The Chocolate Lovers' Club

by Carole Matthews

  “But these are not just any old chocolates,” I slur at him. If only he knew. I open the box and take one out, holding it temptingly in front of him and I lean forward so that it’s hovering invitingly just above my cleavage and my fake diamond pendant. I go into Marks & Spencer advert mode. “Oh no. These are a taste of chocolate heaven. Especially handmade from the choicest beans plucked from a single plantation in deepest, darkest Brazil. They’re filled with a rich ganache flavored with the best green and black cardamom pods, which give it a spicy and fresh taste with just a hint of smoldering smokiness.” I try a bit of smoldering smokiness in my own voice. Clive would be proud of me. “Every bite is like a shuddering explosion on your tongue.”

  “You go ahead,” he says, unmoved.

  “They’d go wonderfully with this champagne.” To prove it, I glug some more down.

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “It’s not nice to eat alone.” I try a pout. God, I’ve always been useless at this sort of vamp stuff. It’s probably why I’ve stayed with Marcus for so long. Why didn’t I nominate Nadia to play this role? She’s sexier than I am. Everyone seems to be sexier than I am, at the moment! I hold out one of the three-ridged, drugged chocolates toward him. “Just a nibble.”

  His fingers snake lightly round my wrist as he guides the chocolate to his parted lips. I feel myself gulp. He’s bitten it. Both the chocolate and my plan.

  “Mmm,” he says. “That is good.”

  I eat one of the two-ridged ones. They are very good. I have no idea how long the sleeping tablets in the chocolate will take to work and I want to get him away from the bar in case he passes out here.

  “Why don’t we move over to the sofa?” I suggest. “Make ourselves more comfortable.” John Smith looks uncertain again. Perhaps he’s thinking that he ought to hedge his bets in case Chantal doesn’t show with the money she’s supposed to be bringing him. I stroke my £14.99 fake diamond pendant lovingly and flash my equally bling bracelet one more time. His eyes brighten. “Your business colleague will see us just as easily over there.”

  “I ought to call her,” he says, a frown darkening his brow. “She’s very late.”

  “In a minute,” I suggest. “When we’re comfortable.”

  We cross the bar, taking the champagne in its ice bucket with us and I choose a sofa in the corner of the room, facing toward the door. Sitting next to him, I angle my legs toward him, giving him plenty of good body language. I splash some more champagne into his glass and then offer the chocolates once more. Thankfully, without me prompting, he picks out a three-ridged one. Then, inching nearer to me, he turns the chocolate and offers it to me. Now what? I can hardly refuse, can I? Leaning forward, I bite the chocolate in half and say, “Mmm.”

  I hope that isn’t enough to make me keel over. Mr. Smith pops the rest of the chocolate in his own mouth. If it were me, I’d stuff another chocolate straight in, but I try to leave a suitable interval before I pick up another one of the chocolates. I’m feeling a bit sleepy already, I think. Why does that half a chocolate seem to be working more quickly on me than it is on our target? I select another one of Clive’s lethal creations. The ridges are starting to blur together. Is this a three-ridged danger zone or is it a two-ridged okeydokey one? This is getting harder. My eyes slide briefly into focus. It’s a three-ridger—I’m pretty sure.

  Mr. Smith holds up a hand. “No more for me.”

  “One for the road,” I say, and before he can protest, I post it into his mouth. A lovely warmth rushes over me and I hear myself ask, “Is it hot in here?”

  John Smith loosens his tie. “Yes,” he says. “I think it is.” And then, without further ado, he falls backward against the cushions. I wait for a moment, but there’s still no movement from our prey. His mouth falls open slackly. He looks for all the world like he’s having a nap after a particularly heavy Sunday lunch. Glancing round quickly I check to see if anyone else in the bar has noticed him sink into oblivion. No. The barman’s busy serving someone at the other end of the bar. There are only one or two other couples left. All’s well. Shaking my head like a dog shaking water off its coat, I try to bring my own eyesight back into focus. Drink and drugs are a very bad combination. Particularly when carrying out an important heist. Our target is snoring gently. I snuggle up next to Mr. Smith, looking as if we’re getting cozy. Then, while no one’s watching, I rifle through his pockets. I check them all, even the ones next to his private places, which makes me grimace, but I can’t find any trace of Chantal’s jewelry. Where on earth could he have put it? Perhaps while he’s drugged we could take him somewhere and torture him until he coughs. Then, even though I’m severely drunk and possibly under the influence of drugs too, I realize that I’ve possibly watched too many Hollywood movies.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  I MIGHT NOT COME UP with the jewelry, but Mr. John Smith’s car keys are in his pocket and I take those so that we can give his Mercedes a quick going-over. For good measure I take his mobile phone and his wallet too. Then, making sure that no one sees me, I arrange John Smith so that he looks as if he’s having a nice nap and that he hasn’t been drugged, robbed and thoroughly scammed.

  Trying not to weave too much, I make my way out of the bar and out of the hotel doors. The fresh air hits me in the face like a wet fish. I see the lights on Chantal’s car flash at me and, unsteadily, make my way over to them.

  Chantal, Nadia and Autumn are huddled in the car. “Any luck?” Chan-tal wants to know as I slip inside next to her.

  “He’s sleeping like a baby,” I tell them. “Clive’s chocolates have worked like a dream.”

  “You’re looking a bit squiffy yourself,” Autumn observes.

  My eyes are, indeed, rolling. “I had to eat some of the drugged chocolate,” I say. “To make it look authentic.”

  Chantal nibbles at a nail. “And the jewelry?”

  “No jewelry,” I admit with a defeated purse of my lips. “I searched all of his pockets, but nothing. Absolutely nothing.” I hold up the keys to his car. “I did get these though.”

  The members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club give me a round of applause.

  “I don’t know how long he’ll be out for,” I say. “So let’s go and check out his vehicle.” We all jump out of the car and head across to Mr. Smith’s Mercedes. I hand the keys to Nadia, who is distinctly more compos mentis than I am.

  She unlocks the car and slides into the driver’s seat.

  “Pop the trunk,” Chantal instructs.

  Nadia presses some switch or other and the boot lid swings up. Inside there’s a classy leather overnight bag. There’s also a small selection of ladies’ handbags, most of them bearing designer labels: Prada, Chanel, Dolce & Gab-bana. This guy obviously likes to steal from posh women. Good job I kept my twenty-quid vinyl Next job well out of the way.

  “Wow!” Chantal says. “Would you look at this!”

  “It seems as if you’re not the only one he’s conned,” Autumn says.

  Our friend rifles through the pile of handbags and then pulls one out. “It’s mine,” she says. “It’s my bag.” She opens it and searches through the contents. “No jewelry,” she spits out, disappointment in her voice. “But my cell phone is here and my wallet.” Inside the wallet, amazingly, all of her credit cards seem to be intact.

  “I can’t believe this guy didn’t go on a spending spree,” Nadia says.

  “I had them stopped straightaway,” Chantal says. “He wouldn’t have got very far even if he’d have tried. It was the one sensible thing I did.”

  We all gather round as, next, Chantal lifts the overnight bag out of the boot. Our friend gazes round at us all before she unzips it. Then we hear a crunch of footsteps on the gravel and we all freeze. “Shit,” Chantal mutters under her breath.

  A torch shines our way. I can hear my heart hammering in my chest. What if John Smith’s constitution is particularly resilient to sleeping tablets? That’s something that I didn’t take acco
unt of in my plan.

  “Everything all right, ladies?” a voice asks. Then a uniformed security guard pops his head round the side of the boot.

  “Fine,” Nadia says. “We’re fine.”

  “Are you checking into the hotel?”

  “Yes,” she answers again. Seemingly she’s the only one able to find her voice.

  “Make sure that you take all of your valuables inside. Don’t leave anything in your boot,” he warns us. “I patrol round here regularly, but we have had a spate of thefts. Can’t be too careful.”

  “Thank you,” Nadia says. “That’s good advice.”

  “Do you need a hand with your luggage?”

  “No.” Nadia shakes her head. “We can manage. We’re traveling light.”

  Traveling light? Women? He’s bound to know that we’re lying.

  “You have a nice stay then, ladies.” Clearly he doesn’t know anything about the fairer sex. The security guard nods to us all and then goes on his way.

  When he’s out of earshot, we give an audible and collective sigh of relief.

  “That was close,” I say, doing my best George Clooney again.

  “Let’s get a move on and get out of here,” Nadia chips in. Seems as if it’s infectious.

  Nadia keeps an eye out for the security guard while Chantal unzips the bag. Inside, there’s a selection of pressed shirts, clean underwear and socks. “This is my laptop too,” she says joyfully. “I’m sure it is. I scratched the case last year.” Her finger caresses a hairline scratch across the lid. “I’d know it anywhere.” She hands it to Autumn.

  There’s also a small leather pouch in the holdall. Chantal grabs it and, with only a moment’s hesitation, pulls open the thong and lets the contents spill out onto her hand. Not one normally moved to high emotion, she promptly bursts into tears when she sees her cherished jewelry glittering back at her.

  “We did it,” she says with a quivering breath. “We damn well did it.”

  We all hug each other and do a silent happy dance in the car park in the shadow of the big Mercedes.

  “I can’t believe it,” she says again. “We got it back. Everything. It’s all here.” Chantal holds up her whacking great diamond engagement ring and kisses it to her lips. “Thank you, girls.” She wipes away a tear. “Thank you so much.”

  “We’ll take all these handbags and try to reunite them with their rightful owners,” Autumn decides.

  “Good idea,” Chantal agrees.

  “I don’t think we’ve finished yet,” Nadia says.

  We give her a puzzled look.

  “Don’t you think this car would look perfect as an extra centerpiece for that lake?”

  “Yes,” Autumn says without contemplation. “It would.” Clearly her afternoon of criminality has turned her politically correct brain to one of darkness and corruption.

  “What about our security guard friend?” I suggest.

  “We’d better be quick before he comes back,” Chantal says.

  “Let’s do it, then.” Checking that the coast is clear, Nadia slips back into the driving seat. She puts the car into neutral and takes off the hand brake. Chantal slips her jewelry back into the pouch and puts it into her pocket. We all stand at the back of the car and lean on the boot, putting our weight behind it. With a little synchronized grunt from the good ladies of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club, the wheels move and the car starts to roll toward the lake.

  We stand back as it then creates its own momentum and sedately eases itself down the slope on course for the water. It picks up speed as it heads to the bank and then it catapults itself into the waiting blackness. There’s a hearty splash as the two tons of car hit the water, followed by a lot of gurgling noises as it sinks slowly into the lake. It comes to rest with its boot sticking up heavenward.

  “I’d really like to cheer,” Chantal says.

  The car glugs some more from the depths of its watery grave.

  “We’d better get out of here fast,” Nadia says, “before anyone notices.”

  “Or before our conman friend wakes up,” Autumn says.

  “I doubt Mr. John Smith will be overjoyed when he wakes up and I, for one, would rather not be around to witness it. “I also lifted his mobile phone and his wallet,” I tell them with a certain amount of pride. “Hopefully, it means that he won’t be able to contact you again, Chantal.”

  “Is his driver’s license in his wallet?”

  I flick through the pockets until I find it. “Yes. His real name is Felix Levare.”

  “Could be another alias.” Chantal takes it from me. “But I’ll keep that as a little extra insurance anyway,” she says.

  There’s a wad of cash in the wallet which I help myself to. “This can all go to a deserving charity,” I say, then throw the wallet and the mobile phone into the lake after his car. They also splash satisfyingly and then sink without trace. I press the money into Autumn’s hands. “Take it and buy some chocolate for your druggie kids.”

  She takes the cash and pockets it. “Thanks.”

  Chantal hugs me tightly. “This really was a fantastic plan, Lucy. Well done. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  But before I can say anything momentous to mark the occasion, Nadia’s sleeping tablets from the drugged chocolate finally kick in, my knees buckle and I slip into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Fifty

  CHANTAL DROPPED LUCY OFF AT her flat. Her friend had slept all the way home from Trington Manor, snoring loudly in the back of the car. Their criminal mastermind had roused briefly as they’d arrived home, but Autumn had insisted on seeing her into the flat and had then tucked Lucy safely into bed, still in her strappy dress.

  Chantal smiled to herself as she traveled across London. She was taking Autumn home first and then dropping Nadia back at her car, which was parked near Chocolate Heaven. This evening had been so successful, she could hardly believe it. Nestling in her handbag was all her lovely jewelry, safe and sound. What could have been a terrible catastrophe had turned out to be a complete triumph for them. She was so relieved that she could have hugged herself, and she owed it all to the resourcefulness of her companions in the Chocolate Lovers’ Club. Who’d have thought that she’d ever be blessed with such great friends? She felt very grateful to them all. From now on she would look after her possessions—and herself—much more carefully.

  It was very late when she finally arrived home, but the lights were still on downstairs, which meant that Ted was probably watching television or listening to some music. After parking the car, she sat with the leather pouch filled with her jewelry on her lap. This had been a sobering lesson for her and she slipped her wedding ring and her engagement ring on with a happy sigh. Chantal was glad that her husband wasn’t in bed yet, as she was feeling far too buzzy to be able to sleep. She wondered how actors after a particularly pleasing performance ever managed to come down. Her legs felt unlike her own as she climbed out of the car.

  “Hi, honey,” Ted called from the lounge as she went in through the front door. “You’re late.”

  “I had a long drive back from my assignment,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. Ted just didn’t know what type of assignment it had been.

  “Can I get you something?” he said. “You look tired.”

  “No, not tired,” she told him as she rubbed her aching neck. “I’m wired.”

  “How about I make you some herbal tea?”

  “A big glass of red wine would work for me.”

  “Sounds good,” Ted said. “I’ll join you.”

  She threw her handbag onto the sofa, noting how good that felt, and then sagged down after it, stretching as she nestled into the soft cushions. Her husband was listening to Andrea Bocelli and the soothing sounds of the tenor’s rich voice washed over her.

  Minutes later, Ted came back with a decent bottle of Cabernet Sauvi-gnon and two glasses on a tray, complete with a plate of cheese and biscuits, olives and a small bunch of white grapes. “T
hat looks good,” she said appreciatively.

  Her husband sank down next to her. “I missed you tonight, honey.”

  Chantal smiled across at him. “I missed you too.”

  “Drink your wine, then I’ll give you a neck rub.”

  She wondered why he was being so nice to her, but she wasn’t about to question it and spoil the mood. He was acting if he was the one who had a guilty conscience rather than her, she thought. Chantal sipped her wine, spread some deliciously ripe Camembert cheese over a wholemeal cracker and bit into it enthusiastically. She needed chocolate too—creamy, milky and comforting. When she’d eaten her cheese, she’d see what there was in the kitchen. All day she’d been too anxious to eat—Lucy said she’d felt the same—but now she was ravenous.

  Ted pulled off her shoes and slipped her legs across his lap, stroking her bare feet.

  “Mmm,” she said appreciatively. “That feels so good.” Chantal hadn’t realized how much tension her body was holding until he’d started doing that. She put her plate on the floor and let her head drop back onto the cushions. Her husband’s warm hands slid up inside the leg of her trousers and his firm fingers massaged her tight calves. He’d always been great at massage, but it was a long time since he’d wanted to do this for her. For months he’d been avoiding any form of intimate contact—rubbing her feet, her legs or her neck included.

  “Slip off your trousers,” he said, and she registered the husky note in his voice with surprise. His eyes were dark with desire for her.

  Ted helped her as she eased her hips out of her trousers, his hands traveling up to caress her thighs. His thumbs toyed with the lace at the edge of her panties, then he hooked his fingers round the sides and slid them off too. Her husband lowered his head and covered her stomach, her hips, her thighs with hot kisses. Chantal felt tears spring to her eyes. It had been so long since Ted had wanted to make love to her and she realized how dried up, how unloved that made her feel.