The Ninety Days of Genevieve

by Lucinda Carrington

  ‘Oh, I did.’ Ricky Croft stood up. Genevieve knew instinctively that he had something else to tell her. The real reason why he had started the conversation with her in the first place.

  ‘She told me she wanted them as a gift. For James Sinclair.’

  So he knows a woman who works in advertising, Genevieve thought as she toyed with her coffee and tried to watch the morning news. And it just happens to be someone who works for Lucci. It’s coincidence. If James Sinclair wanted Lucci to handle his account he wouldn’t have come to us, would he?

  Would he? Irritably she jabbed the remote at the screen and cancelled the picture. Jade Chalfont? What kind of a woman was she? What kind of a woman bought erotic pictures for a friend? Genevieve knew the answer to that. An ambitious woman. A woman who knew Sinclair’s tastes. A woman who was willing to fulfill them.

  An ex-girlfriend? A current girlfriend? For some reason the idea made her angry. She knew she was being unreasonable. There was no reason why Sinclair should not see other women. Perhaps he had ninety-day agreements with several of them? Perhaps that was why he had not contacted her? He was too busy satisfying his harem of women with fancy names who bought him unusual gifts.

  How did he treat them, these shiny career women named after jewels? Did he wine and dine them, build up the sexual tension until they were panting for his touch? Did he take them home and lash their wrists together with silk scarves, or leather straps, or maybe silver chains? And move his hands over their bodies, and then his mouth? Suddenly she felt jealous. Absurdly jealous of these make-believe women she imagined him servicing. Get a hold of yourself, you stupid woman, she thought. He’s a business client. Start getting serious and you’ll get hurt.

  But the daydreams would not go away. She remembered exactly how he had touched her and excited her, the way his fingers had teased her. The way his mouth had felt on her skin. She remembered it, and yet the pictures in her mind were of Sinclair and another woman, a woman with large breasts and flowing hair, and long, slim model’s legs. The kind of woman, she realized, that David Carshaw had implied Sinclair would like.

  She had never imagined a man she found attractive with another woman before, and the fantasy, though making her jealous, she had to admit also excited her. It was as if she was experiencing his lovemaking and watching it at the same time. Very stimulating. But she knew that if this mental picture show became a fact, she would not like it at all.

  Her phone rang, startling her. She reached out for it, hoping it was Sinclair. The sound of his voice was just what she needed at that moment. It would disperse the fantasies and bring her back to reality.

  ‘Hallo, big sister.’

  Genevieve had been so sure it would be Sinclair that, for a moment, she had to reorganize her thoughts.

  ‘Sis?’ Her brother Philip sounded anxious. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she said.

  ‘Thought I’d catch you before you went to work,’ Philip said.

  ‘I’m not lending you any more money,’ she warned. ‘You owe me two hundred and fifty as it is.’

  ‘I don’t want money.’ He sounded hurt. ‘And I’ll pay you back. I just want some sisterly advice. I’ve split with Petra.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been with her for a month,’ Genevieve said unsympathetically. ‘That’s some kind of record for you, isn’t it? Julia only lasted a week. Or was it ten days?’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Philip said. ‘Sis, am I really politically incorrect? Is that why I can’t keep a girlfriend for long?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Genevieve said crossly. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘That’s what Petra said,’ Philip explained. ‘I mean, I respect her. She’s doing economics. She’s clever. I respect that. I don’t mind putting up with her friends, although some of them are pretty awful. I didn’t even mind her staying overnight with her ex when his girlfriend chucked him and he was really depressed. I reckon I’m a pretty open-minded, modern person. And she calls me politically incorrect!’

  ‘Why?’ Genevieve asked.

  There was a pause. ‘I wanted to tie her up.’ Another pause. ‘In bed. Not with chains or stuff. I mean, I’m not kinky or anything, just with scarves. It would’ve been “let’s pretend”, really. All very civilized. And she could’ve got free easily enough, if she’d wanted to.’

  For some reason hearing this from her younger brother startled Genevieve. She remembered Philip as a cheeky schoolboy, who kept stick insects and gerbils in his bedroom, and once gave her a live spider in a box as a present.

  ‘You’re not shocked, are you?’ Philip asked anxiously. ‘I mean, I wasn’t going to whip her or spank her or anything. I just thought it’d be a turn-on to see her lying there sort of helpless, and then make love to her. I thought she might like it too. And it’s not as if I tried to force her. I explained what I wanted to do first. I was very clear about my intentions.’

  ‘And she called you politically incorrect?’ Genevieve said.

  ‘You bet she did,’ Philip agreed. ‘And a lot of other things too.’

  ‘Well, I can’t tell you how to get her back,’ Genevieve said. ‘You could try apologizing, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t want her back,’ Philip said. ‘She’s with her ex again now, anyway. What I want to know is, am I going to get this reaction from every girl I meet, if I suggest something a little bit—unusual?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Genevieve said. ‘You just picked the wrong girl, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of playacting in bed. As long as you both enjoy it.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’re right, sis.’ Philip did not sound entirely convinced. ‘I mean, I know it probably isn’t the kind of thing you’d do, but I thought younger women would be a bit more—well—adventurous.’

  ‘Just keep on asking,’ Genevieve said. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of politically incorrect women out there just longing for a macho man to overpower them.’

  ‘Well, I wish I knew one,’ Philip said.

  Maybe you do, Genevieve thought wryly, as she put the phone down. She had to admit her apologetic brother was hardly in the same league as the self-assured and elegant James Sinclair, but surely there were plenty of girls who would find Philip attractive. She wondered suddenly what Philip’s girlfriend would have done if he had tried a little erotic force instead of civilized reason.

  There was certainly something exciting about being given sexy orders by someone you really fancied, she thought. She began to slip into a daydream again, remembering the authoritative tone of Sinclair’s voice, reliving the restaurant meal and her later experiences at his house. A bang on her door startled her back to reality.

  The postman handed her a large, well-wrapped box and asked her to sign for it. After removing the heavy-duty tape and outer paper, she found an envelope. The message inside was simple and direct: GET USED TO THESE. ESPECIALLY THE SHOES. WEAR THEM ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON. LEAVE YOUR HAIR LOOSE. WAIT FOR ME AT FOUR.

  Inside the box she found a zipped purse containing makeup: eye liner, eye shadow, and bright-red lipstick—a color she would never normally wear. There was also a pair of black shoes with absurdly high heels and thin ankle straps, a very short black skirt with long zips instead of side seams and a white blouse with three buttons and a plunging neckline trimmed with a flouncy frill. There were similar frills on the elbow-length sleeves.

  She stared at the outfit in amazement. Philip’s words came to her mind: politically incorrect. Tarty was another description. Get used to these? She held the skirt against her waist and realized that it would barely cover her bottom. And there were no panties in the box. This time she knew better than to consider wearing a pair of her own. She knew that ‘Get used to these’ meant exactly that. But did he really expect her to go outside in a skirt that looked like an extended belt, and no knickers? She knew that he did. But surely only just to his car? If she ran, she told herself, no one would notice her lack of underwear.

 
She picked up the shoes. Could she run in these? Could she even walk in them? No wonder he suggested that she get used to them. On impulse she slipped them on. Although they were uncomfortable they also felt extremely sexy. She sat down and stretched out her legs. She had small ankles and the thin straps emphasized this asset. She pushed aside the silky skirt of her loose kimono and looked critically at her legs. Not bad, she thought. Well, quite good really. She found herself wondering what Jade Chalfont’s legs were like. What would she look like in these unashamedly erotic and totally impractical shoes? Had Sinclair ever bought her a pair too?

  The thoughts spoiled her previously sensual mood. She took the shoes off and glanced at the clock. That destroyed any remaining desire to daydream. It was time for work.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ George Fullerton had breezed into Genevieve’s office. She glanced up and shook her head.

  ‘Not now. Too busy. Thanks, though.’

  Fullerton did not go away. ‘Let’s put it another way. I’ve got to go to Pete Hessler’s birthday booze-up and I want company.’

  ‘George, I hate birthday booze-ups,’ Genevieve said. ‘Especially if it’s someone I hardly know. And I really am busy. I don’t want to take any work home this weekend.’

  Fullerton glanced at his watch. ‘I’m not suggesting a drunken orgy lasting for the rest of the afternoon,’ he said. ‘The taxi will be here in five minutes. Be ready. That’s an order.’

  During the taxi ride Genevieve checked that her memory was correct. Pete Hessler had worked for Barringtons before Genevieve had joined the agency and was now freelance. She suspected that George had an ulterior motive in asking her to accompany him but she could not imagine what it was.

  The small pub was full of jostling, noisy people. Genevieve could see from the expression on some of the customers’ faces that they were regulars who were not happy about this invasion of drinkers.

  ‘See anyone you know?’ George Fullerton inquired.

  ‘Yes,’ Genevieve said. ‘And they’re not about to come over and kiss me on the cheek. There’s that idiot John Garner. Do you know he once told me that women shouldn’t go out to work, they should just have babies.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Fullerton asked.

  ‘That unlike men we were capable of doing both,’ Genevieve said. ‘Or something like that. Shortly afterwards you promoted me. I was very pleased.’

  ‘And you made sure Mr. Garner knew about it?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be that petty,’ Genevieve said sweetly.

  ‘You knew he’d hear about it on the grapevine anyway,’ Fullerton said, smiling. ‘Sit here for a moment. I’ll get you a drink and then I’ll have a quick word with Pete.’

  Squashed in the corner and sipping a Bacardi Breezer that she did not really want, Genevieve amused herself by trying to put names to faces. As she watched the packed crowd, she soon noticed that a lot of activity was going on in one particular area. There were sudden blasts of laughter. Drinks were passed over heads. Genevieve observed that most of the men seemed to edge towards this noisy group after having a quick word with the man whose birthday they were supposed to be celebrating. When the crowd parted she saw that it was centered round a woman. As she watched the woman turned. Her gaze was direct and uncompromising.

  Genevieve stared coolly back. There was a kind of steely self-confidence about this woman, who looked as if she had just stepped off a catwalk. She was tall and slim with glossy black hair cut like an ancient Egyptian. Her brilliant red mouth was large, perfectly outlined and unusually sensual. She wore a plain dress and some metallic jewelry that winked dully in the pub lights. As the crowd closed round her again Genevieve noticed her shoes. They were black patent leather with high heels, and while they were nowhere near as extreme in either height or design, they reminded Genevieve of the pair that Sinclair had sent to her.

  As she watched, the woman leaned towards one of the men and laughed at something he had whispered in her ear. Loving the attention, aren’t you? Genevieve thought cattily. I suppose you don’t feel dressed unless you’ve got half a dozen admirers fawning over you, and these men are certainly obliging.

  George Fullerton had battled his way back to her table. He glanced at the noisy group and shook his head. ‘You’d think it was Miss Chalfont’s birthday, not Pete’s, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Chalfont?’ Genevieve repeated. ‘That’s Jade Chalfont?’

  Fullerton stared down at her innocently. ‘Yes. You don’t know her, do you?’

  ‘I’ve heard of her. How could I forget such a phony-sounding name?’

  ‘Miaow!’ Fullerton murmured, grinning.

  ‘She works for Lucci’s,’ Genevieve added.

  ‘Oh, I know that. A new recruit.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Pete knew her, way back.’

  ‘I imagine half of London probably knew her—way back!’

  Fullerton’s grin widened. ‘You are on form today, aren’t you? Actually Pete didn’t invite her. I understand she sort of invited herself. She’s being picked up by a prospective client, and the parking’s easier round here.’

  ‘It has to be a male client,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘Come on now,’ Fullerton said, ‘be fair. You’re the one who told me you exchanged compliments with Mr. Sinclair because it was good for business.’

  ‘Just why did you really bring me here, George?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘I wanted company,’ Fullerton said.

  Genevieve heard the brief toot of a horn outside. George Fullerton looked out of the window. Genevieve watched the crowd. It parted to let Jade Chalfont through. She strode forward with the self-confident walk of a professional model. She clearly knew all the men were watching her, and not only enjoyed it but expected it. She swished past Genevieve without giving her a glance, leaving only the faint trace of a very expensive perfume behind her.

  Genevieve could not resist standing up and looking out of the window. A Mercedes stood by the kerb, its engine purring. It looked depressingly familiar. As Genevieve watched, Jade Chalfont swung towards the car. James Sinclair climbed out of the driver’s seat, walked round and opened the passenger’s door for her. She kissed him on the cheek and slid elegantly into the car, making sure she displayed a long length of leg and a brief tantalizing glimpse of stocking top as she did so. She obviously knew that she had an appreciative audience watching her from the pub.

  ‘Lucky man,’ someone said.

  ‘It’s strictly business. You heard what the lady said.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of that kind of business myself,’ another voice added. They all laughed.

  ‘All you need is a few million, a Mercedes and plastic surgery to make you look like James Sinclair,’ someone suggested.

  ‘George,’ Genevieve accused, ‘you knew that woman would be here.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Fullerton said. He paused. ‘Well, not definitely. I suspected that if Miss Chalfont knew that Pete and I were friends, she might come along to size up the opposition. In fact it’s worked out far better than I hoped. Obviously Lucci are courting Sinclair too. That would certainly imply that he’s serious about changing agencies.’ He paused. ‘It also means that you’ve got Miss Chalfont as a rival.’

  A rival? The words haunted Genevieve for the rest of the day and into the weekend. She knew that George Fullerton was talking about business rivalry, but she could not help wondering if Miss Jade Chalfont was also going to be a sexual rival as well. Had Sinclair offered her an agreement too? Was he going to compare performances? Had he sent her a box of clothes too, and a curt note to ‘get used to them’? Had she been obliged to dress up to please him, or did he arrange some other kind of fantasy for her?

  Genevieve knew she was being ridiculous. She had no proof that Sinclair was interested in Jade Chalfont as anything other than a business contact. The fact that she had kissed him meant nothing. She was obviously a touchy-feely kind of woman. She probably kissed everyone she met
.

  On Sunday afternoon Genevieve laid the clothes Sinclair had sent her out on the bed. Unfortunately the black high-heeled shoes once again reminded her of Jade Chalfont. She banished the thought. What was more important was to decide whether she really could walk outside dressed in this microskirt and plunge-neck top.

  It was only a short journey from her apartment door to the street, and then she assumed that she would just have to walk to Sinclair’s car. It was also true that most of her neighbors had gone to their country cottages for the weekend, but how would she feel if someone did appear unexpectedly and recognized her?

  Her apprehension disappeared after she had applied the makeup. She stared at herself in the mirror. With her eyes darkly outlined and heavy with mascara, and wearing the bright-red lipstick, she had completely altered her appearance. When she loosened her hair and put on the clothes the transformation was complete.

  She had not tried them on before because she had not had time. Apart from her first attempt at balancing she had not tried the shoes on either. Now she realized that the skirt was even shorter than she had first believed. It barely skimmed her crotch. And the blouse was too small. It tugged across her breasts with the buttons pulling and her nipples showing clearly through the thin material. She looked like a hooker. No one would ever recognize her. She could not believe that a change of makeup and these tarty clothes would make such an instant difference.

  She put on the shoes and stood up. Despite the fact that the shoes were obviously meant to restrict her to tiny steps, and curtail her freedom, there was something about their overtly sexy design that made her feel strangely powerful. It was as if by trying to control her they actually captured and controlled the men who enjoyed looking at them.

  She practiced walking and realized that if you altered the way you moved it was not too difficult to strut about. Her main problem was not balancing or walking but preventing the skirt from riding up with each step she took until both the curving underside of her bottom and the golden triangle of her pubic hair were clearly visible.

  She hoped she would not have to walk far. Just to the car would do fine. She had no doubt that Sinclair would be picking her up by car and that wherever he was taking her, whatever he had planned for her, it would be indoors. He surely could not expect her to go out on the street dressed like this?