‘After her life insurance pays out.’ Julian relaxed now he’d taken the bait. He took out and lit a long Cuban cigar. He offered the fancy mahogany box, but Luke Norris declined.
‘So how much is that?’
‘That’s my business,’ Julian told him.
‘How do I know you’ll cough-up?’
‘You don’t. You’ll have to trust me. But listen, Luke.’ He looked at him with a mean expression and lowered his voice. ‘I’m going to get rid of her with or without your help. Do you understand? Even, if I have to rig the boiler myself. And if I get caught I’ll say that you helped me.’ He looked up at a monitor and smiled. ‘Remember, it’s all on film, Luke. You’re famous.’
Luke looked up as well, then seemed deflated, resigned to the position he was in. He pondered for a few seconds. Then his eyes lit with interest. ‘Half a million, you say?’
Julian smiled.
‘That, Luke, could get you out of a lot of hassle and set you up for life.’ From his desk, he handed Luke Norris a spare front door key. ‘I think this calls for a celebration.’ Julian went to his antique drinks cabinet and pulled out his best Napoleon brandy. With his arm around Luke’s shoulder, he said. ‘Now, let’s go over that plan again.’
*
First, it was drinks in the Burberry lounge where investment salvage possibilities were discussed, aided by a couple of laptops perched on Savile Row suited knees. Julian had assured them the plunge in the hedge-fund share price mirrored the overall nervous market and their actual investments would show a steady growth in the following six-months. He just hoped they bought it. The last thing he wanted was any panic selling. Then Julian took them for supper at Quaglino’s where a fine Sancerre with the foie gras terrine and a rich dark Rioja together with the rack of lamb were to die for. Finally, after poached pears in red wine, all five of them finished up at Agatha Christie’s, The Mousetrap, in St Martin’s theatre.
With himself in the gallery, he could look down on the other four. They had the best seats. The performance started at seven-thirty. He’d give it just ten minutes then slip out.
Within a short time, everybody had his or her attention riveted to the stage. Julian, sitting on the end of a row, saw his chance. He slipped away and walked casually to the upper-circle gentlemen’s toilets. The jacket had been chosen especially. He turned it inside out then put it back on. Julian fiddled with the stuck on moustache until it looked passable. Then the Pringle golf cap, as a finishing touch. Making sure he had his ticket stub, he strode out through the theatre doors. No one gave a second glance.
Within a short time, Julian was at the valet parking. After a brief exchange and confirming a return space, he was guiding his Mercedes C Class out of the West End. He estimated it would take him around twenty-five-minutes.
It was a cold November evening with a slight drizzle. He cruised from Brompton Road into Fulham Road. The slippery surfaces sparkled with the reflections of streetlights amongst the hissing tyre streaks of fading rush-hour traffic. He glanced at his watch; it was ten past eight; making good time. The shiny, green Harrods bag sat on the passenger seat. The large bottle of Chanel and the expensive Tiffany earrings should compensate for not dining out, and set the mood he hoped.
Julian reached for his mobile and pressed her number.
‘Hello, honey, I’m on my way. I was kept late at the office.’
‘Don’t worry, love. I’ve had a bath and am watching the television. Don’t rush, it’s wet out.’
‘Did you order the takeaway?’ Julian asked. ‘If so, I can pick up from Mourad’s on the way home.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ she said. ‘They’re probably on their way with it now.’
‘Ok, see you soon.’ He must remember to delete the call off her phone and his. Julian fumbled in the glove compartment and pressed out three Xanax. Using his teeth and one hand he unscrewed the cap and swigged back some mineral water.
Now, on the A219 passing over Putney Bridge, the light from the ornate street lamps made elongated lanterns shimmer in the water as they arched their way over the river. He glanced at his watch again. It was coming up to twenty past eight. On the last leg. Tibbets Corner, third exit and onto Kingston Road. He could have turned right earlier and gone across Putney Heath, but he’d checked out the road works, thank God. That could have added ten minutes to the journey with the single-file traffic. The right-hand turn for Roehampton Lane coming up. ‘Shit,’ now having to sit on red at the lights. He banged the steering wheel. At last, entering the lane, down the hill, final stretch. ‘Shit,’ again. Stuck on red at the bottom; pulling away now, just one more turning. Now left into Clarence and all the way down to Priory Lane, then home.
Julian parked the car at the back of the house, out of sight of prying eyes. He changed his jacket around and whipped off the moustache and cap. One last look in the rear view mirror, then grabbing the goody-bag he climbed out and made his way to the front of the house.
There was still a slight drizzle and his feet crunched the shingle on the sweeping circular drive as he approached. He let himself in and looked instantly at the window above. The maid sometimes opened it for airing the hall. However, it was shut. Good.
Julian shouted out,
‘Honey, I’m home.’ It was too quiet. Apart from the porch chandelier, the rest of the lights were off. Usually, he could hear the television. He stopped at the winding marble staircase and looked up. She couldn’t have gone to bed. Too early: so why’s the daft bitch turned the lights off? Farther along the hall, he found a switch. Now he could see the dining room door and inside it, darkness. Julian slowly approached. He called out,
‘Veronica, are you there, honey?’
Nothing: just the deep monotonous tick of a Grandfather clock. He eased the door open. Julian could make out shapes. The grand fireplace: the dresser; nothing else. He bumped into a lamp and groped for the switch.
Suddenly, a supernova of light exploded with,
‘SURPRISE!’
She stood there in front of him looking gorgeous in her figure hugging Stella McCartney little black number with a provocative slit up the thigh. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’
Julian couldn’t believe his eyes. The room could have been the inside of a Bedouin tent. God knows how much the silly Bitch had spent on this. The walls and ceiling were covered with deep red and gold striped ceiling drapes, gathered up above his head so they sagged to give a canopy affect. Moroccan leather pouffes with matching throw cushions were scattered around colourful Berber rugs. Latticed screens with mosque archways subtly divided areas for privacy. Julian grinned at her and thought the furnishings company must have come in straight after he’d left for work.
‘Do you like it, darling? Mr Mahmoud from Moroccan Interiors said we could have thirty-per cent off if we allowed him to bring the odd customer around for the next two months, by appointment of course. And he wants to do a shoot with some models for his brochure.’
Julian grinned again.
‘That’s…great, honey.’ As if he needed some greasy North African bringing herds of people through his house. The sooner she’s gone the better.
Veronica held out a martini in a frosted glass.
‘It’s just the way you like it, darling. Eleven parts gin to three parts vermouth with an olive, no stick, and a small piece of lemon.’
He slowly took it with a sick smile on his face.
‘Thought I’d surprise you, darling. And, instead of a takeaway, I’ve hired our very own Moroccan chef with some entertainment.’
Julian tried to compose himself and grinned out, ‘
That…that’s great…honey. Wow… this is a surprise…’
‘Thought you’d like it,’ she said.
Julian took a large swig of martini.
‘Now come on, sit down. It’s all ready.’
He stared at the food on the new Octagon shaped leather covered table. There were enough mezze t
o feed an army: humus, grilled aubergines, sardines, bell peppers, filo prawns, saffron marinated potatoes, tablet, beetroot, grilled merguez, Moroccan bread...
Veronica pulled out one of the fancy styled Moorish chairs and gestured for him to sit down.
‘There, all comfy, darling?’ She went to the dimmer switch and turned down the lights to highlight the candles. She joined him on the other side of table with the Moroccan dinner service all set out and the five branch Berber style copper candelabra between them.
Julian suddenly realised.
‘The candles,’ he blurted out.
‘Yes, do you like? I found them in the kitchen in a drawer.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Must say, can’t remember ever buying candles. Still, they’re pretty, don’t you think?’
‘They’re fantastic, honey,’ Julian replied, trying to smile.
Veronica started munching on the mezze.
‘God, I’m so hungry,’ she giggled, ‘I was going to start without you.’
Julian picked at the hors d'oeuvres but didn’t have an appetite.
‘Darling, you should try the Merguez with the warm Moroccan bread.’ Veronica took another bite. ‘Mmm, to die for.’
‘Yes…I will. It looks great what you’ve done.’
‘Not what I’ve done, darling. It’s what Mourad has done.’ She beamed, ‘Ahh…Mourad, there you are, meet my husband, Julian. Darling, this is the cook I’m having lessons with, he’s absolutely fantastic.’
There, at the dining room entrance to the kitchen, stood an overweight, middle-aged man in his chef whites and large floppy hat. He pushed the ornate rosewood food trolley up to the table and beamed a gold-toothed smile underneath a large North African nose with burst veins. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Meester Julian, sir.’ He held out his hand for Julian to shake. ‘I ’ave cooked for you both, Moroccan lamb tagine à la Mourad. That is a lamb with apricots, dates, sultanas and almonds cooked in zee old tagine way until very tender, just zee way you a like it, yes, Meester Julian?’ He grinned at them again and proceeded to serve the lamb stew onto the heated plates. Then as an extra touch, he spooned on the warm couscous and scattered some chopped coriander and parsley over the top. ‘Good appetite,’ he said with an exaggerated twirl of each plate and presented it in front of them.
‘Mourad, it looks delicious,’ Veronica gave him a big smile.
Julian, who wasn’t at all hungry after the dinner at Quaglino’s, followed her with,
‘Yes, it sure does, honey.’
Mourad disappeared through the swinging strands of beads. Julian looked again. The beads at the door entrance - that was also new.
‘Come on, darling, tuck in.’ Veronica blew on her fork and took a mouthful. ‘God, the lamb is so tender.’
Julian moved the food around on his plate and nibbled at bits and pieces like an over-fed cat. If only he hadn’t had that bloody evening meal, he thought, at least he could be enjoying his last supper with her. Suddenly, last supper and its connotations - Judas, crucifixion - briefly shadowed and then were forgotten as Veronica clapped her hands loudly in the direction of the curtain beads. ‘Let’s have some real entertainment tonight,’ she said. ‘Instead of the Bang and Olufsen, darling.’
The well-endowed Moroccan violinist appeared in a pink-layered skirt that touched the floor. As she approached the table, her tied red hair spilled down over one shoulder provocatively. She nodded with respect and began with Raks Sharki, Journey of a Gypsy Dancer.
The flaming hair tossed back and forth with the undulations of her bow as she played. Julian couldn’t take his eyes off her pushed up breasts, exaggerated by the tight, black-laced corset. She was stunning in her off-the-shoulder white blouse and matching bandana. As she swayed with the music, his eyes darted from her beautiful fair-skinned face to her voluptuous peached bosom and back again. The large circular earrings that glinted in the candlelight, jostled for attention each side of her long slender neck. For the first time, Julian caught the smell of North African incense sticks. The aroma was making him heady.
Veronica grinned and raised her drink to him. He reciprocated and downed the rest of the martini. He noticed that in the bottom of the glass, there seemed to be some residue. Probably off the olive or something. Julian thought no more of it.
The violinist moved close to him and leaned forward as she played. Julian caught a hint of perfume as her hair tossed seductively across the top of her breasts. He began to fantasize, his bare chest against her cheek instead of the violin.
Then with a twirl and a fiery crescendo, she was finished.
Veronica clapped enthusiastically, with
‘Bravo, bravo, Nadya.’
Julian followed half-heartedly, his eyes still on her breasts,
‘Yes, well done…very good…’ He grinned at the violinist trying to keep her in focus. Beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead and some glistening trails led down his cheeks. For some reason, he was feeling very warm. He got out his silk handkerchief and dabbed the perspiration. Julian thought the two large glasses of Rioja and the small brandy at Quaglino’s (for Dutch courage,) may not have been such a good idea. He hadn’t been counting on a large surprise martini as he walked in.
Nadya bowed and stepped aside as Mourad appeared with his rosewood food trolley.
‘Mourad, the lamb was superb, a triumph of your culinary skills.’
He bowed to Veronica’s praise and then turned to Julian.
‘And you, Meester Julian. You not a like?’ Julian had nibbled as best he could. ‘Err, I had a large business lunch, Mourad. It’s very nice. Put my plate in the fridge, I’ll have it tomorrow warmed up.’
‘Very well, Meester Julian. But you ’ave a room for my famous Armagnac banana flambé à la Mourad, yes?’ He beamed his gold-toothed smile.
‘Yes, come on, darling,’ Veronica joined in, ‘it’s Mourad’s most famous dessert.’
Mourad was becoming fuzzy around the edges and his nose with its burst veins was looking bigger. Julian dabbed his face again, it was getting hotter.
‘Yesh, Jush a little, pleashe,’ He realised he’d slurred a bit but hoped no one had noticed. Julian grinned at Mourad and tried to focus.
Mourad lit the table burner and began preparing the ingredients in a highly polished copper pan. Veronica clapped for attention, then announced to the room,
‘And now, we have tonight, all the way from the Kasbah in Morocco, the one and only, Sabrina.’ Veronica clapped enthusiastically glancing at Julian to encourage him.
Through the curtain beads, sprang an exotic belly dancer holding a large basket. She had an hourglass figure and dressed Bedouin style with a gold fitted bra fringed with sequins. Her lime green chiffon harem pants were held with a fancy hip belt which was richly embroidered.
Julian gasped at her beauty. The seductive contours of her high cheekbones with the tanned complexion aroused his interest further. His eyes riveted to the large jewel in her belly button. It glinted above the low seductive waistline of her costume and her smooth flat stomach. She wore a sequin and diamond studded tiara on her dark Cleopatra hair braids. Her heavily made up eyes, feline like an Egyptian cat in shape and colour, consumed his senses.
As Nadia struck up with a Moroccan folk melody, Sabrina carefully placed the basket on the floor. She began to shimmy her body and neck with perfectly timed layered motions. Then came staccato movements, contracting the stomach muscles to give undulating fluidity of the hips up through her torso to the shoulders.
All of a sudden, Mourad came from behind and poured him the last of the martini from the cocktail shaker with a fresh olive, then returned to his flambé. Julian grinned and said,
‘Thanksh, Shmourad.’ He knew he’d slurred again and hoped nobody noticed over the music. He dabbed at his perspiration while his eyes rolled at the see-sawing of Sabrina's jeweled belly button and the tantalizing low waistline of her costume. He was becoming aroused and crossed his legs. Nadya wi
th her fiery red hair was playing close over his shoulder. As her head tossed with each thrust of the bow, her firm pink breasts jostled for attention in front of him. Julian’s eyes darted from bosom to bellybutton and back again. He was mesmerized. Without even looking, he picked up the martini and downed it in one go; sediment and all. He licked his lips and grinned inanely with pleasure, like a dirty old man at a strip club.
In time with the music, Sabrina stooped and opened the basket. She carefully pulled it out. Slowly gathering up the coils, she lifted it across her shoulders. It was huge and beautiful at around twelve-feet in length. The flicking tongue sensed and tasted the warm air.
Draped over Sabrina, with its startling white body and yellow net pattern, the Albino Burmese python weighed at least 130-pounds.
Using it cleverly as a counter-balance, she began to twist and turn to Nadya’s violin. Sabrina spun around and around to the haunting hollow strings of a Moroccan dance. Julian followed her, his head moving in time with each revolution. As Sabrina turned, the snake’s tail dropped seductively between her legs and curled itself around her buttock. He was getting dizzy. The throbbing of his manhood was beginning to overtake him. How he envied that snake. She was moving towards him, shimmying her hips and thrusting them forwards erotically with each step.
Nadya at his side now, her hair brushing his face at each lunge of her bow. Her firm breasts within touching distance. He could see the sweat running into her cleavage. Sabrina close behind. Julian had to crane his neck to see her. He was grinning even more. Veronica grinned back and raised her glass. He could just make her out through a fuzzy haze. He dabbed his forehead again.
Julian looked at his Rolex, but it was no use; just a blur with the faint movement of a hand sweeping round. The smell of the incense sticks was intoxicating. He was beginning to feel dizzy. Julian tried to raise himself but the legs wouldn’t budge. He tried again but Sabrina pushed him back playfully. As her neck took the weight, she playfully dangled the head and tail over Julian’s shoulders. The flicking tongue with the Albino eyes arched round and looked at him sternly, while the tip of its tail moved inside his shirt. He laughed as it tickled him under the arm. Then Julian caught another smell. This one was delicious.
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 3