From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel)

by Ian Harwood

  “So this is where you’re hiding, is it?”

  Fiddling with my collar, I jerk it from my throat. In the presence of Bernard’s wife, I’m always uncomfortable. I know from past dealings that she’s always loaded up on Valium and that no amount of rehab can get her off the anti-depressant. She’s always vague, almost ethereal as she wanders around, stars in her eyes. There’s a pureness to her though. Whenever she approaches me, I always feel as though I’ve just been caught with my hand in the biscuit barrel and she’s armed with a wooden spoon, ready to slap my wrist for my bad behaviour.

  That’s probably explained by the fact that once upon a time, Mrs. Rebecca Rustin had been a schoolteacher.

  Expecting to be sent to the corner with a Dunce hat on my head, I cease fiddling with the collar that suddenly seems too tight and murmur, “Rebecca. You’re looking lovely this evening.”

  At my compliment, she curtsies. Honest to God curtsied. The woman is absolutely batty.

  “Thank you, Joseph. I wanted to congratulate you personally on your promotion. Bernard says that he has high hopes for you.”

  Now that is a compliment. With all Bernard has accomplished, that he believes in me, is really quite touching.

  “Thanks for telling me, Rebecca. I appreciate that. Bernard knows I’ll always do what I can to see the company right.”

  She smiles that vague smile that tells me she might be standing right in front of me, but nobody is actually there. As fireworks begin popping overhead, her head falls back as though it’s too heavy for her slender throat and the vague smile is replaced with a dreamy one.

  It’s a shame that she’s nuttier than a bag of peanuts, because to be quite frank, Rebecca could be a MILF. Thirty years Bernard’s junior, she’s tone, trimmed and taut. Probably because she pops pills like most women eat a bar of chocolate and subsists on nervous energy.

  In one of Alexander’s signature gowns, a tailored number of white silk that cups her curves and somehow enhances the inner delicacy Rebecca seems to emit, she looks, to phrase it indelicately, hot.

  “I’ve always loved fireworks,” she murmurs and I only just catch her words as another round explodes into the stratosphere, sending the crowd into oohs and aahs of rapture.

  Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of fireworks. Noisy, dangerous and the crick in the neck that comes after gawping at the boring profusions of colour is never worth it. They always leave me with a faint sense of dissatisfaction and disappointment.

  “Mum, I wondered where I’d find you.”

  Bo, Bernard’s eldest daughter, suddenly pops up out of nowhere. As ugly as Bernard is, somehow, he managed to create two beautiful daughters. Although that was probably to do with their mother’s genes. All I know is that Bernard’s first wife had been a model prior to her marriage and she’d died in a car crash. A few years down the line, Bo and Juliet had a new stepmother.

  Apparently the relationship was a good one. For Bo to call her mum that seemed apparent at any rate. “I was just talking to Joe. Such a good boy. Bernard always did like him.”

  Bo grimaces as her gaze flickers between Rebecca and I. There was an apology there and I shake my head, frowning slightly at her. Whatever Rebecca was, as mad as she is, she doesn’t need to be apologized for. There is an innocence about her that is refreshing; especially in these circles, where everybody deals in bullshit and arse licking. It’s like talking to a child amidst a crowd of sharks.

  “I’m glad he did; he showed a lot of faith in me by giving me the opportunities he has.” My words are soft and I receive a beatific smile from Rebecca, who lifts a hand to cup my cheek and pat it, like my grandmother used to do, when I was a young kid.

  “Such a good boy,” she repeats and with that, wanders off.

  “See you later, Joe. Juliet’s looking for you; she’s on the warpath.”

  Bo, apparently on Rebecca’s security detail, immediately sets off after her stepmother but I call out, “Thanks for the warning.”

  The cheeky grin she shoots my way as she half-turned has me smiling in response. Bo would never be the traditional elder daughter figure that Bernard wants. Juliet is traditional from her expensively-coiffured head to her pedicured toes. Bo is more of a hippy, a wild child. She’d foregone all attempts at polish and wore a floaty silk dress that wafts around her as she moves. It’s an expensive gown nevertheless; the raw silk alone had probably cost a fortune! But not for Bo the structured tailoring that was at the very heart of Bernard’s fashion empire. No, she had deconstructed lines and no shoes on her feet!

  I’d hazard a guess that Bernard hasn’t noticed that.

  Or if that isn’t the case, then there’d probably been a major row before the party started.

  Tucked between some topiary, I thought I’d been in a strategic place. One that hid me from view of the major hustle and bustle of the crowd, but at the same time, gave me an ample view of everything that was going on.

  Apparently my calculations had been out. Not only have I been spotted by two of Bernard’s relations, the third one soon appears in my line of sight. And Bo wasn’t wrong. Juliet is most definitely on the warpath. But Christ, it looks good on her.

  Boadicea eat your heart out.

  “What the hell are you doing down in the garden?” she hisses at me as she comes to a stomping halt; although how she manages that in four inch spiked stilettos without breaking her neck, I don’t know.

  It’s a miracle only achieved by the opposite sex. Making standing on needles look easy and sexy.

  In a dress that has my blood pressure surging, for a few minutes, I just stand there and gawp. In the shadows, hidden from all the candles and the strands of lights that illuminate the party, I doubt she’ll notice that I’m quite literally star struck.

  Red.

  Top to toe in scarlet.

  A colour so vibrant that Juliet’s raven hair seems even darker. Even blacker in contrast to the passionate hue that moulds her form from wrist to hip, where flounces of fabric cascade down to her ankles. Her top half is covered in the silky-jersey knit, which I recognize as one of the materials Rustin’s weaves, and it clings to her every inch. Cupping her breasts in an intimate hold that makes my own hands feel envious. Clasping her waist and hips with a silken caress before a profusion of fabric clouds my view of her legs and almost like a petticoat, swirls about her ankles.

  I don’t think I’ve seen a sexier dress in all of my life.

  And don’t get me wrong, I’ve already been knocked asunder by seeing Juliet in this dress tonight. But backlit as she is, she’s hotter than hell. Like a fiery minx that tempts me more than any other woman ever has.

  Juliet has always been beautiful. Her face isn’t classically so, but she’s exotically handsome. Strong features that pronounce her character and make a statement as soon as she walks into a room. But in this dress, she’s killer.

  Thank Christ I’m not Bernard’s age; she’s heart-stoppingly gorgeous. And I’m far too young to die.

  “Anybody would think that you’re ashamed to be here!” she spits as I remain silent, something that apparently irritates her. I can do that a lot. Sometimes I think by breathing, I annoy Juliet.

  We have that effect on each other.

  Still she’s not to know that I’m drooling over her. I prefer her to think I’m being ignorant rather than lusting over her like a horny teenager.

  We were supposed to come together; she’s my partner for the evening after all, but thanks to her duties as host I’ve seen her but a handful of times. Usually half hidden by a table or a podium, but mostly, I think she’s been in the kitchen organizing the vast amount of food that has been dished out tonight.

  This is the first time I’ve seen all of her. Every single inch.

  What a stunner.

  “It’s a beautiful party; you’ve done yourself proud, Juliet.”

  She huffs at that. “Then why are you hiding out here?”

  “Your mother said that. I’m not hiding. Just
ducking out of sight.”

  “Mum was here?” she asked, her attention abruptly switching away from me.

  “Yeah. She walked off, but Bo was following her.”

  She sighs in obvious relief and unfortunately for me, returns to her original argument. “Ducking out of sight is the same as hiding. I think you are ashamed. What? Is this party not good enough for you?”

  Shaking my head, I reach out for her hand. As soon as our fingers brush, she tries to pull away, but I hold fast. It’s the first time I’ve touched her, really touched her tonight and the heat from that slight connection doesn’t altogether shock me. If she ever let me in, if she ever opened up to me, I think we’d be pretty explosive together.

  Such thoughts had two things occurring. One thing that makes me glad I’m wearing black and standing in the shadows. I’m thirty-two, for God’s sake. Not a teenager. Unexpected hard-ons aren’t my usual style. And the other has me tightening my hold on her wrist, tugging her forwards into my personal space.

  I’ve never tried it on with Juliet, mostly because she’s Bernard’s daughter and therefore out of bounds. But also because of her age and the fact that more often than not, we’re arguing.

  “Why would I be ashamed, Juliet? You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’m not at all ashamed to be here, but it’s not my scene. I’m not comfortable amongst these people; you know that.”

  “They’re business associates! How can you not be? You work with most of them on a daily basis.”

  Shrugging, I rest my shoulder against the clipped bush that had been modelled into a sleek oval. The movement draws her even closer to me, as our hands are still connected. “Exactly. You don’t think I like the people I work with, do you? Damn it, Juliet, they’re all snobs. Why would I want to associate with them after hours? It’s bad enough enduring the work day rubbing shoulders with those tits.”

  “Do they look down on you?” she asks, her fingers tightening.

  In the shadows, I can’t really see her features, but a tautness to her voice has suddenly appeared. She’s pissed off on my behalf.

  Grinning at the idea, I shrug again. “Yeah, but I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to! They’re just jealous, Joe. You know that, right? Whatever they do, or whatever degrees they have, that doesn’t count with my dad. We both know that. It’s the man inside that counts and he trusts you, where he trusts no one else with his business.”

  “Save Cass.”

  There’s a sour note to her voice at my introduction of Bernard’s PA. The mutual dislike wasn’t difficult to discern. “Hardly her. She’s just his gofer.”

  “More than that, but I appreciate your trying to comfort me.”

  Before she could speak, a harsh voice breaks through the bubble cosseting us from the outside world and the party. “Juliet! How could you consort with council trash? I expected better of you.”

  “Hello, Poppy,” I murmur, refusing to let any emotion cloud my voice. I’ve learnt that the slightest fuel can have Poppy going up in flames. Sometimes it’s amusing to watch; but I’m in no mood to be slated down, when Juliet is in the immediate vicinity.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Poppy? My father might endure your bullshit, but I certainly won’t. Don’t you dare refer to me again; if I even think you’re judging me, I’ll toddle off to dad. He might endure your binge drinking, but as soon as I put in a complaint about something Poppy Delavigne has said to upset me, you’ll be out on your arse and don’t you forget it.” Juliet’s outburst shocks her audience. I’ve never, not in all the years, really heard her lose her temper or raise her voice.

  And trust me, I’ve pissed her off many a time.

  Poppy’s voice is harsh and strident. Even in subtle situations, the horse-like neigh of her tone never disappears. The reason for this was her affectation. I’ve no idea where she comes from, if she’s a Northerner or from the South, but somewhere along the line, she’s had elocution lessons. Now, she makes the Queen sound common. Each syllable is crystal clear, each word cuttingly harsh, as she spits, “I’m far too important to your father’s company for him to listen to his tattle-tail daughter, Juliet.”

  Said tattle-tail laughs. “You keep on believing that, Poppy. Don’t forget, now I’m of age, your position isn’t as concrete as it once was.”

  The sneer in Poppy’s voice slowly ignites my own temper. “You? You think you could handle my job? Don’t be ridiculous! You’re just a spoilt little miss, whose daddy has paved the way for her.”

  “I know I could handle your job. And I may be spoilt, but I’m not stupid. You’d be surprised how many of your contacts are also my own. And unlike you, I’ve a lot of friends in the design industry. Why is that, I wonder? Why because I buy my clothes from them. Unlike you who dress from the high street.” It’s Juliet’s turn to sneer.

  “It isn’t the design industry that counts, darling.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s pretty important. And did I forget to mention my connections with the press? After all, one of my best friends is Harry Macabee’s son. You know him, don’t you? Or at least, you’d be a fool if you didn’t.”

  The sound of Poppy gritting her teeth is quite audible. “I believe he owns at least three daily papers.”

  “Yes. And Style, Femme as well as Moda TV. You name it, Harry’s finger is somewhere in it. Your time is short, Poppy. I’d make the most of it, if I were you.”

  “I’d suggest that you toddle off to the drink’s tent, Poppy. Getting pissed is the only way to turn this night from sour to sweet.”

  My recommendation has her huffing. “Such common manners, Joseph. Drink’s tent? It’s a bloody marquis and you think you can take on the directorship as though you were born for it? Bernard doesn’t have a clue of the mistake he’s making by hiring you. You piece of scum.”

  “And what? He’d be better off hiring you?” It’s my turn to laugh. Her vitriol doesn’t hurt me. “You have zero experience. The only thing you’re good at is making sure all the right people are at any party you publicize. After that, you get pissed! Juliet’s right, I’d enjoy your status now while the goings good.”

  In the backlit area, both Juliet and I watch as Poppy stalks off, nose in the air. The shape of her nostrils is perfectly delineated by the strobe lights that suddenly flash on as music begins to pump through the speakers and the guests start to dance.

  “I’ll bet you a thousand pounds that she’s had a nose job.”

  Grinning, I tug Juliet closer to me so that her back rests against my front. If she happened to feel the bulge at my crotch, then that’s her problem. “I don’t fancy losing a grand, thanks.”

  “You can well afford it now. I saw the contracts daddy was drawing up. You’re going to be quite well off.”

  My shrug jostles her a little. It’s a pity we’re stood in the shadows; I’d have liked to watch her tits jiggle. Alas, such a sight is denied me.

  “I’ll survive.”

  She snorts and as she shakes her head, her hair brushes against my cheek. So silken and soft with a delicate hint of pure Juliet.

  Christ, she’s turning me into a romantic. Something my previous girlfriends would scoff at. Romance isn’t my forte. If I’m with someone, then I have a few rules. I won’t cheat, I’ll only make a date if I know I can act on it but there’ll be no flowers or chocolates. No pretence of emotion that I don’t feel. Sex. It’s always been about that. And while I’d love to put Juliet in the same pigeon hole, I can’t. Her very nature means that I can’t. She’s too big, she wouldn’t fit there.

  Once upon a time, it would have pained me to admit that she’s unique. But I admitted that to myself long ago.

  “You’ll do more than survive.”

  “Maybe. I don’t need much.”

  “Just the trappings of success?”

  “Yeah and I only need them, because your father told me I had to have them.”

  She laughs and the pealing sound had my own
lips twitching. “That sounds like something he’d do.”

  “To me, the clue is in the title. Trappings. But Bernard said I needed them so now, I have a four grand a month apartment that I hardly live in, because most of my time is spent at the office. It’s filled with expensive furniture I never use. I pay for a garage for a car that cost me a bloody fortune and one that I don’t drive, because London traffic is a nightmare. And all at your dad’s suggestion.”

  “To survive this world, you need to be like one of them,” she murmurs, her head nudging forwards, indicating the throngs of people enjoying Bernard’s hospitality and the free champagne.

  “I know. And I act the part as much as I can. But don’t ask me to enjoy it.”

  “I think daddy’s the same. All of this is just something he has to endure. His real love is the business. I think that’s what sent mum, my real mum,” she clarifies, “off the rails. She was beautiful, you know? That’s why dad married her. She was one of those trappings and she produced Bo and I.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned her before.”

  “There hasn’t been an appropriate moment. But my point is that dad lives for the business. And I think you’re the same.”

  The faint criticism implied in her words had me frowning a little, but there was nothing I could do to counteract it. After all, I have no long term, permanent relationships. No real life outside of the office. How can I change her opinion of me, when my life is empty of anything truly important?

  Until now, I never really considered that as being a bad thing. But Juliet’s criticism makes me think twice.

  Unsure of how to continue, I decide to change the subject. “Did you mean that? What you said about taking over Poppy’s job?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “I don’t see why not. I’m quite capable. I have more contacts than she does and on top of that, she’s a class A bitch. It depends if daddy will let me do it. He has his heart set on my being a traditional wife. He doesn’t know that’s never going to happen.”

  “When do you plan on telling him?”