***
Tim felt edgy. He watched Clara working hard and wondered what the hell she was playing at. He knew she didn’t need to work, and she knew that the only reason she was a salesperson was because he was sleeping with her. She didn’t even know what a salesperson did. That was the way Tim wanted it. She had to owe her job to him totally; she had to be dependent on him. His claim on her would be considerably weakened if she began to do her job well.
The other problem was that Tim did not want Clara to work at SFH for ever. The plan was that when he left his wife for her and they were together full time, she would give up work because he would need her to look after him. If it didn’t work out between them, which he doubted, he needed to be able to fire her from SFH for incompetence. Tim had set this whole thing up so that he held all the cards. Now, it looked as if Miss Hart was taking control. Tim knew that he had to put a stop to it. He had to get her back to being dependent on him.
There were two ways in which he could do this. First, he could tell her of his plans for them, of how she would be his full-time woman, how she should give up working sooner rather than later to prepare for the role. Somehow he thought she might insist on working for longer, at least until he left home. Tim sighed. He knew that was what she would do, and although he had decided to leave his wife, he wasn’t sure when. Therefore, he had to make sure that Clara’s good intentions didn’t last. He wouldn’t be able to do anything about the situation that weekend, but he knew someone who could. He picked up his mobile phone, called his dealer and arranged for six grams of cocaine to be discreetly delivered to the office that day.
If he gave Clara huge amounts of her favourite white powder, she would soon be unable to keep up with her job. All she would be good for would be to wait at home, legs wide open, for him. If Clara wanted to play hard to get, Tim Pemberton would always be one step ahead of her. That was why he was in the position he was in. No one could get the better of him.
Just after three, Clara received an e-mail from Tim, asking her to come into his office but to make sure she told everyone it was she who wanted to see him. Clara pressed the delete button. “Thank fuck the slimy bastard’s away this weekend,” she said to herself, as she got off her chair and shouted to the desk, “I’m just going to chat to the chief,” as she walked away.
She knocked, waited for him to beckon her in then closed the door behind her and forced a smile. “Timmy, how are you?”
“Fine, darling, but you have some explaining to do.” He was using his curt, pissed-off voice. Clara suppressed a giggle as he let his cut-glass demeanour fall and sounded like one of the cast of EastEnders. Clara was one of the few who knew that the public-school persona was all bullshit. Tim was such a snob and he couldn’t bear to admit his past. Clara had only found out about it by accident. She respected him for. his achievement, but despised the way he made out he was a direct descendant of the Queen of England.
“I don’t know what you mean, hot cakes.” Clara feigned innocence.
“The morning meeting. What were you doing there?” All his elocution lessons forgotten, Tim sounded rougher than sandpaper.
“I thought I was supposed to be there, but I just hadn’t made it before. Anyway, baby boy, I decided to make things easier for you by being good at my job.” She smiled enigmatically, the sort of smile that always made grown men swoon.
Tim looked uncertain.
“Um, well, yeah.” He stopped speaking and stared into Clara’s sparkling blue eyes. The silence lasted a few seconds, in which time Tim seemed to remember who he was supposed to be. “Very commendable, Clara. I was just surprised. I’m all for you making my life easier but, darling, just remember whose cock you suck, and discuss your ideas with me in future,” He ended with one of his sleaziest smiles, which he thought of as a turn-on but made Clara feel like investing in granny knickers and a floral nightdress. She made a mental note to think seriously about doing so.
Clara sighed. She’d known he’d hate the sudden turn-around in her – she knew it meant he had less control over her – but she decided to play up to him. After all, granny knickers or not, she still needed him for now.
“Darling, I’m only interested in keeping you happy. The job thing is just something I wanted to do to ensure no one finds out about us. Well, until you want them to, of course.” She gave him her best little-girl smile.
Tim was mollified. Actually, he had a huge hard-on. That smile always made him think of Clara in a gym slip. He made a mental note to buy her one. All thoughts of anything but what was happening in his trousers fled from his mind.
It was at times like this that Clara wondered what had happened to the intelligence that had got him to the top. She decided long ago that where she was concerned he must have buried it beneath his ego and his cock.
“Fine, good. Listen, baby, as I’m not going to be with you this weekend, I’ve got something to remind you of me.” He passed over five wraps, checking furtively that no one could see them, and watched as she tucked them expertly into her skirt. She blew him a kiss, and walked back to her desk, where she put them safely in her handbag.
Before he left the office, Tim thought, after that she won’t even get out of bed on Monday, let alone make the morning meeting. As she saw Tim leaving, Clara thought, thank God the talking testicle’s gone. She turned her thoughts to the weekend ahead and thanked God, Buddha and the god of cocaine for the precious freedom that had been bestowed upon her.
At five, she took her usual visit to the ladies”. Although adrenaline had got her through the day, she felt wobbly and shaky and her head was pounding. After her line of coke, she felt better. She still couldn’t believe the amount Tim had given her and couldn’t work out what had brought on the stroke of generosity, but she was too in love with cocaine to imagine that his motives might be destructive. She ran back to her desk, grabbed her bag and announced she was off to meet a client.
She walked the short distance into the heart of the City to meet Jenny in a bar in Bishopsgate. Clara seldom walked anywhere, but today she took rare enjoyment in the early-evening bustle that greeted her. Traffic sat still in every road, people squealed about the night ahead; the grey sky, dotted with clouds, seemed to smile at her. Clara smiled back. People shot puzzled glances at each other as they passed a gorgeous girl who seemed to be smiling at them; some even debated following her. Unaware of the effect she was having on the inhabitants of the City of London, Clara reached the bar still smiling.
She and Jenny got on like a house on fire. Jenny was a tough London fund manager who liked to get drunk and pick up men. Her background and Clara’s were a million miles apart. Jenny, the hard-nosed, loud-voiced Oxford girl with an amazing brain had no qualms about being working class and liked to tell Clara about “all the toffs I’ve shagged”. The two girls had developed an unlikely but wild friendship, which meant that when they went out they didn’t talk about business. They got plastered, high on cocaine and usually ended up with men.
Clara ordered a bottle of champagne, lit a cigarette, and found a table. She didn’t have too long to wait and Jenny bounded in ten minutes later.
“Clara, how are you?” Jenny’s voice was so loud that most of the bar turned to look at them. They were not so quick to look away. The two girls cheek-kissed and Jenny sat down. Jenny was a stunning brunette. Her big brown eyes had inflicted many a broken heart, and she was a good-time girl, a lot like Clara, although she had worked hard for everything she had. She didn’t have Clara’s privileges but she had ambition.
“Fuck, I’ve had such a shitty day. Give us some of that plonk.”
Clara poured her a glass of champagne; Jenny always said she had had a bad day and Clara suspected that she never did. “So, what do you fancy doing tonight?” Clara asked, having forgotten to make any plans past the bar they sat in.
“Why don’t we drink this, have another, then when we’re too pissed to eat, we’ll go to Soho, laugh at the nobs in Mezzo and go to China White. Is tha
t all right with you?” Jenny suggested.
“Fine, darling. Now if we’re drinking here, how about a little something to make you sparkle?” Clara raised a questioning eyebrow at Jenny.
“Clara, I’ll keep giving you all my business. You’re a star.” Clara handed the wrap under the table to Jenny, and Jenny literally went off to powder her nose.
An hour later they were flying. They had both had a few lines of coke, they had drunk a bottle and a half of champagne and the conversation had turned blue.
“Darling, take my advice, keep away from married men. My Mr Married is so foul, I don’t know quite why I keep sleeping with him. He thinks he’s sexy and kinky and, oh, such a turn-on, but I find the idea of shagging a turnip more appealing.” Clara looked momentarily sad.
“Dump him. When I slept with this married man last year – he was some sort of egomaniac – I dropped him like a shitbrick as soon as he said he was leaving his wife. I mean, what’s that all about? Married men are supposed to have affairs and never leave their wives. It’s such a crock of shit,” Jenny said.
“Exactly, absolutely. He wants to leave his wife and I don’t want him to. I want him to stay with her. For ever and ever. And leave me.” Clara started to laugh. “Perhaps I should anonymously send him a book on how to be a proper unfaithful bastard. There must be one that says never leave your wife for your sexy-bit-on-the-side hussy.”
“If there isn’t we could write one. And in it we should also say that married men are only attractive to single girls because they’re married. If they were remotely single, we wouldn’t touch them.” Jenny was warming to the idea.
“Yes, and we should also say that married men should be better in bed because they’re married, and if they’re not what’s the point? Oh, God, I think I’m getting confused.” Clara broke into drunken giggles.
“Anyway, I met this bloke on Tuesday and he’s a bit of all right. He’s single, tall, and rich. Oh, and he’s hung like a donkey.” Jenny giggled.
“Christ, all that in one package! Tell me the delicious details.”
“He’s a footballer.” Jenny and Clara burst out laughing.
“He’s not David Beckham, is he?”
“No, he’s bloody not. No, my man plays for West Ham, and he’s rich but he’s common as muck. Bit like me. Oh, yeah, and he’s so good in bed, I was walking like Woody from Toy Story for the rest of the week.” Jenny shrieked.
‘”So, are you going to see him again? Aren’t all footballers common? They tend to prefer rugby and cricket in public schools.”
“Clara, you fucking snob. You clueless snob.” She always got famous people mixed up. She had once been at a party with loads of celebrities and she managed to upset quite a few. The most memorable was when she met one of the Gallagher brothers and told him she thought it was very brave of him to leave Take That, especially as he was so good at break-dancing.
Jenny continued, “Although you’re probably right. But my footballer’s quite bright – not enough kicks in the head or something. Anyway, I’m seeing him tomorrow night for a marathon sex session.”
“Lucky you. Christ, do you think we’ll ever find men that are enough for us? I can’t imagine settling for just one.” Clara looked frightened.
“I don’t think there’s a man on this planet who’s enough for you. Sorry, darling.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll stick to Charlie.” Clara laughed and went to powder her nose again.
When she got back they left and took a cab to Mezzo. At the bar, men surrounded them. After another few lines of cocaine, they started to behave like a double act. Clara would flirt and get drinks bought for them, then Jenny would pull each man to pieces until they could endure the misery no more. They were both having fun; the men they met were not.
By the time they got to China White, they were as high as helium balloons. They walked straight past the intimidating doorman, who smiled at them, and sat down at a table. Clara tossed the reserved sign over her head. Although the staff gave them odd looks, no one questioned them. When they were together, they could get away with whatever they wanted.
After their first drink, two men approached them. Unlike the rather sad types who had mobbed them in Mezzo, this pair wore trendy suits, had slick haircuts and model good looks. They said they worked in the music industry, then proceeded to prove the point by plying the girls with champagne, cocaine and talking about bands Clara and Jenny had never ever heard of. Mick and Jerry – which couldn’t have been their real names, even Clara could see that – took it in turns to flirt with each girl, giving them no clues as to who fancied whom. And the flirting was full on. They were touching cheeks, hands, knees, as well as giving the girls the most amazing eye contact.
When Mick and Jerry made a trip to the loo, together, Jenny and Clara had an opportunity to gossip.
“I think we’ve met our matches. Perhaps we’re too pissed but I can’t figure out what the hell is going on,” Jenny said despondently. Whatever game they were playing was beyond her.
“Only because we’re wasted. Listen, Jen, I think they want to sleep with both of us. You know the sort of thing – they’ll entice us back to their flat, give us more champagne and cocaine and then they’ll make a move. They’ll probably suggest sleeping with both of us, some sort of orgy. I bet that’s what they want.”
Jenny wasn’t shocked. “Are you sure? Cheeky bastards. Listen, Clara, I’m way past the stage of reason. I’ve got my date tomorrow night and I’m not really up for an orgy tonight. I just want to go home and pass out.”
Clara looked thoughtful. “You’re probably right. I’m not sure I want sex anyway.”
“So, you don’t mind if we make a move?” Jenny asked.
“No, but I want another drink and I think we should say goodbye to them.”
“Do you mind if I split? I don’t want them to try to talk me out of leaving.”
“Of course not, darling. I’ll explain, have another drink, then go home too.” Clara was glad Jenny was leaving first, because she wanted sex and she needed it. If it had to be with two men, she was ready for it.
Mick and Jerry returned to find only Clara at the table. “Where’s your friend?” Mick asked.
“She had to leave – she had a headache. I hope you don’t mind that I’m staying,” Clara said.
“No, not at all. But that leaves us with a problem,” Jerry said.
“Why?” Clara asked innocently.
“Because there’s two of us.”
“Yes, and there’s one of me. But I think I’m enough for both of you.”
***
At half past two, they left to go back to Mick’s flat in Primrose Hill. In the cab, they were both groping Clara, who made sure she gave both men an equal amount of attention. The cab pulled up outside a mansion block and they all got out.
The flat was big and untidy. Mick made a half-hearted attempt to put all the mess in one pile, and they sat on a battered leather sofa. The men were obviously excited, but seemed unsure of what move to make. Jerry lined up the cocaine; Mick produced a bottle of champagne. They took turns at kissing Clara as the other drank or snorted the coke. Clara decided to take control.
“Do you want me to undress?” she asked, pulling herself out of her suit.
Mick and Jerry’s eyes were wide.
“Come on, boys,” Clara teased, and they tore off their clothes.
Clara had sex with both men several times. They proved insatiable and expert – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such good sex. Her libido was working overtime when the realisation hit her that perhaps she would always need two men to satisfy her.
When Clara woke up it was seven in the morning. She got out of the bed and found a large, messy bathroom where she splashed herself with cold water and dressed. She knew she had behaved like a whore; she liked the feeling. When she kissed them goodbye they thanked her like gentlemen and Mick offered her his number, suggesting a repeat performance. As she went outside
to get a cab, Clara decided she wouldn’t want to see either of them again, ripped up the piece of paper Mick had given her and left it on the pavement. She got into the cab and laughed as she felt in her pocket the two grams of cocaine she had taken from the sitting-room table. It was her reward and she deserved it.
Clara directed the cab to Kensington. She felt ill from lack of sleep and over-indulgence as she pulled off her suit once more and fell into bed. As she slept, she dreamt of nothing.
Chapter Eight
Ella spent Friday night alone. She awoke early on Saturday and decided to blow away the cobwebs. She took the lift to the underground car park and stood admiring her pride and joy: her beautiful blue TVR. Although it was cold outside the sun was shining, so she put down the roof and drove off. She drove for the sake of driving. She loved driving fast more than anything in the world, and as soon as she found the road clear she put her foot down, broke the speed limit and risked the wrath of the law. It was at times like this that she forgot she had a fake driving licence and a fake identity.
She drove for about an hour before she decided to turn round and head home. She didn’t know where she’d gone, had paid no attention to road signs or scenery: she had been lost in her thoughts.
She thought of Tony: dead perhaps, buried somewhere; alive perhaps, kicking the hell out of another poor woman. She thought of Sammy. She hoped he had moved out of home – after all she’d given him enough money to get a place of his own. She hoped he had a nice girlfriend, a job he liked. She hoped he was happy. Clenching her jaw to stop herself crying, she accelerated like a Formula One driver.
She stopped at the supermarket, bought some food for lunch and the newspapers. She walked round in a daze, not taking in anyone around her. If she had, she would have noticed people giving her odd looks. She was stalking round the supermarket, hair askew from driving, and wore a vacant zombie-like expression on her face.
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