by Penny Birch
‘Thanks anyway,’ I answered, already scanning the letter.
They wanted me to come down the very next day, to an address in the Minories, EC3, which sounded very grand indeed. As I let my imagination run that evening I was imagining a stately old house nestled in among the smart office blocks and ancient institutions of the city, quiet and respectable, with only a polished brass plaque to announce their name – Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague – four words that were still going around and around in my head as I fell asleep.
Next morning I was up early and through the shower while Jemima was still yawning and dishevelled in her nightie. I was determined to make a good impression, and had a clear idea of what Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague would expect. They were an old firm, and old-fashioned too, so would expect me not only to be smartly turned out, but in a style that reflected their values.
I didn’t have to be there until the afternoon, so I badgered Mum into driving me into Henley to buy some new clothes. For once we were largely in agreement on the sort of thing I’d need, and we quickly purchased a set of white blouses, smart black shoes with just an inch of heel, three packs of black stockings and, at her insistence, three packs of plain white knickers and bras to match. I tried to point out that the people who interviewed me weren’t going to be seeing my knickers or bra, but got her lecture on dressing properly in return.
That left my suit, and while we both agreed it had to be black I couldn’t resist a new style they were showing in Russell’s, which not only had a tapered knee-length skirt and a tight-waisted jacket, but also a neat little waistcoat which I felt gave it a daring touch as well as making me look as if I had hips and a bust. Mum said I looked like a boy who’d dressed up in his sister’s clothes.
Back at home and inspecting myself in the mirror, I had to admit she was right, but if I looked like a boy then it was a very pretty one. AJ was going to love it, but I brushed my hair out and tied it back in a curly black ponytail instead of the tight bun I’d been planning, which softened the look a little. It was going to have to do anyway as time was getting on and I needed to be at the station in less than half an hour.
I just made it, and spent the journey fidgeting with impatience and adjusting myself as I rehearsed what I would say to either Todmorden or one of the Montagues. Only when I got to Paddington did I begin to lose a little enthusiasm. The tube was packed, and I found myself wedged in at armpit height among a group of German tourists who seemed to have spent the morning working out and not bothered to shower. The thought of having to repeat the same journey every morning in even thicker crowds was pretty depressing, until it occurred to me that I might be able to use the journey as an excuse to stay with AJ.
She lived in Kingsbury, and came in early every morning to her bike couriers, so I would be able to catch a lift as far as the West End of London and get to work with just a short tube journey. I’d spent the night with her a few times, but actually living in her house would be rather different, and opened up all sorts of exciting possibilities, which kept me smiling as I finished my journey.
I hadn’t been to the City for years, but it was as I remembered, the modern mixed in with the ancient, and everything redolent of money. Everywhere I looked people were hurrying from place to place, all of them smartly dressed and about half of them talking into mobile phones. It was hard not to feel a little awed, but the way I’d planned my life I’d be doing the same soon enough, and hopefully earning as much as the best of them, perhaps even as a partner of Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague.
By the time I turned into the Minories I’d constructed a wonderful fantasy world, in which I would be a partner before I was out of my twenties, with an office in the top floor of their fine old building, only to have my dreams crumble around me as I searched for the address. The top of the road was much like those I’d already followed, but it quickly changed, first to great low concrete buildings like something from a council estate, and then to dirty red brick where a railway bridge crossed the road in a broad span, with a tiny shop built into the wall. Next to the bridge, and also made of red brick, although perhaps a fraction less dirty, were the offices of Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague.
The only part of my mental image that was at all accurate was that the office was old and surrounded by taller, newer structures, only not so much nestled in as loomed over, with a vast concrete and glass building casting the whole area in a somewhat dank shadow. Nor did it look particularly busy or efficient, with the huge black door firmly closed and the windows open against the July heat. A single buddleia had managed to insert itself into the corner beside the railway bridge, to send up long shoots tipped by deep purple flowers nodding lazily in the sun.
I tried to put my disappointment aside, telling myself that they would no doubt be handling all sorts of fascinating cases and that the experience would be far more valuable and interesting than anything I could gain from a firm dealing with financial matters. There was at least a brass plaque, although it looked as if it had last been polished around about the same date the firm had been founded – 1852. I rang the bell and waited, my hands folded in my lap and my face frozen in a smile, which had worn off long before the door opened to reveal a man who looked like a lizard.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Philippa Bassington-Smyth,’ I told him. ‘I have an interview.’
‘Come right in,’ he said, his initial look of perplexity vanishing to be replaced by a toothy smile. ‘I’m Mark, by the way, Mark James. Anything you want to know around here, just come to me.’
‘I have to be accepted first.’
‘Oh you’ll be accepted,’ he assured me, pushing open a door. ‘Maggie, this is Philippa Bassing . . . er, something double-barrelled, our new trainee.’
Maggie, or Miss Phelps as the sign on her desk read, looked as forbidding as Mark James had been welcoming. She was a thin, middle-aged woman, very precise in her crisp white blouse and with her dull blonde hair wound up in a bun. The look she gave me over the top of her glasses as she turned away from her computer wasn’t exactly unfriendly, more irritated, as was the tone of her voice when she spoke.
‘Your name is?’
‘Philippa Bassington-Smyth.’
She moved back to her computer, frowning as she examined the screen and employed her mouse with brisk, exact motions.
‘Catch you later, doll,’ Mark James addressed me and he had left.
‘You have an appointment at three-thirty,’ Miss Phelps said after a while, her tone suggesting that by being twenty minutes early I was making a thorough nuisance of myself.
‘I thought it best to arrive a little early,’ I began but trailed off as she reached for the telephone on her desk.
I waited as she spoke into the receiver, and was surprised to see her irritable scowl suddenly soften as whoever was on the other end replied to her statement that I had arrived. When she put the phone down again she was positively beaming.
‘Mr Montague and Mr Todmorden will see you now,’ she said. ‘if you would like to go up. Second floor, the front office.’
Thanking her, I quickly climbed the stairs, telling myself that the worn state of the ancient wine red carpet was a sign of reserve rather than merely slovenly. There was no mistaking the room she meant, with a set of double doors open on the second-floor landing and two men visible at a huge desk within. I knocked anyway, smiling as I quickly took in my surroundings.
The office was comfortably furnished, if a bit shabby, painted in foxy brown and magnolia with paintings and photographs decorating the walls, while a sign in the middle of the desk allowed me to identify Mr Montague, presumably the senior partner. He was tall, almost military in his bearing, and somehow managed to look stern and benevolent at the same time, for once absolutely in keeping with my original image. Mr Todmorden was very different, a squat, heavy-set man with a roll of reddish fat escaping from around his collar, while his smile of greeting was pretty much a leer.
He was going bald, and had combed some strands of greasy-looking hair across the top of his head in a futile effort to hide the fact. Both rose to greet me, Mr Montague extending his hand.
‘Ah, Philippa,’ he said, ‘a pleasure to meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Nothing bad, I hope?’ I joked, not at all sure why he would have heard anything about me at all, beyond my desire to spend my year off working as a trainee in a law firm.
‘Not at all,’ he chuckled. ‘You come highly recommended. Indeed, I believe Morris is a little jealous.’
I had no idea who Morris was, but it didn’t seem advisable to ask and risk making a fool of myself. There was a chair in front of the desk, to which Mr Todmorden was gesticulating, so I sat down on it, smiling and wishing every detail of what I’d learnt in the last two years hadn’t abruptly left my head. I did at least have my CV, which I passed across. Mr Montague took it, but only gave the top sheet a cursory glance before speaking once again.
‘Your qualifications are, of course, not in question. When can you start?’
‘Immediately, if you like,’ I answered, astonished at what seemed such ready acceptance.
‘I don’t think we need be quite that precipitant,’ Mr Montague replied. ‘Monday morning should do very well, don’t you think, Lucius?’
Mr Todmorden nodded his agreement. I seemed to be in, without having to answer a single question, which just went to show that’s it’s not what you know, but who you know. Naturally I would have preferred to get in on my own merits, but if that was the way it worked then only an idiot would have protested.
‘You’ll be assigned to general duties at first,’ Mr Montague was saying, ‘filing and so forth, but I’ll make sure you have plenty of opportunity for work experience. For the moment, I’ll get somebody to show you around. Not one of us, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I answered hastily. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking up your valuable time.’
‘I mean to say, not one of us,’ he repeated, now emphasising the final word.
‘Um . . . no,’ I managed, thoroughly confused.
‘There are, in fact, only four of us,’ he went on, ‘Lucius and myself, my secretary, Helen Stevens, and Maggie, Miss Phelps that is, our clerk. From what Morris tells me you will find Maggie particularly gratifying.’
I nodded, now completely lost. He had pressed a button on his desk, and spoke briefly into a microphone. Before I could ask any questions a young woman had appeared.
‘My secretary, Helen,’ Mr Montague explained. ‘Helen, this is Miss Bassington-Smyth, who’ll be joining us as a trainee, if you would be so kind as to find somebody to show her around.’
‘Certainly, Mr Montague,’ she replied.
‘Thank you,’ I said, trying to address all three of them at once as I stood up.
‘My pleasure, I assure you,’ Mr Todmorden answered me. ‘I look forward to seeing you on the Monday, unless of course you’ll be there on Saturday night?’
‘Um . . . no, I don’t think so,’ I answered.
‘A pity,’ he said, ‘but another time, no doubt.’
The interview was obviously over, and I’d been accepted.
I was so astonished I barely heard what Helen Stevens was saying as she led me out onto the landing, and I had to make myself focus on her words.
‘. . . you’ll like it here,’ she was saying. ‘We’re very informal, although of course you must dress the part for the sake of the clients. The partners’ offices are on this floor, and my own. There’s Mr Montague, and Mr Todmorden, and young Mr Montague, Mr Montague’s nephew.’
‘Aren’t there three Montagues?’ I asked.
‘Oh no,’ she said, smiling and nodding towards an open door as we approached it. ‘Old Mr Montague, who was young Mr Montague’s father, died several years ago. Mr Montague, meet Philippa Bassington-Smyth, our new trainee.’
There were altogether too many Mr Montagues for me, but the man she was introducing me to was obviously the young one. He was very much like his uncle, tall and straight with a handsome, clean-cut face, but with jet-black hair and a fresh, almost boyish look despite being maybe thirty-five or forty. My smile was returned with a knowing grin, and as soon as we were out of earshot Helen Stevens spoke again.
‘Watch out for that one. He’s a bit of a wolf.’
I’d already guessed, but thanked her for the warning. She was going to go down the stairs, but Mark James appeared coming up them, speaking immediately.
‘Showing the new girl around, Helen? Let me do that. I’m sure you have something to type or whatever.’
Helen Stevens made no protest, but I was quickly hustled off, back up the stairs to the third floor, which was entirely occupied by a large, open-plan office in which half a dozen men and women of assorted ages were seated at their desks while the walls were lined with ceiling-high bookcases and ranks of files.
‘Hi guys,’ he greeted them. ‘This is the new girl, Philippa Double-Barrel. Say hi to the Blockhouse, Philippa.’
‘Call me Pippa, please,’ I answered, trying not to blush as every head in the room turned to me.
‘Pippa it is,’ Mark James assured me and began to make the introductions.
Half-an-hour later I’d completed my tour and even knew where I was going to be working, a tiny cubby hole on the top floor which looked out over the railway with the Tower of London and the Thames beyond. Among the staff, old Mr Montague and Mr Todmorden apparently only worked for a few clients, while young Mr Montague, Richard, was the driving force behind the firm. Most of the actual work was done by the five men and two women in the big office known as the Blockhouse, including Mark James. The first floor was the domain of Miss Phelps and her two juniors, with the library and various utility rooms, while the ground floor contained her office, a big reception room for clients and the kitchen. Downstairs was a shadowy area in which the older records were kept, apparently under the watchful eye of an elderly custodian, Mr Prufrock, who was the only person I wasn’t introduced to.
By the time I left my head was whirling with names and faces, while I was elated to have been accepted, and so easily. I immediately rang AJ, hoping she’d be in the office and not out on a job, as despite running her company she insisted on riding as well. She was there and invited me over, promising a congratulatory drink. I took the tube, now indifferent to the crowds although they were thicker than ever with the rush hour already picking up.
Getting out at Tottenham Court Road, I walked up to AJ’s office, to find her in conversation on the phone and not looking too happy. I kissed her anyway, quite hard as there was nobody else about, then sat down to wait for her to finish her call. She did so almost immediately, throwing the phone down into its cradle as she spoke.
‘Bastard! How dare he!’
‘Who was it?’ I asked, taken aback by her anger. She may be my girlfriend, but she stills scares me sometimes.
‘Morris fucking Rathwell!’ she swore. ‘Do you know what the bastard wanted?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘He wanted me to come to one of his parties,’ she spat. ‘Me! God I’d like to kick the little shit right in the balls.’
I didn’t answer, because I knew who she was talking about, and a horrible suspicion dawned on me. Morris Rathwell was a notorious pervert who ran spanking clubs for dirty old men, with girls provided for spanking and worse, and if he’d tried to invite AJ it explained why she was so angry. Mr Montague had also mentioned somebody called Morris, as if I should know him, although how the two could be connected I couldn’t imagine. Yet Mr Todmorden had asked if I was going to the party on Saturday, and it was all too easy to imagine him getting off on spanking young girls, or any girls for that matter.
‘Is the party on Saturday?’ I asked.
‘You keep well away from that party, Moppet,’ she warned. ‘I’ve told you about Rathwell.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ I reassured her, ‘but is it on Saturday?’
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p; ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘but there’s some big club on too and he’s short on girls, so he asked me, when he knows full well I would never go to play his dirty little games, the bastard. Come here, Moppet.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, a little uncertain.
‘Just come here,’ she insisted.
I came, holding my arms out to hug her, which I hoped was what she needed, only to be snatched by the wrist and hauled across her knee, my raised bum towards the door as she began to fiddle with my skirt.
‘AJ! Not here, someone might see!’
‘Sorry, sweetness, I have to take it out on somebody.’
‘Yes, AJ, but . . .’
My words broke off in a squeak of shock as my brand new skirt was jerked up over my bottom, exposing the seat of my knickers, on which she laid a single hard smack before hooking her thumb into my waistband. I knew my knickers were coming down. They always do, and I was helpless to prevent it, but that didn’t stop me babbling pitifully as they were drawn slowly down over my cheeks.
‘No, AJ, not bare, please, not in the office. What if somebody came in? Oh, please, no . . . no . . .’
It was too late. My knickers were down, inverted around my thighs to leave my bum showing bare behind me, so that anybody who walked through the door would get a prime view of my spanking. It would only be one of her riders, most of whom were hardcore dykes anyway and would only think it was funny, but that didn’t do a great deal to quell my sense of embarrassment as AJ set to work on my bottom. She had me tight around the waist, holding me firmly in place as she spanked me, and she was laying on the smacks so hard that I was rapidly losing control of myself to the pain anyway, but that wasn’t what made me so helpless. I can never resist her, however humiliating the circumstances, because just to be with her makes me go weak, never mind to be held down over her knee for what I’ve come to crave more than anything – a good, hard spanking.