by Pia Tremayne
Businesswoman requires full-time, live-in personal assistant. Competitive salary and beautifully furnished flat in large Victorian town house in Kensington available at nominal rent. Impeccable background and qualifications a must. Appearance important. Female only.
It sounded promising, especially with a flat thrown in. Whatever business this woman was in, perhaps it might lead to the right contacts. Business was business, as long as it wasn’t completely illegal. Besides, as Em had rightly pointed out, her bachelor’s degree had not endowed her with any specific skill except the ability to regurgitate what she had memorized, which was good enough to secure a first but would probably only land her a job that involved working her way up from the bottom in some organization. Unfortunately, that would take too much time, a commodity she was very short of at the moment because if the estate was to be saved, time was of the essence.
She received a telephone call two days after mailing her handwritten letter to the postal box as instructed. Could she come ’round at half past ten on Thursday for an interview?
* * * *
The businesswoman introduced herself as Henrietta Colefax. She appeared to be in her early thirties and was quite attractive. She was approximately Nicola’s height, about five feet four inches, with brown eyes and shoulder-length medium brown hair held in check by a tortoiseshell barrette. She wore a cream shirt tucked into brown slacks and brown loafers. Her only jewelry was a man’s wristwatch and pearl button earrings. Nicola thought with relief that her black trouser suit and black pumps had been the right choice to meet this casually sophisticated woman.
The two of them hit it off immediately. At the end of the interview Nicola had been offered a job that paid twenty thousand pounds a year with a nice flat in trendy Kensington thrown in. The job involved helping to coordinate the Midsummer Auction, which Henrietta had been doing single-handedly for the past five years. But the workload had been growing steadily, forcing her to concede that she needed help.
While helping to make the nine copies of the videos for the upcoming auction, Nicola had quickly realized that being a candidate in the auction could potentially be extremely lucrative. By then it had already become apparent to Henrietta that her new assistant had the potential to be much more than that. Noticing Nicola’s obvious interest in the videos, Henrietta eyed her thoughtfully.
“I gather this does not shock you,” she remarked dryly.
“No. Why should it?” Nicola replied calmly.
Henrietta chuckled, and they continued to work in harmonious silence for a few more minutes.
“If you’re really serious about making real money quickly, perhaps you might want to consider being a candidate,” Henrietta said.
Nicola had been completely frank with her employer about her reasons for wanting the job. “I already have, and I would love to do it,” Nicola replied, “except I have already committed to working for you, and I really need this job.”
“I appreciate that. But perhaps there is a way out. The thing is I do need an assistant, but the job is only really busy for about six months of the year, and the pace really picks up in the weeks leading to the Midsummer Auction. After that, things settle down again. If you were bid for, you would only be contracted to be available to your bidder for the next six months. Even during that time there will undoubtedly be periods when you will be at liberty to do whatever you wish. It is unlikely that you will be tied up twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You could come in to work part-time when you do not have other engagements. All told, you stand a good chance of gaining much more than if you only worked for me full-time.”
“So if no one bids for me, I would still be able to work for you full-time?”
“Of course. You have a contract with me, but I would be prepared to employ you on a part-time basis for six months if you are bid for. In any event, the months immediately following the auction are slow. I use that time to travel and socialize, keeping an eye out for potential candidates. So ultimately, employing you part-time during those months makes perfect sense for both of us. And trust me, Nicola,” she added, “you may put the notion out of your head completely that no one might bid for you. Such a thing has never happened to any of the women I have screened, and it is far less likely to happen to you.”
Nicola bit her lip as a panicky sensation gripped her.
“Ah,” said Henrietta, ever observant. “You are wondering what happens exactly, after the auction.”
Nicola nodded.
“My understanding is that most of the time, much of the thrill of it for the men lies in the bidding process. They simply enjoy winning, beating out the competition. To them it is a sophisticated game they can afford to play. The prize itself almost seems secondary. These are worldly, intelligent young men who can have their pick of women. They do not have to force a woman to do anything she does not want to do. Even without this process, any of the women would be thrilled to be the companion of any of these men. Doing it this way just gives the men that competitive edge they need, and the women enjoy the game as well. My impression is that when they do meet, the parties usually get along quite well, and in addition to receiving seventy percent of the bid in monthly installments, the women frequently receive generous gifts from the men. All I really do is introduce them to each other. The rest is up to them.”
“Like an exclusive dating service, then,” Nicola suggested, her eyes fixed on Henrietta.
“Precisely. So, are you still interested?”
“Yes, I am,” Nicola said decisively. Then she began to smile. “I have just one more question.”
“Which is?”
“Why is it called the Midsummer Auction, when it’s happening in November?”
Henrietta gave a little laugh. “It does seem slightly off, doesn’t it? The English have a terrible reputation for resisting change. For example, the traditional university May balls take place in June, after exams, but it would never occur to anyone to change the name to June Ball, God forbid! Similarly, the auction used to be held in the middle of the summer, hence the name. But after a decision was taken not to hold any meetings in the summer, it got pushed back to November. But the name had stuck by then. In any event, I don’t know that I’d want to change the name. It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
Nicola had agreed entirely. The more she thought about it the more it felt as though fate had dropped this dream job in her lap and put her within orbit of exactly the kind of people she had hoped to meet—people with more money than they knew what to do with. Maybe her ship had come in. If so, all she had to do was get on board before it sailed.
Chapter Three
Hampshire, England
Sir Anthony Astonville had just left the conference room and was heading briskly down the long corridor to his private suite in the west wing of his Hampshire manor, carrying a briefcase of documents. He was in a hurry. The meeting had gone on longer than anticipated, but he was free for the remainder of the day. It was ten minutes to four. He had just enough time to do his usual thirty laps in the pool before his regularly scheduled masseur arrived. Dinner would be served promptly at six thirty, and at eight o’clock, the Midsummer Auction videos would be delivered for viewing.
His senses hummed with heightened anticipation. He and eight of Europe’s wealthiest bachelors had just concluded an all-day meeting held monthly to discuss a number of international issues that could potentially affect their business interests in the short and long term. But the Midsummer Auction was the most eagerly awaited event of the year. Over their working lunch, he had felt the suppressed excitement around the table, so intense it seemed to permeate the very air in the conference room.
On the last Friday of each month, the group met privately at the manor to communicate with each other away from the prying eyes of the media. At the end of the day, they would leave as unobtrusively as they had arrived. But this weekend was special. They wouldn’t be flying out tonight. They would be staying overnight, each in
a beautifully appointed room. Today they had taken care of business, but tonight, at the Midsummer Auction, they would be bidding against one another for women. Not just any women, but beautiful women who possessed intelligence and an acceptable social standing. All had been carefully screened before being approached by the coordinator of the auction, whose job was to determine at the outset whether they would be receptive to the idea, that they possessed the required attributes and were socially adept. Above all, they had to be discreet. Discretion was crucial in this game, and women of social standing could be counted on to be discreet because they had the most to lose. Paradoxically, they also had the most to gain. Many of them were long on pedigree and short on cash, so it was an opportunity to make a considerable amount of money in return for spending six months as the companion of their highest bidder. Consequently, the Midsummer Auction was one of London’s best-kept secrets.
Tonight, they would be bidding on five new women, all carefully vetted by Lady Henrietta Colefax, a woman of impeccable taste and judgment who had coordinated the auction for the past five years. She had produced the videos of each woman, which the men would view tonight in the privacy of their rooms and forward their bids to her by computer. It was a lucrative business. The bid floor was thirty thousand pounds, with Henrietta receiving thirty percent of the final bid for each woman and the balance paid to the woman in six consecutive installments. Then all the woman had to do was wait for Henrietta’s call notifying her when and where to meet her bidder. After that, they were on their own. The whole process was designed to ensure complete confidentiality.
As Anthony knew from experience, the inevitable bidding wars could result in some bids reaching astronomical proportions. The fact that there were never enough women to go around upped the ante and the excitement. It was the law of supply and demand. When a commodity is scarce, it costs more. These men could afford to play this unconventional game, to gratify not only their competitive streak but their fantasies and their whims as well, or even their need for companionship, if that was what they were really seeking.
Mostly it was an efficient solution to a tiresome problem. They had grown weary of repeating the rituals of courtship and of dealing with disappointed women who considered that they had been courted and had developed expectations of permanence. This way, the parameters were defined at the outset. But except for the woman herself and her bidder, only Henrietta Colefax would know who had paid what for whom, and that information would go with her to her grave. Anthony was sure of it. She was the most discreet woman he had ever met.
He entered his suite, went straight to his bedroom closet, opened the cleverly concealed safe, and transferred the papers from his briefcase into it. He closed and locked the safe, clicked his briefcase shut, and set it down on the floor next to the safe. Whistling, he went out again, using his private entrance, and made his way to the new wing at the rear of the manor, where he had installed a squash court, an indoor pool, a sauna, and a change room. He went into the change room and came back out in minutes, naked. Two of his colleagues were already in the pool. Gesturing in greeting to his masseur who had just arrived, he dove into the deep end and began his laps.
Dinner was served promptly at six-thirty and took less than an hour. The men were obviously eager to get on with the highlight of the evening. At twenty minutes to eight, he was back in his suite. After divesting himself of his dinner jacket and tie, he unbuttoned his collar, poured himself a scotch, and settled down in an armchair to wait. Promptly at eight o’clock, the videos were delivered. They would be allowed fifty minutes to view them before the bidding opened.
He reviewed the first three critically. They were all attractive, but he was still undecided as to whether he would bid on any of them. He didn’t always. He inserted video number four into the VCR and as the woman’s face filled the screen, he sat bolt upright in shock. Nicola Edgerton! What the fuck! The last time he saw her she had been a child of about seven or eight, but he would have known her anywhere, that face, that hair, her, period. The eyes looking back at him were still that unusual jade green, and he knew that if she were standing in front of him, they still would be dancing mischievously like the Caribbean Sea on a hot and breezy day. He couldn’t believe that in a few minutes time she would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. The very thought of it gave him a sudden hollow feeling, as though he had been gutted by an inexplicable sorrow. But why the fuck should he mind? Hadn’t the memory of her always been a thorn in his side, until he had decided to bury the past and get on with the life that destiny had apparently mapped out for him? He hadn’t thought of her for the better part of twenty years, and now, here she was, right in his face and up for rent.
As he stared at her image, offering herself up by video to the highest bidder, an emotion akin to anger replaced the hollowness inside him. He couldn’t let it happen. Capricious fate had delivered her to him. All he had to do was reach out. If necessary, if that was what it would take, he would spend a fortune to ensure that when the bidding was over, he would own Nicola Edgerton, even if only for the next six months. His mind made up, and video number five now irrelevant, he settled down in front of his laptop and waited for the bidding on number four to be opened.
It took nearly an hour. Apparently every single one of his colleagues had decided to bid on her. He watched the screen, topping every bid in each round and knowing it was simply a question of time. In the end, only two of them were left in the contest, almost like a duel to the death. But at last, as the bidding rose to unparalleled heights, his rival conceded. He had won, as he knew he would. Number four sold to the highest bidder at ninety thousand pounds!
He let out a breath, releasing the tension that had held him in its grip for the last hour and feeling like a runner who has just completed a grueling race. He got up abruptly and went to the window, gazing out into the darkness, pondering the capriciousness of fate that, having brought him from rags to riches, had now delivered Nicola Edgerton to him.
Seeing Nicola resurrected memories he thought he had successfully buried in the deepest recesses of his mind. One look at her and it had all come flooding back, erasing the years that had since intervened and filling his mind with a vision of himself, an unhappy little boy growing up on his father’s estate, his heart burning at the injustice of it all.
How bitterly he had envied the Edgerton girls, wondering why his life should be so different from theirs. His father owned a coffee estate too, but while he wandered around looking like an orphan in clothes that were faded and ill-fitting, his feet bare save for alphagats – the field workers’ footwear of odd bits of leather held together by string – Nicola and her sister were always beautifully dressed. He would watch them secretly every day as they were driven to the private school they attended by their father’s chauffeur in a shiny black Wolseley, identical to the one that now sat gleaming in his own garage.
Self-mockingly, he thought about the impulse that had driven him to buy an old-fashioned Wolseley which he never even drove. After all those years, even though he possessed more wealth than he could ever have dreamed of, had he been trying to become Nicola Edgerton’s equal?
Was it possible, he wondered now, that he had never gotten over his childhood fixation with her, a fixation that had actually driven him to spy on her, to climb high up in trees or hide in dense bushes on their property to watch her as she laughed and played with her sister Emma and with her parents, who seemed as gay and carefree as she was? Once, hidden in some dense undergrowth, he had been so close to her he could have touched her merely by reaching out his hand. The sight of her merry green eyes and laughing mouth had left him with a strange burning in the center of his ten-year-old gut. Until that fateful day when something happened that changed his fixation to something darker, angrier.
Monday to Friday he attended the local school with the children of the field workers. He was used to walking to school by himself, having persuaded his mother after he turned eight that he was too old for
her to walk him there. There was barely any traffic. Now and then the car from the neighboring estate would drive by, taking the Edgerton girls to their private school.
He didn’t mind the five minute walk. There were lots of things to see, even on rainy mornings when the earthworms would be lying on the ground, flushed out of their holes. One wet morning as he was about to cross the road, he saw the Edgerton car approaching. He stopped, waiting for it to pass. As it drove by, one of the rear wheels went through a rut in the road, splashing up muddy water and drenching him from head to toe. Wiping the muddy water off his face, he looked after the car as it kept going and saw the younger sister looking back at him through the rear window, her green eyes dancing impishly at his predicament. For a split second he froze, and then he turned and bolted.
His mother looked up in surprise as he burst through the door.
“I hate it here!” he told her passionately. “Let us go away from here. I hate them. All of them.” He flung his book bag on the floor and threw himself face down on the bed that he still shared with her, drenching his pillow with tears of humiliation.
After she had calmed him down, he told her what had happened.
“It was an accident,” she said soothingly. “No one would deliberately splash muddy water on you. The chauffeur couldn’t have seen the puddle in time.”
“I don’t care,” he told her mutinously. “I want to go away from here. Nobody wants us around. He doesn’t want us and I don’t care if he is my father. I hate him, too!”
“Where would we go?” she asked, ruffling his dark hair.
He pushed her hand away. “We could go to England,” he declared.
“I don’t think I have saved enough money for that,” she replied, the smile in her voice clearly intended to coax an answering smile from him.