in tweeds and green wellies. Boy! I’m sure my exotic princes could give your aristos a run for their money.’ I plonked myself down uninvited in the chair opposite her. ‘They’re probably far richer, for a start. They’d have far more style. And far more fun.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ Miss Sugar’s voice cut through the air. I was impressed. Not such a mouse after all. ‘I’d be willing to bet that our members could knock your sheikhs into a cocked hat, whatever that expression means.’ We both gave tiny puffs of mirth but she kept her face straight and continued, ‘Our lot could equal yours in every way, I’m certain. We like to give the impression of an old-fashioned set-up, and that suits the older members. But there’s more to Club Crème. Far more.’
‘Go on.’
‘This is a small establishment. We may have very few clients staying here at any one time, perhaps only a handful, but the ones we do have are our twenty-four hour responsibility, and they pay handsomely for it. Believe me, they can afford it. And our job is to make this place a home from home, in every tiny detail, only infinitely better. They come here to escape from home, in fact: nagging wives, troublesome kids, stressful professions, difficult decisions. But we find that, even when all their extra-curricular problems are sorted out, they still come back here again, and again, and again . . .’
She looked past me dreamily, her voice fading. She obviously lived and breathed this job. I was curious now, eager to know what it was that she did. What it was that she wanted me to do.