Scandalous Lies: An addictive, sexy beach read

by Nigel May

  Eating a large mouthful of cake – one slice wouldn’t hurt would it? – Victoria listened to the beauty on the TV. ‘Join me, Charlie Cooper next week when we report on the latest celebrity chef cooking course that looks set to take India by storm. I’ll be live in Agra speaking to the chef himself and seeing which of the rich and famous are signing up to be taught by the man they call The Curry Master in order to spice up their lives.’

  Victoria sat transfixed as a picture of the celebrity chef popped up on screen. She liked his shows.

  A few days in India on a cookery course in order to spice up your life. It was just what she needed. Grabbing her iPad, she googled his name and found his official website. Sure enough, there were the details about the course. There was still availability for the one starting in just a few short days’ time. The price was astronomical but it included London to Delhi flights, transfers to Agra and a five star hotel.

  Within a matter of minutes she had booked two places, one for her and one for Scott. It was just what they needed. Chloe could sort the twins out. She and Scott would be putting the spice back into their partnership in more ways than one.

  Now all she had to do was organise quick turnaround Indian visas. There was no time to waste. But maybe just another slice of cake first. That cream was delicious.

  Eight

  Rachel Jerome had her fingers crossed as she spoke to her client on the phone. ‘Apols, darling, but the dancing show have made it quite clear they won’t be needing you, Aaron. Not this season anyway. But good news from Untamed magazine, they definitely want you for a double page spread and a cover. A fabulous fitness, top off style shoot so I’m hoping you put that free gym pass to good use. They’re paying a glorious three hundred pounds plus expenses, but seeing as it’s in London it’ll only be a couple of tube fares, sweetness. I’ll send through the dates as soon as I have them, bye.’

  As she put down the phone, she uncrossed her fingers. She was praying that Aaron wouldn’t kick off mid-conversation. Thankfully he hadn’t. Not that she knew why. She hadn’t even phoned the dance show as she didn’t want to rock the boat for potential future bookings. If they thought of her as bothersome they might never book another one of her acts at all, and she had high hopes that her singing stallion escort from the other night might be American Smoothing his way onto the next series. At least if her current train of thought came to fruition.

  Rachel also thought Aaron would kick off about the money for the magazine shoot. He’d been receiving a couple of grand an episode for Surf N Turf so he should easily hope to match that for photo shoots, but maybe she’d been overestimating his value and pumping up his media worth in her own mind. Surely she wasn’t losing her touch? No, these things happen. But a client’s a client and maybe his time would come. But for now she’d file his number back into her system in a folder marked LOW PRIORITY. For a client there was no worse fate.

  Aaron had lost his temper. Hugely. But only once he’d hung up. He’d picked up a glass and thrown it against the wall of his new flat. It was only a cheap glass, that was all he could afford with the rent he was paying, but he’d have smashed it had it been the finest crystal. It was the satisfaction of the action, not the class of the glass that spoke volumes. He’d clear up later. He needed a drink.

  He walked to the Smeg fridge in his flat and reached for a beer. Shit, he’d finished the last one the night before. Fuck, he’d have to go and buy some more. But who wants to sit in a flat on their own drinking beer of an evening? If he’d been back home in Cornwall he would have phoned a mate and headed to the pub, or flicked through his little black book full of telephone numbers. Being in Surf N Turf had worked wonders for his sex life and it wasn’t just old rose bushes he’d been deflowering on a regular basis. Girls had been lining up to sample his bedding technique or lay their hands on his surfing body. Aaron was an animal in the sack, persistent and seemingly tireless with his stamina. He was always happy enough to ‘perform a 180’ – a term used in surfing to describe the angle of spin of a surfer’s board. To Aaron it was alternating his cock between a woman’s willing mouth and hungry pussy. And when another conquest had asked him to perform a ‘backdoor’ in the sack – a surfing term for entering a barrel from behind the peak of a breaking wave – he was more than happy to oblige and ride that wave to completion.

  Slamming the door of his flat behind him he marched off in search of a decent bar. He’d not really explored that much since his arrival in Chelsea but even he knew that there seemed to be a pub or a cocktail bar on every corner. Despite his inner country bumpkin, Aaron couldn’t help but be impressed by the wealth of boutiques, hotels and bars that seemed to gloriously stare down at him around every turn. It was no wonder the Bohemian artists of the nineteenth century and the floppy-mop-haired music stars of the sixties had chosen to live there. As he passed bars like Raines Law Room, Rye House, The Tippler and the famed restaurant The Bluebird on King’s Road – places he’d read about in his online guide to Chelsea – he could see their attraction but he could feel the expense he’d have to cough up free flowing from every affluent doorway.

  His mind kept telling him that Chelsea wasn’t for rustic folk like him and that he still longed for a decent boozer with a spit ‘n’ sawdust feel, a rich amber pint of beer and a good bag of pork scratchings. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever find it. Maybe Rachel was right to judge him as she obviously did - the man who apparently put the clot into Cornish clotted cream. Christ, that sanctimonious bitch had made him crave a decent drink.

  It didn’t take him long to find what he needed. The sign outside the bar listed a catalogue of different wines, spirits and cocktails, but more importantly had a long list of beers. It seemed like the perfect place to lose a few hours. A bit posey and maybe out of his league but what the heck, as long as the beer was good then that was all that was required.

  Sitting himself at the bar, he ran his hand through his beard, contemplated the list of beers, found one he’d heard of before and ordered a pint.

  A pub was the first thing Jack Christie thought about as he stepped out of the prison that had been his home for the last five years. A pint of ice cold beer had been one of the many things he’d missed while doing time. The only thing ice cold inside had been the showers. Every morning, surrounded by his fellow inmates he’d have to stand there freezing his bollocks off while the sadistic fucking guards stood there watching. Mind you, they weren’t the only ones. As Jack’s level of physical fitness and body mass had increased so had the stares of some of the other inmates towards his naked body in the shower. At first, he’d been freaked out by their glances. How fucking gay could you be? Just because he had a decent body and a sizable cock on him, it didn’t mean he was free rein for any passing lag who blurred the lines between hetero and homo to try and suck him off. But five years was a long time, and after a while, the desire to feel a pair of lips around his erection was too great to resist. If alone in his cell or in the showers and one of the other jailbirds was happy to service him, then Jack was more than happy to lie back and imagine he was popping his seed into the mouth of one of the wank rag girls he had pinned to his wall instead of some hairy-arsed deviant who’d been banged away for too long. As long as he was taking and not giving, then it didn’t count, did it?

  No, a good woman and the feeling of a moist piece of snatch around his cock was another fancy high on his freedom wish-list. Maybe he could find that in the same place as an ice cold beer.

  The woman who sat herself down next to Aaron at the stainless steel super reflective bar was petite in size, probably reaching up to Aaron’s chest if they’d been stood alongside each other. Her hair was red, almost terracotta in colour, and ran down, poker straight past her shoulders. He guessed her age at about thirty. Similar to his. She wore a huge pair of sunglasses, unnecessary given the fact she was now inside a relatively dark bar save for the ultra-thin neon strip lighting running across the back of the bar and around the walls. As she placed her bag
s to the floor – she’d obviously been shopping and judging by the ribbon-tied tissue paper parcels piled up within each of the bags, it was apparent that she’d spent a small fortune – she slid her sunglasses onto her head revealing a small but beautifully dark brown pair of eyes. In horticulture terms they were the shade of conkers and doubtless just as appealing to the male species. She was a fine looking woman, a fact that didn’t escape Aaron as he failed to take his eyes off her and downed his much-needed pint.

  It was something the woman couldn’t help noticing too and as she positioned herself up onto the plush barstool next to Aaron she turned and acknowledged his attention with a small smile and nod. Aaron smiled back, hoping that she hadn’t noticed the bulge rising within his boxer shorts. He adjusted his position slightly to face his crotch away from her.

  She ordered a large glass of Sancerre and took a hefty gulp of it as soon as it arrived. As she lifted her glass to her lips, Aaron noticed a band of gold on her wedding finger. He felt his cock subside. Oh well, another non-starter unless she was playing away from home. Still, he was in the mood to chat and providing she hadn’t seen his appreciative boner he figured he had nothing to lose by breaking the ice.

  ‘Thirsty work, shopping, then?’

  ‘Very much so, but a lot of fun. I enjoy it.’ Was there a richness of accent in her voice? It was invitingly exotic but he couldn’t place it. She smiled, a green light to continue as far as he was concerned.

  ‘What have you been buying? Looks posh.’

  A stain of red seemed to colour her cheeks as he looked down at her bags. Her skin possessed a polar white innocence that suggested she was naturally very fair, but the summer had given her a subtle bronzing, although not enough to hide her flush.

  ‘You don’t recognise the bags?’ She curled her lips into a tiny smile.

  ‘Actually no, I’ve only just moved into the area, so I’m kind of the new man in town. A stranger to these parts. Let me see …’ He looked down at the bags and read the names aloud. ‘Rigby & Peller, Intimissimi, Coco De Mer … no, I don’t know any of them.’

  Was the woman smiling at him or about him? With amusement or disbelief? He wasn’t sure.

  ‘You’re forgiven, I’ve been buying underwear. It’s good for the soul.’

  ‘And for the husband, I bet.’

  The woman laughed. It seemed genuine. At least he hadn’t offended her. ‘You can ask him yourself, this is him now.’ She pointed over Aaron’s shoulder towards the bar entrance where a man, a good deal older than her, Aaron guessed, was striding towards them.

  ‘Hello, darling. Been busy, I see,’ said the man.

  Aaron wasn’t sure if he meant the shopping or her close proximity to himself. It was true, there were a lot of empty chairs in the bar and she had chosen to sit next to him. Still got it, Aaron thought to himself with an inner smile.

  The woman peered down at her shopping. ‘Of course, I have to look nice for you, don’t I? I think you’ll appreciate the effort I’ve gone to. Anyway, shall we go?’ She took another large gulp of wine from her glass and drained it clean. She made to step down from the bar stool.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ said the man. ‘I found a parking meter for an hour so we can stay for another drink if you like. And besides, you haven’t introduced me to your friend here.’ He looked at Aaron quizzically. A little too quizzically for Aaron’s liking. He’d obviously seen them chatting when he came in. Jealous type, mused Aaron. Mind you, with a looker like that for a wife, who could blame him?

  Aaron held out his hand and introduced himself. ‘Name’s Aaron Rose. Never been here before and maybe at these prices I won’t again.’

  ‘Devon Bellamy.’ The pair shook hands. ‘I see you’ve met my wife.’ There was a distinct blanketing of sarcasm in his tone. Jealousy, a hint of a threat or an acknowledgement that his wife was indeed drop dead gorgeous? Aaron couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Well, to be honest, no, I knew she was married, but I don’t even know her name.’ He held out his hand to her.

  She took his hand. It felt tiny within his, like a fledgling being placed into the mouth of a crocodile. He was almost afraid to shake it, through fear of crushing it. ‘Tanya.’

  He turned his attention back to Devon. He was a good looking man, late forties, a grey but full head of hair, virtually line free skin. He was as smooth as Aaron was hairy. Aaron would have described him as suave, almost borderline posh, definitely dapper and a snappy dresser for a man of his age. He looked sharp. Every detail thought about. His crisp, open-neck shirt and dark blue Levi’s suited him. On many people his age it would have screamed mid-life-crisis.

  ‘Tanya was just explaining to me about the shops she’d been to,’ proffered Aaron. ‘Not that I know them. I don’t think they exist where I’m from. Must be a London thing.’

  ‘And where might that be?’ asked Devon. Any trace of hostility in his voice had definitely diluted.

  ‘Cornwall, I was working on a TV show there about surfing and gardening and moved to London for my big break, but so far it’s been a big fat zero. No work, no money, so I came here to drown my sorrows.’

  Why was Aaron telling him all this? He didn’t need his sympathy. He guessed it just felt good to talk. He could hardly tell Rachel what a crap job he thought she was doing, could he? Having a shit agent was one thing, not having one at all was quite another.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’ Slightly mocking in tone? Aaron wasn’t sure. ‘I suspect Tanya has, though. She loves shows like that, being so young and impressionable. Always has her head buried in a trashy magazine featuring that type of thing. Can I buy you another beer? Tanya, what will you have?’

  Tanya felt her cheeks colour as she pointed towards her empty glass and said, ‘Same again’.

  Was the man belittling his wife? Aaron felt a little awkward but a free drink was a free drink and he wasn’t exactly in the position to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘Thanks, that would be awesome.’

  Having bought the drinks, the three of them moved to a table at the side of the bar. Devon wiped its surface with a napkin before they sat down.

  ‘So you do a bit of gardening then, Aaron?’ enquired Devon.

  ‘Er, yeah, the show I worked on was about a team of landscape gardeners. We used to surf in our spare time, the perfect thing to do on the Cornish coast. It was called Surf N Turf. The show has been pretty big to be honest, but I secured an agent who thought it was time I left and moved up here. So far, bad idea.’

  ‘As I said, I haven’t heard of it,’ said Devon. ‘Have you, Tanya?’

  She shook her head, seemingly less chatty and slightly fearful now that her husband was here.

  ‘So are you looking for work?’

  ‘Hell I am, sure.’

  ‘A gardening project? We live near Hampstead Village, north London. It’s an affluent area and we have a good home with a sizable garden, but I need it overhauling. Some of the areas are not looking as orderly as I’d like. I’m away from home a lot with work and Tanya’s not exactly green-fingered. It’s a decent project but we’d obviously allow you to do your TV thing if that’s what you’re trying to achieve as long as you kept us prioritised. Plus we’d pay the going rate and my wife can look after you and give you anything you need.’

  Aaron loved the idea of Tanya giving him just what he desired, but found it a little odd that Devon seemed almost to be offering his wife to him. ‘Is it a one-man job? Because I’m flying solo right now.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us?’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘This is our address and telephone number. Ring us when you’re free and we can arrange a time for you to take a look and we can take it from there.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well, hopefully you’ll say yes. I need the garden sorted. Now come on, Tanya, we had better make a move, one minute over the meter time allowance and the bastards around here tow you off straight away.’


  Devon and Tanya emptied their glasses and moved towards the door.

  ‘Great to meet you both. I’ll be ringing you as soon as possible,’ said Aaron.

  In fact, judging from the smile and suggestive wink that Tanya flipped him as she left the bar behind her husband, shopping in hand, Aaron thought that it might be even sooner than that.

  His cock twitched back into action as he watched her glide out of the bar. It only subsided when he caught sight of Devon staring straight back at him through the front window. He wasn’t smiling. Something told Aaron that Devon didn’t smile a lot.

  Nine

  Opening her eyes made no difference. It was two shades of black. An eerie darkness that wrapped around her. The silence was deafening. Attempting to move was futile. Pain and restraints blocked that capability. Movement that had once been so free, so fluid, was now impossible.

  The floor below her was hard and cold. Was it wet? She couldn’t tell. If it was, then maybe it was of her own making. Thoughts inside her brain wrapped around each other like bindweed, as brutal and painful as barbed wire. Thoughts of past, present and future spliced together, smothered with uncertainty. What was this? How had it come to be?

  Was that a noise coming from somewhere? Voices …

  Ten

  Georgia stared at the plaque on her Wimbledon Village bedroom wall. It was a quote from one of her favourite books; ‘I’ve learned that waiting is the most difficult bit, and I want to get used to the feeling, knowing that you’re with me, even when you’re not by my side.’ It made her think of Mitzi. How could it not? Everything did. Every minute she had to wait – the minutes that turned to hours, the hours that turned to days – a little piece of her strength and hope that her friend was still alive seemed to be chipped away. But she willed herself to remain hopeful because it was all she could do. She’d spoken to Mitzi’s mother as much as she could. She didn’t really know Mitzi’s mum that well and she suspected that her countless phone calls searching for any hopeful scrap of news were becoming an annoyance to her. Each ‘how are you coping?’ conversation had become a carbon copy of the last and indeed the one before that. Mitzi was an only child and her father had died years before. Her mum, a women in her early sixties and frail before her time, had tried all she could think of to find her daughter, but to no avail. Georgia’s bombarding of mutual friends on Facebook and Twitter for any information or clues had offered a wealth of well-wishers but nothing concrete. Everyone who knew Mitzi prayed for her safe return, as did those Georgia had contacted connected to Foster, but nobody could deliver any clues as to what had happened. The young lovers had simply vanished and somehow the world kept turning. And it was a world that Georgia wanted to halt so that she could momentarily forget about the horror of what might be.